“All right; if you want to make yourself famous jist find the spot, and pop in a bullet there. Howsumever there always are some folks that think they know more nor others, and p’r’aps they do, and then p’r’aps ag’in they don’t.”
Egbert felt a little irritated at the taunting words of the scout—which irritation was doubtless increased by the keen sense he had of the rather ridiculous figure he had just made; but there was no use of showing any resentment toward Lightning Jo; and, resuming his seat, he began withdrawing the damaged charge from his gun. When sufficiently composed, he asked the rather singular question:
“How many times do you suppose you have fired at this thing, Jo?”
“I don’t know exactly; the first shot told me that it warn’t any use; but I s’pose I’ve let fly at him a half-dozen times more nor less, and I’ve seen five times as many balls sent after him by others. What do you want to know that for?”
“In all these cases did you aim at any particular portion of the animal—his head or his body?”
“We always p’inted our bull-dogs at the spot where his heart would be reached—that is, providing he had any to reach.”
“That proves beyond a doubt that the Terror can not be killed in that manner. How is it that you never aimed at his head?”
Lightning Jo seemed to be surprised at this question, and stared rather wonderingly at Egbert, before he replied:
“Hanged if I know what the reason is. You know it’s the custom among us chaps to aim at the heart instead of the head, the same as we do in a buffalo, ’cause you’re surer of wiping out the critter there than anywhere else. There’s more than one critter that walks the airth that wouldn’t mind a volley in the head, more than they would so many raindrops.”
“Very well then; the next time you or I shoot at him we’ll send the bullet into his head, and then, if he don’t mind that, I’ll be inclined to think there is something strange about it.”