Then she lays the gun across her left arm, an' all as solid as a church.

Her pony's gone to sleep with his nose between his knees; an' the Caldwell beauty settles herse'f in the saddle so's to be ready for the plunge she knows is comin'.

The Caldwell beauty lays out her game as slow an' delib'rate as trees; Bloojacket lookin' on with onwinkin' eye, while the red-blanket bucks plays along an' never a whisper of interest.
"'Which this yere pistol overshoots a bit!' says the Caldwell beauty, as she runs her eye along the sights.

'I must aim low or I'll shore make ragged work.' "Bloojacket hears her, but offers no retort; he stands moveless as a stachoo.

Thar's a flash an' a crash an' a cloud of bloo smoke; the aroused bronco makes a standin' jump of twenty foot.