"But what in Sam Hill did you pull her apart for?"

"Just to see if I could put her together again."

Cheyenne scratched his head, and stepped over to inspect the juniper
stump. He stooped, whistled, and turned to Bartley. "Man, you like to
sawed that stub in two. Why didn't you say you could shoot?"

"I can't, in your class. But tell me why you Westerners always seem to
think it strange that an Easterner can sit a horse or shoot fairly well?
Is it because you consider that the average tourist represents the
entire East?"

"I dunno. But, then, I've met up with Easterners that weren't just like
you."

Bartley was busy, assembling the Luger, and Cheyenne was watching him,
when they glanced up simultaneously. A shadow drifted between them.

Cheyenne hesitated and then stepped forward. "I'll be dinged if it ain't
Jimmy! What you doin' up here in the brush, anyhow?"

The boy, who rode a well-mannered gray pony, kicked one foot out of the
stirrup and hooked his small leg over the horn. He nodded to Cheyenne,
but his interest was centered on Bartley and the Luger.

"It's Jimmy--my boy," said Cheyenne. "His Aunt Jane lives over yonder, a
piece."

"Why, hello!" exclaimed Bartley, laying the pistol aside. And he stepped