I had just time to throw off the hairy covering, and spring to my feet, as the rifle was brought to his shoulder. Three seconds more, and I should have had a bullet through my body!
“Darn it! I thought you was a bar,” said Dick coolly, putting down his rifle, as I fancied, with a show of some chagrin at having been undeceived, and “choused” out of his shot.
I afterwards heard that he was only trying to frighten me. If so, the experiment proved entirely successful.
After reaching the post we were to occupy, I was not so well satisfied with my situation, as when on the march.
The discipline became more strict, and we had a good deal of fatigue-work to do—in building huts, stables, and fortifications.
Besides this unsoldierly duty by day, we had at night to take our turn as sentinels around the station.
Emigrants on the way to California passed us daily. How I envied them their freedom of action, and the bright hopes that were luring them on!
One morning, “Runaway Dick” was not to be found. He had run away once more. It was not difficult to divine whither—to California.
In this, his latest flight, he appeared to give some proof that he had still a little honesty left: for he did not take along with him either his horse, or his rifle.