But conspicuous among the collection of firearms was one, kept apart, polished and cleaned, and on a rack made of elk horns handily placed just above the big mantle. It was beautifully though not elaborately made, with a fine damascus barrel of tremendous length, a lock and set trigger that showed expert handicraft, and stock of beautifully polished birds-eye maple. An expert would have known immediately that it was a first-water product of an expert gunsmith.
Big Pete noticed it as soon as I did and he could not keep his eyes from roving to it occasionally during the meal.
“You may scalp me, stranger, fer sayin’ it, but I’d like mightily well to heft that tha’ shooting iron o’ your’n and examine it when we git through with chuck,” he said.
Our strange host looked up at the rifle, then searchingly at Big Pete.
“I don’t mind showing it to you, but you must not touch it,” he said finally.
“I reckon I wouldn’t hurt it none. I’ve handled guns before,” said Big Pete shortly, and I could see that he was piqued at the man’s attitude.
“Guess you wouldn’t, but I’ve made it a rule never to let strange hands touch that rifle,” said the strange man, and there was a grimness about his tone that forbade quibbling.
“Huh, well I can’t say as perhaps yore not right about yore shootin’ hardware at that,” said Pete. Then after glancing at it again, he added, “a hunter’s gun and a woodsman’s ax should never be trusted in strange hands. Bet a ten spot it’s a Patrick Mullen. Hain’t it?”
The name of my kinsman, the famous gunsmith, brought a sudden realization that Mullen was my own family name.
The mention of the gunsmith seemed also to have a curious effect on the old man. His face grew red under the tan and his brow wrinkled and I could see his cold blue eyes scrutinizing Big Pete closely. Finally he said bluntly,