Jimmy shook hands perfunctorily with his father and turned to Bartley, expectancy in his gaze.
Bartley reloaded the gun and handed it to the boy, who straightaway selected the juniper stump and blazed away. Bartley watched him, a sturdy youngster, brown-fisted, blue-eyed, with sandy hair, and dressed in jeans and a rowdy--a miniature cow-puncher, even to his walk.
"Ever shoot one before?" queried Bartley as the boy gave back the pistol.
"Nope. There's one like it, over to the store in San Andreas. It's in the window. I never got to look at it right close."
"Try it again," said Bartley.
The boy grinned. "I reckon you're rich?"
"Why?"
"'Cause you got a heap of ca'tridges. They cost money."
"Never mind. Go ahead and shoot."
Jimmy blazed away again and ran to see where his bullets had hit the stump. "She's a pretty fair gun," he said as he handed it back. "But I reckon I'll have to stick to my ole twenty-two rifle. She's gettin' wore out, but I can hit things with her, yet. I git rabbits."