One-thumb Jake, who had loitered at the ranch for a farewell drink, rode up at a terrific pace, pulled his bronco on to its haunches alongside the coach, and by way of salute, fired three shots from a revolver as quickly as finger could press trigger.
The first bullet sang through the air not more than an inch above Power’s forehead. He recalled afterward a slight stirring of his hair caused by the passing of the missile, which spat viciously against the wall of rock some ten feet above the ledge. The next two bullets struck higher, and their impact evidently disturbed the equipoise of a mass of stone already disintegrated by frost, because more than a ton of débris crashed down, pinning Power to the ledge and nearly pounding the life out of him. The resultant cloud of dust probably helped to render him unconscious. At any rate, he lay there without word or movement, and, if he were dead, his bones might have rested many a year in that strange tomb unless the curiosity of some passerby was aroused by a flock of quarreling vultures—a spectacle so common in cattle-land that the wayfarer does not deviate a hand’s breadth from his path because of it.
Nancy heard the thunder of the falling rocks, and looked out. The dust pall told her exactly what had occurred, though the jubilant congratulation of the shooter by the driver would have explained matters in any event.
“Good fer you, Jake!” he shouted. “Gosh! when you’re fed up on cowpunchin’ you kin go minin’ wid a gun!”
She saw, too, what many others saw: A rattlesnake, rudely dislodged from some deep crevice, emerged from the heap of rubbish, stopped suddenly, swelled and puffed in anger, rattled its tail-plates, and was obviously primed for combat. It seemed to change its mind, however, when a fourth bullet from the cowboy’s revolver grazed a big brown rhomboid which offered a fair target just below the curved neck. There was another shower of dust and granite chips, and, when this subsided, the reptile had vanished.
Nancy sat back in the coach. Amid a chorus of laughter and jeers at what his critics were pleased to regard as bad marksmanship, Jake spurred his horse into a gallop again.
“What was it?” inquired Marten. Being on the other side of the vehicle, he was unaware of the cause of this slight commotion.
“Nothing, really,” she said dully.
“Oh, come now, little woman—the crowd would not yelp at Jake for no reason.”
“Well, his shots brought down some loose stones, and a rattler appeared in the middle of the heap. It showed fight, too; but made off when Jake fired again.”