"Well, I reckon any sensible fellow would shoot at the robber, and not at the robber's pistol."
"Most fellers would! Most fellers would!" repeated the sheriff. "But I know one feller that wouldn't—young Howard, who won the prize at Grundy's farm last fall. You see, he's only a boy, and he would not care about shootin' nobody. But he knew that he could hit that pistol clean and sharp; and he's the only feller in this here part of the country who could do it. Did you ever hear of young Howard?"
"I reckon I didn't," remarked the driver.
"Then half of your life is lost, my friend."
"Does he shoot well?"
"Shoot! Great pos-sim-mons! Shoot!" exclaimed Mr. Lane. "Every time that there boy raises his rifle somethin' drops; I never seen the like of it in my born days!"
"So you think that young Howard happened to be on the bluff overlooking the road."
"He was up there, sure as a gun. He's the only one who could have done the work so clean and sharp. Just look at this," continued the sheriff, as he held the pistol in front of the driver. "Just look at this mark! The ball struck the barrel in exactly the right spot. Had the boy missed his aim the width of a straw he would either have failed to knock the pistol from Stayford's hand or would have run the risk of killing one of us."
"But why didn't the little fellow show himself?" asked the driver.
"I reckon he's kind of scared, and made off for home. He ain't one of them here fellers that puts on much. Down at Grundy's, when he had won in the wing shot, I had hard work getting him to try at the target. You see, he missed the target first, because his powder was wet. But when he did begin shooting—great pos-sim-mons! he just done the best I ever seen! He drove the ball home to the bull's eye every crack!"