"But a woman doesn't always manage her husband," she defended. "Don't she, ma'am?" he said gently, no guile in his eyes. "Why, all the husbands I've seen seemed to be pretty well managed. You can see samples of it every day, ma'am, if you look around. Young fellows that have acted pretty wild when they was single, always sort of steady down when they're hooked into double harness. They go to actin' quiet an' subdued-like--like they'd lost all interest in life. I reckon it must be their wives managin' them, ma'am." "It's a pity, isn't it?" she said, her chin lifting. "The men seem to like it, ma'am. Every day there's new ones makin' contracts for managers." "I suppose _you_ will never sacrifice yourself?" she asked challengingly. "It ain't time, yet, ma'am," he returned, looking straight at her, his eyes narrowed, with little wrinkles in the corners. "I'm waitin' for you to tell Masten that you don't want to manage him." "We won't talk about that, please," she said coldly. "Then we won't, ma'am." She sat looking at him, trying to be coldly critical, but not succeeding very well. She was trying to show him that there was small hope of him ever realizing his desire to have her "manage" him, but she felt that she did not succeed in that very well either. Perplexity came into her eyes as she watched him. "Why is it that you don't like Willard Masten?" she asked at length. "Why is it that he doesn't like you?" His face sobered. "I don't recollect to have said anything about Masten, ma'am," he said. "But you don't like him, do you?" A direct answer was required. "No," he said simply. "Why?" she persisted. "I reckon mebbe you'd better ask Masten," he returned, his voice expressionless. Then he looked at her with an amused grin. "If it's goin' to take you any time to learn to shoot, I reckon we'd better begin." She got up, went into the house for the pistol and cartridges, and came out again, the weapon dangling from her hand. "Shucks!" he said, when he saw the pistol, comparing its huge bulk to the size of the hand holding it, "you'll never be able to hold it, when it goes off. You ought to have a smaller one." "Uncle Jep says this ought to stop anything it hits," she declared. "That is just what I want it to do. If I shoot anything once, I don't want to have to shoot again." "I reckon you're right bloodthirsty, ma'am. But I expect it's so big for you that you won't be able to hit anything." "I'll show you," she said, confidently. "Where shall we go to shoot? We shall have to have a target, I suppose?" "Not a movin' one," he said gleefully. "An' I ain't aimin' to hold it for you!" "Wait until you are asked," she retorted, defiantly. "Perhaps I may be a better shot than you think!" "I hope so, ma'am."