Joe settled his shoulders comfortably against the doorway and watched Casey make for the water bucket.
"I claim that's the out-kickin'est stuff that ever was made on Black Butte. How'd yuh like it?"
"All right," Casey bore witness, keeping his eyes fixed on Joe and the gun and trying his best to maintain a nonchalant manner. "I'd call it purty fair hootch."
"It's GOOD hootch!" Joe declared impressively, apparently quite convinced that Casey was not a Federal officer. "Can yuh feel the kick'to it?"
Casey backed until he sat on the edge of the table his good right hand supporting his left elbow outside the sling. He grinned at Joe and while he still keenly realized that he was playing a part for the sole purpose of gaining somehow an advantage over Joe, he was conscious of a slight giddiness. An unprejudiced observer would have noticed that his grin was not quite the old, Casey Ryan grin. It was a shade foolish.
"Bet your life I can feel the kick!" he agreed, nodding his head. "You can ask anybody." Then Casey discovered something strange in Joe's appearance. He lifted his head, held it very still and regarded Joe attentively.
"Say, Joe, what yuh tryin' to do with that six-gun? Tryin' to write your name in the air with it?"
Joe looked inquiringly down at the gun, eyeing it as if it were a new and absolutely unknown object. He satisfied himself apparently beyond all doubt that the gun was doing nothing it should not do, and finally turned his attention to Casey sitting on the table and grinning at him meaninglessly.
"Ain't writin' nothin'," Joe stated solemnly. "It's yore eyes. Gun's all right—yo'r seein' crooked. It's the hootch. Back-action kick to it. Ain't that right?"
"That's right," nodded Casey and he added, grinning more foolishly, "Darn right, that's right! Back-action kick—bet your life."