Copper Streak Trail | Page 4

to hand it to you. I judged you was just runnin' a windy. But have you now showed all your little box of tricks?"
"Well, I haven't missed anything--not to speak of--no more than you did," evaded Bill, plainly apprehensive. "What more do you want?"
Jim chuckled.
"Pausin' lightly to observe that it ought to be easy enough to best you, if we was on horseback--just because you peek at your sights when you shoot--I shall now show you something."
A chuck box was propped against the juniper trunk. From this the Texan produced a horseshoe hammer and the lids from two ten-pound lard pails. He strode over to where, ten yards away, two young cedars grew side by side, and nailed a lid to each tree, shoulder-high.
"There!" he challenged his opponent. "We ain't either of us going to miss such a mark as that--it's like putting your finger on it. But suppose the tree was shooting back? Time is what counts then. Now, how does this strike you? You take the lid on the left and I'll take the other. When the umpire says Go! we'll begin foggin'--and the man that scores six hits quickest gets the money. That's fair, isn't it, Johnson?"
This was a slip--Johnson had not given his name--a slip unnoticed by either of the ZK men, but not by Johnson.
"Fair enough, I should say," he answered.
"Why, Jim, that ain't practical--that ain't!" protested Bill uneasily. "You was talking about the tree a-shootin' back--but one shot will stop most men, let alone six. What's the good of shootin' a man all to pieces?"
"Suppose there was six men?"
"Then they get me, anyway. Wouldn't they, Mr. Umpire?" he appealed to Peter Johnson, who sat cross-legged and fanned himself with his big sombrero.
"That don't make any difference," decided the umpire promptly. "To shoot straight and quickest--that's bein' a good shot. Line up!"
Bill lined up, unwillingly enough; they stuffed their cylinders with cartridges.
"Don't shoot till I say: One, two, three--go!" admonished Pete. "All set? One--two--three--go!"
A blending, crackling roar, streaked red and saffron, through black smoke: the Texan's gun flashed down and up and back, as a man snaps his fingers against the frost; he tossed his empty gun through the sunlight to the bed under the juniper tree and spread out his hands. Bill was still firing--one shot--two!
"Judgment!" shouted the Texan and pointed. Six bullet holes were scattered across his target, line shots, one above the other; and poor Bill, disconcerted, had missed his last shot!
"Jim, I guess the stuff is yours," said Bill sheepishly.
The big Texan retrieved his gun from the bed and Pete gave him the stakes. He folded the bill lovingly and tucked it away; but he flipped the coin from his thumb, spinning in the sun, caught it as it fell, and glanced askant at old Pete.
"How long ago did you say it was when you began shootin'?" He voiced the query with exceeding politeness and inclined his head deferentially. "Or did you say?"
Pete pondered, pushing his hand thoughtfully through his white hair.
"Oh, I began tryin' when I was about ten years old, or maybe seven. It's been so long ago I scarcely remember. But I didn't get to be what you might call a fair shot till about the time you was puttin' on your first pair of pants," he said sweetly. "There was a time, though, before that--when I was about the age you are now--when I really thought I could shoot. I learned better."
A choking sound came from Bill; Jim turned his eyes that way. Bill coughed hastily. Jim sent the gold piece spinning again.
"I'm goin' to keep Bill's tenspot--always," he announced emotionally. "I'll never, never part with that! But this piece of money--" He threw it up again. "Why, stranger, you might just as well have that as not. Bill can be stakeholder and give us the word. There's just six cartridges left in the box for me."
Peter Johnson smiled brightly, disclosing a row of small, white, perfect teeth. He got to his feet stiffly and shook his aged legs; he took out his gun, twirled the cylinder, and slipped in an extra cartridge.
"I always carry the hammer on an empty chamber--safer that way," he explained.
He put the gun back in the holster, dug up a wallet, and produced a gold piece for the stakeholder.
"You'd better clean your gun, young man," he said. "It must be pretty foul by now."
Jim followed this advice, taking ten minutes for the operation. Meantime the Californian replaced the targets with new ones--old tin dinner plates this time--and voiced a philosophical regret over his recent defeat. The Texas man, ready at last, took his place beside Pete and raised his gun till the butt of it was level with his ear, the barrel pointing up and back. Johnson swung up his heavy gun