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  They would be simultaneously withdrawn from their holsters, fired from the hip and replaced, the performer snarling viciously the while.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, ‘cause he ain’t kep’ in trim.”  He jauntily twirled one of the heavy revolvers on a forefinger.  “Not me, though, pard!  Keep m’self up and comin’, you bet!  Ketch me not ready to fan the old forty-four!  I guess not!  Some has thought they could.  Oh, yes; plenty has thought they could.  Crack!  Like that!” He wheeled, this time fatally intercepting the foe as he treacherously crept round a corner of the bunk house.  “Buryin’ ground for you, mister!  That’s all—­bury-in’ ground!”

The desperado replaced one of the weapons and patted the other with grisly affection.  In the excess of my admiration I made bold to reach for it.  He relinquished it to me with a mother’s yearning.  And all too legible in the polished butt of the thing were notches!  Nine sinister notches I counted—­not fresh notches, but emphatic, eloquent, chilling.  I thrust the bloody record back on its gladdened owner.

“Never think it to look at me?” said he as our eyes hung above that grim bit of bookkeeping.

“Never!” I warmly admitted.

“Me—­I always been one of them quiet, mild-mannered ones that you wouldn’t think butter would melt in their mouth—­jest up to a certain point.  Lots of ’em fooled that way about me—­jest up to a certain point, mind you—­then, crack!  Buryin’ ground—­that’s all!  Never go huntin’ trouble—­understand?  But when it’s put on me—­say!”

He lovingly replaced the weapon—­with its mortuary statistics—­doffed the broad-brimmed hat with its snake-skin garniture, and placed a forefinger athwart an area of his shining scalp which is said by a certain pseudoscience to shield several of man’s more spiritual attributes.  The finger traced an ancient but still evil looking scar.