“Never mind; I’ll explain later, so jist let go.  Thar, that’s better,” he commented when Curly had reluctantly obeyed.  “Now, look here, I’ve got a suggestion to make.  Let’s settle this racket outside.  It’s no use practisin’ on human bodies which the Lord made fer something more important.  Whiskey bottles will do as well, an’ the more ye smash of them the better, to my way of thinkin’.  So s’pose we stick several of ‘em up an’ let you two crack away at ’em.  That’s the best way to find out who’s the real marksman.  Anyone got a rifle handy?”

This suggestion was not at all to Curly’s liking.  He preferred to have matters all his own way, and his opponent completely at his mercy.  But Frontier Samson, as well as all the miners present, decided otherwise, and so Curly was forced to bow to the inevitable.

The men entered enthusiastically into this shooting-test, and in a few minutes three bottles were stuck upon a stump about fifty yards off.  A rifle was procured, which Samson at once handed to Curly.

“Now, shoot, ye beggar,” he ordered.  “Here’s the chance to show what ye kin do.”

Curly’s hand trembled as he took the weapon.  The miners crowded around and assailed him with various remarks.

“Go to it, Curly,” one encouraged.  “Ye were always good at hitting the bottle.”

“But not so far away,” another bantered.  “Curly likes it near, and full, at that.”

Curly looked as if he would have liked to turn the rifle upon the men instead of the bottles.  He was angry, and an angry man is always at a great disadvantage, especially where a steady nerve is needed.  He accordingly fired wild, and when, the third shot had been made, the bottles remained untouched.

During this performance Reynolds had been standing silently by, apparently the least concerned of all.  He felt annoyed at the trouble which had occurred, and he was anxious that Curly should be taught a salutary lesson.  He picked up the rifle from the ground where his opponent had flung it in his rage, and brought it to his shoulder.  He never felt calmer in his life as he took a quick and steady aim.  Thrice he pulled the trigger, and each time a bottle crashed to the ground, while the excited miners cheered and shouted themselves hoarse.

When he was through, Reynolds quietly handed the rifle to Frontier Samson.  Then he turned to Curly.

“Are you satisfied now?” he asked, “or do you want some more shooting?  If so, I am ready.”

With an oath, Curly turned upon his heel, and was about to walk away, when the old prospector laid a firm hand upon his shoulder.

“Jist a minute, young man,” he ordered.  “I want to give ye a word of advice, which ye kin take or leave as ye see fit.  Ye’ve made a miserable fool of yerself today, though it isn’t the first time ye’ve done it, not by a long chalk.  If ye want to git along in this camp, stow that nasty temper of yours, an’ mind yer own bizness.  This young feller wasn’t interferin’ with you one bit.  The devil was in ye, an’ ye had to spit it out on somebody.  Ye better be more keerful in the future, as I mightn’t allus be around to check ye on yer rampage.”