Jimmy thought it over seriously, the smoke from his cigaret drifting up into his eyes.
“No,” he said finally, “I won’t go. I’ve never injured any one, and I’m not going to run away.”
“And take chances on bein’ killed?”
Jimmy nodded.
“Yes; it’s all right. I might be lucky.”
Hashknife held out his hand to Jimmy, as he said,
“Young man, you belong. I wouldn’t blame yuh if yuh ran away. We’re just a pair of ordinary human beings, but we’re backin’ yore play.”
“Gee, that’s nice of you! I’m not much good—not alone. I didn’t come here with the idea of becoming a gunman, but I wish somebody would show me something about a revolver. It tries to jump out of my hand every time I shoot it, and I can’t hit a five-gallon can at ten feet. Really, a fellow should know something about a gun—if somebody is trying to kill him.”
“It might come in handy,” smiled Hashknife. “Neither of us are good shots, but we can show you how to point a gun.”
“Fine! And to draw one real fast, like Johnny Grant can?”