He shivered when he thought of the dead man in the aisle, and hoped he would never witness another death; involuntarily he glanced down at his right stirrup, half expecting to see his boot red with human blood.

It was not nice to remember that scene, and he gave his shoulders an impatient hitch and tried to think of something else.
Mindful of his vow, he had bought a gun in Billings, but he had not yet learned to hit anything he aimed at; for firearms are hushed in roundup camps, except when dire necessity breeds a law of its own.

Range cattle do not take kindly to the popping of pistols.

So Thurston's revolver was yet unstained with powder grime, and was packed away inside his bed.
He was promising his pride that he would go up on the hill, back of the Lazy Eight corrals, and shoot until even Mona Stevens must respect his marksmanship, when Park galloped back to him--"The world has moved some while we was gone," he announced in the tone of one who has news to tell and enjoys thoroughly the telling.

"Yuh mind the fellow I laid out in the hold-up?
He got all right again, and they stuck him in jail along with another one old Lauman, the sheriff, glommed a week ago.