The marksman stood a
good ten paces off, and he must strike that clay ball as it passed across
the target. The balls were so small that even to strike them when they were
stationary was a difficult task, and to hit them in motion was enough to
task the quickest eye and the cunningest hand.
It was old Pop Giersberg who stood with his ancient forty-five behind the
counter, with his feet braced, on this bright morning, and behind him half
of Rickett was gathered.
"D'you give me warnin', son?" he inquired of the man at the counter.
"Nary a warnin'," grinned the other, who was one of the chosen fifteen.
He wished Pop well. So did they all, but they had seen every man fail for
two days at that target and one and all they had their doubts. Pop had been
a formidable man in his day, but now his hand was stiff and his hair gray.
He was at least twenty years older than he felt.
He had hardly finished asking his question when a white ball was tossed
across the target. Up came the gun of Pop Giersberg, exploded, and the
bullet clanged on the iron; the white ball floated idly on across the wall
and disappeared on the other side.
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