"The young son-of-a-gun!" muttered Bailey. "Dinged if he ain't shootin' through the open holster! Where in blazes did he learn that bad-man trick?"
Thus far Pete had not said a word, even to the horse. But now that he had finished his practice he strode to the rock-target and thrust his hand against it. "You're dead!" he exclaimed. "You're plumb salivated!" He pushed, and the man-target toppled and fell.
"Ain't you goin' to bury him?" queried Bailey.
Pete whirled. The color ran up his neck and face. "H'lo, Jim."
"How'd you know it was me?" Bailey stood up.
"Knowed your voice."
"Well, come on up. I was wonderin' who was down there settin' off the fireworks. Didn't hear you till I got most on top of you. You sure got some private shootin'-gallery."
Pete led his pony up the steep trail and squatted beside Bailey. "How long you been watching me, Jim?"
"Oh, jest since you started shooting under your hoss. What's the idea?"
"Nothin', jest practicin'."