ntially. "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 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