“We cowboys in the West when we want a little fun make a tenderfoot dance while we fire our revolvers at his feet. BEGIN!”
The victim lowered the point of the gun so as to point it at the shoes of Mr. Buxton.
“I—I—can’t dance; never done it in my life,” he stuttered.
“Can’t begin earlier. Start up!”
Knowing what was ordered, the victim obeyed. He leaped up and down, shuffled his feet and made such comical antics that the gun wabbled in the hands of the laughing master of the situation.
“I have one loaded barrel left and I’m aching to let you have it! Keep it up!”
Now that he had started, Mr. Buxton threw more vigor into his steps. He bounded in the air, side-stepped, kicked out his feet, tried a number of fancy movements of which he knew nothing, and acted like an energetic youth taking his first lessons in that branch of the terpsichorean art called buck dancing.
“Turn your back toward me and dance all the way home! If you let up for one minute or look around I’ll blaze away, and you won’t get the charge in your feet! Remember that!”
Mr. Buxton reflected that having left home so jauntily with loaded weapon over his shoulder, it would be anything but a dignified return to dance back again without it. If he jig-stepped down the main street some neighbor was likely to see him and make remarks. A waltz through the gate, up the steps of the porch and into the hall, by which time it would probably be safe for him to cease his exhausting performance, would undoubtedly cause annoying inquiries on the part of his wife and family.
But there was hope. He might gain a start that would make it safe to resume his natural gait. He did his best. Facing the boundary fence less than two hundred yards away he kicked up his heels, swung his arms in unison, and steadily drew away from that fearful form standing with gun levelled at him. He yearned to break into a run, but dared not. He believed his tormentor was following so as to keep him in range.