"I had a horror of those sort of places. I'd seen something of them in the east, up in the Adirondacks. If I was going to get well, or if I was going to pass on, I wanted to go off somewhere by myself and fight it out or quit."
"Sure thing," said the Texan. "I know jest how you felt. I'd feel the same way if I was laid out."
"I came up here and found Lake of the Woods. I couldn't do much but lie around in the sun and sniff the pines. Even after I stopped coughing, began to put on flesh, got some strength back and could take a full breath again—that was great. Red, to do that in this air—I didn't have much to do. Fishing and hunting a bit. A few books to read. I hadn't thought of taking up land. The country hadn't really gripped me then. I got a Colt, the one I carry, and a lot of cartridges, and I started target practice.
"I was a long time getting the hang of it—I mean offhand shooting—for I could take a steady aim and pepper a target fairly well before long. Then—did you ever, when you were a kid. Red, stick pellets of clay on the end of a limber twig and flip them at a mark?"
"Sure I did. I sabe what you're drivin' at. It's the right idea."
"One day I found I could flip out the bullets like that. And I kept on practising. You know how a tenderfoot is about guns. He wants to be another Kit Carson, right off the reel. I practised drawing from the holster and I chucked up cans for myself to shoot at.
