If the man was a fool, at least he was not aggressive in his folly.

They gave way and he walked slowly towards the counter and stepped into the little open space beside the master of ceremonies.

Very obviously he was ill at ease to find himself the center of so much attention.
"I s'pose you been practicin' up on tin-cans ?" suggested the deputy, leaning on the counter.
"Sometimes I hit things and sometimes I don't," answered the stranger.
"Well," and this was put more crisply as the deputy brought out a large pad of paper, "jest gimme your name, partner." "Joe Cumber." He grew still more ill at ease.

"I hear that even if you hit the mark you got to talk to the sheriff himself afterwards ?" "Yep." The applicant sighed.
"Why d'you ask ?" "I ain't much on words." "But hell with your gun, eh ?" The deputy sheriff grinned again, but when the other turned his head toward him, his smile went out, suddenly while the wrinkle of mirth still lay in his cheek.

The deputy stroked his chin and looked thoughtful.
"Get your gun ready," he ordered.
The other slipped his hand down to his gun-butt and moved his weapon to make sure that it was perfectly loose in the leather.
"Ain't you goin' to take your gun out ?" queried the deputy.
"Can I do that ?" "I reckon not," said the deputy, and looked the stranger straight in the eyes.
His change to deadly earnestness put a hush over the crowd.
Across the target, not tossed easily as it had been for Pop Giersberg, but literally thrown, darted the line of white, while the gun flipped out of its holster as if it possessed life of its own and spoke.