“I niver run in me loife,” declared Casey, doggedly.
Neale went his way. It was noted that from that day he always carried a gun, preferably a rifle when it was possible. In the use of the long gun he was an adept, but when it came to Larry’s kind of a gun Neale needed practice. Larry could draw his gun and shoot twice before Neale could get his hand on his weapon.
It was through Neale’s habit of carrying the rifle out on his surveying trips that the second incident came about.
One day in early summer Neale was waiting near a spring for Larry to arrive with the horses. On this occasion the cowboy was long in coming. Neale fell asleep in the shade of some bushes and was awakened by the thud of hoofs. He sat up to see Larry in the act of kneeling at the brook to drink. At the same instant a dark moving object above Larry attracted Neale’s quick eye. It was an Indian sneaking along with a gun ready to level. Quick as a flash Neale raised his own weapon and fired. The Indian fell and lay still.
Larry’s drink was rudely disturbed by plunging horses. When he had quieted them he turned to Neale.
“So you-all was heah. Shore you scared me. What’d you shoot at?”
Neale stared and pointed. His hand shook. He felt cold, sick, hard, yet he held the rifle ready to fire again. Larry dropped the bridles and, pulling his gun, he climbed the bank with unusual quickness for him. Neale saw him stand over the Indian.
“Wal, plumb center!” he called, with a new note in his usually indolent voice. “Come heah!”
“No!” shouted Neale, violently. “Is he dead?”
“Daid! Wal, I should smile.... An’ mebbe he ain’t alone.”