“It strikes me as a useless piece of baggage,” said I. “I bought it in Benton but I haven’t needed it. I can kill a rattlesnake easier with my whip.”
“Wall,” he drawled, “down in yonder you’re liable to meet up with a rattler too smart for your whip, account of his freckles. ’Twon’t do you no harm to 209 spend a few ca’tridges, so you’ll be ready for business.”
The men were banging, by turn, at a sardine can set up on the sand about twenty paces out. Their shadows stretched slantwise before them, grotesquely lengthened by the last efforts of the disappearing sun. Some aimed carefully from under pulled-down hat brims; others, their brims flared back, fired quickly, the instant the gun came to the level. The heavy balls sent the loose soil flying in thick jets made golden by the evening glow. But amidst the furrows the can sat untouched by the plunging missiles.
We were greeted with hearty banter.
“Hyar’s the champeens!”
“Now they’ll show us.”
“Ain’t never see that pilgrim unlimber his gun yit, but I reckon he’s a bad ’un.”
“Jenks, old hoss, cain’t you l’an that durned can manners?”
“I’ll try to oblige you, boys,” friend Jenks smiled. “What you thinkin’ to do: hit that can or plant a lead mine?”
“Give him room. He’s made his brag,” they cried. “And if he don’t plug it that pilgrim sure will.”