Emma Dean uttered a stifled little cry of alarm.
“It is nothing but a bullet, my dear young woman, a chance shot from somewhere up in the mountains. Kindly pass me another plate that I may continue with my narration.”
Grace Harlowe’s face reflected sudden concern, then she smiled, but her companions plainly were nervous.
“Where was I?” again asked Hippy.
“I believe you were laboring along on the amazing pathway,” Anne informed him.
“Thank you,” bowed the lieutenant as Grace offered him another plate. “Along this weird and amazing pathway, as already remarked, are crowded, in bewildering succession, scenes that grip the imagination like phantom photo plays of the world’s creation. It was on this pathway, this weird and amazing trail that—”
The second plate left Hippy Wingate’s hand as if by magic, again followed by the report of a rifle. Hippy sank down on his campstool, holding the hand that had held the plate.
“The campfire, Mr. Fairweather!” urged Grace calmly, with a note of incisiveness in her tone.
Ike sprang up and kicked the burning embers away, stamping out the little flickering flames, leaving only a scattered bed of glowing coals.
A bullet whistled over the heads of the Overton girls, but the shooter’s aim was not so good this time.