_Play_
The installation of Bud Shoop as supervisor of the White Mountain
District was celebrated with an old-fashioned barbecue by the cattlemen
and sheepmen leasing on the reserve. While John Torrance had always
dealt fairly with them, the natives felt that he was more or less of a
theorist in the matter of grazing-leases. Shoop was a practical cowman;
one of themselves. Naturally there was some dissatisfaction expressed by
disgruntled individuals who envied Shoop's good fortune. But this was
overwhelmed by the tide of popular acclaim with which Shoop was hailed
as a just administrator of their grazing-rights.
The barbecue was a boisterous success. Although the day of large
holdings was past, the event lacked nothing in numbers or enthusiasm.
The man who owned a hundred head of cattle was quite as popular as his
neighbor who owned perhaps eight hundred or a thousand. Outfits
fraternized, ran pony races, roped for prizes, and rode bucking horses,
as their predecessors had raced, roped, and "rode 'em" in the days of
old.
Lorry, itching to enter the roping contest, was checked by a suggestion
from the genial Bud.
"I've heard you was top-hand with a rope. But you're a ranger, by the
grace of God and me and John Torrance. Let the boy's play, but don't
play with 'em yet. Keep 'em guessin' just how good you are. Let 'em get
to know you slow--and solid."
Lorry accepted Bud's advice, and made himself popular with the various
outfits by maintaining a silence when questioned as to how he "put
High-Chin Bob out of business." The story of that affair had had a wide
circulation, and gained interest when it became known that High Chin and
his men were present. Their excuse for coming was only legitimate in
that a barbecue draws no fine lines of distinction. Any one who has a
horse and an appetite is welcome. The Starr riders were from the
northern county, but they would have been quite as welcome had they come
from Alaska.
Bud Shoop was present in a suit of religiously severe black, his pants
outside his boots. He had donned a white shirt and knotted a black silk
bandanna round his short neck.
The morning was noisy with pony races, roping contests, and the riding
of pitching horses. The events were not tabulated, but evolved through
the unwritten law of precedent.
After the noon feast there was talk of a shooting-match. Few of the
local men packed guns, and none of them openly. The Starr riders were
the only exception. This fact was commented upon by some of the
old-timers, who finally accosted Bud with the suggestion that he "show
that Starr outfit what a gun was made for." Bud declined.
"I ain't had a gun in my hand, except to clean it, since I quit
punchin'," he told them. "And, anyhow, I'm no fancy gun sharp."
"High Chin and his outfit is sure handin' it to us," complained the
old-timers. "And you're about the only man here who could show 'em."
"No use provin' it to 'em when they know it," Bud said.
The committee retired and consulted among themselves. Bud was talking
with a cattleman when they again accosted him.
"Say, Bud, them Starr boys has cleaned us out on ropin' and racin'. We
trimmed 'em on ridin'. Now that makes two to one, and we're askin' you
as a old-timer if we're goin' to let them fellas ride north a-tellin'
every hay-tosser atween here and Stacey that we're a bunch of jays?"
"Oh, shucks!" was all Bud had to say.
"And that High-Chin Bob says he aims to hang young Adams's scalp on his
belt afore he gits through," asserted a townsman.
"I'll set in the game," said Bud.
And he waddled across the street to his office. In a few minutes he came
back and mingled with the crowd. The Starr boys were pitching dollars at
a mark when Bud and a companion strolled past. High Chin invited Shoop
to join in the game. Shoop declined pleasantly.
"Things is runnin' slow," said a Starr man. "Wish I'd 'a' fetched my
music along. Mebby I could git somebody to sing me to sleep."
Bud laughed. "Have a good time, boys." And he moved on.
"That was one for you--and yore piano," said his companion.
"Mebby so. We'll let that rest. I'm lookin' for a friend of mine." And
Shoop edged along the crowd.
The man that Shoop was looking for was standing alone beneath the shade
of an acacia, watching the crowd. He was a tall, heavy man,
dark-featured, with a silver-gray beard and brown eyes that seemed to
twinkle with amusement even when his lips were grim. The giant sheepman
of the south country was known to every one on account of his great
physique and his immense holdings in land and sheep. Shoop talked with
him for a few minutes. Together they strolled back to the crowd.
The Starr boys were still pitching dollars when Shoop and the sheepman
approached.
"Who's top-hand in this game?" queried Shoop genially.
"High Chin--and at any game you got," said a Starr man.
"Well, now!"
"Any game you got."
Shoop gazed about, saw Lorry, and beckoned to him.
"Here's my candidate," said Shoop. "He kep' out of the ropin' so as to
give you fellas a chance." And he turned to Lorry. "Give him a whirl,"
he said, indicating High Chin. "It's worth a couple of dollars just to
find out how good he is."
High Chin surveyed the circle of faces, poised a dollar, and threw it.
Lorry threw and lost. High Chin pocketed the two dollars. The Starr boys
grinned. High Chin threw again. The dollar slid close to the line. Lorry
shied his dollar and knocked the other's coin several feet away from the
line.
"Try him ag'in," said Shoop.
Lorry tossed again. His dollar dropped on the line. High Chin threw. His
coin clinked squarely on Lorry's, but spun off, leaving it undisturbed.
"You break even--at that game," said Shoop. "It was a good shot."
"Folks been sayin' the same of you," said High Chin, turning to the
supervisor.
"Oh, folks will talk. They're made that way," chuckled Shoop.
"Well, I got ten bucks that says High Chin can outshoot any hombre in
this crowd," said a Starr boy.
"I'm right glad you got it," said Shoop pleasantly.
"Meanin' I stand to lose it, eh?"
"Oh, gosh, no! You're steppin' on your bridle. I was congratulatin' you
on your wealth."
"I ain't seen that you been flashin' any money," said the cowboy.
"Nope. That ain't what money's made for. And I never bet on a sure
thing. Ain't no fun in that."
The giant sheepman, whose movements were as deliberate as the sun's,
slowly reached in his pocket and drew out a leather pouch. He counted
out forty dollars in gold-pieces.
"I'll lay it even," he said, his eyes twinkling, "that Bud Shoop can
outshoot any man in the crowd."
"I'll take ten of that," said the Starr man.
"And I'll take ten," said another cowboy.
"John," said Shoop, turning to the sheepman, "you're a perpendicular
dam' fool."
Word went forth that High-Chin Bob, of the Starr, and Bud Shoop were to
shoot a match for a thousand dollars a side, and some of the more
enthusiastic believed it. In a few minutes the street was empty of all
save the ponies at the hitching-rails.
In a shallow arroyo back of town the excited throng made wagers and
talked of wonderful shots made by the principals. High Chin was known as
a quick and sure shot. Shoop's reputation was known to fewer of the
crowd. The Starr boys backed their foreman to the last cent. A judge was
suggested, but declined as being of the locality. Finally the giant
sheepman, despite his personal wager, was elected unanimously. He was
known to be a man of absolute fairness, and qualified to judge
marksmanship. He agreed to serve, with the proviso that the Starr boys
or any of High Chin's friends should feel free to question his
decisions. The crowd solidified back of the line, where Shoop and High
Chin stood waiting for the test.
The marksmen faced two bottles on a rock some thirty paces away. At the
word, each was to "go for his gun" and shoot. High Chin carried his gun
in the usual holster. Bud Shoop's gun was tucked in the waistband of his
pants.
"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 asserted 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 competitor.
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 competitors 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 assemblage. 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
horsemen 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 horsemen,
"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-class life insurance if you ain't took out any. And before you go
I just want to pass 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."