The girl took the flask from his outstretched hand and looked it over with keen interest. In one side of the silver case was a small, neat hole. Opposite it half of the other side had been burst out as if by an explosion within. She took off the silver cap, shook out the shattered glass of the inner flask, and looked again at the small hole.
“A thirty-eight,” she observed.
“Pardon me,” he replied. “I fail to––Ah, yes; thirty-eight caliber, you mean.”
“It is I who must ask pardon,” she said in frank apology. “Your rifle is a thirty-two. I heard a number of shots, ending with the rattle of an automatic. Thought you were after another deer.”
He could afford to smile at the merry thrust and the flash of dimples that accompanied it.
“At least it wasn’t a calf this time,” he replied. “Nor was it a doe. But it may have been a buck.” 59
“Indian?” she queried, with instant perception of his play on the word.
“I didn’t see any war plumes,” he admitted.
“War plumes? Oh, that is a joke!” she exclaimed. She chanced to look down at the shattered flask, and her merriment vanished. “But this isn’t any joke. Didn’t you see the man who was shooting at you?”
“Yes, after I jumped my pony down into the creek. Perhaps the bandit thought he had tumbled us both. He stood up on top the ridge, until I cut loose and made him run.”