A blending, crackling roar, streaked red and saffron, through black
smoke: the Texan's gun flashed down and up and back, as a man snaps his
fingers against the frost; he tossed his empty gun through the sunlight
to the bed under the juniper tree and spread out his hands. Bill was
still firing--one shot--two!

"Judgment!" shouted the Texan and pointed. Six bullet holes were
scattered across his target, line shots, one above the other; and
poor Bill, disconcerted, had missed his last shot!

"Jim, I guess the stuff is yours," said Bill sheepishly.

The big Texan retrieved his gun from the bed and Pete gave him the
stakes. He folded the bill lovingly and tucked it away; but he flipped
the coin from his thumb, spinning in the sun, caught it as it fell, and
glanced askant at old Pete.

"How long ago did you say it was when you began shootin'?" He voiced the
query with exceeding politeness and inclined his head deferentially. "Or
did you say?"

Pete pondered, pushing his hand thoughtfully through his white hair.

"Oh, I began tryin' when I was about ten years old, or maybe seven.
It's been so long ago I scarcely remember. But I didn't get to be what
you might call a fair shot till about the time you was puttin' on your
first pair of pants," he said sweetly. "There was a time, though, before
that--when I was about the age you are now--when I really thought I could
shoot. I learned better."