Montoya. Pete, chafing because of this "kid stuff," as he called the
stone-throwing, picked up his gun and "threw" five shots at the can.
He was angry and he shot fast, but he hit the can twice. From that
minute he "caught on." Speed tended toward accuracy, premising one was
used to the "feel" of a gun. And accuracy tended toward speed, giving
one assurance. Even as one must throw a stone with speed to be
accurate, so one must shoot with speed. It was all easy enough--like
everything else--when you had the hang of it.

How often a hero of fiction steps into a story--or rides into it--whose
deadly accuracy, lightning-like swiftness, appalling freedom from
accident, ostrich-like stomach and camel-like ability to go without
water, earn him the plaudits of a legion of admiring readers. Apropos
of such a hero, your old-timer will tell you, "that there ain't no such
animal." If your old-timer is a friend--perchance carrying the
never-mentioned scars of cattle-wars and frontier raids--he may tell
you that many of the greatest gunmen practiced early and late, spent
all their spare money on ammunition, never "showed-off" before an
audience, always took careful advantage of every fighting chance, saved
their horses and themselves from undue fatigue when possible, never
killed a man when they could avoid killing him, bore themselves
quietly, didn't know the meaning of Romance, but were strong for
utility, and withal worked as hard and suffered as much in becoming
proficient in their vocation as the veriest artisan of the cities.
Circumstances, hazard, untoward event, even inclination toward
excitement, made some of these men heroes, but never in their own eyes.
There were exceptions, of course, but most of the exceptions were
buried.

And Young Pete, least of all, dreamed of becoming a hero. He liked