ing down through the breast, and the coyote recoiled as if an irresistible hand had smitten him. It is doubtful if there was even a muscular quiver after Graycoat struck the ground, not twenty feet from where Dan stood. And the rifle report echoed back to find only silence.
Lennox got up off the ground and moved over toward the dead coyote. He looked a long time at the gray body. And then he stepped back to where Dan waited on the trail.
"I take it all back," he said simply.
"You take what back?"
"What I thought about you—that the Failing line had gone to the dogs. I 'll never call you a tenderfoot again."
"You are very kind," Dan answered. He looked rather tired, but was wholly unshaken. For an instant Lennox looked at his eyes and his steady hands.
"But tell me one thing," Lennox asked. "I saw the way you looked down the barrel. I could see how firm you held the rifle—the way you kept your head. And that is all like your grandfather. But why, when you had a repeating rifle, did you wait so long to shoot?"
"I just had one cartridge in my gun. I fired nine times back at the trees and only re-loaded once. I did n't think of it until the coyote charged."
