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“What are you trying to do, pard?” called the cowboy. “Trying to scare a fellow to death?”

“Suffering side winders!” exclaimed Bleeker. “Blamed if it isn’t Blunt.”

“What appears to be the trouble?” asked Blunt.

“We’re trailing down a revolver shot, Barzy,” said Merriwell. “We thought Lenning and Shoup might be mixed up with it, somehow.”

“They were,” was the grim response. “I caught sight of them, but they were too quick for me. When I called on them to halt, they didn’t pay any attention; so I turned loose with a shot just to show ’em I meant business.”

“Did you hit either of them?” Frank inquired, with a good deal of concern.

“What do you take me for, Chip?” said Blunt. “I’m careless a whole lot, and there are times when I’m a pretty rough proposition, but I’m not plumb locoed. I wasn’t trying to hit either of those junipers—but I came mighty close to Shoup. You can bet your scalp lock that he heard the sing of the bullet.”

“They got away?”

“They did, with ground to spare.”

Blunt crooked a knee around his saddle horn and took up a comfortable position on his horse.