horses have."

"I notice your old black ain't much gun-shy, either," ventured Bill.

"See here--you!" said the big Texan. "You talk pretty biggity. It's
mighty easy to run a whizzer when you've got the only loaded gun in camp.
If I had one damned cartridge left it would be different."

"Never mind," said Johnson kindly. "I'll give you one!"

Rising, he twirled the cylinder of his gun and extracted his three
cartridges. He threw one far down the hillslope; he dropped one on
the ground beside him; he tossed the last one in the sand at the Texan's
feet.

Jim, from Texas, looked at the cartridge without animation; he looked
into Pete Johnson's frosty eyes; he kicked the cartridge back.

"I lay 'em down right here," he stated firmly. "I like a damned fool; but
you suit me too well."

He stalked away toward his horse with much dignity. He stopped halfway,
dropped upon a box, pounded his thigh and gave way to huge and unaffected
laughter; in which Bill joined a moment later.

"Oh, you little bandy-legged old son-of-a-gun!" Jim roared. "You
crafty, wily, cunnin' old fox! I'm for you! Of all the holy shows,
you've made Bill and me the worst--'specially me. 'There, there!' you
says, consolin' me up like I was a kid with a cracked jug. 'There, there!
Never mind--I'll give you one!' Deah, oh, deah! I'll never be able to