Up
the ravine the old man went to a little ledge of rocks, beyond
which was the blind, and when Hale saw his stooped figure slip
over that and disappear, he ran noiselessly toward it, crept
noiselessly to the top and peeped carefully over to see the Red
Fox with his back to him and peering into a clump of bushes--
hardly ten yards away. While Hale looked, the old man thrust his
hand into the bushes and drew out something that twinkled in the
sun. At the moment Hale's horse nickered from the bushes, and the
Red Fox slipped his hand into his pocket, crouched listening a
moment, and then, step by step, backed toward the ledge. Hale
rose:
"I want you, Red!"
The old man wheeled, the wolf's snarl came, but the big rifle was
too slow--Hale's pistol had flashed in his face.
"Drop your gun!" Paralyzed, but the picture of white fury, the old
man hesitated.
"Drop--your--gun!" Slowly the big rifle was loosed and fell to the
ground.
"Back away--turn around and hands up!"
With his foot on the Winchester, Hale felt in the old man's
pockets and fished out an empty cartridge shell. Then he picked up
the rifle and threw the slide.
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