“But the best shot won't allus win in that game,” commented Elkins. “That's one of the minor factors.”
“Yes, sir! It's luck that counts there,” endorsed Bartlett, quickly. “Luck, nine times out of ten.”
“Best shot ought to win,” declared Skinny Thompson. “It ain't all luck, nohow. Where'd I be against Hoppy, there?”
“Won't neither!” cried Johnny, excitedly. “The man who sees the other first wins out. That's wood-craft, an' brains.”
“Aw! What do you know about it, anyhow?” demanded Lucas. “If he can't shoot so good what chance has he got—if he misses the first try, what then?”
“What chance has he got! First chance, miss or no miss. If he can't see the other first, where the devil does his good shooting come in?”
“Huh!” snorted Wood Wright, belligerently. “Any fool can see, but he can't shoot! An' it's as much luck as wood-craft, too, an' don't you forget it!”
“The first shot don't win, Johnny; not in a game like that, with all the dodging an' ducking,” remarked Red. “You can't put one where you want it when a feller's slipping around in the brush. It's the most that counts, an' the best shot gets in the most. I wouldn't want to have to stand up against Hoppy an' a short gun, not in that game; no, sir!” and Red shook his head with decision.
The argument waxed hot. With the exception of Hopalong, who sat silently watchful, every one spoke his opinion and repeated it without regard to the others. It appeared that in this game, the man with the strongest lungs would eventually win out, and each man tried to show his superiority in that line. Finally, above the uproar, Cowan's bellow was herd, and he kept it up until some notice was taken of it. “Shut up! Shut up! For God's sake, quit! Never saw such a bunch of tinder—let somebody drop a cold, burned-out match in this gang, an' hell's to pay. Here, all of you, play cards an' forget about cross-tag in the scrub. You'll be arguing about playing marbles in the dark purty soon!”
“All right,” muttered Johnny, “but just the same, the man who—”