wander over this wilderness alone?"
Chip's eyes followed her pointing finger.
"That's a coyote. I wish I could get a shot at him--they're an awful 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 seat as best she might, and hope that the driver knew what he was about-- which he certainly did.
"There he goes, sneaking down that coulee! He'll get into one of those washouts and hide, if we don't head him off. I'll drive around so you can get another shot at him," cried Chip. He headed up the hill again until the coyote, crouching low, was fully revealed.
"That's a fine shot. Throw another shell in, quick! You better kneel on the seat, this time--the horses know what's coming. Steady, Polly, my girl!"
Miss Whitmore glanced down the hill, and then, apprehensively, at the creams, who were clanking their bits, wild-eyed and quivering. Only their master's familiar voice and firm grip on the reins held them there at all. Chip saw and interpreted the glance, somewhat contemptuously.
"Oh, of course if you're AFRAID--"
Miss Whitmore set her teeth savagely, knelt and fired, cutting the sentence short in his teeth and forcing his undivided attention to the horses, which showed a strong inclination to bolt.
"I think I got him that time," said she, nonchalantly, setting her hat straight--though Chip, with one of his quick glances, observed that she was rather white around the mouth.
He brought the horses dexterously into the road and quieted them.
"Aren't you going to get my coyote?" she ventured to ask.
"Certainly. The road swings back, down that same coulee, and we'll pass right by it. Then I'll get out and pick him up, while you hold the horses."
"You'll hold those horses yourself," returned Miss Whitmore, with considerable spirit. "I'd much rather pick up the coyote, thank you."
Chip said nothing to this, whatever he may have thought. He drove up to the coyote with much coaxing of Pet and Polly, who eyed the gray object askance. Miss Whitmore sprang out and seized the animal by its coarse, bushy tail.
"Gracious, he's heavy!" she exclaimed, after one tug.
"He's been fattening up on Flying U calves," remarked Chip, his foot upon the brake.
Miss Whitmore knelt and examined the cattle thief curiously.
"Look," she said, "here's where I hit him the first time; the bullet took a diagonal course from the shoulder back to the other side. It must have gone within an inch of his heart, and would have finished him in a short time, without that other shot--that penetrated his brain, you see; death was instantaneous."
Chip had taken advantage of the halt to roll a cigarette, holding the reins tightly between his knees while he did so. He passed the loose edge of the paper across the tip of his tongue, eying the young woman curiously the while.
"You seem to be pretty well onto your job," he remarked, dryly.
"I ought to be," she said, laughing a little. "I've been learning the trade ever since I was sixteen."
"Yes? You began early."
"My Uncle John is a doctor. I helped him in the office till he got me into the medical school. I was brought up in an atmosphere of antiseptics and learned all the bones in Uncle John's 'Boneparte'-- the skeleton, you know--before I knew all my letters." She dragged the coyote close to the wheel.
"Let me get hold of the tail." Chip carefully pinched out the blaze of
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