w target substituted for the old. The black in this was fully six
inches in diameter.

"Five shots with six-shooter," announced Thorne briefly.

"A man should hit a dollar twice in five at that distance," muttered the
prospector. Thorne caught the remark.

"You hit that five out of five, and I'll forgive you," said he curtly.
"Hicks, you begin."

The contest went forward with varying success. Not over half of the men
were practised with the smaller arm. Some very wild work was done. On
the other hand, eight or ten performed very creditably, placing their
bullets in or near the black. Indeed, two succeeded in hitting the
bullseye four times out of five. Every man took the utmost pains with
every shot.

"Now, Ware," said Thorne, at last, "step up. You've got to make good
that five out of five to win."

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 o