The Rules of the Game

by Stewart Edward White

  III

  One day, not over a week later, Bob working in the woods, noticedCalifornia John picking his way through the new slashing. This was adifficult matter, for the fresh-peeled logs and the debris of the topsafforded few openings for the passage of a horse. The old man made it,however, and finally emerged on solid ground, much in the fashion of oneclimbing a bank after an uncertain ford. He caught sight of Bob.

  "You fellows can change the face of the country beyant all belief,"announced the old man, pushing back his hat. "You're worse than snowthat way. I ought to know this country pretty well, but when I get downinto one of your pesky slashings, I'm lost for a way out!"

  Bob laughed, and exchanged a few commonplace remarks.

  "If you can get off, you better come over our way," said CaliforniaJohn, as he gathered up his reins. "We're holding rangerexaminations--something new. You got to tell what you know these daysbefore you can work for Uncle Sam."

  "What do you have to know?" asked Bob.

  "Come over and find out."

  Bob reflected.

  "I believe I will," he decided. "There's nothing to keep me here."

  Accordingly, early next morning he rode over to the Upper Camp. Outside,near the creek, he came upon the deserted evidences of a gathering ofmen. Bed rolls lay scattered under the trees, saddles had been thrownover fallen trunks, bags of provisions hung from saplings, cookingutensils flanked the smouldering remains of a fire which was, however,surrounded by a scraped circle of earth after the careful fashion of themountains. Bob's eye, by now practised in the refinements of suchmatters, ran over the various accoutrements thus spread abroad. Heestimated the number of their owners at about a score. The bedroll ofthe cowman, the "turkey" of the lumber jack, the quilts of themountaineer, were all in evidence; as well as bedding plainly makeshiftin character, belonging to those who must have come from a distance. Ahalf-dozen horses dozed in an improvised fence-corner corral. As manymore were tied to trees. Saddles, buckboards, two-wheeled carts, andeven one top buggy represented the means of transportation.

  Bob rode on through the gate to headquarters.. This he found deserted,except for Amy Thorne. She was engaged in wiping the breakfast dishes,and she excitedly waved a towel at the young man as he rode up.

  "A godsend!" she cried. "I'm just dancing with impatience! They've beengone five minutes! Come help me finish!"

  Bob fastened his horse, rolled back his sleeves, and took hold with awill.

  "Where's your examining board, and your candidates?" he inquired. "Ithought I was going to see an examination."

  "Up the Meadow Trail," panted the girl. "Don't stop to talk. Hurry!"

  They hurried, to such good purpose, that shortly they were clambering,rather breathless, up the steeps of the Meadow Trail. This led to aflat, upper shelf or bench in which, as the name implied, was situated asmall meadow. At the upper end were grouped twenty-five men, closelygathered about some object.

  Amy and Bob plunged into the dew-heavy grasses. The men proved to bewatching Thorne, who was engaged in tacking a small target on the stubof a dead sugar pine. This accomplished, he led the way back someseventy-five or eighty paces.

  "Three shots each," said he, consulting his note-book. "Off-hand.Hicks!"

  The man so named stepped forward to the designated mark, sighted hispiece carefully, and fired.

  "Do I get each shot called?" he inquired; but Thorne shook his head.

  "You ought to know where your guns shoot," said he.

  After the third shot, the whole group went forward to examine thetarget. Thorne marked the results in his note-book, and called upon thenext contestant.

  While the shooting went on, Bob had leisure to examine the men. Theynumbered, as he had guessed, about twenty. Three were plainly from thetowns, for they wore thin shoes, white shirts, and clothes of a sort illadapted to out-of-door work in the mountains. Two others, while moreappropriately dressed in khakis and high boots, were as evidentlyforeign to the hills. Bob guessed them recent college graduates, perhapseven of some one of the forestry schools. In this he was correct. Therest were professional out-of-door men. Bob recognized two of his ownwoods-crew--good men they were, too. He nodded to them. A half-dozenlithe, slender youths, handsome and browned, drew apart by themselves.He remembered having noticed one of them as a particularly daring riderafter Pollock's cattle the fall before; and guessed his companions to beof the same breed. Among the remainder, two picturesque, lean, slow andquizzical prospectors attracted his particular attention.

  Most of these men were well practised in the use of the rifle, butevidently not to exhibiting their skill in company. What seemed to Bob arather _exaggerated_ earnestness oppressed them. The shooting, with twoexceptions, was not good. Several, whom Bob strongly suspected had manya time brought down their deer on the run, even missed the targetentirely! It was to be remarked that each contestant, though he mightturn red beneath his tan, took the announcement of the result insilence.

  The two notable exceptions referred to were strangely contrasted. Theelder was one of the prospectors. He was armed with an ancient 45-70Winchester, worn smooth and shiny by long carrying in a saddle holster.This arm was fitted with buckhorn sights of the old mountain type. Whenit exploded, its black powder blew forth a stunning detonation andvolume of smoke. Nevertheless, of the three bullets, two were within thetiny black Thorne had seen fit to mark as bullseye, and the otherclipped close to its edge. A murmur of admiration went up from thebystanders. Even eliminating the unaccountable nervousness that hadthrown so many shots wild, it seemed improbable that any of the othercontestants felt themselves qualified to equal this score.

  "Good shooting," whispered Bob to Amy. "I doubt if I could make out thatbullseye through sights."

  The other exception, whose turn came somewhat later, was one of theEasterners mentioned as a graduate of the forestry school. This youngman, not over twenty-two years of age, was an attractive youngster, withrefined features, and engaging dark-blue eyes. His arm was the thenlatest model, a 33-calibre high power, fitted with aperture sights. Thishe manipulated with great care, adjusting it again and again; and firedwith such deliberation that some of the spectators moved impatiently.Nevertheless, the target, on examination, showed that he had duplicatedthe prospector's score. To be sure, the worst shot had not cut quite asclose to the bull as had that of the older man, but on the other hand,those in the black were slightly nearer the centre. It was generallyadjudged a good tie.

  "Well, youngster!" cried the prospector, heartily, "we're the cocks ofthe walk! If you can handle the other weep'n as well, I'll give you myhand for a good shot."

  The young man smiled shyly, but said nothing.

  The distance was now shortened to something under twenty paces, and anew target substituted for the old. The black in this was fully sixinches in diameter.

  "Five shots with six-shooter," announced Thorne briefly.

  "A man should hit a dollar twice in five at that distance," muttered theprospector. Thorne caught the remark.

  "You hit that five out of five, and I'll forgive you," said he curtly."Hicks, you begin."

  The contest went forward with varying success. Not over half of the menwere practised with the smaller arm. Some very wild work was done. Onthe other hand, eight or ten performed very creditably, placing theirbullets in or near the black. Indeed, two succeeded in hitting thebullseye four times out of five. Every man took the utmost pains withevery shot.

  "Now, Ware," said Thorne, at last, "step up. You've got to make goodthat five out of five to win."

  The prospector stood forward, at the same time producing from an openholster blackened by time one of the long-barrelled single-action Colt's45's, so universally in use on the frontier. He glanced carelesslytoward the mark, grinned back at the crowd, turned, and instantly beganfiring. He shot the five shots without appreciable sighting before each,as fast as his thumb could pull back the long-shanked hammer. The muzzleof the weapon rose and fell with a regularity positively m
echanical, andthe five shots had been delivered in half that number of seconds.

  "There's your five," said he, carelessly dropping his gun back into itsholster.

  The five bullets were found to be scattered within the six-inch black.

  The concourse withdrew to give space for the next contestant. Silencefell as the man was taking his aim. Amy touched Bob's arm. He lookeddown. Her eyes were shining, and her cheeks red with excitement.

  "Doesn't it remind you of anything?" she whispered eagerly.

  "What?" he asked, not guessing her meaning.

  "This: all of it!" she waved her hand abroad at the fair oval meadowwith its fringe of tall trees and the blue sky above it; at theclose-gathered knot of spectators, and the single contestant advancedbefore them. He shook his head. "Wait," she breathed, laying her fingersacross her lips.

  The contest wore along until it again came the turn of the younger man.He stepped to the front, unbuckled a covered holster of the sort nevercarried in the West, and produced one of those beautifully balanced,beautifully finished revolvers known as the Officer's Model. Taking thefirm yet easy position of the practised target shot, he sighted withgreat deliberation, firing only when he considered his aim assured.Indeed, once he lowered his weapon until a puff of wind had passed. Thefive shots were found to be not only within the black, but groupedinside a three-inch diameter.

  "'_A Hubert! A Hubert_!'" breathed the girl in Bob's ear. "_In theclout_!"

  "I thought his name was Elliott," said Bob. "Is it Hubert?"

  The girl eyed him reproachfully, but said nothing.

  "You're a _good_ shot, youngster!" cried Ware, in the heartiestcongratulation; "but if Mr. Thorne don't mind, I'd like to shoot offthis tie. Down in our country we don't shoot quite that way, or at thatkind of a mark. Will you take a try my way?"

  Amy leaned again toward Bob, her face aflame.

  "_'And now,'_" she shot at him, "'_I will crave your Grace's permissionto plant such a mark as is used in the north country; and welcome everybrave yeoman who shall try a shot at it_--'Don't dare tell me you don'tremember!"

  "'_A man can but do his best_,'" Bob took up the tale. "Of course, Iremember; you're right."

  "All right," Thorne was agreeing, "but make it short. We've got a lot todo."

  Ware selected another target--one intended for the six-shooters--thathad not been used. This he tacked up in place of the one alreadydisfigured by many shots. Then he paced off twelve yards.

  "That looks easier than the other," Thorne commented.

  "Mebbe," agreed Ware, non-committally, "but you may change your mind. Asfor that sort of monkey-work," he indicated the discarded target, "downour way we'd as soon shoot at a barn."

  The girl softly clapped her hands.

  "'_For his own part_,'" she quoted in a breath, and so rapidly that thewords fairly tumbled over one another, "'_in the land where he was bred,men would as soon take for their mark King Arthur's round table, whichheld sixty knights around it. A child of seven might hit yonder targetwith a headless shaft_.' Oh, this is perfect."

  "Now," said Ware to young Elliott, "if you'll hit that mark in myfashion of shooting, you're all right."

  Bob turned to the girl, his eyes dancing with delight.

  "'--_he that hits yon mark at I-forget-how-many yards_,'" he declaimed,"'_I will call him an archer fit to bear bow before a king_'--orsomething to that effect; I'm afraid I'm not letter perfect."

  He laughed amusedly, and the girl laughed with him. "Just the same, I'mglad you remember," she told him.

  Ware had by now taken his place at the new mark he had established.

  "Fifteen shots," he announced. At the word his hand dropped to the buttof his gun, his right shoulder hunched forward, and with one lightningsmooth motion the weapon glided from the holster. Hardly had it left theleather when it was exploded. The hammer had been cocked during theupward flip of the muzzle. The first discharge was followed immediatelyby the five others in a succession so rapid that Bob believed the manhad substituted a self-cocking arm until he caught the rapid play of themarksman's thumb. The weapon was at no time raised above the level ofthe man's waist.

  "Hold on!" commanded Ware, as the bystanders started forward to examinethe result of the shots. "Let's finish the string first."

  He had been deliberately pushing out the exploded cartridges one by one.Now he as deliberately reloaded. Taking a position somewhat to the leftof the target, he folded his arms so that the revolver lay across hisbreast with its muzzle resting over his left elbow. Then he stroderapidly but evenly across the face of the target, discharging the fivebullets as he walked.

  Again he reloaded. This time he stood with the revolver hanging in hisright hand gazing intently for some moments at the target, measuringcarefully with his eye its direction and height. He turned his back;and, flipping his gun over his left shoulder, fired without lookingback.

  "The first ten ought to be in the black," announced Ware, "The last fiveought to be somewheres on the paper. A fellow can't expect more than togenerally wing a man over his shoulder."

  But on examination the black proved to hold but eight bullet holes. Theother seven, however, all showed on the paper.

  "Comes of not wiping out the dirt once in a while when you're shootingblack powder," said Ware philosophically.

  The crowd gazed upon him with admiration.

  "That's a remarkable group of shots to be literally _thrown_ out at thatspeed," muttered Thorne to Bob. "Why, you could cover them with yourhat! Well, young man," he addressed Elliott, "step up!"

  But Elliott shook his head.

  "Couldn't touch that with a ten-foot pole," said he pleasantly. "Mr.Ware has given me a new idea of what can be done with a revolver. Hiswork is especially good with that heavily charged arm. I wish he wouldgive us a little exhibition of how close he can shoot with my gun. It'ssupposed to be a more accurate weapon."

  "No, thank you," spoke up Ware. "I couldn't hit a flock of featherpillers with your gun. You see, I shoot by _throw_, and I'm used to thebalance of my gun."

  Thorne finished making some notes.

  "All right, boys," he said, snapping shut his book. "We'll go down toheadquarters next."