“That don’t make any difference,” decided the umpire promptly.  “To shoot straight and quickest—­that’s bein’ a good shot.  Line up!”

Bill lined up, unwillingly enough; they stuffed their cylinders with cartridges.

“Don’t shoot till I say:  One, two, three—­go!” admonished Pete.  “All set?  One—­two—­three—­go!”

A blending, crackling roar, streaked red and saffron, through black smoke:  the Texan’s gun flashed down and up and back, as a man snaps his fingers against the frost; he tossed his empty gun through the sunlight to the bed under the juniper tree and spread out his hands.  Bill was still firing—­one shot—­two!

“Judgment!” shouted the Texan and pointed.  Six bullet holes were scattered across his target, line shots, one above the other; and poor Bill, disconcerted, had missed his last shot!

“Jim, I guess the stuff is yours,” said Bill sheepishly.

The big Texan retrieved his gun from the bed and Pete gave him the stakes.  He folded the bill lovingly and tucked it away; but he flipped the coin from his thumb, spinning in the sun, caught it as it fell, and glanced askant at old Pete.

“How long ago did you say it was when you began shootin’?” He voiced the query with exceeding politeness and inclined his head deferentially.  “Or did you say?”

Pete pondered, pushing his hand thoughtfully through his white hair.

“Oh, I began tryin’ when I was about ten years old, or maybe seven.  It’s been so long ago I scarcely remember.  But I didn’t get to be what you might call a fair shot till about the time you was puttin’ on your first pair of pants,” he said sweetly.  “There was a time, though, before that—­when I was about the age you are now—­when I really thought I could shoot.  I learned better.”

A choking sound came from Bill; Jim turned his eyes that way.  Bill coughed hastily.  Jim sent the gold piece spinning again.

“I’m goin’ to keep Bill’s tenspot—­always,” he announced emotionally.  “I’ll never, never part with that!  But this piece of money—­” He threw it up again.  “Why, stranger, you might just as well have that as not.  Bill can be stakeholder and give us the word.  There’s just six cartridges left in the box for me.”

Peter Johnson smiled brightly, disclosing a row of small, white, perfect teeth.  He got to his feet stiffly and shook his aged legs; he took out his gun, twirled the cylinder, and slipped in an extra cartridge.

“I always carry the hammer on an empty chamber—­safer that way,” he explained.

He put the gun back in the holster, dug up a wallet, and produced a gold piece for the stakeholder.

“You’d better clean your gun, young man,” he said.  “It must be pretty foul by now.”

Jim followed this advice, taking ten minutes for the operation.  Meantime the Californian replaced the targets with new ones—­old tin dinner plates this time—­and voiced a philosophical regret over his recent defeat.  The Texas man, ready at last, took his place beside Pete and raised his gun till the butt of it was level with his ear, the barrel pointing up and back.  Johnson swung up his heavy gun in the same fashion.