Copper Streak Trail | Page 5

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 in the same
fashion.
"Ready?" bawled Bill. "All right! One--two--three--go!"
Johnson's gun leaped forward, blazing; his left hand slapped back along
the barrel, once, twice; pivoting, his gun turned to meet Bill, almost
upon him, hands outstretched. Bill recoiled; Pete stepped aside a
pace--all this at once. The Texan dropped his empty gun and turned.
"You win," said Pete gently.
Not understanding yet, triumph faded from the Texan's eyes at that
gentle tone. He looked at the target; he looked at Bill, who stood
open-mouthed and gasping; then he looked at the muzzle of Mr.
Johnson's gun. His face flushed red, and then became almost black. Mr.
Johnson held the gun easily at his hip, covering both his disarmed
companions: Mr. Johnson's eyebrows were flattened and his mouth was
twisted.
"It's loaded!" croaked Bill in a horrified voice. "The skunk only shot
once!"
Peter corrected him:
"Three times. I fanned the hammer. Look at the target!"
Bill looked at the target; his jaw dropped again; his eyes protruded.
There were three bullet holes, almost touching each other, grouped
round the nail in the center of Pete's tin plate.
"Well, I'm just damned!" he said. "I'll swear he didn't shoot but once."
"That's fannin' the hammer, Shorty," drawled Pete. "Ever hear of that?

Well, now you've seen it. When you practice it, hold your elbow tight
against your ribs to steady your gun while you slap the hammer back.
For you, Mr. Jim--I see you've landed your six shots; but some of 'em
are mighty close to the edge of your little old plate. 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. "Thinkin' how
helpless I'd be with you two big huskies, here with my gun empty.
Don't snicker, Bill! That's rude of you. Your pardner's feeling plenty
bad enough without that. He looks it. Mr. Bill, I'll bet a blue shirt you
told the Jim-person to wait and see if I wouldn't take a little siesta, and
you'd get me whilst I was snoozing. You lose, then. I never sleep. Tex,
for the love of Mike, do look at Bill's face; and Bill, you look at Mr.
Jim, from Texas! Guilty as charged! Your scheme, was it, Texas? And
Shorty Bill, he told you so? Why, you poor toddling innocents, you
won't never prosper as crooks! Your faces are too honest.
"And that frame-up of yours--oh, that was a loo-loo bird! Livin'
together and didn't know which was the best shot--likely! And every tin
can in sight shot full of holes and testifyin' against you! Think I'm blind,
hey? Even your horses give you away. Never batted an eyelash durin'
that whole cannonade. They've been hearin' forty-fives pretty reg'lar,
them horses have."
"I notice your old black ain't much gun-shy, either," ventured Bill.
"See here--you!" said the big Texan. "You talk pretty biggity. It's
mighty easy to run a whizzer when you've got the only loaded gun in
camp. If I had one damned cartridge left it would be different."

"Never mind," said Johnson kindly. "I'll give you one!"
Rising, he twirled the cylinder of his gun and extracted his three
cartridges. He threw one far down the hillslope; he dropped one on the
ground beside him; he tossed the last one in the sand at the Texan's
feet.
Jim, from Texas, looked at the cartridge without animation; he looked
into Pete Johnson's frosty eyes; he kicked the cartridge back.
"I lay 'em down right here," he stated firmly. "I like a damned fool; but
you suit me too well."
He stalked away toward his horse with much dignity. He stopped
halfway, dropped upon a box, pounded his thigh and gave way to huge
and unaffected laughter; in which Bill joined a moment later.
"Oh, you little bandy-legged