“You can’t shoot even a chicken hawk with that thing!” exclaimed Dig, scorning a weapon of small calibre.
“You wait and see,” commanded Chet. “There he comes now!”
Far off against the sky appeared a dark spot, circling ever lower and lower. The great hawk swept down in narrowing circles, its objective point plainly being Mrs. Havens’ hen-run.
“Why don’t you get a gun?” growled Dig, for although he well knew Chet’s skill with firearms, he thought the tiny rifle a foolish thing.
Just then a voice behind the boys put in a word:
“I reckon your friend is going to wait for the hawk to drop on the chicken before he shoots. ’Twon’t carry more’n ten feet, will it?”
Chet turned rather angrily. He did not mind his chum’s joking; but this stranger’s scornful remark angered him.
And he was a stranger. Chet thought he had never seen the man before. The fellow wore a big black sombrero, but was not in working clothes. His boots were polished, he wore a ruffled shirt and silk tie and cuffs.
His countenance was not pleasant, for his eyes were too sharp and too near together. He had his brown moustache curled and there was an odour of strong perfume about him, as though he had just been to the barber’s.
“You wait a couple of minutes,” Chet Havens said sharply, “and you’ll see how far this gun carries. Providing that hawk isn’t frightened away,” he added, glancing upward.