"If we can."
"I told dad we would," Marty said confidently. "Oh! we'll fix it. But I wish there was a constable here right now. I don't know about these sheriffs. Still, it's against the law down here to carry a gun, I s'pose, same as it is up North, unless you're a soldier or a law officer. That's why that feller that swapped clothes with me said there were no cops to bother about it."
"Why! what do you mean, Marty?" his cousin cried.
The boy drew from its hiding place in his sash a shiny "snub-nose" service revolver—a much more deadly weapon than the army automatic, for it will shoot farther and straighter.
"This is what I got to boot in the trade," said the boy with immense pride.
"Marty!" almost shrieked Janice. "You'll shoot yourself!"
"I won't till it's loaded," returned her cousin coolly. "I got the cartridges, all right all right; but I haven't put any of 'em into the cylinder. Oh, I know about guns, Janice."
"Goodness me!" groaned the girl. "What are we coming to?"
"We've come," announced Marty grimly. "And it ain't any Sunday-school picnic at that. This isn't Polktown, Janice. We're at the Border. 'Tisn't no place for scare-cats, either."
"I'm no 'scare-cat,' as you call them, I should hope," said the girl indignantly.