Thar goes the first o' the fire works!" As Wilder speaks, a spark is seen to shoot out from one of the circling cavaliers, which rising rocket-like into the air, comes in parabolic curve towards the corral.
It falls short some twenty yards and lies smoking and sputtering in the sand.
"They han't got thar range yit," cries the guide; "but this child hez got his--leastwise for that skunk on the clay-bank mustang.

So hyar goes to rub him off o' the list o' fire shooters." And simultaneous with the last word is heard the crack of Wilder's rifle.
The young prairie merchant by his side, supposing him to have aimed only at the Indian's horse, has raised his own gun, ready to take the rider as soon as uncovered.
"No need, Frank," shouts the guide, restraining him.

"Walt Wilder don't waste two charges o' powder that way.

Keep yur bullet for the karkidge o' the next as comes 'ithin range.

Look yonder! I know'd I'd fetch him out o' his stirrups--tight as he's tried to cling to 'em.