“But he can’t see either, can he?” protested the traveler, mopping the sweatband of his derby.
“You bet he can see! He’s low—under the branches. Now watch!”
Chihuahua’s gun was empty. He started to reload, after a swift glance in the enemy’s direction. There was a flat, brisk report from the little man’s rifle. The watchers saw the bullet raise a spray of sand in front of the log. Then the hoarse note of a ricochet, as though there were a frog in the throat of the bullet.
“Cripes!” ejaculated Sam. “She went through!”
“Of course,” retorted Ed. “Anyone could see that log was only a shell.”
The cowpuncher was flurried. A burst of splinters on his side of the log and a few feet from him, made him unsteady. The long magazine of his sporting-rifle was only half-filled. But he threw the gun across the log and fired again, rapidly, frantically. This time, the onlookers noted, his aim was poor. The sand fountained up a long way from where the little man lay tucked in his hollow.
Again the quicker, sharper report of Henry’s rifle—the long, splitting after-crack as the air closed behind the hurrying bullet, a dull interruption, and the ricochet in diminishing crescendo. Another report, and another, and another at intervals reasonably close, but unhurried.
“The son-of-a-gun!” crowed the admiring bootlegger. “See what he’s doin’? He’s pushin’ Chihuahua right out from behind that log!”
They looked, slack-jawed and swaying in their intensity, and saw that it was true. Henry’s first shot pierced the outer end of Chihuahua Pete’s barrier, well beyond his left elbow. But with each succeeding report the bullets crept closer, until splinters showered the puncher.
Busy as he was reloading, he gave ground. When he tried to take aim over the log, a bullet nudged him. He shifted a little, sidewise, wriggling his body on his elbows, and brought the barrel down again. The log ripped wickedly beside his sleeve. He hunched again. And again the remorseless Henry drove him over.