Mr. Jenks drew and took his stand; banged with small preparation and missed by six inches—a fact that brought him up wide awake, so to speak, badgered by derision renewed. A person needs must have a bull hide, to travel with a bull train, I saw. 210
“Gimme another, boys, and I’ll hit it in the nose,” he growled sheepishly; but they shoved him aside.
“No, no. Pilgrim’s turn. Fetch on yore shootin’-iron, young feller. Thar’s yore turkey. Show us why you’re packin’ all that hardware.”
Willy-nilly I had to demonstrate my greenness; so in all good nature I drew, and stood, and cocked, and aimed. The Colt’s exploded with prodigious blast and wrench—jerking, in fact, almost above head; and where the bullet went I did not see, nor, I judged, did anybody else.
“He missed the ’arth!” they clamored.
“No; I reckon he hit Montany ’bout the middle. That’s whar he scored center!”
“Shoot! Shoot!” they begged. “Go ahead. Mebbe you’ll kill an Injun unbeknownst. They’s a pack o’ Sioux jest out o’ sight behind them hills.”
And I did shoot, vexed; and I struck the ground, this time, some fifty yards beyond the can. Jenks stepped from amidst the riotous laughter.
“Hold down on it, hold down, lad,” he urged. “To hit him in the heart aim at his feet. Here! Like this——” and taking my revolver he threw it forward, fired, the can plinked and somersaulted, lashed into action too late.
“By Gawd,” he proclaimed, “when I move like it had a gun in its fist I can snap it. But when I think on it as a can I lack guts.”