CHAPTER XLIX.
SOME VERY QUEER CUSTOMERS.
Out on the Divide, in the extreme southern part of Virginia City, they do much better shooting than that mentioned in the last chapter—also, much worse. Out there, one morning, a man fired six shots at his brother-in-law and missed him every time, though the practice all took place within the bounds of a small door-yard. During the afternoon of the same day some men at a saloon were discussing the morning’s shooting, and all agreed that it was scandalous—was a discredit to their end of the town, and to Washoe. That to shoot at a man six times, and not hit him, was shameful. After awhile, with these things occurring, it would go abroad that a Washoe man could not hit the side of a barn.
After much more talk about the disgraceful affair of the morning, a man from Pioche—a lively camp in the eastern part of Nevada (they kill a man there every week or two) bantered a Comstocker, whom he knew to be a fine shot with a pistol, to go out into the back yard with him and do some shooting, just to show the “boys” how it should be done.
In the saloon—which also was a grocery-store—was a box of eggs, and the Piocher proposed, that they each shoot two eggs off the bare head of the other, at the distance of ten paces, the one missing, to treat the crowd. The Comstocker was determined not to be bluffed by a man from the other end of the State, so to the back yard all hands adjourned. Each man used his own six-shooter. The Comstocker first “busted” his egg on the top of the Piocher’s head, and the feat was loudly applauded by all present.
THE TRIAL OF SKILL.
It was then the Piocher’s time to shoot, and an egg was produced to be placed upon the head of the Comstocker, but when he removed his hat, there was a general laugh, as the top of his head was as smooth as a billiard-ball.
For full five minutes all hands tried to make an egg stand on the smooth pate of the Comstocker. It couldn’t be done. The Piocher then taunted the Comstocker with having gone into the arrangement knowing that he was safe. The latter told him to set up his egg, and it was all right—he was there. The Pioche man stood contemplating the bald pate before him for a time, then turned, and went into the saloon. A moment after he came out with a small handful of flour, which he dabbed upon the bald head of the Comstocker, and then triumphantly planted in it his egg, fell back ten paces, and knocked it off. The Comstock man then told him to set up his second egg and shoot at it, as he didn’t want to have his head chalked twice during the same game. This was done, and the wreck of the second egg streamed over the Comstocker’s pate.
The Piocher now stood out with his last egg on his head. The Comstocker raised his pistol and fired. The Piocher bounded a yard into the air, and the egg rolled unscathed from his head.