Do the roll.

Remember she don't stand cocked." Miss Parker rose to her feet and took the weapon.

She balanced it in her hand, then she spun it, rolled it, fanned it, went through a routine of lightninglike sleight-of-hand that Tom had taught her long before.
"Lessee you do a few shots," her father urged, when she handed it back to him.
"In _here_ ?" "Sure! It's our shanty.

Drive a few nails or--I'll tell you; kill that bear and save that tenderfoot's life." Tom pointed to a Winchester calendar on the rear wall, which bore the lithographic likeness of an enraged grizzly upon the point of helping himself to a hunter.
"Why, we'd have the whole town running in." "Go on, son.

Make it speak.