ne, where Shoop and High
Chin stood waiting for the test.

The marksmen faced two bottles on a rock some thirty paces away. At the
word, each was to "go for his gun" and shoot. High Chin carried his gun
in the usual holster. Bud Shoop's gun was tucked in the waistband of his
pants.

"Go!" said the sheepman.

High Chin's hand flashed to his hip. His gun jumped and spoke. Shoop's
wrist turned. Both bottles were shattered on the instant. A tie was
declared.

The men were placed with their backs toward the targets--two empty
bottles. The sheepman faced them, with his hands behind his back. When
he snapped his fingers they were to turn and fire. Many of the onlookers
thought this test would leave High Chin a point ahead.

Both men swung and fired at the signal. Again both bottles were
shattered. Although a tie was again declared, the crowd cheered for
Shoop, realizing his physical handicap. Yet many asserted that High Chin
was the faster man, won to this decision by his lightning speed of
movement and his easy manner, suggesting a kind of contemptuous
indifference to results.

In contrast to High Chin's swift, careless efficiency, Shoop's solid
poise and lack of elbow motion showed in strong relief. Their methods
were entirely dissimilar. But it was evident to the old-timers that
Shoop shot with less effort and waste motion than his lithe competitor.
And High Chin was the younger man by twenty years.

Thus far the tests had not been considered difficult. But when the
sheepman stepped off ten paces and faced the competitors with a cigar
held at arm's length, the chattering of the crowd ceased. High Chin, as
guest, was asked to shoot first. He raised his gun. It hung poised for a
second. As it jumped in his hand the ash flirted from the end of the
cigar. The crowd stamped and cheered. Shoop congratulated High Chin. The
crowd hooted and called to Shoop to make good. Even as they called, his
hand flashed up. Hardly had the report of his gun startled them to
silence when they saw that his hands were empty. A roar of laughter
shook the crowd. Some one pointed toward the sheepman. The laughter died
down. He held a scant two inches of cigar in his fingers. Then they
understood, and were silent again. They gathered round the sheepman. He
held up his arms. Shoop's bullet had nipped the cigar in two before they
had realized that he intended to shoot.

"You're havin' the luck," said High.

"You're right," said Shoop. "And lu