Chet Havens was much exercised. He ran to and fro in the camp, trying to find some trace of his chum. There were the saddles—he had used his own for a pillow; and at this time he did not notice anything else missing.
He shouted again and again, but got no reply. Then he bethought him of the rifle, and he put the heavy weapon to his shoulder and fired three times in the air.
There sounded a squeal from the other side of the water-hole. The horses had snorted, too; but Chet paid them no further attention. He started around the piece of water, yelling for his chum at the top of his voice.
He heard Dig calling after a minute. Then Chet saw him standing by the water’s edge and leaning on his gun.
“For goodness’ sake! what’s the matter with you?” gasped Chet, reaching the other lad. And then he uttered a second startled exclamation. Dig’s face was bloody.
“What have you been doing?” demanded Chet again.
“That’s this blamed old rifle,” snarled Dig. “See what it did?” and he removed the handkerchief with which he was swabbing his brow and showed a deep cut. “That’s what it did to me!”
“How?” gasped Chet.
“Kicked!”
“But for goodness’ sake! did you try to put the butt against your forehead when you fired?”