“Nobody. Now you watch me.”
He stooped at the little water ditch which had been led in among the buildings from the stream and kneaded up a little ball of mud. This he forced into the handle of the tin cup, entirely filling it, then washed off the body of the cup.
“I’ll shoot the fillin’ out’n the handle an’ not out’n the cup!” said he. “Mud’s cheap, an’ all the diff’runce in holdin’ is, ef I nicked the side o’ yer haid it’d hurt ye ’bout the same as ef what I nicked the center of hit. Ain’t that so? We’d orto practice inderstry an’ ’conomy, Jim. Like my mother said, ‘Penny saved is er penny yearned.’ ‘Little drops o’ water, little grains o’ sand,’ says she, ‘a-makes the mighty o-o-ocean an’ the plea-ea-sant land.’”
“I never seed it tried,” said Bridger, with interest, “but I don’t see why hit hain’t practical. Whang away, an’ ef ye spill the whisky shootin’ to one side, or cut ha’r shootin’ too low, your caballo is mine—an’ he ain’t much!”
With no more argument, he in turn took up his place, the two changing positions so that the light would favor the rifleman. Again the fear-smitten Chardon adjusted the filled cup, this time on his master’s bared head.
“Do-ee turn her sideways now, boy,” cautioned Bridger. “Set the han’le sideways squar’, so she looks wide. Give him a fa’r shot now, fer I’m interested in this yere thing, either way she goes. Either I lose ha’r er a mule.”
But folding his arms he faced the rifle without batting an eye, as steady as had been the other in his turn.
Jackson extended his long left arm, slowly and steadily raising the silver bead up from the chest, the throat, the chin, the forehead of his friend, then lowered it, rubbing his sore shoulder.
“Tell him to turn that han’le squar’ to me, Jim!” he called. “The damn fool has got her all squegeed around to one side.”
Bridger reached up a hand and straightened the cup himself.