So also did the other boys, running in long leaps through the garden and arriving at the spot very belligerent and very much out of breath.
"Got to do something to pass away the time," Jack grinned, bringing his front sight once more to bear upon the coffee--pot, already badly dented and showing three black holes.

"And I ain't offering any violence to anybody.

You can't hang a man, Mr.Stanley, for shooting up a frying-pan.

And I wouldn't--hurt--you--for--anything!" He had just reloaded, so that his bullets saw him to the end of the sentence.
Stanley watched his coffee-pot dance and roll like a thing in pain, and swore when all was done.

But he did not shoot, though one could see how his fingers must itch for the feel of the trigger.
"Your old dad will sweat blood for this--and you'll be packing your blanket on your back and looking for work before snow flies," was his way of summing up.
Still, he did not shoot.
It was like throwing pebbles at the bowlder in the Malad, the day before.
When Phoebe came running in terror toward the fusillade, with Marie and her swollen face, and Evadna and her red eyes following in great trepidation far behind, they found four claim-jumpers purple from long swearing, and the boys gleefully indulging in revolver practice with various camp utensils for the targets.
They stopped when their belts were empty as well as their guns, and they went back to the house with the women, feeling much better.