It was a black, old-fashioned,
seven-chambered revolver, well oiled and as grim-looking as a rifled
cannon on a battleship. He produced three greased cartridges, broke
the weapon, inserted the cartridges, then closed it and spun the
cylinder. It was not an unfamiliar weapon, this. Its mere grim
appearance, stuck into Cap'n Ira's waistband, had once quelled
mutiny aboard the _Susan Gatskill_.
While he was thus engaged he had not even glanced around at the old
mare. Suddenly he felt a touch upon his shoulder, then upon the
sleeve of his coat. He felt a creepy chill the length of his spine.
It seemed as if the hand of Prudence had been laid softly upon him.
"I swan!" he gulped, shaking himself. "I'm as flighty as a gal. What
th'--" He looked back. Queenie was nuzzling his arm questioningly.
Her ears were cocked forward; her surprised face was almost
ridiculously human in its expression.
Cap'n Ira groaned again. He shuddered. But his gnarled hand gripped
the hard-rubber butt of the revolver with the desperation of the
deed he had screwed his courage to do. Better the old mare should be
put out of the way than that she should fall into hands that would
misuse her. And he feared what other accident might happen if
Prudence continued to take care of the animal.
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