ck, if she keeps steady gait, is just
as good a hoss to ride as they is."

Still, there were those who maintained that Shoop had made a chance
hit. But High Chin knew that this was not so. He had met his master at
the six-gun game.

Bud Shoop's easy manner had vanished. As solid as a rock, his lips in a
straight line, he waited for the next test while High Chin talked and
joked with the bystanders.

"You'll shoot when you see something to shoot at," was the sheepman's
word. The crowd laughed. He stood behind the marksmen, a tin can in each
hand. Both High Chin and Shoop knew what was coming, and Shoop decided
to surprise the assemblage. The main issue was not the shooting contest,
and if High-Chin Bob had not already seen enough of Shoop's work to
satisfy him, the genial Bud intended to clinch the matter right there.

Without warning, the sheepman tossed the cans into the air. Shoop and
High Chin shot on the instant. But before High Chin's can touched the
ground Shoop shot again. It was faster work than any present had ever
seen. A man picked up the cans and brought them to the sheepman. One can
had a clean hole in it. The other had two holes through it. Those
nearest the marksmen wondered why Shoop had not shot twice at his own
can. But the big sheepman knew that Shoop had called High Chin's bluff
about "any game going."

Even then the match was a tie so far as precedent demanded. Each man
had made a hit on a moving target.

The crowd had ceased to applaud.

"How about a try from the saddle?" suggested High Chin.

"I reckon I look just as fat and foolish settin' in a saddle as
anywhere," said Shoop.

The crowd shuffled over to a more open spot, on the mesa. Shoop and High
Chin mounted their horses. A tin cracker box was placed on a flat rock
out in the open.

The men were to reload and shoot at top speed as they rode past the box.
The Starr foreman immediately jumped his pony to a run, and, swaying
easily, threw a shot at the box as he approached it, another and another
when opposite, and, turning in the saddle, fired his three remaining
shots. The box was brought back and inspected. The six shots had all
hit.

Shoop, straight and solid as a statue, ran his pony down the course, but
held his fire until almost opposite the box. Then six reports rippled
out like the drawing of a stick quickly across a picket fence. It was
found that the six shots had all hit in one side of the box. The
sheepman was asked f