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 luck, if she keeps steady gait, is just as good a hoss to ride as they is.”

Still, there were those who maintained that Shoop had made a chance hit.  But High Chin knew that this was not so.  He had met his master at the six-gun game.

Bud Shoop’s easy manner had vanished.  As solid as a rock, his lips in a straight line, he waited for the next test while High Chin talked and joked with the bystanders.

“You’ll shoot when you see something to shoot at,” was the sheepman’s word.  The crowd laughed.  He stood behind the marksmen, a tin can in each hand.  Both High Chin and Shoop knew what was coming, and Shoop decided to surprise the assemblage.  The main issue was not the shooting contest, and if High-Chin Bob had not already seen enough of Shoop’s work to satisfy him, the genial Bud intended to clinch the matter right there.

Without warning, the sheepman tossed the cans into the air.  Shoop and High Chin shot on the instant.  But before High Chin’s can touched the ground Shoop shot again.  It was faster work than any present had ever seen.  A man picked up the cans and brought them to the sheepman.  One can had a clean hole in it.  The other had two holes through it.  Those nearest the marksmen wondered why Shoop had not shot twice at his own can.  But the big sheepman knew that Shoop had called High Chin’s bluff about “any game going.”

Even then the match was a tie so far as precedent demanded.  Each man had made a hit on a moving target.

The crowd had ceased to applaud.

“How about a try from the saddle?” suggested High Chin.

“I reckon I look just as fat and foolish settin’ in a saddle as anywhere,” said Shoop.

The crowd shuffled over to a more open spot, on the mesa.  Shoop and High Chin mounted their horses.  A tin cracker box was placed on a flat rock out in the open.

The men were to reload and shoot at top speed as they rode past the box.  The Starr foreman immediately jumped his pony to a run, and, swaying easily, threw a shot at the box as he approached it, another and another when opposite, and, turning in the saddle, fired his three remaining shots.  The box was brought back and inspected.  The six shots had all hit.

Shoop, straight and solid as a statue, ran his pony down the course, but held his fire until almost opposite the box.  Then six reports rippled out like the drawing of a stick quickly across a picket fence.  It was found that the six shots had all hit in one side of the box.  The sheepman was asked for a decision.  He shook his head and declared the match a draw.  And technically it was a draw.  Every one seemed satisfied, although there was much discussion among individuals as to the relative merits of the contestants.