The Lonesome Trail and Other Stories | Page 8

The schoolma'am jumped and slid something out of sight under her
ruffled, white apron. "Weary Davidson, how long have you been
standing there? I believe you'd come straight down from the sky or
straight up from the ground, if you could manage it. You seem capable
of doing everything except coming by the trail like a sensible man."
This with severity.
Weary swung a long leg over Glory's back and came lightly to earth,
immediately taking possession of the vacant half of doorstep. The
schoolma'am obligingly drew skirts aside to make room for him--an

inconsistent movement not at all in harmony with her eyebrows, which
were disapproving.
"Yuh don't like ordinary men. Yuh said so, once when I said I was just
a plain, ordinary man. I've sworn off being ordinary since yuh gave me
that tip," he said cheerfully. "Let's have a look at that cannon you're
hiding under your apron. Where did yuh resurrect it? Out of some old
Indian grave?
"Mamma! It won't go off sudden and unexpected, will it? What kind uh
shells--oh, mamma!" He pushed his hat back off his forehead with a
gesture not left behind with his boyhood, held the object the length of
his long arm away and regarded it gravely.
It was an old, old "bull-dog" revolver, freckled with rust until it bore a
strong resemblance to certain noses which Miss Satterly looked down
upon daily. The cylinder was plugged with rolls of drab cotton cloth,
supposedly in imitation of real bullets. It was obviously during the
plugging process that Miss Satterly had been interrupted, for a drab
string hung limply from one hole. On the whole, the thing did not look
particularly formidable, and Weary's lips twitched.
"A tramp stopped here the other day, and--I was frightened a little," she
was explaining, pink-cheeked. "So aunt Meeker found this up in the
loft and she thought it would do to--to bluff with."
Weary aimed carefully at a venturesome and highly inquisitive gopher
and pulled, with some effort, the rusted trigger. The gopher stood upon
his hind feet and chipped derisively.
"You see, it just insults him. Yuh could'nt scare a blind man with it--
Look here! If yuh go pouting up your lips like that again, something's
going to happen 'em. There's a limit to what a man can stand."
Miss Satterly hastily drew her mouth into a thin, untempting, red streak,
for she had not seen Weary Davidson, on an average, twice a week for
the last four months for nothing. He was not the man to bluff.
"Of course," she said resentfully, "you can make fun of it--but all the
same, it's better than nothing. It answers the purpose."
Weary turned his head till he could look straight into her eyes--a thing
he seemed rather fond of doing, lately. "What purpose? It sure isn't
ornamental; it's a little the hardest looker I ever saw in the shape of a
gun. And it won't scare anything. If you want a gun, why, take one that
can make good. You can have mine; just watch what a different effect

it has."
He reached backward and drew a shining thing from his pocket, flipped
it downward--and the effect was unmistakably different. The gopher
leaped and rolled backward and then lay still, and Miss Satterly gave a
little, startled scream and jumped quite off the doorstep.
"Don't yuh see? You couldn't raise any such a dust with yours. If yuh
pack a gun, you always want to pack one that's ready and willing to do
business on short notice. I'll let yuh have this, if you're sure it's safe
with yuh. I'd hate to have you shooting yourself accidental."
Weary raised innocent eyes to her face and polished the gun caressingly
with his handkerchief. "Try it once," he urged.
The schoolma'am was fond of boasting that she never screamed at
anything. She had screamed just now, over a foolish little thing, and it
goes without saying she was angry with the cause. She did not sit down
again beside him, and she did not take the gun he was holding up
invitingly to her. She put her hands behind her and stood accusingly
before him with the look upon her face which never failed to make
sundry small Beckmans and Pilgreens squirm on their benches when
she assumed it in school.
"Mr. Davidson"--not Weary Davidson, as she was wont to call
him--"you have killed my pet gopher. All summer I have fed him, and
he would eat out of my hand."
Weary cast a jealous eye upon the limp, little animal, searched his heart
for remorse and found none. Ornery little brute, to get familiar with his
schoolma'am!
"I did not think you could be so wantonly cruel, and I am astonished
and--and deeply pained