Whitefoot's an old black shaggy demon,
with one white foot. Both stallions ought to be killed. They fight my
horses and lead off the mares. I had a chance to shoot Silvermane on the
way over this trip, but he looked so splendid that I just laid down my
rifle."
"Can they run?" asked Hare eagerly, with the eyes of a man who loved a
horse.
"Run? Whew! Just you wait till you see Silvermane cover ground! He can
look over his shoulder at you and beat any horse in this country. The
Navajos have given up catching him as a bad job. Why--here! Jack! quick,
get out your rifle--coyotes!"
Naab pulled on the reins, and pointed to one side. Hare discerned three
grayish sharp-nosed beasts sneaking off in the sage, and he reached back
for the rifle. Naab whistled, stopping the coyotes; then Hare shot. The
ball cut a wisp of dust above and beyond them. They loped away into the
sage.
"How that rifle spangs!" exclaimed Naab. "It's good to hear it. Jack,
you shot high. That's the trouble with men who have never shot at game.
They can't hold low enough. Aim low, lower than you want. Ha! There's
another--this side--hold ahead of him and low, quick!--too high again.
Pages:
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78