“What’s your game?” There was no yielding in Will’s sharp question.
“Just this.”
Jim leaned forward, holding his empty pipe to point his words. There was a glow of excited interest in his eyes as he propounded his idea. With Will it was different. He sat frigidly listening. If through any generosity he lost Eve, he would never forgive himself–he would never forgive Jim. He must have her for his own. His love for her was a far greater thing, he told himself, than the colder Jim’s could ever be. He could not understand that Jim, in offering his plan, merely wanted to be fair, merely wanted to arrange things so that Eve should not come between them, that neither should be able to reproach the other for any advantage taken. He suspected trickery. Nor had he any right to such base suspicion. Jim’s idea was one to make their way easier. Eve would choose whom she pleased–if either of them. He could not, did not want to alter that. Whatever the result of her choice he was ready to accept it.
He pointed at the revolvers hanging on the wall.
“They shall decide who has first speak with her,” he said. “We’ll empty six at a mark, and the one who does the best shooting has–first go in.”
Will shrugged.
“I don’t like it.”
“It’s the best way. We’re a fair match. You’re reckoned the boss shot in the hills, and I don’t guess there’s any one on this ranch handier than I am. We’ve both played with those two guns a heap. It’ll save bad blood between us. What say?”
Will shook his head.
“It’s bad. Still–” He looked at the guns. He was thinking swiftly. He knew that he was a wonderful shot with a revolver. He was in constant practice, too. Jim was a good shot, but then his practice was very limited. Yes, the chances were all in his favor.
“Get busy then,” he said presently, with apparent reluctance.
He rose and moved toward the guns.
“Whose choice?” he demanded.
Nor did he observe the other’s smile as he received his reply.
“It’s yours.”
While Will chose his weapon with studied care, Jim picked up the soap box and fumbled through his pockets till he found a piece of chalk. With this he drew a bull’s-eye on the bottom of the box, and sketched two rough circles around it. Will had made his choice of weapons by the time the target was completed.
“Will it do?” Jim inquired, holding up the box for his inspection.
“It’s got to,” was the churlish reply.
Jim gave him a quick glance as he moved across the room and possessed himself of the remaining pistol. Then he examined its chambers and silently led the way out of the hut.
They left the ranch buildings and moved out upon the prairie. A spot was selected, and the box set down. Then Jim paced off sixty yards.
“Sixty,” he said, as he came to a halt.
“Sixty,” agreed Will, who had paced beside him.
“It’s your choice. Will you–get busy?”
“All right.”
Will stepped on to the mark confidently, raising his gun with the surety of a man who does not know what it means to miss. Yet, before dropping the hammer, he braced himself with unusual care.
“Plonk!” The bullet struck the box. He had found his mark, and in rapid succession the remaining five chambers of his gun were emptied. Each shot found its mark with deadly accuracy, for Will meant to win the contest.
Then they set out to inspect the target. Will led now. He was eager to ascertain the actual result. An exclamation of joy broke from him as he snatched up the box. The bull’s-eye was about two inches in diameter; one of his shots had passed through it, three had broken its outer line, while the other two were within a quarter of an inch of the little white patch. All six shots could have been covered by a three-inch circle.
“Good,” cried Thorpe. And he turned the box round and drew another target on its side.
The new bull’s-eye was a shade smaller. It may have been accident. It may have been that Jim preferred to make his own task more difficult than err on the side of his own advantage. Will said nothing, and they walked back to the firing point.
Jim lifted his gun and fired. His shots rang out like the rattle of a maxim gun, so swiftly did he empty the six chambers. In a few moments they were once more on their way to inspect the target.
Five bullets had passed through the bull’s-eye, the sixth had broken its line.
“I shall see Eve to-morrow morning,” said Jim quietly. “You can see her later.”
Without a word Will turned away, and moved off toward the ranch. Jim followed him. Nor was a word exchanged between them till the hut was reached, and Will had unhitched his horse from the tying-post.
“Going?” inquired Jim, for something to say.
“Yes.”
There was no mistaking the younger man’s tone, and his friend looked away while he leaped into the saddle.
Jim seemed to have drawn none of the satisfaction which the winning of the match should have afforded him, for he flung the box which he had been carrying aside as though it had offended him. He wanted to speak, he wanted to say something pleasant. He wanted to banish that surly look from Will’s eyes; but somehow he could find nothing to say, nothing to do. He looked on while the other lifted his reins to ride off. Then, in desperation, he came up to the horse’s shoulder.
“Shake, Will,” he said.
It was the effort of a big heart striving to retain a precious friendship which he felt was slipping away from him.
But Will did not see the outstretched hand. He hustled his horse, and, in moving off, his own right foot struck the waiting man violently. It was almost as though he had kicked him.
Jim watched him go with regretful eyes. Then, as the man disappeared among the ranch buildings, he turned and slowly made his way to the bunk house of the horse-breakers.
CHAPTER III
IN BARNRIFF
It has been said that the pretentiousness of a newly carpentered Western American settlement can only be compared to the “side” of a nigger wench, weighted down under the gaudy burden of her Emancipation Day holiday gown. Although, in many cases, the analogy is not without aptness, yet, in frequent instances, it would be a distinct libel. At any rate, Barnriff boasted nothing of pretentiousness. Certainly Barnriff was not newly carpentered. Probably it never had been.
It was one of those places that just grow from a tiny seedling; and, to judge by the anemic result of its effort, that original seedling could have been little better than a “scratching” post on an ill-cared-for farm, or perhaps a storm shelter. Certainly it could not have risen above an implement shed in the ranks of structural art. The general impression was in favor of the “scratching” post, for one expects to grow something better than weeds on a rich loam soil.
The architect of Barnriff–if he ever existed–was probably a drunkard, not an uncommon complaint in that settlement, or a person qualified for the state asylum. The inference is drawn from strong circumstantial evidence, and not from prejudice. As witness, the saloon seemed to have claimed his most serious effort as a piece of finished construction. Here his weakness peeps through in no uncertain manner. The bar occupies at least half of the building, and the fittings of it are large enough to accommodate sufficient alcohol for an average man to swim in. His imagination must have been fully extended in this design, for the result suggested its having been something in the nature of a