"Go!" said the sheepman.

High Chin's hand flashed to his hip. His gun jumped and spoke. Shoop's wrist turned. Both bottles were shattered on the instant. A tie was declared.

The men were placed with their backs toward the targets--two empty bottles. The sheepman faced them, with his hands behind his back. When he snapped his fingers they were to turn and fire. Many of the onlookers thought this test would leave High Chin a point ahead.

Both men swung and fired at the signal. Again both bottles were shattered. Although a tie was again declared, the crowd cheered for Shoop, realizing his physical handicap. Yet many a.s.serted that High Chin was the faster man, won to this decision by his lightning speed of movement and his easy manner, suggesting a kind of contemptuous indifference to results.

In contrast to High Chin's swift, careless efficiency, Shoop's solid poise and lack of elbow motion showed in strong relief. Their methods were entirely dissimilar. But it was evident to the old-timers that Shoop shot with less effort and waste motion than his lithe compet.i.tor.

And High Chin was the younger man by twenty years.

Thus far the tests had not been considered difficult. But when the sheepman stepped off ten paces and faced the compet.i.tors with a cigar held at arm's length, the chattering of the crowd ceased. High Chin, as guest, was asked to shoot first. He raised his gun. It hung poised for a second. As it jumped in his hand the ash flirted from the end of the cigar. The crowd stamped and cheered. Shoop congratulated High Chin. The crowd hooted and called to Shoop to make good. Even as they called, his hand flashed up. Hardly had the report of his gun startled them to silence when they saw that his hands were empty. A roar of laughter shook the crowd. Some one pointed toward the sheepman. The laughter died down. He held a scant two inches of cigar in his fingers. Then they understood, and were silent again. They gathered round the sheepman. He held up his arms. Shoop's bullet had nipped the cigar in two before they had realized that he intended to shoot.

"You're havin' the luck," said High.

"You're right," said Shoop. "And luck, 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 a.s.semblage. 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 for a decision. He shook his head and declared the match a draw. And technically it was a draw. Every one seemed satisfied, although there was much discussion among individuals as to the relative merits of the contestants.

As the crowd dispersed and some of them prepared to ride home, two hors.e.m.e.n appeared on the northern road, riding toward town. As they drew nearer Shoop chuckled. Lorry, standing a few paces away, glanced at him.

The supervisor was talking to Bob Brewster. "High, you're the best I ever stacked up against, exceptin' one, and it's right curious that he is just a-ridin' into this powwow. If you want to see what real shootin'

is, get him to show you."

"I don't know your friend," said High, eyeing the approaching hors.e.m.e.n, "but he's a beaut if he can outshoot you."

"Outshoot me? Say, High, that hombre ridin' the big buckskin hoss there could make us look about as fast as a couple of fence-posts when it comes to handlin' a gun. And his pardner ain't what you'd call slow."

High Chin's lean face darkened as he recognized Waring riding beside a gaunt, long-legged man whose gray eyes twinkled as he surveyed the little group.

"Pat--and Jim Waring," muttered Shoop. "And us just finished what some would call a ole-time shootin'-bee!"

"Who's your friend?" queried High Chin, although he knew.

"Him? That's Jim Waring, of Sonora. And say, High, I ain't his advertisin' agent, but between you and me he could shoot the fuzz out of your ears and never as much as burn 'em. What I'm tellin' you is first-cla.s.s life insurance if you ain't took out any. And before you go I just want to pa.s.s the word that young Adams is workin' for _me_.

Reckon you might be interested, seein' as how he worked for you a spell."

High Chin met Shoop's gaze unblinkingly. He was about to speak when Pat and Waring, rode up and greeted the supervisor. High Chin wheeled his horse and loped back to town. A few minutes later he and his men rode past. To Shoop's genial wave of farewell they returned a whoop that seemed edged with a vague challenge.

Pat, who was watching them, asked Shoop who the man was riding the pinto.

"Why, that's High-Chin Bob Brewster, Starr fo'man. He's kind of a wild bird. I reckon he came over here lookin' for trouble. He's been walkin'

around with his wings and tail spread like he was mad at somethin'."

"I thought I knew him," said Pat. And he shrugged his shoulders.

Shoop noticed that Waring was gazing at Pat in a peculiar manner. He attached no significance to this at the time, but later he recalled the fact that there had been trouble between Pat and the Brewster boys some years ago. The Brewsters had then openly threatened to "get Pat if he ever rode north again."

Chapter XVII

_Down the Wind_

Waring, several miles out from the home shack, on the new range, sat his horse Dexter, watching his men string fence. They ran the barbed wire with a tackle, stringing it taut down the long line of bare posts that twinkled away to dots in the west. Occasionally Waring rode up and tested the wire with his hand. The men worked fast. Waring and Pat had picked their men; three husky boys of the high country who considered stringing fence rather pleasant exercise. There was no recognized foreman. Each knew his work, and Waring had added a foreman's pay to their salaries, dividing it equally among them. Later they would look after the ranch and the cattle.

Twenty thousand acres under fence, with plenty of water, would take care of eight hundred or a thousand head of cattle. And as a provision against a lean winter, Waring had put a mowing-machine in at the eastern end of the range, where the bunch-gra.s.s was heavy enough to cut. It would be necessary to winter-feed. Four hundred white-faced Herefords grazed in the autumn sunshine. Riding round and among them leisurely was the Mexican youth, Ramon.

Backed against a b.u.t.te near the middle of the range was the broad, low-roofed ranch-house. A windmill purred in the light breeze, its lean, flickering shadow aslant the corrals. The buildings looked new and raw in contrast to the huge pile of grayish-green greasewood and scrub cedar gathered from the clearing round them.

In front of the house was a fenced acre, ploughed and harrowed to a dead level. This was to be Pat's garden, wherein he had planned to grow all sorts of green things, including cuc.u.mbers. At the moment Pat was standing under the veranda roof, gazing out across the ranch. The old days of petty warfare, long night rides, and untold hardships were past.

Next spring his garden would bloom; tiny green tendrils would swell to st.u.r.dy vines. Corn-leaves would broaden to waving green blades shot with the rich brown of the ripening ears. Although he had never spoken of it, Pat had dreamed of blue flowers nodding along the garden fence; old-fashioned bachelor's-b.u.t.tons that would spring up as though by accident. But he would have to warn Waco, the erstwhile tramp, not to mistake them for weeds.

"Peace and plenty," muttered Pat, smiling to himself. "The Book sure knows how to say those things."

The gaunt, grizzled ex-sheriff reached in his vest for a cigar. As he bit the end off and felt for a match, he saw a black speck wavering in the distance. He shaded his eyes with his hand.

"'Tain't a machine," he said. "And it ain't a buckboard. Some puncher lookin' for a job, most likely."

He turned and entered the house. Waco, shaven and in clean shirt and overalls, was "punching dough" in the kitchen.

"Did Jim say when he would ride in?" queried Pat.

"About sundown. I fixed 'em up some chuck this morning. Jim figures they're getting too far out to ride in every noon."

"Well, when you get your bread baked we'll take a whirl at those ditches. How are the supplies holding out?"