The weapon Roy had selected, which fired ten shots and weighed two and one-half pounds, he knew was already taking the place of larger revolvers. He also knew that soldiers, cowboys, sheriffs and frontiersmen generally were discarding the old Colts for it and, although it cost twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents, and cartridges were three cents apiece, this was the first item of his outfit the lad set down.
“The beauty of this revolver, mother,” explained Roy, “is that it comes in a wooden holster. You can attach this holster to the stock of the weapon and, presto, you have a carbine or rifle.”
Mrs. Osborne shivered.
“You aren’t going to shoot Indians with that, are you?” asked his mother. “Or, maybe, drop it accidentally, and shoot yourself?”
“Mother,” answered Roy soberly, “what if I started out over the desert in the airship and something happened so that I’d have to come down, and I landed plump in a covey of rattlesnakes—?”
“Oh, my—” exclaimed Mrs. Osborne in alarm.
“And say there were just ten of ’em all coiled up ready for business. You see where my ten-shooter would come in, don’t you?”
His mother looked relieved for a moment. Then, the thought just occurring to her, she said:
“But could you shoot them? You never practised shooting.”