Chip, of the Flying U | Page 5

make your
acquaintance."
"I don't believe it--you don't look happy," said Miss Whitmore,
inwardly amused.
"That's the proper thing to say when you've been introduced to a lady,"
remarked Chip, noncommittally, though his lips twitched at the corners.
Miss Whitmore, finding no ready reply to this truthful statement,
remarked, after a pause, that it was windy. Chip agreed that it was, and
conversation languished.
Miss Whitmore sighed and took to studying the landscape, which had
become a succession of sharp ridges and narrow coulees, water-worn
and bleak, with a purplish line of mountains off to the left. After
several miles she spoke.
"What is that animal over there? Do dogs 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