“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.