over his shoulder, to “roll” his gun, to pretend to surrender it, and, handing it out butt first, flip it over and shoot the theoretical enemy.  He also taught him one trick which, while not considered legitimate by most professional gunmen, was exceedingly worth while on account of its deadly unexpectedness—­and that was to shoot through the open holster without drawing the gun.  Such practice allowed of only a limited range, never higher than a man’s belt, but as Montoya explained, a shot belt-high and center was most effective.

Pete took an almost vicious delight in perfecting himself in this trick.  He knew of most of the other methods—­but shooting with the gun in the holster was difficult and for close-range work, and just in proportion to its difficulty Pete persevered.

He was fond of Montoya in an offhand way, but with the lessons in gunmanship his fondness became almost reverence for the old man’s easy skill and accuracy.  Despite their increasing friendliness, Pete could never get Montoya to admit that he had killed a man—­and Pete thought this strange, at that time.

Pete’s lessons were not always without grief.  Montoya, ordinarily genial, was a hard master to please.  Finally, when Pete was allowed to use ammunition in his practice, and insisted on sighting at an object, Montoya reproved him sharply for wasting time.  “It is like this,” he would say; illustrating on the instant he would throw a shot into the chance target without apparent aim.  Once he made Pete put down his gun and take up a handful of stones.  “Now shoot,” he said.  Pete, much chagrined, pelted the stones rapidly at the empty can target.  To his surprise he missed it only once.  “Now shoot him like that,” said Montoya.  Pete, chafing because of this “kid stuff,” as he called the stone-throwing, picked up his gun and “threw” five shots at the can.  He was angry and he shot fast, but he hit the can twice.  From that minute he “caught on.”  Speed tended toward accuracy, premising one was used to the “feel” of a gun.  And accuracy tended toward speed, giving one assurance.  Even as one must throw a stone with speed to be accurate, so one must shoot with speed.  It was all easy enough—­like everything else—­when you had the hang of it.

How often a hero of fiction steps into a story—­or rides into it—­whose deadly accuracy, lightning-like swiftness, appalling freedom from accident, ostrich-like stomach and camel-like ability to go without water, earn him the plaudits of a legion of admiring readers.  Apropos of such a hero, your old-timer will tell you, “that there ain’t no such animal.”  If your old-timer is a friend—­perchance carrying the never-mentioned scars of cattle-wars and frontier raids—­he may tell you that many of the greatest gunmen practiced early and late, spent all their spare money on ammunition, never “showed-off” before an audience, always took careful advantage of every fighting chance, saved their horses and themselves