Very obviously he was ill at ease to find himself the center of
so much attention.
"I s'pose you been practicin' up on tin-cans?" suggested the deputy,
leaning on the counter.
"Sometimes I hit things and sometimes I don't," answered the stranger.
"Well," and this was put more crisply as the deputy brought out a large pad
of paper, "jest gimme your name, partner."
"Joe Cumber." He grew still more ill at ease. "I hear that even if you hit
the mark you got to talk to the sheriff himself afterwards?"
"Yep."
The applicant sighed.
"Why d'you ask?"
"I ain't much on words."
"But hell with your gun, eh?" The deputy sheriff grinned again, but when
the other turned his head toward him, his smile went out, suddenly while
the wrinkle of mirth still lay in his cheek. The deputy stroked his chin
and looked thoughtful.
"Get your gun ready," he ordered.
The other slipped his hand down to his gun-butt and moved his weapon to
make sure that it was perfectly loose in the leather.
"Ain't you goin' to take your gun out?" queried the deputy.
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