She looked resentfully at him, but followed him as he went out near the pasture fence, taking with him a soap box that he found near a shed, and standing it up behind a post, first making sure there were no cattle within range in the direction that the bullets would take. Then he stepped off twenty paces, and when she joined him he took the pistol from her hands and loaded it from the box. He watched her narrowly as she took it, and she saw the concern in his eyes. "Oh, I have used a revolver before," she told him, "not so large a one as this, of course. But I know better than to point it at myself." "I see you do, ma'am." His hand went out quickly and closed over hers, for she had been directing the muzzle of the weapon fairly at his chest. "You ought never point it at anybody that you don't want to shoot," he remonstrated gently. He showed her how to hold the weapon, told her to stand sideways to the target, with her right arm extended and rigid, level with the shoulder. He took some time at this; three times after she extended her arm he seemed to find it necessary to take hold of the arm to rearrange its position, lingering long at this work, and squeezing the pistol hand a little too tightly, she thought. "Don't go to pullin' the trigger too fast or too hard," he warned; "a little time for the first shot will save you shootin' again, mebbe--until you get used to it. She'll kick some, but you'll get onto that pretty quick." She pulled the trigger, and the muzzle of the pistol flew upward. "I reckon that target feels pretty safe, ma'am," he said dryly. "But that buzzard up there will be pullin' his freight--if he's got any sense." She fired again, her lips compressed determinedly. At the report a splinter of wood flew from the top of the post. She looked at him with an exultant smile. "That's better," he told her, grinning; "you'll be hittin' the soap box, next." She did hit it at the fourth attempt, and her joy was great. For an hour she practiced, using many cartridges, reveling in this new pastime. She hit the target often, and toward the end she gained such confidence and proficiency that her eyes glowed proudly. Then, growing tired, she invited him to the porch again, and until near noon they talked of guns and shooting. Her interest in him had grown. His interest in her had always been deep, and the constraint that had been between them no longer existed. At noon she went into the house and prepared luncheon, leaving him sitting on the porch alone. When she called Randerson in, and he took a chair across from her, she felt a distinct embarrassment. It was not because she was there alone with him, for he had a right to be there; he was her range boss and his quarters were in the house; he was an employee, and no conventions were being violated. But the embarrassment was there.