"Where?" McLean demanded, pushing her aside and put his eye to the scope.
"Right where I have the sight centered. Can't you see that little bulge? Right there." She started to stand up and point.
McLean jerked her backward and shoved her face into the sand. "Don't get so excited that you start to stand up," he growled. Light sparkled through the air above them.
"I forgot," the girl said, meekly. "Let me get my head up. You've got my nose and mouth full of sand."
"Out here, you only forget once," the roustabout said, releasing her. "I still don't see anything," he said, peering through the scope. He moved aside as she pushed at his shoulder.
Again she studied the terrain. Making a minute adjustment of the sight, she pulled the trigger. The Rangeley burped softly—it was a gas operated gun—then three quick explosions took place out on the desert where the explosive pellets hit. A wild yell followed. McLean got his eye to the sight in time to see a tribesman spin crazily within fifty feet of them. The fellow turned one last cartwheel, then collapsed into a bundle of dead rags.
"You got one!" McLean yelled triumphantly.
"Did—did I? I'm sorry—I mean—" Her voice trailed choked with fear.
He looked quickly at her. The girl's eyes were filled with tears. "I didn't really mean to do it," she blubbered.