"It might be a whole lot worse for me to do it than it would for you—though if I carried a nice little gun like that it maybe wouldn't make so very much difference. There's your prairie dog again," he added, looking across the hole.
"Of course a man would have to make fun of a pistol like this," she answered, the revolver lying in her hand. "Let me see yours." Thus far she had seen no sign of any scabbard or holster. "And shoot that prairie dog for me," she added.
"Mine would be pretty heavy for a prairie dog. You try him."
"Oh, my poor little pistol is in disgrace," she returned, putting it up. "Sec what you can do."
He slipped his left hand under the right lapel of his coat and drew from a breast harness a Colt's revolver. Had she realized it was carried that day in this very unobtrusive manner in anticipation of an unpleasant interview with her father, Kate would have been speechless with fear. As it was, no gun, though she had seen many since coming to the mountains, ever looked so big or formidable. The setting of the scene and her situation may have magnified its impressiveness.
"Why smash the prairie dog?" he asked quietly. "Look at his whiskers—he may be the father of a family."
"You might miss him."
"If I should it would be time for me to quit this country."
"Shoot at something else."
"Why shoot at all?"