It was a very hard test which the sheriff had imposed. A man stood to one side of the iron-plate back wall which served as the target. He stood entirely out of sight and through an aperture in the side wall, at a signal, he tossed a round ball of clay, painted white. The marksman stood a good ten paces off, and he must strike that clay ball as it passed across the target. The balls were so small that even to strike them when they were stationary was a difficult task, and to hit them in motion was enough to task the quickest eye and the cunningest hand.
It was old Pop Giersberg who stood with his ancient forty-five behind the counter, with his feet braced, on this bright morning, and behind him half of Rickett was gathered.
“D'you give me warnin', son?” he inquired of the man at the counter.
“Nary a warnin',” grinned the other, who was one of the chosen fifteen.
He wished Pop well. So did they all, but they had seen every man fail for two days at that target and one and all they had their doubts. Pop had been a formidable man in his day, but now his hand was stiff and his hair gray. He was at least twenty years older than he felt.
He had hardly finished asking his question when a white ball was tossed across the target. Up came the gun of Pop Giersberg, exploded, and the bullet clanged on the iron; the white ball floated idly on across the wall and disappeared on the other side.
“Gimme another chance!” pleaded Pop, with a quaver in his voice. “That was just a try to get my eye in shape.”
“Sure,” chuckled the deputy. “Everybody gets three tries. It ain't hardly nacheral to hit that ball the first crack. Leastways, nobody ain't done it yet. You jest keep your eye peeled, Pop, and that ball will come out ag'in.”
And Pop literally kept his eye peeled.
He had double reason to pray for success, for his “old woman” had smiled and shook her head when he allowed that he would try out for a place on that posse. All his nerves grew taut and keen. He waited.