"Well," said he, "this period of the history of the West is a transition period. The old order changeth, giving place to new. Fists are settling trouble that was formerly settled with the gun. But the trouble of the transition period is that you can never be sure whether it’s to be a gun or the fists. Men like that drummer, too, carry a gun—but they carry it out of sight and you don’t know it’s there for certain. I advocate the gun carried openly; and I think you should begin right away learning its use. I must look up that remark of Carlyle’s, first time I can, about the backwoods being the place where manners flourish. I want to see from the context if he did n’t really mean it. Most people think it was sarcasm, but if it was, it should n’t have been. Manners do flourish in all backwoods, until the police come in and the gun goes out, and it’s the presence of the gun that keeps everybody mannerly. The gun does it. Now see—you hold a revolver like this," and he exemplified as he spoke. "The usual method of grasping a revolver is with the forefinger pressing the trigger, and even many experts follow this method; but, with all due respect to the advocates of that method, it is not the best. The best way to hold a revolver is with the second finger pressing the trigger, the forefinger extending along the side of the barrel like this, you see. That is the great desideratum in endeavouring to make a shot with a revolver—keeping the thing steady. It kicks under the muscular action required to pull the trigger with the forefinger, and unless one is thoroughly practised the bullet will fly above the mark aimed at. Remember, too, to grip tight, or with these heavy guns you may get your thumb knocked out. Then you throw your hand up and bring it down and just point at what you want to kill—like that!" "Biff!" went the revolver, and I saw the top leaves on a sage-brush fly in the air. The horses snorted and leapt forward and the driver flung a look over his shoulder, a gleeful look, and, gathering the reins again, cried out, "My gosh, boys! Keep it up, and we ’ll make speed into Camp Kettle. Say, this is like old days!" he cried again, when Apache Kid snapped a second time and we went rocking onward.