"Goin' to have a try, marshal?" he asked.
"Why, mebbe I will."
"Wanta risk anythin' on yore chance?" Jake invited . "I never gamble on my shootin'."
"Well, you know it better'n we do," came the sneer. "Hello, they're startin'." The onlookers were closing in, taking advantage of any inequality in the street--and they were many--which would give them a better view. Amid cheers and ironical advice, the first competitor--Gowdy--took up his position on the board and, at the word, snatched out his gun and fired, missing the target by nearly a foot. Shouts of laughter rewarded the effort.
"you hit the calaboose, anyways," one comforted.
"Yeah, an' if you'd bin standing where the card is you wouldn't be chirpin' none," the storekeeper grinned.
And indeed, as one after another men stepped forwardand shot, it became evident that Gowdy's attempt was better than it had seemed, for few of the citizens did as well, and Chips--the carpenter--covered himself with ignominy by hitting the sand yards in front of the building.
"Them `rickoshay' shots need a lot o' practice," Rapper said gravely, as the unlucky marksman retired in confusion to face the banter of his friends.
Among the competitors were many who knew that only a lucky fluke could gain them the prize, and when this did not materialize, they accepted defeat with good-humoured grins. But there were others who took the affair seriously--the punchers, to whom victory meant more than a month's pay, and a reputation.
The Dumb-bell representatives fired first, and though their lead thudded all round it, the target remained undamaged. The Bar O followed, and Reddy--the star performer--got within an inch, the best so far, a feat which gained him a round of applause. The ranchers and Nippert having declined to compete--the latter modesty stating that he did not wish to win his own money--Mullins swaggered forward, a confident smirk on his face. Feet firmly planted on the board, right hand hanging in close proximity to his gun, he waited the word, and when it came the report followed almost instantly. It was a good draw and shot, for the bullet cut a neat half-circle out of the top of the card. He looked triumphantly at the saloon-keeper.
"I'll trouble you for that fifty," he said.
"Back up an' git out'n the way," was the reply. "There's another to come." Mullins turned to see the marshal waiting to take his place.
If he could have read the officer's smile aright he would not have made his next remark, "I'm layin' five to one he can't better my shot."
"Yo're on--fifty dollars to ten," Nippert snapped, adding, "This fiesta ain't goin' to cost me nothin' after all." The wager concentrated attention still more on the man who, with bowed head, stood slackly waiting for the signal.
No one there had seen those guns drawn from their holsters, and his aversion to using them was known. Certainly he did look like a world-beater, and his seeming indifference worried the saloon-keeper.
"Ready?" he called. "Go ! " As the word left his lips the marshal's right gun rose hip-high, exploded, and the middle pip on the card was blotted out. Then, quicker than a man could count, came four more shots, each of which partly obliterated a corner diamond.
Thrusting the smoking weapon back into his belt, the marshal turned away without even a glance at the target. The jarring crash of the gun was followed by a complete silence; the speed, deadly accuracy, and absence of undue care betrayed a mastery the like of which no man there had ever seen, and for the moment they were dumb. Reddy was the first to recover.
"My Gawd ! " he said, in a tone of awe. "An' I nearly pulled on him the day he come." The naive remark raised a laugh and relieved the tension. Then came the applause, for even those who had lost their money on Mullins could not refuse this tribute to superlative skill. But the man who, in the very moment of triumph, had received this shattering blow to his conceit, stood motionless, his murderous eyes on the stranger who had again beaten him. A bystander provided a vent for his rage.
"Tough luck, Jake," he commiserated.
"Keep yore blasted sympathy for them as needs it," Mullins snarled, and stalked away.
"A pore loser, as I told you," Nippert said to the marshal. "Here's the prize, an' you shorely won it." Sudden did not take the proffered money. "It's comin' back to yu," he smiled, and raising his voice, "Everybody drinks with the winner." This produced another cheer and the crowd promptly headed for the Red Light. Nippert followed, having first removed the target, which some of the curious were examining.
"This'll be somethin' to show next time there's any talk about gun-play," he remarked, and in reply to a question, "No, it was a surprise to me--I'd never seen him shoot."
"I've met some o' the best in my time, but ..." Owen finished with an expressive shrug.
"Yeah, an' you'll be sorry yet," Sark rapped back. "A fella who can sling a gun like that is bound to have a dirty record, an' I'll bet there's a sheriff or two lookin' for him right now."
"They'll be unlucky if they find him, I'd say," Reddy grinned.
Later, when the crowd had dispersed, the store-keeper drew Nippert aside and congratulated him.
"It was Jim's notion. Look at it: he puts it over Mullins, services notice on the other rough-necks that he's dangerous to monkey with, an' no blood spilled. He shore is a methodis'."
"So's Jake, but his methods is different. An' Sark ain't none pleased; he musta bin raised on curdled milk he's that sour. Jim's got trouble comin', certain as cats has kittens."
"Well, I guess trouble an' him ain't exactly strangers," Nippert said shrewdly. "I'll bet he can handle it."
Chapter III
FoR a week or so it appeared that Gowdy's fears were groundless; the town remained quiet. Only once did the peace seem to be in danger and that was when, on a broiling afternoon, a shaggy-haired, wild-eyed rider came rocketing in at the eastern entrance, rolling from side to side on his saddle, gun out, and yelling like one possessed.
"I'm a lone wolf from Pizen Springs, an' I'm yere to blow this prairie-dawg community to hellangone. Emerge from yore holes, you varmits, or I'll smoke you out." Receiving no answer to this challenge, he pulled up, his slitted, drink-inflamed eyes roving right and left.
"Ain't there a man amongst you with spunk enough to Show hisself?" he vociferated.
There was : the marshal stepped from his office and walked unconcernedly towards the intruder, whose weapon was at once slanted upon him.
"Stop right there an' h'ist yore paws," came the command.
The marshal obeyed the first order only when he was a yard from the horseman, and ignored the second entirely. "Yu were allus a fool, Squint," he said.
The low voice brought a quick look of apprehension on the bluster's unpleasing face, and he bent forward to peer at the man who defied him so casually. The marshal pushed his hat back, and taking off his spectacles began to polish the lenses; the simple act appeared to have a mesmeric effect on the visitor.
"You?" he gasped. "What of hell ... ?"
"Put that gun away an' punch the breeze--pronto. An' listen, if yu open yore mouth about me within a hundred mile o' here, I'll--take--yore--trail."
"But " Behind the replaced glasses the marshal's eyes grew hard; he pointed to the west. "yu have sixty seconds to get outa range, an' I'm meanin' it," he said.
Evidently Squint was not of the doubting type; the cruel, big-toothed spurs raked the ribs of his pony and sent it racing in the direction indicated.
The citizens who witnessed the incident rubbed their eyes in amazement.