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.
Once more the white streak appeared and surely he who threw the ball had every wish to see Pop succeed, for he tossed it high and easily. Again the gun barked from Giersberg's hand, and again the ball dropped almost slowly out of sight.
“It's a trick!” gasped Pop. “It's something damned queer.”
“They's a considerable pile of gents, that think the same way you do,” admitted the deputy sheriff, dryly.
Pop glared at him and gritted his teeth.
“Lead the damn thing on ag'in,” he said, and muttered the rest of his sentence to himself. He jerked his
