The puncher wheeled his horse and rode off around the chaparral.
Through the smoke of the shot the puncher leveled his weapon.
The puncher started off beside Miss Isobel without looking at him.
Neither Isobel nor the puncher smiled at this ancient witticism.
“Yes; Ashton feeds him sugar, like he does the rest of you,” rejoined the puncher.
“That shore was a mighty close shave,” commented the puncher.
The puncher mumbled, drew the blankets closer about him, and lay quiet.
The puncher stopped beside it to squint through the telescope.
Her husband sprang to the rescue––not of the puncher, but of the level.
He began to doubt the puncher and the witness of his own eyes.