Mike was mighty happy and proud those days, and it seemed he could beat the Rockies down with his fists the way he claimed he could. But then he and his friend Carpenter had a quarrel. They whooped and hollered at each other and almost had a fist fight before they remembered that they were supposed to be friends. They made up and shook hands, but Mike didn‘t seem quite so hearty about it as usual.

Spring came to Fort Henry, the main camp. The men felt like celebrating, so they tuned up their banjos and blew the frost out of their harmonicas.

"Let‘s give them a show," Mike said to Carpenter. "We‘ll show them what real shooting’s like." He handed Carpenter a cup of cider for Carpenter to place on his head.

Carpenter walked off sixty yards, put the cup on his head, and faced Mike. Some people say Carpenter trembled and didn‘t trust Mike, because of the quarrel. Others say he was as calm as a fence post on a windless day.

Mike brought Bang-All up against his cheek and squinted. For the first time in his life he had trouble holding the barrel steady. And the sunlight, glancing along the muzzle, made him blink. He shook himself squeezed the trigger, and fired.

Carpenter gave a surprised look and fell, a bullet hole gleaming in the middle of his forehead.

"You‘ve killed him dead!" a man yelled at Mike.

Mike stared, and then he ran over to Carpenter. He bent down, silent.

"It was an accident," Mike said at last. He ran back and picked up Bang-All. He broke the rifle over his knee. He roared with grief. He swore at the bullet and the powder horn, and at the mountains and himself "It was an accident!" he cried. "I aimed for the cup."

A trapper jeered, "I guess you must be getting old, Mike Fink. I guess maybe you‘re not the best sharpshooter around."