Bartley was thinking of this when they made an early camp, the afternoon of the third day out.  After the horses were hobbled and the packs arranged, Bartley decided to experiment a little with his new Luger automatic.  Cheyenne declined to experiment with the gun.

“It’s a mean gat,” he asserted, “and it’s fast.  But I’ll bet you a new hat I can empty my old smoke-wagon quicker than you can that pocket machine gun.”

For the fun of the thing, Bartley took him up.  He selected as target a juniper stump, and blazed away.

“I’m leavin’ the decision to you,” said Cheyenne, as he braced his right arm against his body and fanned the Colt, emptying it before Bartley could realize that he had fired three shots—­and Cheyenne had fired five.

“I’ll buy you that hat when we get to town,” laughed Bartley.  “You beat me, hands down.”

“Hands down is right, old-timer.  Fannin’ a gun is show stuff, but it’s wicked, at close range.”

Meanwhile, Bartley had been experimenting further with the Luger.  When he got through he had a hat full of pieces and Cheyenne was staring at what seemed to be the wreck of a once potent weapon.

“Why, you done pulled that little lead sprinkler all to bits!” exclaimed Cheyenne, “and you didn’t have no tools to do it with.”

“You can take down and assemble this gun without tools,” stated Bartley.  “All you need is your fingers.”

“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 up and shook hands with the boy, who grinned.

“How’s the folks?” queried Cheyenne.

“All right.  That there is a Luger gun, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” said Bartley.  “Would you like to try it?”