A SHOOTING MATCH
In silence the two men sat smoking. Will Henderson, half sitting, half
lying on the stretcher-bed, gazed out through the doorway at the
distant mountain peaks. His hands were clasped behind his head, and a
sullen, preoccupied look was in his eyes. Jim Thorpe was sitting,
frog-fashion, on an upturned soap-box, watching him. His eyes were a
shade anxious, but full of good feeling.
Jim was nine years his cousin's senior, and Will was twenty-four. They
were really almost foster-brothers, for from the younger man's
earliest days he had lived with Jim, in the care of the latter's
widowed mother. He was an orphan, both his parents having died before
he was two years old, and so it was that he had been adopted by Jim's
mother, the child's only living relative. For years Jim had lavished
on him an elder brother's affection and care. And when his own mother
died, and he was left to his own resources, it still made no
difference. Will must share in everything. Will's education must be
completed adequately, for that was Jim's nature. His duty and
inclination lay straight ahead of him, and he carried both out to the
end. Perhaps he did more. Perhaps he overindulged and spoiled the
youngster of whom he was so fond. Anyway, as in many similar cases,
Will accepted all as his right, and gave very little in return. He was
selfish, passionate, and his temper was not always a nice one.
In appearance there was a striking resemblance between these two. Not
in face, but in figure, in coloring, in general style. A back view of
them was identical. In face they differed enormously. They were both
extremely handsome, but of utterly different types. Jim was
classically regular of feature, while Will possessed all the
irregularity and brightness of his Hibernian ancestry. Both were dark;
dark hair, dark eyes, dark eyebrows. In fact, so alike were they in
general appearance that, in their New York days, they had been known
by their intimates as the "twins."
Just now there was something troubling. And that something seemed to
be worrying Will Henderson even more than his cousin. At least, to
judge by outward appearances. He showed it in his expression, which
was somewhat savage. He showed it in his nervous, impatient movements,
in the manner in which he smoked. Jim had seen it at once, and
understood. And he, too, was troubled.
They had been silent some time, and eventually it was Jim who spoke.
"Come on, lad. Let's have it out," he said, decidedly.
His voice was full and strong, and kindly.
The other stirred, but did not reply.
"This is your busy time, Will," Jim went on. "You didn't come away
from those hills yonder to pass the time of day with me. You came
because something wouldn't let you rest. I know you, boy; I know you.
Something's troubling that mind of yours in a way that makes it hard
for you to speak, even now you're here. Shall I try and begin it for
you?"
There was infinite kindness in the man's tone. There was a smile in
his eyes that might well have drawn a responsive smile from even an
angry child.
Will removed his pipe, but the responsive smile was not forthcoming.
"I'll open out, Jim," he said coldly.
The other waited. The smoke of their pipes rolled up on the
still, warm air of the room, upsetting the calculations of a few
mischievously busy mosquitoes. The sun shone in through the doorway.
The ranch was quiet now. All the "hands" had departed to their
work, and only the occasional lowing of a solitary milch cow in one
of the corrals, and the trampling feet of the horses waiting to be
"broken," and the "yeps" of a few mouching dogs, afforded any sign
of life outside in the ranch yards.
Jim began to grow restive.
"Well, boy: I've some 'breaking' to do. Maybe you'll come along. You
can talk as we go."
He half rose, but Will sat up in a moment.
"Not yet, Jim," he said, almost roughly. Then his tone changed in a
way through which his mercurial disposition spoke. "Look here," he
went on, "whatever happens in the future, I'd like you to understand
that all you've done for me in the past counts for something."
"Then it's real serious, lad?" Jim smiled back at him. But he failed
to catch his eye. Then he, too, changed his manner, and there was a
sudden coolness in it. "You needn't recite," he said. "Anything I've
done has been a--a pleasure to me. Our ways have lain a bit apart for
some months, but it makes no difference to my feelings, except to make
me regret it. The fortunes of war, eh? And a fair bit of grist is
rolling into our separate mills. Honest grist. We're good friends,
lad--so let's have it. It's--it's a woman?"
At the mention of the word, "woman," Will seemed to utterly freeze
up.
"Yes, it's--a woman," he said frigidly.
"Eve Marsham?"
"Yes."
Jim sighed. He knew there were breakers ahead. Breakers which must be
faced, and faced sternly.
"You love her?" There was a dryness in his throat.
"Yes. I--I can't live without her. She is my whole world. She is more
than that. God! How I love her!"
"I love her, too."
Jim's darkly brilliant eyes were on the younger man's face. They
compelled his gaze, and the two men looked long at each other, vainly
trying to penetrate to that which lay behind. It was Will who turned
away at last.
"I knew it," he said, and there was no longer any pretense of
cordiality in his tone.
"Well?"
"Well?"
It was a tense moment for both men; and tremendous in its possibilities.
There was no shrinking in either now; no yielding. But, as it ever was,
Jim took the lead after a few moments' silence.
"And--does she love you?" he asked slowly.
His words were little above a whisper, but so tense was his feeling
that his voice seemed to cut through the still air of the room. Will
hesitated before replying. Perhaps he was reckoning up Jim's chances
as compared with his own. Finally, he was reluctantly compelled to
make an admission.
"I don't know--yet."
The other sighed audibly. Then he mechanically began to refill his
pipe. He wanted to speak, but there seemed to be nothing adequate to
say. Two men, virile, thrilling with the ripe, red blood of perfect
manhood, friends, and--a woman stood between them.
"It's no good," Jim said, preparing to light his pipe. "The position
is--impossible."
"Yes."
Now both pipes were smoking as under a forced draught.
"I'd give my life for her," the elder muttered, almost unconsciously.
Will caught at his words.
"My life is hers," he cried, almost defiantly.
They were no further on.
"Can you--suggest----?"
Will shook his head. The snow on the distant peaks glistened like
diamonds in the gorgeous sunlight, and his attention seemed riveted
upon it.
"What pay are you making, Will?" Jim inquired presently.
"Eighty dollars a month--why?"
"Ten more than me." Jim laughed harshly. "You're the better match.
You're younger, too."
"She's got a wad of her own. A thousand dollars," added Will.
His remark was unpleasing, and Jim's eyes grew colder.
"That don't cut any figure. That's hers," he said sharply.
"But--it's useful----"
"To her--maybe."
The flow of their talk dried up again. They could make no headway in
clearing up their dilemma. To Jim each passing moment was making
things harder; with each passing moment their friendship was straining
under the pressure. Suddenly a thought flashed through his brain. It
was a light of hope, where, before, all had been darkness.
"I haven't asked her yet," he said. "And you--you haven't?"
"No."
"Say, we're sailing an uncharted sea, and--there's a fog."
It was a reluctant nod Jim received in reply.
"We'll have to ask her," he went on. "She can't marry us both. Maybe
she'll marry neither."
"That's so." Jim failed to observe Will's smile of confidence. "Yes,
we'll both ask her. I've got to go through Barnriff on my way to the
hills. I'll call and see her. You can ride in this evening."
Jim shook his head.
"Guess that's an elegant plan--for you."
Quick as a flash Will turned on him. His volcanic anger rose swiftly.
"What d'you mean?"
"Just what I say." Jim's response seemed to have less friendliness in
it. Then he knocked his pipe out, and rose from his seat. "No, boy,"
he said. "We'll just play the game right here. We'll take a chance for
who goes to her first. If she wants neither of us--well, we'll have
played the game by each other, anyway. And if she chooses either of
us then the other must take his medicine like a man. Let's--be
sportsmen."
"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.