“Come on, Alfy! Let’s get down on our tummy, same’s all marksmen do, let’s!”
Down they flung themselves and now, as eager for their success as they were, old Lem handed each a fresh rifle and sang out:
“Let her go! A silver dollar to the gal that wins!”
They fired—and the unexpected happened. Alfaretta’s untaught hands succeeded where greater skill had failed. Her bullet went straight into the bull’s-eye, into its very centre.
“By the Great Horned Spoon! What an eye you’ve got, child of mortality! Why I couldn’t ha’ done better myself! Glory be!” shouted the excited ranchman, fairly dancing in his pride and glee. Then he helped Alfy up from the ground, where she still lay, wondering at the excitement about her, and peered critically into her blue orbs.
“However could you see it? That fur away?”
“Why—why, I didn’t see it at all. I got scared and shut my eyes when I pulled that thing on it!”
Captain Lem staggered as if he had been hit instead of the target and softly marvelled:
“Such—dum—luck! She done it—with her eyes—shut! She—done—it—with—her—eyes—shut! Somebody take me out and lay me down. I’m beat.”