"I think I'm more afraid for you," I confessed. "That clown is getting insufferable. He sets out to bully you. Damn him," I flashed, with pardonable flame, "and he ruffles at me on every occasion. In fact, he seems to seek occasion. Witness this evening." "Witness this evening," she murmured. "I'm afraid, too. Yes," she breathed, confronted by a portent, "I'm afraid. I never have been afraid before. I didn't fear Montoyo. I've always been able to take care of myself. But now, here----" "You have your revolver?" I suggested. "No, I haven't. It's gone. Mormon women don't carry revolvers." "They took it from you?" "It's disappeared." "But you're not a Mormon woman." "Not yet." She caught quick breath. "God forbid. And sometimes I fear God willing. For I do fear. You can't understand. Those other men do, though, I think. Do you know," she queried, with sudden glance, "that Daniel means to marry me?" "He?" I gasped. "How so? With your--consent, of course. But you're not free; you have a husband." My gorge rose, regardless of fact. "You scarcely expect me to congratulate you, madam. Still he may have points." "Daniel?" She shrugged her shoulders. "I cannot say. Pedro did. Most men have. Oh!" she cried, impulsively stopping short. "Why don't you learn to shoot? Won't you?" "I've about decided to," I admitted. "That appears to be the saving accomplishment of everybody out here." "Of everybody who stays. You must learn to draw and to shoot, both. The drawing you will have to practice by yourself, but I can teach you to shoot. So can those men. Let me have your pistol, please." I passed it to her. She was all in a flutter. "You must grasp the handle firmly; cover it with your whole palm, but don't squeeze it to death; just grip it evenly--tuck it away. And keep your elbow down; and crook your wrist, in a drop, until your trigger knuckle is pointing very low--at a man's feet if you're aiming for his heart." "At his feet, for his heart?" I stammered. The words had an ugly sound. "Certainly. We are speaking of shooting now, and not at a tin can. You have to allow for the jump of the muzzle. Unless you hold it down with your wrist, you over shoot; and it's the first shot that counts. Of course, there's a feel, a knack. But don't aim with your eyes. You won't have time. Men file off the front sight--it sometimes catches, in the draw. And it's useless, anyway. They fire as they point with the finger, by the feel. You see, they _know_." "Evidently you do, too, madam," I faltered, amazed. "Not all," she panted. "But I've heard the talk; I've watched--I've seen many things, sir, from Omaha to Benton. Oh, I wish I could tell you more; I wish I could help you right away. I meant, a dead-shot with the revolver knows beforehand, in the draw, where his bullet shall go. Some men are born to shoot straight; some have to practice a long, long while. I wonder which you are."