FOR the next three days nothing startling happened at the Double Bar 8, except that Jimmy Legg labored hard with the intricacies of a rope, which invariably tangled around his legs, and a six-shooter, which seemed to ignore the target entirely.
Hashknife and Sleepy humped against the patio wall, absorbing many cigarets, while they solemnly gave advice to Jimmy, and marveled that any man could shoot away so much ammunition and never hit anything.
But Jimmy was persistent. He banged away merrily, satisfied if his bullet came within two feet of a tomato-can, at twenty feet, trying to follow Hashknife’s advice to shoot low. Apollo, the burro, entirely recovered from his creasing, humped back in the shade of the patio wall, and watched Jimmy with solemn dignity, jerking his one good ear convu
