Fact is, Pete, I don't think
fast, you know."
"Shut up!" exploded Pete Reeve, who had been inwardly chafing with
impatience during the whole length of this speech. "Sometimes you talk
like a fool, Bull, and this is one time!"
Bull shook his head. "My arms are too big," he said sadly. "The muscle
gets in my way. I can feel it bind when I try to jerk out the gun
fast. Better give up the job, Pete. I sure appreciate all the pains
you've taken with me--but I'll never be a gunfighter."
Pete Reeve shook his head with a sigh and then dropped into a chair,
growing suddenly inert.
"No use," he groaned. "All because you ain't got any confidence,
Bull." He leaned forward in his sudden way. "Know something? I been
keeping it back, but now I'll tell you the straight of it. You're
faster with a gun right now than four men out of five!"
Bull gaped in amazement.
"Fact!" cried Reeve. "You get it out slicker than most; and after it's
out, you shoot as straight as any man I've ever seen.
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