Skinny looked after him and smiled. "Larry, there ’s a blamed fine youngster," he remarked, reflectively. "Well, he ought to be—he had th’ best mother God ever put breath into." He thought for a moment and then went slowly towards the door. "I ’ve heard so much about Bradley’s gun-play that I ’m some curious. Reckon I ’ll see if it’s all true—" and he had leaped through the doorway, gun in hand. There was no shot, no sign of his enemy. A group of men lounged in the door of the "hash house" farther down the street, all friends of his, and he nodded to them. One of them turned quickly and looked down the intersecting street, saying something that made his companions turn and look with him. The man who had been standing quietly by the corner saloon had disappeared. Skinny smiling knowingly, moved closer to Quigg’s shack so as to be better able to see around the indicated corner, and half drew the Colt which he had just replaced in the holster. As he drew even with the corner of the building he heard Quigg’s warning shout and dropped instantly, a bullet singing over him and into a window of a near-by store. He rolled around the corner, scrambled to his feet and dashed around the rear of the saloon and the corral behind it, crossed the street in four bounds and began to work up behind the buildings on his enemy’s side of the street, cold with anger. "Pot shooting, hey!" he gritted, savagely. "Says I ’m a-scared to face him, an’ then tries _that_. _There_, d—n you!" His Colt exploded and a piece of wood sprang from the corner board of Wright’s store. "Missed!" he swore. "Anyhow, I ’ve notified you, you coyote." He sprang forward, turned the corner of the store and followed it to the street. When he came to the street end of the wall he leaped past it, his Colt preceding him. Finding no one to dispute with him he moved cautiously towards the other corner and stopped. Giving a quick glance around, he smiled suddenly, for the glass in Quigg’s half-open door, with the black curtain behind it, made a fair mirror. He could see the reflection of Wright’s corral and Ace leaning against it, ready to handle the brother if he should appear as a belligerent; and he could see along the other side of the store, where Dick Bradley, crouched, was half-way to the street and coming nearer at each slow step. Skinny, remembering the shot which he had so narrowly escaped, resolved that he would n’t take chances with a man who would pot-shoot. He wheeled, slipped back along his side of the building, turned the rear corner and then, spurting, sprang out beyond the other wall, crying: "Here!" Bradley, startled, fired under his arm as he leaped aside. Turning while in the air, his half-raised Colt described a swift, short arc and roared as he alighted. As the bullet sang past his enemy’s ear he staggered and fell,—and Skinny’s smoking gun chocked into its holster.