Westy sensed that this was not his father’s true reason for objecting to the rifle. The son recalled that his father had been no more than lukewarm when the purchase of the rifle had first been proposed. Mr. Martin did not like rifles. He had observed, as several million other people had observed, that it is always the gun which is not loaded that kills people.
The purchase of the coveted rifle had not closed the matter. The rifle had done no harm, that was the trouble; it had not even killed Mr. Martin’s haunting fears.
Westy was straightforward enough to take his father’s true meaning and to ignore the one which had been given. It left his father a little chagrined but just the same he liked this straightforwardness in Westy.
“Oh, there’d be time enough to use it up there,” Westy said. “And if there wasn’t any time, why, then I couldn’t use it, that’s all. There wouldn’t be any harm taking it. I promised you I’d never shoot at anything but targets and I never have.”
“I know you haven’t, but up there, why, there are lots of——”
“There’s just one thing up there that I’m thinking about,” said Westy plainly, “and that’s the side of the big barn where I can put a target. That’s the only thing I want to shoot at, believe me. And I’ve got two eyes in my head to see if anybody is around who might get hit. That big, red barn is like—why, it’s just like a building in the middle of the Sahara Desert. I don’t see why you’re still worrying.”
“How do you know what’s back of the target?” Mr. Martin asked. “How do you know who’s inside the barn?”
“If I just tell you I’ll be careful, I should think that would be enough,” said Westy.
“Well, it is,” said Mr. Martin heartily.
“And I’ll promise you again so you can be sure.”