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Sidney turned sick and faint, expecting to see his brother fall from his horse pierced by half a dozen bullets. Instead, the boy pulled his horse up with a jerk and took off his hat, which he examined ruefully.

“They plugged my hat,”—and he exhibited a hole through the brim,—“but if I had my pistol here I’d show them better shooting than that.”

“What made you run, Ray?” Sidney remonstrated, who was trembling with fright; “I don’t see how you escaped being killed.” “Pshaw! these fellows couldn’t kill anybody. I’ll let them see how we shoot in Texas.”

Raymond jumped off his horse, and going up to one of the soldiers took hold of the pistol which the man was still holding in his hand, at the same time asking him, of course in English, for the loan of it a few minutes. The soldier looked inquiringly at his officer, who made no comment, and the man yielded the gun.

“Gee! if it isn’t a Colt .38.” And the boy gazed longingly on the revolver. “That sure looks like home.”

He held back the hammer and ran the cylinder around two or three times in wistful admiration, then he picked up two small rocks and throwing them into the air he fired twice in quick succession, shattering both rocks while they were still high in air.