“I niver run in me loife,” declared Casey, doggedly.

Neale went his way.  It was noted that from that day he always carried a gun, preferably a rifle when it was possible.  In the use of the long gun he was an adept, but when it came to Larry’s kind of a gun Neale needed practice.  Larry could draw his gun and shoot twice before Neale could get his hand on his weapon.

It was through Neale’s habit of carrying the rifle out on his surveying trips that the second incident came about.

One day in early summer Neale was waiting near a spring for Larry to arrive with the horses.  On this occasion the cowboy was long in coming.  Neale fell asleep in the shade of some bushes and was awakened by the thud of hoofs.  He sat up to see Larry in the act of kneeling at the brook to drink.  At the same instant a dark moving object above Larry attracted Neale’s quick eye.  It was an Indian sneaking along with a gun ready to level.  Quick as a flash Neale raised his own weapon and fired.  The Indian fell and lay still.

Larry’s drink was rudely disturbed by plunging horses.  When he had quieted them he turned to Neale.

“So you-all was heah.  Shore you scared me.  What’d you shoot at?”

Neale stared and pointed.  His hand shook.  He felt cold, sick, hard, yet he held the rifle ready to fire again.  Larry dropped the bridles and, pulling his gun, he climbed the bank with unusual quickness for him.  Neale saw him stand over the Indian.

“Wal, plumb center!” he called, with a new note in his usually indolent voice.  “Come heah!”

“No!” shouted Neale, violently.  “Is he dead?”

“Daid!  Wal, I should smile....  An’ mebbe he ain’t alone.”

The cowboy ran down to his horse and Neale followed suit.  They rode up on the ridge to reconnoiter, but saw no moving objects.

“I reckon thet redskin was shore a-goin’ to plug me,” drawled Larry, as they trotted homeward.

“He certainly was,” replied Neale, with a shudder.

Larry reached a long hand to Neale’s shoulder.  He owed his life to his friend.  But he did not speak of that.  Instead he glanced wisely at Neale and laughed.

“Kinda weak in the middle, eh?” he said.  “I felt thet way once....  Pard, if you ever get r’iled you’ll be shore bad.”

For Neale shooting at an Indian was strikingly different from boyish dreams of doing it.  He had acted so swiftly that it seemed it must have been instinctive.  Yet thinking back, slowly realizing the nature of the repellent feeling within him, he remembered a bursting gush of hot blood, a pantherish desire to leap, to strike—­and then cool, stern watchfulness.  The whole business had been most unpleasant.

Upon arriving at camp they reported the incident, and they learned Indians had showed up at various points along the line.  Troopers had been fired upon.  Orders were once more given that all work must be carried on under the protection of the soldiers, so that an ambush would be unlikely.  Meanwhile a detachment of troops would be sent out to drive back the band of Sioux.