“You idiot—-what are you doing?” blazed Tom.
The fire from the camp had died out. That from the assailants beyond had ceased at least thirty seconds earlier.
One sharp report broke the hush that followed.
“Who’s doing that work? Stop it!” ordered Fulsbee, turning wrathfully.
“I’m through,” grinned Harry meekly.
“What do you mean by shooting at a flag of truce?” demanded the deputy sheriff angrily.
“I didn’t,” Harry argued, laying the rifle down on the ground. “I sent one in with my compliments, to see whether the fellow with the white rag would get the trembles. I guess he did, for the white rag has gone out of sight.”
“They may start the firing again,” uttered Dave Fulsbee. “They’ll feel that you don’t respect their flag of truce.”
“I didn’t feel a heap of respect for the fellow that held up the white flag,” Hazelton admitted, with another grin. “It was Bad Pete, and I wanted to see what his nerve was like when someone else was doing the shooting and he was the target.”
“Peter simply flopped and dropped his gun, Tom declared.