ye kin do."

Curly's hand trembled as he took the weapon. The miners crowded around
and assailed him with various remarks.

"Go to it, Curly," one encouraged. "Ye were always good at hitting the
bottle."

"But not so far away," another bantered. "Curly likes it near, and
full, at that."

Curly looked as if he would have liked to turn the rifle upon the men
instead of the bottles. He was angry, and an angry man is always at a
great disadvantage, especially where a steady nerve is needed. He
accordingly fired wild, and when, the third shot had been made, the
bottles remained untouched.

During this performance Reynolds had been standing silently by,
apparently the least concerned of all. He felt annoyed at the trouble
which had occurred, and he was anxious that Curly should be taught a
salutary lesson. He picked up the rifle from the ground where his
opponent had flung it in his rage, and brought it to his shoulder. He
never felt calmer in his life as he took a quick and steady aim.
Thrice he pulled the trigger, and each time a bottle crashed to the
ground, while the excited miners cheered and shouted themselves hoarse.

When he was through, Reynolds quietly handed the rifle to Frontier
Samson. Then he turned to Curly.

"Are you satisfied now?" he asked, "or do you want some more shooting?