“Nor I. My reputation? I haven’t any this far north.”
“Well, there’s the left-hand O. Can you see the one I shot?”
“Perfectly,” smiled McMasters.
“You’ve a good eye. Can you hit it one time out of six?”
“I can hit it six times out of six, sir.”
“You think so?”
“I don’t think so—I know it.”
“Cut loose!” said Bill succinctly.
For an instant McMasters stood facing his mark, both hands poised above his heavy guns after his invariable fashion, which had swiftly become a tradition on the lower range. Hickok did not really see which gun he chose, his own eye for the time being fixed on the signboard. But a gun did rise in Dan McMasters’ right hand. And once more, with perfect spacing, came six reports.
By this time a crowd had poured out in the streets. Men were at their heels as the two walked close to the signboard. Wild Bill saw the six bullets grouped close, splintering one into the other at times, not one touching the outer rim of black.