“Show me,” he said. He came boldly out from the brushwood and faced Cunningham squarely.
He was no older than Cunningham, but Cunningham instantly envied him his build. He was magnificently made and splendidly muscled—as were all the Strangers, as Cunningham learned later. He met Cunningham’s eyes frankly, yet defiantly.
Cunningham turned to where Gray still lay sprawled out in a heap of brush. Imperturbable puffs of smoke rose in the still woodland air.
“Go ahead and charm them, Cunningham,” said Gray’s voice dryly. “I’m under cover and I’ll start shooting if they start anything.”
“Show me that you could have killed us,” repeated the young man, facing Cunningham. “Use this thing you have.”
Cunningham held out his revolver. The Stranger looked at it curiously but impassively. He seemed totally unfamiliar with its nature or use.
“Great guns!” demanded Cunningham in exasperation. “Don’t you know what it is?”
The young man hesitated and then shook his head.
“No. I do not know what it is.”
He waited defiantly as Cunningham gaped at him. People in these United States who had never seen a revolver! He grunted.