Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger. When he got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring at what seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon. "Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!" exclaimed Cheyenne, "and you didn't have no tools to do it with." "You can take down and assemble this gun without tools," stated Bartley. "All you need is your fingers." "But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart for?" "Just to see if I could put her together again." Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over to inspect the juniper stump. He stooped, whistled, and turned to Bartley. "Man, you like to sawed that stub in two. Why didn't you say you could shoot?" "I can't, in your class. But tell me why you Westerners always seem to think it strange that an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly well? Is it because you consider that the average tourist represents the entire East?" "I dunno. But, then, I've met up with Easterners that weren't just like you." Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and Cheyenne was watching him, when they glanced up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between them. Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. "I'll be dinged if it ain't Jimmy! What you doin' up here in the brush, anyhow?" The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray pony, kicked one foot out of the stirrup and hooked his small leg over the horn. He nodded to Cheyenne, but his interest was centered on Bartley and the Luger. "It's Jimmy--my boy," said Cheyenne. "His Aunt Jane lives over yonder, a piece." "Why, hello!" exclaimed Bartley, laying the pistol aside. And he stepped up and shook hands with the boy, who grinned. "How's the folks?" queried Cheyenne. "All right. That there is a Luger gun, ain't it?" "Yes," said Bartley. "Would you like to try it?" The boy scrambled down from the saddle. "Honest?" "Ain't you goin' to say hello to your dad?" queried Cheyenne. "Sure! Only I was lookin' at that Luger gun--" Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his father and turned to Bartley, expectancy in his gaze. Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the boy, who straightaway selected the juniper stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, a sturdy youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with sandy hair, and dressed in jeans and a rowdy--a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk. "Ever shoot one before?" queried Bartley as the boy gave back the pistol. "Nope. There's one like it, over to the store in San Andreas. It's in the window. I never got to look at it right close." "Try it again," said Bartley. The boy grinned. "I reckon you're rich?" "Why?" "'Cause you got a heap of ca'tridges. They cost money." "Never mind. Go ahead and shoot."