He had a way of laughing inwardly, and his shoulders shook as he spoke, though he made no sound.
“Can you shoot?” asked my queer companion suddenly.
“Fairly,” I said, not so much, I am afraid, because I was modest as because I wanted to have the fun of letting him find out that I was a crack marksman.
“And ride?”
“If I have to.”
“If you have to! Not as well as you shoot, then?”
“Pshaw! what is riding? The mounting is all that is hard; you can hang on somehow if once you’re up.”
He looked at me to see whether I was joking or in earnest; but I looked innocent, so he said: “There’s where you make a mistake. What you should have said is that mounting is hard because you have to do that yourself, while the horse attends to your getting off again.”
“The horse won’t see to it in my case,” I said with confidence—born of the fact that my kind uncle had accustomed me to clinging to high-strung beasts before I had lost my milk-teeth.
“A kicking broncho is something to try the mettle of a tenderfoot,” remarked Hawkins dryly.