The boys were jubilant beyond expression. They helped me make my will, which was another discomfort--and I already had enough. Then they took me home. I didn't sleep any--didn't want to sleep. I had plenty of things to think about, and less than four hours to do it in,--because five o'clock was the hour appointed for the tragedy, and I should have to use up one hour--beginning at four--in practising with the revolver and finding out which end of it to level at the adversary. At four we went down into a little gorge, about a mile from town, and borrowed a barn door for a mark--borrowed it of a man who was over in California on a visit--and we set the barn door up and stood a fence-rail up against the middle of it, to represent Mr. Laird. But the rail was no proper representative of him, for he was longer than a rail and thinner. Nothing would ever fetch him but a line shot, and then as like as not he would split the bullet--the worst material for duelling purposes that could be imagined. I began on the rail. I couldn't hit the rail; then I tried the barn door; but I couldn't hit the barn door. There was nobody in danger except stragglers around on the flanks of that mark. I was thoroughly discouraged, and I didn't cheer up any when we presently heard pistol-shots over in the next little ravine. I knew what that was--that was Laird's gang out practising him. They would hear my shots, and of course they would come up over the ridge to see what kind of a record I was making--see what their chances were against me. Well, I hadn't any record; and I knew that if Laird came over that ridge and saw my barn door without a scratch on it, he would be as anxious to fight as I was--or as I had been at midnight, before that disastrous acceptance came. Now just at this moment, a little bird, no bigger than a sparrow, flew along by and lit on a sage-bush about thirty yards away. Steve whipped out his revolver and shot its head off. Oh, he was a marksman--much better than I was. We ran down there to pick up the bird, and just then, sure enough, Mr. Laird and his people came over the ridge, and they joined us. And when Laird's second saw that bird, with its head shot off, he lost color, he faded, and you could see that he was interested. He said: "Who did that?" Before I could answer, Steve spoke up and said quite calmly, and in a matter-of-fact way, "Clemens did it." The second said, "Why, that is wonderful. How far off was that bird?" Steve said, "Oh, not far--about thirty yards." The second said, "Well, that is astonishing shooting. How often can he do that?" Steve said languidly, "Oh, about four times out of five." I knew the little rascal was lying, but I didn't say anything. The second said, "Why, that is _amazing_ shooting; I supposed he couldn't hit a church."