"I was fishing Ghost Creek, up in the foothills. I had a full mess for myself and I had just eaten them and was clearing up an early supper when I first met Hollister. He was out hunting strays, he told me, just as he was today, I suppose. And he was halfway drunk. Offered me a flask, but I had cut that out when I came West, long before prohibition hit us. I was a bit too fond of it, at one time. I offered him grub, said I'd catch him a couple of fish but he said he was fed up on trout. Then a brace of willow grouse came out of the brush, just as if they had been whistled up, and, without thinking anything about it, I shot, and had the luck to take off both heads with the two cartridges.
"Hollister's face was funny. He had me sized up for a tenderfoot. He picked up the birds and handled them as if he thought it was some sort of a trick performed for his benefit.
"'I didn't see you draw,' he said, 'let alone aim. I'd hate to have you throw lead at me. Mister.' I don't know if I could do it again—two out of three, perhaps—but I used the bluff this afternoon and he evidently remembered."
"He sure did," drawled Jackson. "I reckon it wasn't much of a bluff at that, Sheridan. You ain't that kind."
The testimonial was a rare thing for the Texan and Sheridan warmed to it. He had felt that he was accepted by his men as one of them but the certainty was none the less pleasant.
"I can shoot middlin' well myself. It comes in handy, when there is Hollisters around. I admired
