shooting without permission. The promise of a real gun of his own
touched Young Pete's tough little heart. He stuck out his hand. The
compact was sealed.

"Git a thirty-thirty," he suggested.

"What do you know about thirty-thirties?"

"Huh, I know lots. My other pop was tellin' me you could git a man
with a thirty a whole heap farther than you could with any ole
forty-four or them guns. I shot heaps of rabbits with his."

"Well, we'll see. But you want to git over the idee of gettin' a man
with any gun. That goes with horse-tradin' and liquor and such. But
we sure aim to live peaceful, up here."

Meanwhile, Young Pete, squatting beside Annersley, amused himself by
spitting tobacco juice at a procession of red ants that trailed from
nowhere in particular toward the doorstep.

"Makes 'em sick," he chuckled as a lucky shot dissipated the procession.

"It's sure wastin' cartridges on mighty small game," remarked Annersley.

"Don't cost nothin' to spit on 'em," said Young Pete.

"Not now. But when you git out of chewin'-tobacco, then where you
goin' to git some more?"

"To the store, I reckon."