He was in the act of setting on a pan of bacon when, without the slightest warning, a bullet cut the knot of the loose neckerchief under his downbent chin. In the same instant that he heard the ping of the shot he pitched sideways and flattened himself on the ground with the chuck-box between him and the fire. A roll and a quick crawl took him into the underbrush beyond the circle of firelight. No second bullet followed him in his amazingly swift movements. He lay 204 motionless, listening intently, but no sound broke the stillness of the evening except the distant wail of a coyote and the hoot of an owl.
Half an hour passed, and still the engineer waited. The dusk deepened into darkness. At last a heavy footfall sounded up on the dike. Blake rose, and slipping silently to the tent, groped about until he found a heavy iron picket-pin.
Someone came down the slope and kicked his way petulantly through the bushes to the dying fire. He threw on an armful of brush. The light of the up-blazing flame showed Ashton standing beside the chuck-box, rifle in hand. But he dropped the weapon to pick up the overturned frying pan, which lay at his feet.
“Hello, Blake!” he sang out irritably. “I supposed you’d have supper waiting. Haven’t turned in this early, have you?”
“No,” replied Blake, and he came forward, carelessly swinging the picket-pin. “Thought I saw a coyote sneaking about, and tried to trick him into coming close enough for me to nail him with this pin.”
“With that!” scoffed Ashton. “But it would do as well as my rifle. I took a shot at a wolf, and then the mechanism jammed. I can’t get it to work.”
“You fired a shot?” asked Blake.
“Yes. Was it too far off for you to hear? I circled all around these hills.” 205
“No, I heard it,” replied Blake, looking close into the other’s sullen face. “You may not have been as far away as you thought.”
“I was far enough,” grumbled Ashton. “I’ve walked till I’m hungry as a shark.”