Preacher's Peace by William W. Johnstone

was a flash in the pan, a puff of smoke from the end of the rifle, and a loud boom. The bottle that was his target shattered. Like the other bottle, the neck remained, though only about half as much of this neck remained as had been left behind from the first bottle.
    â€œYes!” Jennie shouted in pleased excitement. Quickly, she covered her mouth before Eby looked toward her. He wouldn’t go easy on her if he knew she had been cheering for his opponent. Fortunately, the applause and cheers of the crowd covered up Jennie’s response.
    The organizer handed the money over to Art. “Looks like you won your bet,” he said, “but the outcome of the shooting match is still undecided. Gentlemen, shall we go on? Or shall we declare it a tie?”
    â€œWe go on,” Eby said angrily. “Put two more bottles up.”
    â€œWait,” Art said.
    Eby smiled. “Givin’ up, are you?”
    â€œNo,” Art said. He pointed toward the cart. “We didn’t finish them off. The necks of both bottles are still standing. I say we use them as our targets.”
    â€œAre you crazy?” Eby asked. “You can barely see them from here. How are we going to shoot at them?”
    â€œI don’t know about you, but I plan to use my rifle,” Art said.
    The others laughed, and their laughter further incensed Eby.
    â€œWhat about it, Eby?” the organizer asked. “Shall we go on?”
    Once more, Eby looked toward the cart. Then he saw that the neck from his bottle was considerably higher than the neck from Art’s bottle. He nodded. “All right,” he said. He raised his rifle, paused, then lowered it. “Only this time he goes first.”
    Art nodded, and raised his own rifle. “The one on the right,” he said.
    â€œNo!” Eby shouted quickly. “You have to finish off the target you started. You have to shoot at the one on the left.”
    â€œI thought we could call our own targets,” Art replied.
    â€œYou can. And you already did. Like you said, we didn’t finish them off. You called the bottle on the left, that’s the one you’ve got to finish.”
    â€œI think Eby’s right,” one of the spectators said.
    â€œAll right,” the organizer agreed. “Your target is what remains of the bottle on the left.”
    â€œA hunnert dollars he don’t do it,” someone said.
    â€œWho you goin’ to get to take that bet?” another asked. “Ain’t no way he can do it.”
    â€œWhat about you, mister?” Eby asked. “You want to bet whether or not you hit it?”
    â€œNo, I’ll keep my money,” Art said.
    â€œTell you what. You wanted the girl a while ago. I’ll bet her against a thousand dollars you don’t hit it.”
    Jennie felt a sudden flash of hope, followed by a feeling of guilt. If Art could hit the target and win her, she would be free of Bruce Eby. On the other hand, if he missed—and this target was very small—then he would lose the one thousand dollars, which was, in all likelihood, every cent he had. Part of her begged him to accept the wager, and yet she prayed that he would not.
    Art looked over at Jennie and she saw that he was going to take the bet. She took a deep breath and held it. Could he hit the target? It was mighty small, and it was a long way off.
    â€œWhat do you say, mister?” Eby taunted. “Is it a bet, or isn’t it?”
    â€œI don’t want the girl to come to me.”
    Jennie felt a sudden draining of all the blood from her face. She had allowed herself to think that he might win her from Eby; now that hope was dashed.
    â€œYou don’t want the girl? Then what do you want?” Eby asked.
    â€œIf I win, I want you to set Jennie free.”
    Jennie gasped, and her knees went weak. Could this be? Could it really be that for the first time in her entire life, she would be free?
    â€œAll right,