Ware selected another target—­one intended for the six-shooters—­that had not been used.  This he tacked up in place of the one already disfigured by many shots.  Then he paced off twelve yards.

“That looks easier than the other,” Thorne commented.

“Mebbe,” agreed Ware, non-committally, “but you may change your mind.  As for that sort of monkey-work,” he indicated the discarded target, “down our way we’d as soon shoot at a barn.”

The girl softly clapped her hands.

“‘For his own part,’” she quoted in a breath, and so rapidly that the words fairly tumbled over one another, “’in the land where he was bred, men would as soon take for their mark King Arthur’s round table, which held sixty knights around it.  A child of seven might hit yonder target with a headless shaft.’  Oh, this is perfect.”

“Now,” said Ware to young Elliott, “if you’ll hit that mark in my fashion of shooting, you’re all right.”

Bob turned to the girl, his eyes dancing with delight.

“‘—­he that hits yon mark at I-forget-how-many yards,’” he declaimed, “’I will call him an archer fit to bear bow before a king’—­or something to that effect; I’m afraid I’m not letter perfect.”

He laughed amusedly, and the girl laughed with him.  “Just the same, I’m glad you remember,” she told him.

Ware had by now taken his place at the new mark he had established.

“Fifteen shots,” he announced.  At the word his hand dropped to the butt of his gun, his right shoulder hunched forward, and with one lightning smooth motion the weapon glided from the holster.  Hardly had it left the leather when it was exploded.  The hammer had been cocked during the upward flip of the muzzle.  The first discharge was followed immediately by the five others in a succession so rapid that Bob believed the man had substituted a self-cocking arm until he caught the rapid play of the marksman’s thumb.  The weapon was at no time raised above the level of the man’s waist.

“Hold on!” commanded Ware, as the bystanders started forward to examine the result of the shots.  “Let’s finish the string first.”

He had been deliberately pushing out the exploded cartridges one by one.  Now he as deliberately reloaded.  Taking a position somewhat to the left of the target, he folded his arms so that the revolver lay across his breast with its muzzle resting over his left elbow.  Then he strode rapidly but evenly across the face of the target, discharging the five bullets as he walked.

Again he reloaded.  This time he stood with the revolver hanging in his right hand gazing intently for some moments at the target, measuring carefully with his eye its direction and height.  He turned his back; and, flipping his gun over his left shoulder, fired without looking back.

“The first ten ought to be in the black,” announced Ware, “The last five ought to be somewheres on the paper.  A fellow can’t expect more than to generally wing a man over his shoulder.”