"Of course a man would have to make fun of a pistol like this," she answered, the revolver lying in her hand. "Let me see yours." Thus far she had seen no sign of any scabbard or holster. "And shoot that prairie dog for me," she added. "Mine would be pretty heavy for a prairie dog. You try him." "Oh, my poor little pistol is in disgrace," she returned, putting it up. "Sec what you can do." He slipped his left hand under the right lapel of his coat and drew from a breast harness a Colt's revolver. Had she realized it was carried that day in this very unobtrusive manner in anticipation of an unpleasant interview with her father, Kate would have been speechless with fear. As it was, no gun, though she had seen many since coming to the mountains, ever looked so big or formidable. The setting of the scene and her situation may have magnified its impressiveness. "Why smash the prairie dog?" he asked quietly. "Look at his whiskers--he may be the father of a family." "You might miss him." "If I should it would be time for me to quit this country." "Shoot at something else." "Why shoot at all?" "I want to see you." "We might get a shot at something on the way home." "You're not obliging." She held out her hand for his revolver. "Let me see." "It makes me feel kind of foolish," he said defensively, "kind of like an old-fashioned cowboy, to be shooting right and left." On his right hand he held the heavy gun toward Kate. "How do you get practise?" she asked. He lifted his eyebrows the least bit: "To tell the truth I haven't had much lately." "How can you tell then whether you could hit anything if you did shoot at it?" "That wouldn't be hard. If I didn't hit it, it would most likely hit me." "How could I practise to learn to shoot the way you do?" He looked at her inquiringly; "What do you know about the way I shoot?" "Nothing, of course. I mean the way that men who carry guns like this shoot." He thought a moment. "Get down into a dark cellar with just one window. Block out all the light from that window except one small circle. Shoot, off-hand, till you can put five bullets through the circle without mussing up the general surroundings." "That sounds like hard work." "It's certainly----" He just hesitated and then continued: "hard on the ammunition." She found by this time she could tolerate the dry smile that lighted his face now and again, and the drawl of words that went with the expression. At times he seemed simple, yet there was shrewdness behind his humor. "I didn't see you stop back there on the bench to pick anything up," she remarked abruptly, thinking of her own pistol again. "I circled back to get it." "Without dismounting?'" "You wouldn't hardly want to get off to pick up anything as light as that." "I wish I'd seen you do it." "If you'd been looking I might've been trying to get hold of it yet."