"We're telling you boys so you may know it's all right. I proposed this thing. If I'm shot, nobody is to blame but myself. Understand?" Weaver drove the idea home.
The wrangler got out an automatic "Sure," and Manuel an amazed "Si, senor," upon which they were promptly retired from the scene.
Having prepared and tested their weapons, the parties to the difficulty repaired to the pasture.
"I'd like to try out this gun, if you don't mind. It's a new proposition to me," the cattleman said.
"Go to it," nodded Slim, seating himself tailor-fashion on the ground and rolling a cigarette. He was a black, bilious-tempered fellow, but this particular kind of gameness appealed to him.
Weaver glanced around, threw the rifle to his shoulder, and fired immediately. A chicken, one hundred and fifty yards away, fell over.
"Accidents will happen," suggested Slim.
"That accident happened through the neck, you'll find," Weaver retorted calmly.
"Betcher."
Buck dropped another rooster.