“Which is right good advice for your friend,” said Rod, without permitting his glance to waver for an instant from Barker. “If he should shoot up old Rouser, it sure would be a shame to retaliate on his innocent dog. I admit I’d feel much more like letting him have it himself.”
“You hear that, do you, Phil?” cried Berlin.
“Yes,” answered Springer, “and bub-by jingoes, he looks like he might dud-do it, too!”
In spite of himself and his intense rage, Barker wavered. For once, at least, he had found no symptom of faltering or timidity in the fellow he bitterly detested.
“Hey, what’s the matter over there?” cried a hoarse voice, and Hunk Rollins, breaking forth from a thicket, came shuffling toward them on snowshoes, carrying a gun. They were now three to one against Grant, but still Rod stood his ground unmoved.
“He shot a rabbit in front of Berlin’s dud-dog,” hastily explained Springer, “and Berlin’s blazing mad about it, too.”
“What’s he doing here, anyhow?” questioned Rollins contemptuously.
“I allow,” said Rodney, something like a faint smile flitting across his face, “that I have as much right to hunt rabbits hereabouts as you fellows.”
“Take his gun away from him!” roared Hunk. “Knock the packing out of him!”
But he stopped short with his first step toward the boy from Texas, for the muzzle of Grant’s gun swung toward him, and Springer shouted a warning.