It sounded very close, and he dropped instantly to one
knee and thought quickly. Why had the other left so plain a trail, why
had he reached up and broken twigs that projected above his head as he
passed? Why had he kicked aside a small stone, leaving a patch of moist,
bleached grass to tell where it had lain? Elkins had stumbled here, but
there were no toe marks to tell of it. Hopalong would not track, for he
was no assassin; but he knew that he would do if he were, and careless.
The answer leaped to his suspicious mind like a flash, and he did not
care to waste any time in trying to determine whether or not Elkins was
capable of such a trick. He acted on the presumption that the trail
had been made plain for a good reason, and that not far ahead at some
suitable place,--and there were any number of such within a hundred
yards,--the maker of the plain trail lay in wait. Smiling savagely
he worked backward and turning, struck off in a circle. He had no
compunctions whatever now about shooting the other player of the game.
It was not long before he came upon the same trail again and he started
another circle. A bullet _zipped_ past his ear and cut a twig not two
inches from his head. He fired at the smoke as he dropped, and then
wriggled rapidly backward, keeping as flat to the earth as he could.
Elkins had taken up his position in a thicket which stood in the centre
of a level patch of sand in the old bed of the river,--the bed it had
used five years before and forsaken at the time of the big flood when it
cut itself a new channel and made the U-bend which now surrounded this
piece of land on three sides.
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