This is the way I heard it.

Frank was good with a gun, really good.

As the star of a vaudeville act called America's own rifle team and champion all around shots,

his preferred targets included spinning plates, clay pigeons, and various other inanimate objects.

Phoebe was also good with a gun.

As the person most responsible for keeping her family fed, her typical targets included rabbit, squirrel, and quail.

Although she refused to shoot animals while they were standing still,

Phoebe thought it was more sporting to pull the trigger when her targets were running or flying away.

One day, Frank's traveling show came to Cincinnati.

After wowing the crowds with a dazzling display of trick shots and extraordinary marksmanship,

Frank proudly proclaimed to all assembled that he was the very best sharp shooter alive

and bet $100 that no one in the county could prove him wrong.

When the crowd pulled their resources and sent forth a champion,

it was not the typical adversary to which Frank had become accustomed.

His opponent was a little girl, maybe five feet tall, barely a hundred pounds.

She wore skirts and knicker-boggers and carried a rifle as big as she was.

For a moment, Frank was overcome with guilt.

These were simple country people, wagering their hard-earned money on a little girl,

ten years his junior, what chance did she have?

He was the best marksman in the country, undefeated,

and according to his own prognostications, unbeatable.

But a few moments later, Frank's guilt was replaced with wonder.

...