“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.”
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.