“A little nervous, eh?” remarked Miller, with a half sneer on his swarthy face.

Several young settlers followed in succession, but their aims were poor.  Then little Harry Bennet took his stand.  Harry had won many prizes in former matches, and many of the pioneers considered him one of the best shots in the country.

“Only a few more after you, Harry,” said Col.  Zane.  “You have a good chance.”

“All right, Colonel.  That’s Betty’s prize and somebody’ll have to do some mighty tall shootin’ to beat me,” said the lad, his blue eyes flashing as he toed the mark.

Shouts and cheers of approval greeted his attempt.  The bullet had passed into the wood so close to the nail that a knife blade could not have been inserted between.

Miller’s turn came next.  He was a fine marksman and he knew it.  With the confidence born of long experience and knowledge of his weapon, he took a careful though quick aim and fired.  He turned away satisfied that he would carry off the coveted prize.  He had nicked the nail.

But Miller reckoned without his host.  Betty had seen the result of his shot and the self-satisfied smile on his face.  She watched several of the settlers make poor attempts at the nail, and then, convinced that not one of the other contestants could do so well as Miller, she slipped off the horse and ran around to where Wetzel was standing by her pony.

“Lew, I believe Miller will win my prize,” she whispered, placing her hand on the hunter’s arm.  “He has scratched the nail, and I am sure no one except you can do better.  I do not want Miller to have anything of mine.”

“And, little girl, you want me to shoot fer you,” said Lewis.

“Yes, Lew, please come and shoot for me.”

It was said of Wetzel that he never wasted powder.  He never entered into the races and shooting-matches of the settlers, yet it was well known that he was the fleetest runner and the most unerring shot on the frontier.  Therefore, it was with surprise and pleasure that Col.  Zane heard the hunter say he guessed he would like one shot anyway.

Miller looked on with a grim smile.  He knew that, Wetzel or no Wetzel, it would take a remarkably clever shot to beat his.

“This shot’s for Betty,” said Wetzel as he stepped to the mark.  He fastened his keen eyes on the stake.  At that distance the head of the nail looked like a tiny black speck.  Wetzel took one of the locks of hair that waved over his broad shoulders and held it up in front of his eyes a moment.  He thus ascertained that there was not any perceptible breeze.  The long black barrel started slowly to rise—­it seemed to the interested onlookers that it would never reach a level and when, at last, it became rigid, there was a single second in which man and rifle appeared as if carved out of stone.  Then followed a burst of red flame, a puff of white smoke, a clear ringing report.