Young Pete had ridden his horse down the ragged trail and was at the moment engaged in six-gun practice.  Bailey drew back and sat down.  Pete had gathered together some bits of rock and had built a target loosely representing a man.  The largest rock, on which was laid a small round, bowlder for a head, was spattered with lead.  Pete, quite unconscious of an audience, was cutting loose with speed and accuracy.  He threw several shots at the place which represented the vitals of his theoretical enemy, punched the shells from his gun, and reloaded.  Then he stepped to his horse and led him opposite the target and some twenty feet from it.  Crouching, he fired under the horse’s belly.  The horse bucked and circled the enclosure.  Pete strode after him, caught him up, and repeated the performance.  Each time Pete fired, the horse naturally jumped and ran.  Patiently Pete caught him up again.  Finally the animal, although trembling and wild-eyed, stood to the gun.  Pete patted its neck.  Reloading he mounted.  Bailey was curious to see what the boy would do next.  Pete turned the horse and, spurring him, flung past the target, emptying his gun as he went.  Then he dismounted and striding up to within ten yards of the man-target, holstered his gun and stood for a moment as still as a stone itself.  Suddenly his hand flashed to his side.  Bailey rubbed his eyes.  The gun had not come from the holster, yet the rock target was spattered with five more shots.  Bailey could see the lead fly as the blunt slugs flattened on the stone.

“The young son-of-a-gun!” muttered Bailey.  “Dinged if he ain’t shootin’ through the open holster!  Where in blazes did he learn that bad-man trick?”

Thus far Pete had not said a word, even to the horse.  But now that he had finished his practice he strode to the rock-target and thrust his hand against it.  “You’re dead!” he exclaimed.  “You’re plumb salivated!” He pushed, and the man-target toppled and fell.

“Ain’t you goin’ to bury him?” queried Bailey.

Pete whirled.  The color ran up his neck and face.  “H’lo, Jim.”

“How’d you know it was me?” Bailey stood up.

“Knowed your voice.”

“Well, come on up.  I was wonderin’ who was down there settin’ off the fireworks.  Didn’t hear you till I got most on top of you.  You sure got some private shootin’-gallery.”

Pete led his pony up the steep trail and squatted beside Bailey.  “How long you been watching me, Jim?”

“Oh, jest since you started shooting under your hoss.  What’s the idea?”

“Nothin’, jest practicin’.”

“You must ‘a’ been practicin’ quite a’ spell.  You handle that smoke-wagon like an ole-timer.”

“I ain’t advertisin’ it.”

“Well, it’s all right, Pete.  Glad I got a front seat.  Never figured you was a top-hand with a gun.  Now I’m wise.  I know enough not to stack up against you.”