July g, igxo.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
49 
reached his gun. “Stop right there! If you 
put your hand on that gun to shoot my dog I’ll 
kill you. You can’t touch him,” I shouted, al¬ 
most beside myself with anger at the very 
thought. “I’ll shoot you dead in your tracks if 
you try it.” 
The man stopped at once and stood looking 
straight into the muzzle of my gun, held true, 
but none too steady. His face worked and his 
whole body shook with the rage that possessed 
him at my defiance. He saw I was in deadly 
earnest, and that I meant just what I said. 
“You put down that gun,” he snarled, after a 
moment’s hesitation, and I was glad to notice 
man, who had approached without attracting the 
attention of either of us, rode up. 
I lowered my gun at the sound of the voice 
and turned to see whether I had a friend or 
another enemy to deal with. I soon saw that 
the man was one to be trusted. He was a large 
man with a strong face, and looked like one 
who was in the habit of commanding. Ponto 
accepted him as an ally at once, and for the first 
jime since taking the attitude of hostility toward 
our common enemy, relaxed and calmly sat down. 
The enemy also relaxed; in fact, cringed under 
the stern gaze bent upon him by the newcomer. 
“What does this mean, Kelly?” said the 
dangerous. I thanked him for his kindly warn¬ 
ing and also for his timely interference to keep 
me from having to defend myself and my dog 
by shooting the man, and assured him that I 
would not willingly come in contact with the 
rascal again. How the matter was arranged I 
never knew, for after seeing them out of sight, 
the sheriff riding closely behind the buggy, I 
never saw the man again. Ponto and I, some¬ 
what shaken and upset by events, called off the 
hunt for the day and struck the home trail. 
It was no easy task to eat only bread and 
butter for supper that night, leaving the beauti¬ 
ful broiled steak untouched, but so I did and 
MALLARDS COMING IN. 
From a painting by G. E. Lodge. 
that though as truculent as ever his manner was 
not so confident. “Put down that gun,” he 
added, “and call off your dog and I will let you 
off this time if you will promise to keep away 
from me hereafter.” 
I was wondering what was best to do, not 
being willing to trust the man to the extent of 
allowing him to get his gun, and determined to 
protect Ponto at any cost. 
As I delayed a moment, pondering the matter, 
the strain of the loaded gun pointed at his head 
and the evident fact that my hands were none 
too steady told on him, and he yelled : “I won’t 
tell you but once more to put down that gun ; if 
you don’t do it I will kill you and your dog, 
too.” I saw it was a crisis as he half turned 
as though about to spring for his gun, and was 
actually pressing the trigger when there was a 
loud shout behind me. “Here! Hold up! don’t 
shoot! What’s the matter here,” and a horse- 
horseman, addressing my foe. “What were you 
doing to this boy?” 
“Nothing,” said the man. “Just fooling with 
him and he got scared and threatened to shoot me.” 
“How is that, son?” said he, turning and ad¬ 
dressing me. 
Briefly I told him just what had occurred and 
he listened quietly until I finished, the man Kelly 
standing uneasily, scowling upon me meanwhile. 
When I had finished the story he turned his 
horse and rode over to the man’s buggy which 
he rapidly overhauled. Returning, he rode up 
to my enemy and ordered him to get into his 
buggy and start to town. Coming to me he in¬ 
quired my name and address, and then told me 
he was the sheriff of the county, and that the 
man Kelly was a bad lot and perhaps I would 
be wanted to testify against him for larceny. 
He further advised me to keep as much out of 
his way as I could, as he was both dishonest and 
Ponto seemed to fully appreciate my share of 
if saved for him, a token of appreciation. 
The season was drawing to a close. Cold 
rains were becoming more frequent and snow 
was beginning to fly in occasional light flurries. 
The pink, purple and blue haze of Indian sum¬ 
mer was giving way to light and dark grays. An 
occasional flock of geese with musical honks 
driving south their wedge-shaped company 
passed over us high in the air. Sandhill cranes 
flapped slowly by in long irregular line of flight, 
croaking their weird, unmusical calls, while large 
flocks of ducks were often seen driving swiftly 
for the warmer climes. 
We often watched these migrants and wished 
there was something to tempt them to come 
down to our hunting grounds and tarry long 
enough to allow us to try a bout with them, but 
near our home there were no large bodies of 
water or streams. 
