Teddy and Roy went closer and gazed at the can. For every hole where the bullets went in, there was a corresponding one in the other side—one with the tin bent inward, one with it bent out—and as Nick had said, there was a hole directly opposite the original perforation.
“Five out of five!” Roy said admiringly. “Say, puncher, where’d you learn to shoot?”
“Didn’t learn. Had it drilled into me.” Silent responded. “My dad—” he stopped, and turned his head away. In a moment he had recovered himself and went on in an even tone: “My pop was one of the best shots in the West. So was my brother. They’re both dead now.”
“Yes, we know,” Roy said quietly. “Conroy told us.”
“He did?” Silent jerked around, his face pale. “I asked him—Well,” and his shoulders sank, “then you know. But it was my trouble, an’ I was aimin’ to keep it to myself. Hang it! For some reason, though, I ain’t sorry that you found out. Funny, that, ain’t it?” His face wore a puzzled look, as a child’s does when it cannot understand some emotion.
Teddy laid a hand on Silent’s shoulder.
“I reckon, Silent, it’s because you know we’re friends of yours,” the boy said. “I’m sorry—and that’s all I can say. If we ever get a chance—”
“Sure, I know,” Silent responded awkwardly. He got back on his horse. “You’re all right. Just my tough luck, that’s all. I got an idea, though. An’ you might as well know that’s the reason I wanted to hit Nugget Camp. I might get a look at a certain two waddies.” His voice grew bitter. “Two waddies who shoot men down in cold blood an’ who sport queer lookin’ guns.”
“Queer looking—” Teddy began, when Roy motioned to him for silence.
The incident served to depress the spirits of the party somewhat, and Nick, realizing this, took the opportunity a jack-rabbit afforded him to lighten their mood.