I never, in my wildest fancies, thought that I should live
it. It was all so unexpected. Two years ago I thought there was nothing
left to me but. . . ." She faltered, and made a _moue_ of distaste.
"Well, the only thing that remained, it seemed to me, was marriage."

"And you preferred a cannibal isle and a cartridge-belt?" he suggested.

"I didn't think of the cannibal isle, but the cartridge-belt was
blissful."

"You wouldn't dare use the revolver if you were compelled to. Or,"
noting the glint in her eyes, "if you did use it, to--well, to hit
anything."

She started up suddenly to enter the house. He knew she was going for
her revolver.

"Never mind," he said, "here's mine. What can you do with it?"

"Shoot the block off your flag-halyards."

He smiled his unbelief.

"I don't know the gun," she said dubiously.

"It's a light trigger and you don't have to hold down. Draw fine."

"Yes, yes," she spoke impatiently. "I know automatics--they jam when
they get hot--only I don't know yours." She looked at it a moment. "It's
cocked. Is there a cartridge in the chamber?"

She fired, and the block remained intact.

"It's a long shot," he said, with the intention of easing her chagrin.

But she bit her lip and fired again. The bullet emitted a sharp shriek
as it ricochetted into space. The metal block rattled back and forth.
Again and again she fired, till the clip was emptied of its eight
cartridges. Six of them were hits. The block still swayed at the gaff-
end, but it was battered out of all usefulness. Sheldon was astonished.
It was better than he or even Hughie Drummond could have done. The women
he had known, when they sporadically fired a rifle or revolver, usually
shrieked, shut their eyes, and blazed away into space.

"That's really good shooting . . . for a woman," he said. "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 sp