“Time it was,” said Scipio, “after the wettin’ the month of May gave us. Boys doin’ anything in town lately?”
“Oh, gay, gay,” returned Uncle Pasco. And he ran a pistol against Scipio’s head. “Out with it,” he commanded. “Cough up.”
It is possible, under these circumstances, to refuse to cough, and to perform instead some rapid athletics which result in a bullet-hole in the wall or ceiling, to be forever after pointed to. But the odds are so heavy that the hole will be in neither the wall nor the ceiling that many people of undoubted valor have found coughing more discreet. Scipio coughed.
“Uncle Pasco,” said he gracefully, “I didn’t know you were that artistic.”
Uncle Pasco now marched to the bed, and appropriated Scipio’s pistol. “Just for the present,” he explained.
“Uncle Pasco,” resumed Scipio, mild as a dove, and never stirring from his chair, “you have learned me something to-day. It’s expensive education. I’ll not say it ain’t. But I’m goin’ to tell y’u where I went wrong. I’d ought to have acted more careless in Likely that night. I’d ought to have taken a whirl somewheres. Bein’ so quiet exposed my hand to y’u. But, see here, I had everybody fooled but you.”
“You’re a kid,” responded Uncle Pasco, but with indulgence. “You be good. Keep a-sittin’ right there. Pie like mother made.” And with the pie in one hand and his pistol in the other he made a comfortable lunch.
“It was my over-carefulness, warn’t it?” persisted Scipio. “I have sure paid y’u good to know!”
“You’re a kid,” Uncle Pasco, with unchanged indulgence, repeated. “You’ll do in time. Keep studying seasoned men. That’s what.” And he finished his meal. “You’ll find your six-shooter in the place where I’ll put it.”
The old gentleman opened the door, and, leaving Scipio in the chair, walked briskly by the corral into the trees and mounted his old pink mare. From the door of the cabin Scipio watched him amble away along the banks of Spit-Cat.