Two of the heavy slugs tore through its neck, and the cougar tied itself in a snarling, spitting knot and rolled over dead. When the last shot was fired Ren’s horse was nearly over the body of the cougar and Ren was shoving fresh shells into the gun.
The girl looked at Ren in a dazed sort of a way for a moment and then in a tired little voice remarked—
“That wasn’t Oscar.”
“No, ma’am,” agreed Ren foolishly. “That shore wasn’t Oscar.”
“What happened?” asked a deep bass voice, and Ren turned in his saddle; behind him stood a florid-faced person in a green corduroy suit and panama, and behind him a narrow-shouldered, sharp-faced man in knickerbockers.
“What happened, I asked?” repeated the florid one.
“It wasn’t Oscar,” stated the girl for the third time.
“Well, what was it, then?” queried the sharp-faced man.
“I kept grinding until this cowboy person butted in and spoiled it.”
“Did you quit then?” roared the florid one. “By Jupiter! You lost a fine chance for some real stuff. But what happened to Oscar, and where in the world did this other lion come from?”