Now we've traveled hundreds of miles across this state, and Mr.Bad wore the first revolver that we've seen since we crossed the state line.

My private opinion is that Peter would be afraid to handle his pistol recklessly for fear it would go off." "I wouldn't bank on that," advised the young driver, shaking his head.
"But you don't carry a revolver," retorted Tom Reade.
"Pop would wallop me, if I did," grinned the Colorado boy.

"But then, I don't need firearms.

I know enough to carry a civil tongue, and to be quiet when I ought to." "I suppose people who don't possess those virtues are the only people that have excuse for carrying a pistol around with their keys, loose change and toothbrushes," affirmed Reade.

"Harry, the longer you stay west the more people you'll find who'll tell you that toting a pistol is a silly, trouble-breeding habit." They drove along for another hour before a clattering sounded behind them.
"I believe it's Bad Pete coming," declared Harry, as he made out, a quarter of a mile behind them, the form of a man mounted on a small, wiry mustang.
"Yep; it is," nodded the Colorado boy, after a look back.
The trail being wider here Bad Pete whirled by them with a swift drumming of his pony's hoofs.