Poor shootin'! Poor shootin'! You ought to practice more.

As for speed, I judge I can do six shots while you're making four.

But I thought I'd best not--to-day.

Son, pick up your gun, and get your money from Shorty." Mr.Jim picked up his gun and threw out the empty shells.

He glared savagely at Mr.Johnson, now seated happily on his saddle.
"If I just had hold of you--you benched-legged hound! Curse your soul, what do you mean by it ?" snarled Jim.
"Oh, I was just a-thinkin'," responded Pete lightly.