“That’s a go,” the girl agreed. “They’ll be down to fifteen hundred feet by then. We’ll check on their second circle.”
“Just to see if it’s the same as the first?” The sergeant began taking short steps back and forth.
“Yes. That’s it,” the girl agreed coolly. “Now they’re half way ’round—two thirds. There!” Her voice rose. “They passed over at exactly the same spot.”
“Fo—four of them,” the second gunner announced with a slight stutter.
“We’ll get one of them, maybe two,” said the girl. “My father was a Kentucky sheriff. He packed two guns.
“Now!” She was on her toes. “Everybody ready?” Her voice was husky. “I’ll count one, two, three. Fire on three and keep on firing.”
“O—Okay,” the sergeant stammered.
Seconds passed, one—two—three—four—five—up to fifteen,—and then:
“One—two—three—Fire!” The girl’s voice rose high.
The gun roared and kept on roaring. All was wild excitement until all of a sudden the sergeant shouted: