As he swung into his saddle, his coat flew up a little, and disclosed a weapon in his hip pocket.
“A revolver!” she exclaimed. “Why, what are you afraid of, Mr. Nash?”
“It isn’t that I’m afraid,” Nash told her gravely; “but in an argument, the man with a gun generally wins out.”
“I suppose, being a Californian, you’re a good shot?” Miss Breen said. “I suppose it comes natural, doesn’t it?”
Nash shook his head and smiled into her anxious face. “What makes you think that? All Easterners think the same. They want to believe that every man between here and the Colorado line carries a six-shooter or two. Nothing could be more absurd. The real gunman is found in the big cities. Why, I’ll wager there are more men in New York City to-day carrying guns than in the whole State of California.”
“Well,” she returned, “I always imagined because one was in the West that——” She stopped suddenly. “Look there! A snake!”
Nash jerked the gun from his pocket, aimed it swiftly, and tightened his finger upon the trigger. The hammer fell in obedience to the pressure on the trigger, but only a hollow click resulted.
“Jove!” he exclaimed, realizing the truth instantly. “I used this revolver last night, and forgot to load it again.”
“An unloaded gun isn’t of much use, is it?” Miss Breen said, laughing with him, and watching the snake crawl safely away.
“On the contrary,” Nash responded, “it is.”