“A fellow with a hot temper and the ability to shoot like that is dangerous,” thought Merriwell. “I can see how it is that no one cared to anger him. It was lucky for me that he did not get out a gun when we had that little trouble.”
With a revolver in either hand, and hanging head downward on the right side of his horse, clinging there face outward in some marvelous manner, one of the cowboys tore past the target, at which he sent a dozen bullets, shooting with one revolver and then with the other.
This was most remarkable as an exhibition of horsemanship, for he did not succeed in ringing the bell once, although nearly every bullet hit the target.
“Wait till they come down to straight shooting,” said Frank. “Then I will get into the game.”
One after another, the cowboys gave an exhibition of some sort of trick shooting; but it was noticeable that, although several of them were fully more skillful as horsemen, none could make such a record as Indian Charlie for hitting whatever he fired at.
Frank watched his style of shooting with no small amount of interest, and saw him break ball after ball till he had smashed fifty-one. On the fifty-second ball he missed, but Merry saw he did so from pure carelessness.
“There is no telling when he would stop if he felt he was on his mettle,” thought Frank.
A bow-legged chap from the Star and Bar Ranch made thirty-two straight, and created no small amount of excitement.
The fifth man made twenty-four and then failed.
Frank was next and last.