sinkful of soiled dishes in the kitchen under the eyes of a mere unarmed
Chinaman who sat by and smoked an easy cigarette at him, scornful of
firearms?

There were times, to be sure, when Jimmie's behaviour was in nice accord
with his dreadful appearance--as when I chanced to observe him late the
second afternoon of my arrival. Solitary in front of the bunk house, he
rapidly drew and snapped his side arms at an imaginary foe some paces
in front of him. They would be simultaneously withdrawn from their
holsters, fired from the hip and replaced, the performer snarling
viciously the while. The weapons were unloaded, but I inferred that the
foe crumpled each time.

Then the old man varied the drama, vastly increasing the advantage of
the foe and the peril of his own emergency by turning a careless back on
the scene. The carelessness was only seeming. Swiftly he wheeled, and
even as he did so twin volleys came from the hip. It was spirited--the
weapons seemed to smoke; the smile of the marksman was evil and
masterly. Beyond all question the foe had crumpled again, despite his
tremendous advantage of approach.

I drew gently near before the arms were again holstered and permitted
the full exposure of my admiration for this readiness of retort under
difficulties. The puissant one looked up at me with suspicion, hostile
yet embarrassed. I stood admiring ingenuously, stubborn in my
fascination. Slowly I won him. The coldness in his bright little eyes
warmed to awkward but friendly apology.

"A gun fighter lets hisself git stiff," he winningly began; "then, first
thing he knows, some fine day--crack! Like that! All his own fault, too,