Ain't much left to shoot at but tin cans, come to think of it." There was a pause.

"I don't reckon you could han'le a six gun like you used to, 'Bob.'" "You think not?
Try me sometime and see," said the girl.

Apparently Tom believed there was no time like the present, for he slid his right hand under the left lapel of his coat, and when he brought it away there was a large single-action Colt's revolver in it--a massive weapon upon the mother-of-pearl handle plates of which were carved two steers' heads.
Those steers' heads Tom had removed from a gun belonging to a famous bad man, suddenly deceased, and there was a story that went with them.
"Now see here," "Bob" protested, "one of these new policemen will pick you up some day." "Pshaw! Nobody wouldn't pick me up, just for totin' a gun," the old man declared.

With practiced fingers he extracted the shells, one by one.
"I feel right naked without a six-shooter.

I feel like I'd cast a shoe, or something." "I wish you'd give up carrying it." "Lessee you do a few tricks,'Bob'.