For an instant, which to the few observers seemed an hour, these two figures, from which motion seemed to have passed forever, stood frozen.  Then there came a spurt of whitish-blue smoke and the thin dry crack of the border rifle.

The hand and eye of Jim Bridger, in spite of advancing years, remained true to their long training.  At the rifle crack the tin cup on the head of the statue-like figure opposite him was flung behind as though by the blow of an invisible hand.  The spin of the bullet acting on the liquid contents, ripped apart the seams of the cup and flung the fluid wide.  Then and not till then did Jackson move.

He picked up the empty cup, bored center directly through the black spot, and turning walked with it in his hand toward Bridger, who was wiping out his rifle once more.

“I call hit mighty careless shootin’,” said he, irritated.  “Now lookee what ye done to the likker!  Ef ye’d held a leetle higher, above the level o’ the likker, like I told ye, she wouldn’t o’ busted open thataway now.  It’s nacherl, thar warn’t room in the cup fer both the likker an’ the ball.  That’s wastin’ likker, Jim, an’ my mother told me when I was a boy, ‘Willful waste makes woeful want!’”

“I call hit a plum-center shot,” grumbled Bridger.  “Do-ee look now!  Maybe ye think ye kin do better shoot’in yerself than old Jim Bridger!”

“Shore I kin, an’ I’ll show ye!  I’ll bet my rifle aginst yourn—­ef I wanted so sorry a piece as yourn—­kin shoot that clost to the mark an’ not spill no likker a-tall!  An’ ye can fill her two-thirds full an’ put yer thumb in fer the balance ef ye like.”

“I’ll just bet ye a new mule agin yer pony ye kain’t:  do nothin’ o’ the sort!” retorted Bridger.

“All right, I’ll show ye.  O’ course, ye got to hold still.”

“Who said I wouldn’t hold still?”

“Nobody.  Now you watch me.”

He stooped at the little water ditch which had been led in among the buildings from the stream and kneaded up a little ball of mud.  This he forced into the handle of the tin cup, entirely filling it, then washed off the body of the cup.

“I’ll shoot the fillin’ out’n the handle an’ not out’n the cup!” said he.  “Mud’s cheap, an’ all the diff’runce in holdin’ is, ef I nicked the side o’ yer haid it’d hurt ye ’bout the same as ef what I nicked the center o’ hit.  Ain’t that so?  We’d orto practice inderstry an’ ’conomy, Jim.  Like my mother said, ‘Penny saved is er penny yearned.’  ’Little drops o’ water, little gains o’ sand,’ says she, ’a-makes the mighty o-o-ocean, an the plea-ea-sant land.’”

“I never seed it tried,” said Bridger, with interest, “but I don’t see why hit hain’t practical.  Whang away, an ef ye spill the whisky shootin’ to one side, or cut har shootin’ too low, your caballo is mine—­an’ he hain’t much!”

With no more argument, he in turn took up his place, the two changing positions so that the light would favor the rifleman.  Again the fear-smitten Chardon adjusted the filled cup, this time on his master’s bared head.