The prospector stood forward, at the same time producing from an open holster blackened by time one of the long-barrelled single-action Colt’s 45’s, so universally in use on the frontier.  He glanced carelessly toward the mark, grinned back at the crowd, turned, and instantly began firing.  He shot the five shots without appreciable sighting before each, as fast as his thumb could pull back the long-shanked hammer.  The muzzle of the weapon rose and fell with a regularity positively mechanical, and the five shots had been delivered in half that number of seconds.

“There’s your five,” said he, carelessly dropping his gun back into its holster.

The five bullets were found to be scattered within the six-inch black.

The concourse withdrew to give space for the next contestant.  Silence fell as the man was taking his aim.  Amy touched Bob’s arm.  He looked down.  Her eyes were shining, and her cheeks red with excitement.

“Doesn’t it remind you of anything?” she whispered eagerly.

“What?” he asked, not guessing her meaning.

“This:  all of it!” she waved her hand abroad at the fair oval meadow with its fringe of tall trees and the blue sky above it; at the close-gathered knot of spectators, and the single contestant advanced before them.  He shook his head.  “Wait,” she breathed, laying her fingers across her lips.

The contest wore along until it again came the turn of the younger man.  He stepped to the front, unbuckled a covered holster of the sort never carried in the West, and produced one of those beautifully balanced, beautifully finished revolvers known as the Officer’s Model.  Taking the firm yet easy position of the practised target shot, he sighted with great deliberation, firing only when he considered his aim assured.  Indeed, once he lowered his weapon until a puff of wind had passed.  The five shots were found to be not only within the black, but grouped inside a three-inch diameter.

“‘A Hubert!  A Hubert!’” breathed the girl in Bob’s ear. “In the clout!”

“I thought his name was Elliott,” said Bob.  “Is it Hubert?”

The girl eyed him reproachfully, but said nothing.

“You’re a good shot, youngster!” cried Ware, in the heartiest congratulation; “but if Mr. Thorne don’t mind, I’d like to shoot off this tie.  Down in our country we don’t shoot quite that way, or at that kind of a mark.  Will you take a try my way?”

Amy leaned again toward Bob, her face aflame.

“’And now,’” she shot at him, “’I will crave your Grace’s permission to plant such a mark as is used in the north country; and welcome every brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it—­’Don’t dare tell me you don’t remember!”

“‘A man can but do his best,’” Bob took up the tale.  “Of course, I remember; you’re right.”

“All right,” Thorne was agreeing, “but make it short.  We’ve got a lot to do.”