"You only
missed it twice, and it was a strange weapon."
"But I can't make out the two misses," she complained. "The gun worked
beautifully, too. Give me another clip and I'll hit it eight times for
anything you wish."
"I don't doubt it. Now I'll have to get a new block. Viaburi! Here you
fella, catch one fella block along storeroom."
"I'll wager you can't do it eight out of eight . . . anything you wish,"
she challenged.
"No fear of my taking it on," was his answer. "Who taught you to shoot?"
"Oh, my father, at first, and then Von, and his cowboys. He was a
shot--Dad, I mean, though Von was splendid, too."
Sheldon wondered secretly who Von was, and he speculated as to whether it
was Von who two years previously had led her to believe that nothing
remained for her but matrimony.
"What part of the United States is your home?" he asked. "Chicago or
Wyoming? or somewhere out there? You know you haven't told me a thing
about yourself. All that I know is that you are Miss Joan Lackland from
anywhere."
"You'd have to go farther west to find my stamping grounds."
"Ah, let me see--Nevada?"
She shook her head.
"California?"
"Still farther west."
"It can't be, or else I've forgotten my geography."
"It's your politics," she laughed.
Pages:
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59