Betterson coolly resumed his slow and stately march across the buckwheat, looking for prairie chickens.
"You puffed-up, pompous, would-be 'ristocrat!" said Peakslow, more and more furious, "where'd you be if your relations didn't furnish ye money? Poorer 'n ye be now, I guess. What if I should tell ye what yer neighbors say of ye? Guess ye wouldn't carry yer head so plaguy high!"
Two chickens rose from before Betterson's feet, and flew to right and left. With perfect coolness and precision of aim he fired and brought down one, then turned and dropped the other, with scarce an interval of three seconds between the reports.
"This is a very pretty piece of yours," he observed smilingly, with a stately wave of the hand toward Jack.
"I never saw anything so handsomely done!" exclaimed Jack, bringing the chicken previously shot.
At the same time he could not help glancing with some apprehension at Peakslow, not knowing what that excitable neighbor might do, now that Betterson's two barrels were empty.
"I think I will stay and have one or two more shots," said Betterson. "A very pretty piece indeed!"
The muttering thunder of Peakslow's wrath died away in the distance, as he retired with his forces. Rufe picked up the last two prairie chickens and followed Jack, who ran to overtake the dog and horse.
Lion still held the bridle-rein, letting Snowfoot nip the grass that grew along the borders of the corn, but keeping him from the corn itself. Jack patted and praised the dog, and stroked and caressed the horse, looking him all over to see if he had received any fresh injury.
Then Rufe joined him; and presently Wad came bounding down the slope from the barn, laughing, carrying Jack's coat; and Link appeared, running and limping, having hurt his ankle in jumping down from the cow-shed. Behind came Chokie, trudging on his short legs, and tumbling and sprawling at every few steps.