Still Rosely battled on gamely. She had grown to hate westerns with a passion, but still she persisted heroically.
“Okay, so the next bit is the one where he shoots all the bad guys.”
“Great! So come on, read it.”
“Nope. You read it.”
Tricky things, big sisters. You’ve got to watch them all the time.
“You know I can’t…”
“Well, then, you’re not going to know what happened, are you?”
“You can’t do this to me.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve had enough. I’m not going to read any more bits where somebody shoots somebody. You’ll have to read it yourself.”
I wailed. I screamed. I threw things at her. I pulled her hair. None of the usual tactics had the slightest effect. She remained rigid and immovable. Finally, I took up the book and peered at the pages. To be honest, it had been some time since I last tried to read anything—maybe I had finally become old enough to do it.
“Kargon… horrressbag…ummm…wass… ull…reedy… arrr… bemming… of… errr … hung … re… re… re…”
“Revolver!" Rosely shrieked in frustration. " It’s revolver!”
“That word? That’s revolver? Why don’t they just call it a gun? Anyone would know it was a revolver. It’s obvious.”
“Might be a six-shooter. They have them too.”
“Jeez, you girls. You don’t know nothin’. It’s the same bloody thing.”
“Oh. Really? Well. Anyway, do you understand that line?”
“No.”
“The bad guy is on his horse and got his gun out.”
“Where’s it say that?”
“That’s what you just bloody read, you ning-nong!”
“Oh.”
“Oh, just give it to me…”
Karg, on horseback, was already bending over him, revolver in hand, but the shot was never fired. A thirty-thirty bullet from the ground knocked the gun into the air and tore every knuckle from Karg’s hand. Du Sang spurred in from the right. A rifle-slug like an axe at the root caught him through the middle. His fingers stiffened. His six-shooter fell to the ground and he clutched his side. Seagrue, ducking low, put spurs into his horse, and Whispering Smith, covered with dust, rose on the battle-field alone.
"Right, that's it. No more bloody Westerns!" Rosely resolved.
"But they're me favourite!" I protested.
Thus the last bandit bit the dust in Frank Spearman’s Whispering Smith and Rosely began, subtly but relentlessly, to move us on to more varied fare. To me it seemed inconceivable that there was anyplace in the whole world that could be as wonderful as the Wild West. It would not be an easy journey.