Johnny let the hat slide down to him, looked at the holes with widening eyes, said "Good gosh!" just under his breath, and hitched himself farther down the slope.
His curiosity was satisfied; he had seen all of the country he needed to see and there was nothing to stay for, anyway.

When he reached.
the patient sorrel pony a minute or two later (it had taken him half an hour or more to climb from the pony to the peak, but climbing, of course, is much slower than coming down--even without the acceleration of singing rifle bullets) he was perspiring rather freely and puffing a little.
For a time he waited there under the shelf of rock.

But he heard no sound from above, and in a little while he led the pony down the other way, which brought him to the valley near a small pasture which was evidently the pony's home, judging from the way he kept pulling in that direction.

Johnny turned the horse in and closed the gate, setting the old saddle astride it with the bridle hanging over the horn.

He did not care for further exploration, thank you.
What Johnny would like to know was, what had he done that he should be shot at?
He was down there by Cliff Lowell's invitation-- Straightway he set off angrily, taking long steps to the cabin and the great oak tree beside it.