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I'm working on my obligation to the King for the night, but in the time it took me to get up from my chair and start brushing my teeth, my brain abruptly provided me with an explanation for why Scary Ninja Mountie (better known as the Silver Corporal) doesn't carry a gun. It dates back to his time in Wyoming- Lester Dent made it abundantly clear that before he came to Canada, the fellow in question was a Wyoming cowhand.
I needed to get this out of my brain before I could get anything done on the Sergeant Preston front. So, so sorry.
The battered old bean-tins sat one next to another on the low-hanging branch of the only tree for miles. With a movement faster than the eye could follow, the little cowpoke drew his Colt and fired- once, twice- then again and again until all his bullets were gone. One can, the one in the center, had been knocked from the branch; the others remained.
Barstow got up reluctantly and ambled away from the fire, muttering about a waste of good bullets. His grumbling went abruptly silent. On his return, he held out the can.
The wee fellow's bullets had made a perfect boxcar pattern, as neat as any die in any gambling hall.
"Well, hell, Mouse!" exclaimed Big Pete. "Iffen yer that good, why don't you wanna carry a gun?"
The tiny fellow shrugged lightly. "Any ol' fool could use that gun if they got it away from me," he said. "But this-" He drew from his bedroll the weird white rope he always carried. Turning towards the tree, he stroked the plait a moment, as if comforting some animal. Then he took it in his hands.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! The tins fell in their turn, struck one after another by the unerring, deadly strike of the silvery tip. It was back in his hand and coiled along his forearm before the last tin hit the ground. "There's no one in the Territory could do that with this beauty, I reckon," said the man they called Mouse, smiling gently.
Yeah, it's not the Lester Dent voice, but c'mon. I wasn't in the bathroom more than two minutes. Even my brain can only do so much.
I needed to get this out of my brain before I could get anything done on the Sergeant Preston front. So, so sorry.
The battered old bean-tins sat one next to another on the low-hanging branch of the only tree for miles. With a movement faster than the eye could follow, the little cowpoke drew his Colt and fired- once, twice- then again and again until all his bullets were gone. One can, the one in the center, had been knocked from the branch; the others remained.
Barstow got up reluctantly and ambled away from the fire, muttering about a waste of good bullets. His grumbling went abruptly silent. On his return, he held out the can.
The wee fellow's bullets had made a perfect boxcar pattern, as neat as any die in any gambling hall.
"Well, hell, Mouse!" exclaimed Big Pete. "Iffen yer that good, why don't you wanna carry a gun?"
The tiny fellow shrugged lightly. "Any ol' fool could use that gun if they got it away from me," he said. "But this-" He drew from his bedroll the weird white rope he always carried. Turning towards the tree, he stroked the plait a moment, as if comforting some animal. Then he took it in his hands.
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! The tins fell in their turn, struck one after another by the unerring, deadly strike of the silvery tip. It was back in his hand and coiled along his forearm before the last tin hit the ground. "There's no one in the Territory could do that with this beauty, I reckon," said the man they called Mouse, smiling gently.
Yeah, it's not the Lester Dent voice, but c'mon. I wasn't in the bathroom more than two minutes. Even my brain can only do so much.
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