pest, out here, you know." He looked longingly at the rifle under his
feet. "If I thought you could hold the horses a minute--"

"Oh, I can't! I--I'm not accustomed to horses--but I can shoot a little."

Chip gave her a quick, measuring glance. The coyote had halted and was
squatting upon his haunches, his sharp nose pointed inquisitively toward
them. Chip slowed the creams to a walk, raised the gun and laid it
across his knees, threw a shell into position and adjusted the sight.

"Here, you can try, if you like," he said. "Whenever you're ready I'll
stop. You had better stand up--I'll watch that you don't fall. Ready?
Whoa, Pet!"

Miss Whitmore did not much like the skepticism in his tone, but she
stood up, took quick, careful aim and fired.

Pet jumped her full length and reared, but Chip was watching for some
such performance and had them well under control, even though he was
compelled to catch Miss Whitmore from lurching backward upon her baggage
behind the seat--which would have been bad for the guitar and mandolin,
if not for the young woman.

The coyote had sprung high in air, whirled dizzily and darted over the
hill.

"You hit him," cried Chip, forgetting his prejudice for a moment. He
turned the creams from the road, filled with the spirit of the chase.
Miss Whitmore will long remember that mad dash over the hilltops and
into the hollows, in which she could only cling to the rifle and to the