"Don't snap it; it's bad for it. They's lots of game. I got a fox squirrel the other day. He was so long. He was up a big pine, and I hit him right through the head."
"You must be a good shot. Will you take me hunting with you some day?"
"I dunno," he replied doubtfully. "Girls ain't much good."
"Try me," urged Molly, smiling.
"I'll let you shoot her off anyway," he said magnanimously. "But you gotter help clean her. If you don't clean her, she gets rusty and won't shoot straight. Here's the catridges."
"What little bits of things! Will they kill anything?"
"Hoh!" replied the Kid with contempt.
"Is that your dog?" hastily inquired Molly, conscious of her error. Peter was busily engaged in acquiring an olfactory knowledge of the four wheels and two axles of the wagon.
"Him? Naw. He's the bigges' fool dog I ever see. He goes along unless you tie him up. And he keeps rummagin' around, and he scares all the game there is. I can't make him stay home."
A cabin door opened quickly, and a miner issued forth.