The man made a bolt for the bend in the canon a hundred yards away.  Instantly the rifle leaped to the shoulder of the boy.

“Right in front of you, Roush,” he prophesied.

The bullet kicked up the dust at the feet of the running man.  The nerve of Roush failed him and he took cover again behind a scrub live-oak.  A memory had flashed to him of the day when he had seen a thirteen-year-old boy named Jim Clanton win a turkey shoot against the best marksmen of the hill country.

The army Colt spit out once more at the boy on the ledge.  Before the echo had died away the boom of an explosion filled the canon.  Roush pitched forward on his face.

Jim Clanton lowered his rifle with an exclamation.  His face was a picture of amazement.  Some one had stolen his vengeance from him by a hair’s breadth.

Two men came round the bend on horseback.  Behind them rode a girl.  She was mounted on the barebacked pinto of the Indian Clanton had killed with the shotgun.

The boy clambered down to the bed of the gulch and limped toward them.  The color had ebbed from his lips.  At every step a pain shot through his leg.  But in spite of his growing weakness anger blazed in the light-blue eyes.

“I waited four years to git him.  I kept the trail hot from Tucson to Vegas an’ back to Santone.  An’ now, doggone it, when my finger was on the trigger an’ the coyote as good as dead, you cut in an’ shoot the daylights out of him.  By gum, it ain’t fair!”

The older man looked at him in astonishment.  “But he is only a child, Polly!  Cela me passe!”

“Mebbe I am only a kid,” the boy retorted resentfully.  “But I reckon I’m man enough to handle any Roush that ever lived.  I wasn’t askin’ for help from you-uns that I heerd tell of.”

The younger man laughed.  He was six or seven years older than the girl, who could not have been more than seventeen.  Both of them bore a marked likeness to the middle-aged man who had spoken.  Jim guessed that this was the Roubideau family of whom Billie Prince had told him.

“Just out of the cradle, by Christmas, and he’s killed four ’Paches inside of an hour an’ treed a renegade to boot,” said young Roubideau.  “I’d call it a day’s work, kid, for it sure beats all records ever I knew hung up by one man.”

The admiration of the young rancher was patent.  He could not take his eyes from the youthful phenomenon.

“He’s wounded, father,” the girl said in a low voice.

The boy looked at her and his anger died away.  “Billie sent me up the gulch when he was shot.  He ’lowed it was up to me to git you back from those devils, seein’ as he couldn’t go himself.”

Polly nodded.  She seemed to be the kind of girl that understands without being told in detail.

Before Thursday could protect himself, Roubideau, senior, had seized him in his arms, embraced him, and kissed first one cheek and then the other.  “Eh bien!  But you are the brave boy!  I count it honor to know you.  My little Polly, have you not save her?  Ah!  But I forget the introductions.  Myself, I am Pierre Roubideau, a tout propos at your service.  My son Jean.  Pauline—­what you call our babie.”