ould be able to reproach the other
for any advantage taken. He suspected trickery. Nor had he any right
to such base suspicion. Jim's idea was one to make their way easier.
Eve would choose whom she pleased--if either of them. He could not,
did not want to alter that. Whatever the result of her choice he was
ready to accept it.

He pointed at the revolvers hanging on the wall.

"They shall decide who has first speak with her," he said. "We'll
empty six at a mark, and the one who does the best shooting has--first
go in."

Will shrugged.

"I don't like it."

"It's the best way. We're a fair match. You're reckoned the boss shot
in the hills, and I don't guess there's any one on this ranch handier
than I am. We've both played with those two guns a heap. It'll save
bad blood between us. What say?"

Will shook his head.

"It's bad. Still----" He looked at the guns. He was thinking swiftly.
He knew that he was a wonderful shot with a revolver. He was in
constant practice, too. Jim was a good shot, but then his practice was
very limited. Yes, the chances were all in his favor.

"Get busy then," he said presently, with apparent reluctance.

He rose and moved toward the guns.

"Whose choice?" he demanded.

Nor did he observe the other's smile as he received his reply.

"It's yours."

While Will chose his weapon with studied care, Jim picked up the soap
box and fumbled through his pockets till he found a piece of chalk.
With this he drew a bull's-eye on the bottom of the box, and sketched
two rough circles around it. Will had made his choice of weapons by
the time the target was completed.

"Will it do?" Jim inquired, holding up the box for his inspection.

"It's got to," was the churlish reply.

Jim gave him a quick glance as he moved across the room and possessed
himself of the remaining pistol. Then he examined its chambers and
silently led the way out of the hut.

They left the ranch buildings and moved out upon the prairie. A spot
was selected, and the box set down. Then Jim paced off sixty yards.

"Sixty," he said, as he came to a halt.

"Sixty," agreed Will, who had paced beside him.

"It's your choice. Will you--get busy?"

"All right."

Will stepped on to the mark confidently, raising his gun with the
surety of a man who does not know what it means to miss. Yet, before
dropping the hammer, he braced himself with unusual care.

"Plonk!" The bullet struck the box. He had found his mark, and in