occasional:

"Couldn't 'a' done it any better myself, pardner."

For Annersley seldom called the boy "Pete" now, realizing that
"pardner" meant so much more to him.

Pete had his rifle--an old carbine, much scratched and battered by the
brush and rock--a thirty-thirty the old man had purchased from a cowboy
in Concho.

Pete spent most of his spare time cleaning and polishing the gun. He
had a fondness for firearms that almost amounted to a passion.
Evenings, when the work was done and Annersley sat smoking in the
doorway, Young Pete invariably found excuse to clean and oil his gun.
He invested heavily in cartridges and immediately used up his
ammunition on every available target until there was not an unpunctured
tin can on the premises. He was quick and accurate, finally scorning
to shoot at a stationary mark and often riding miles to get to the
valley level where there were rabbits and "Jacks," that he occasionally
bowled over on the run. Once he shot a coyote, and his cup of
happiness brimmed--for the time being.

All told, it was a most healthful and happy life for a boy, and Young
Pete learned, unconsciously, to "ride, shoot, and Tell the Truth," as
against "Reading, Writing, and Arithmetic," for which he cared nothing.
Pete might have gone far--become a well-to-do cattleman or rancher--had
not Fate, which can so easily wipe out all plans and precautions in a
flash, stepped in and laid a hand on his bridle-rein.