Shooting-matches are probably nearly coeval with the colonization of
Georgia. They are still common throughout the Southern States, though
they are not as common as they were twenty-five or thirty years ago.
Chance led me to one about a year ago. I was traveling in one of the
northeastern counties, when I overtook a swarthy, bright-eyed, smirky
little fellow, riding a small pony, and bearing on his shoulder a long,
heavy rifle, which, judging from its looks, I should say had done
service in Morgan's corps.
"Good morning, sir!" said I, reining up my horse as I came beside him.
"How goes it, stranger?" said he, with a tone of independence and
self-confidence that awakened my curiosity to know a little of his
character.
"Going driving?" inquired I.
"Not exactly," replied he, surveying my horse with a quizzical smile; "I
haven't been a driving _by myself_ for a year or two; and my nose has
got so bad lately, I can't carry a cold trail _without hounds to help
me_."
Alone, and without hounds as he was, the question was rather a silly
one; but it answered the purpose for which it was put, which was only to
draw him into conversation, and I proceeded to make as decent a retreat
as I could.
"I didn't know," said I, "but that you were going to meet the huntsmen,
or going to your stand."
"Ah, sure enough," rejoined he, "that _mout_ be a bee, as the old woman
said when she killed a wasp. It seems to me I ought to know you."
"Well, if you _ought_, why _don't_ you?"
"What _mout_ your name be?"
"It _might_ be anything," said I, with a borrowed wit, for I knew my man
and knew what kind of conversation would please him most.
"Well, what _is_ it, then?"
"It _is_ Hall," said I; "but you know it might as well have been
anything else."
"Pretty digging!" said he. "I find you're not the fool I took you to be;
so here's to a better acquaintance with you."
"With all my heart," returned I; "but you must be as clever as I've
been, and give me your name."
"To be sure I will, my old coon; take it, take it, and welcome. Anything
else about me you'd like to have?"
"No," said I, "there's nothing else about you worth having."
"Oh, yes there is, stranger! Do you see this?" holding up his ponderous
rifle with an ease that astonished me. "If you will go with me to the
shooting-match, and see me knock out the _bull's-eye_ with her a few
times, you'll agree the old _Soap-stick's_ worth something when Billy
Curlew puts his shoulder to her."
This short sentence was replete with information to me. It taught me
that my companion was _Billy Curlew_; that he was going to a
_shooting-match_; that he called his rifle the _Soap-stick_, and that he
was very confident of winning beef with her; or, which is nearly, but
not quite the same thing, _driving the cross with her_.
"Well," said I, "if the shooting-match is not too far out of my way,
I'll go to it with pleasure."
"Unless your way lies through the woods from here," said Billy, "it'll
not be much out of your way; for it's only a mile ahead of us, and there
is no other road for you to take till you get there; and as that thing
you're riding in ain't well suited to fast traveling among brushy knobs,
I reckon you won't lose much by going by. I reckon you hardly ever was
at a shooting-match, stranger, from the cut of your coat?"
"Oh, yes," returned I, "many a time. I won beef at one when I was hardly
old enough to hold a shot-gun off-hand."
"_Children_ don't go to shooting-matches about here," said he, with a
smile of incredulity. "I never heard of but one that did, and he was a
little _swinge_ cat. He was born a shooting, and killed squirrels before
he was weaned."
"Nor did _I_ ever hear of but one," replied I, "and that one was
myself."
"And where did you win beef so young, stranger?"
"At Berry Adams's."
"Why, stop, stranger, let me look at you good! Is your name _Lyman_
Hall?"
"The very same," said I.
"Well, dang my buttons, if you ain't the very boy my daddy used to tell
me about. I was too young to recollect you myself; but I've heard daddy
talk about you many a time. I believe mammy's got a neck-handkerchief
now that daddy won on your shooting at Collen Reid's store, when you
were hardly knee high. Come along, Lyman, and I'll go my death upon you
at the shooting-match, with the old Soap-stick at your shoulder."
"Ah, Billy," said I, "the old Soap-stick will do much better at your own
shoulder. It was my mother's notion that sent me to the shooting-match
at Berry Adams's; and, to tell the honest truth, it was altogether a
chance shot that made me win beef; but that wasn't generally known; and
most everybody believed that I was carried there on account of my skill
in shooting; and my fame was spread far and wide, I well remember. I
remember, too, perfectly well, your father's bet on me at the store.
_He_ was at the shooting-match, and nothing could make him believe but
that I was a great shot with a rifle as well as a shot-gun. Bet he would
on me, in spite of all I could say, though I assured him that I had
never shot a rifle in my life. It so happened, too, that there were but
two bullets, or, rather, a bullet and a half; and so confident was your
father in my skill, that he made me shoot the half bullet; and, strange
to tell, by another chance shot, I like to have drove the cross and won
his bet."
"Now I know you're the very chap, for I heard daddy tell that very thing
about the half bullet. Don't say anything about it, Lyman, and darn my
old shoes, if I don't tare the lint off the boys with you at the
shooting-match. They'll never 'spect such a looking man as you are of
knowing anything about a rifle. I'll risk your _chance_ shots."
I soon discovered that the father had eaten sour grapes, and the son's
teeth were on edge; for Billy was just as incorrigibly obstinate in his
belief of my dexterity with a rifle as his father had been before him.
We soon reached the place appointed for the shooting-match. It went by
the name of Sims's Cross Roads, because here two roads intersected each
other; and because, from the time that the first had been laid out,
Archibald Sims had resided there. Archibald had been a justice of the
peace in his day (and where is the man of his age in Georgia who has
not?); consequently, he was called 'Squire Sims. It is the custom in
this state, when a man has once acquired a title, civil or military, to
force it upon him as long as he lives; hence the countless number of
titled personages who are introduced in these sketches.
We stopped at the 'squire's door. Billy hastily dismounted, gave me the
shake of the hand which he had been reluctantly reserving for a mile
back, and, leading me up to the 'squire, thus introduced me: "Uncle
Archy, this is Lyman Hall; and for all you see him in these fine
clothes, he's a _swinge_ cat; a darn sight cleverer fellow than he looks
to be. Wait till you see him lift the old Soap-stick, and draw a bead
upon the bull's-eye. You _gwine_ to see fun here to-day. Don't say
nothing about it."
"Well, Mr. Swinge-cat," said the 'squire, "here's to a better
acquaintance with you," offering me his hand.
"How goes it, Uncle Archy?" said I, taking his hand warmly (for I am
always free and easy with those who are so with me; and in this course I
rarely fail to please). "How's the old woman?"
"Egad," said the 'squire, chuckling, "there you're too hard for me; for
she died two-and-twenty years ago, and I haven't heard a word from her
since."
"What! and you never married again?"
"Never, as God's my judge!" (a solemn asseveration, truly, upon so light
a subject.)
"Well, that's not my fault."
"No, nor it's not mine, _ni_ther," said the 'squire.
Here we were interrupted by the cry of another Rancey Sniffle. "Hello,
here! All you as wish to put in for the shoot'n'-match, come on here!
for the putt'n' in's _riddy_ to begin."
About sixty persons, including mere spectators, had collected; the most
of whom were more or less obedient to the call of Mealy Whitecotton, for
that was the name of the self-constituted commander-in-chief. Some
hastened and some loitered, as they desired to be first or last on the
list; for they shoot in the order in which their names are entered.
The beef was not present, nor is it ever upon such occasions; but
several of the company had seen it, who all concurred in the opinion
that it was a good beef, and well worth the price that was set upon
it--eleven dollars. A general inquiry ran around, in order to form some
opinion as to the number of shots that would be taken; for, of course,
the price of a shot is cheapened in proportion to the increase of that
number. It was soon ascertained that not more than twenty persons would
take chances; but these twenty agreed to take the number of shots, at
twenty-five cents each.
The competitors now began to give in their names; some for one, some for
two, three, and a few for as many as four shots.
Billy Curlew hung back to the last; and when the list was offered him,
five shots remained undisposed of.
"How many shots left?" inquired Billy.
"Five," was the reply.
"Well, I take 'em all. Put down four shots to me, and one to Lyman Hall,
paid for by William Curlew."
I was thunder-struck, not at his proposition to pay for my shot, because
I knew that Billy meant it as a token of friendship, and he would have
been hurt if I had refused to let him do me this favor; but at the
unexpected announcement of my name as a competitor for beef, at least
one hundred miles from the place of my residence. I was prepared for a
challenge from Billy to some of his neighbors for a _private_ match upon
me; but not for this.
I therefore protested against his putting in for me, and urged every
reason to dissuade him from it that I could, without wounding his
feelings.
"Put it down!" said Billy, with the authority of an emperor, and with a
look that spoke volumes intelligible to every by-stander. "Reckon I
don't know what I'm about?" Then wheeling off, and muttering in an
under, self-confident tone, "Dang old Roper," continued he, "if he don't
knock that cross to the north corner of creation and back again before a
cat can lick her foot."
Had I been king of the cat tribe, they could not have regarded me with
more curious attention than did the whole company from this moment.
Every inch of me was examined with the nicest scrutiny; and some plainly
expressed by their looks that they never would have taken me for such a
bite. I saw no alternative but to throw myself upon a third chance shot;
for though, by the rules of the sport, I would have been allowed to
shoot by proxy, by all the rules of good breeding I was bound to shoot
in person. It would have been unpardonable to disappoint the
expectations which had been raised on me. Unfortunately, too, for me,
the match differed in one respect from those which I had been in the
habit of attending in my younger days. In olden times the contest was
carried on chiefly with _shot-guns_, a generic term which, in those
days, embraced three descriptions of firearms: _Indian-traders_ (a long,
cheap, but sometimes excellent kind of gun, that mother Britain used to
send hither for traffic with the Indians), _the large musket_, and the
_shot-gun_, properly so-called. Rifles were, however, always permitted
to compete with them, under equitable restrictions. These were, that
they should be fired off-hand, while the shot-guns were allowed a rest,
the distance being equal; or that the distance should be one hundred
yards for a rifle, to sixty for the shot-gun, the mode of firing being
equal.
But this was a match of rifles exclusively; and these are by far the
most common at this time.
Most of the competitors fire at the same target; which is usually a
board from nine inches to a foot wide, charred on one side as black as
it can be made by fire, without impairing materially the uniformity of
its surface; on the darkened side of which is _pegged_ a square piece of
white paper, which is larger or smaller, according to the distance at
which it is to be placed from the marksmen. This is almost invariably
sixty yards, and for it the paper is reduced to about two and a half
inches square. Out of the center of it is cut a rhombus of about the
width of an inch, measured diagonally; this is the _bull's-eye_, or
_diamond_, as the marksmen choose to call it; in the center of this is
the cross. But every man is permitted to fix his target to his own
taste; and accordingly, some remove one-fourth of the paper, cutting
from the center of the square to the two lower corners, so as to leave a
large angle opening from the center downward; while others reduce the
angle more or less: but it is rarely the case that all are not satisfied
with one of these figures.
The beef is divided into five prizes, or, as they are commonly termed,
five _quarters_--the hide and tallow counting as one. For several years
after the revolutionary war, a sixth was added: the _lead_ which was
shot in the match. This was the prize of the sixth best shot; and it
used to be carefully extracted from the board or tree in which it was
lodged, and afterward remoulded. But this grew out of the exigency of
the times, and has, I believe, been long since abandoned everywhere.
The three master shots and rivals were Moses Firmby, Larkin Spivey and
Billy Curlew; to whom was added, upon this occasion, by common consent
and with awful forebodings, your humble servant.
The target was fixed at an elevation of about three feet from the
ground; and the judges (Captain Turner and 'Squire Porter) took their
stands by it, joined by about half the spectators.
The first name on the catalogue was Mealy Whitecotton. Mealy stepped
out, rifle in hand, and toed the mark. His rifle was about three inches
longer than himself, and near enough his own thickness to make the
remark of Darby Chislom, as he stepped out, tolerably appropriate: "Here
comes the corn-stalk and the sucker!" said Darby.
"Kiss my foot!" said Mealy. "The way I'll creep into that bull's-eye's a
fact."
"You'd better creep into your hind sight," said Darby. Mealy raised and
fired.
"A pretty good shot, Mealy!" said one.
"Yes, a blamed good shot!" said a second.
"Well done, Meal!" said a third.
I was rejoiced when one of the company inquired, "Where is it?" for I
could hardly believe they were founding these remarks upon the evidence
of their senses.
"Just on the right-hand side of the bull's-eye," was the reply.
I looked with all the power of my eyes, but was unable to discover the
least change in the surface of the paper. Their report, however, was
true; so much keener is the vision of a practiced than an unpracticed
eye.
The next in order was Hiram Baugh. Hiram was like some race-horses which
I have seen; he was too good not to contend for every prize, and too
good for nothing ever to win one.
"Gentlemen," said he, as he came to the mark, "I don't say that I'll win
beef; but if my piece don't blow, I'll eat the paper, or be mighty apt
to do it, if you'll b'lieve my racket. My powder are not good powder,
gentlemen; I bought it _thum_ (from) Zeb Daggett, and gin him
three-quarters of a dollar a pound for it; but it are not what I call
good powder, gentlemen; but if old Buck-killer burns it clear, the boy
you call Hiram Baugh eat's paper, or comes mighty near it."
"Well, blaze away," said Mealy, "and be d----d to you, and Zeb Daggett,
and your powder, and Buck-killer, and your powder-horn and shot-pouch to
boot! How long you gwine stand thar talking 'fore you shoot?"
"Never mind," said Hiram, "I can talk a little and shoot a little, too,
but that's nothin'. Here goes!"
Hiram assumed the figure of a note of interrogation, took a long sight,
and fired.
"I've eat paper," said he, at the crack of the gun, without looking, or
seeming to look, toward the target. "Buck-killer made a clear racket.
Where am I, gentlemen?"
"You're just between Mealy and the diamond," was the reply.
"I said I'd eat paper, and I've done it; haven't I, gentlemen?"
"And 'spose you have!" said Mealy, "what do that 'mount to? You'll not
win beef, and never did."
"Be that as it mout be, I've beat Meal 'Cotton mighty easy; and the boy
you call Hiram Baugh are able to do it."
"And what do that 'mount to? Who the devil an't able to beat Meal
'Cotton! I don't make no pretense of bein' nothin' great, no how; but
you always makes out as if you were gwine to keep 'em makin' crosses for
you constant, and then do nothin' but '_eat paper_' at last; and that's
a long way from _eatin' beef_, 'cordin' to Meal 'Cotton's notions, as
you call him."
Simon Stow was now called on.
"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed two or three: "now we have it. It'll take him as
long to shoot as it would take 'Squire Dobbins to run round a _track_ o'
land."
"Good-by, boys," said Bob Martin.
"Where are you going, Bob?"
"Going to gather in my crop; I'll be back again though by the time Sime
Stow shoots."
Simon was used to all this, and therefore it did not disconcert him in
the least. He went off and brought his own target, and set it up with
his own hand.
He then wiped out his rifle, rubbed the pan with his hat, drew a piece
of tow through the touch-hole with his wiper, filled his charger with
great care, poured the powder into the rifle with equal caution, shoved
in with his finger the two or three vagrant grains that lodged round the
mouth of his piece, took out a handful of bullets, looked them all over
carefully, selected one without flaw or wrinkle, drew out his patching,
found the most even part of it, sprung open the grease-box in the breech
of his rifle; took up just so much grease, distributed it with great
equality over the chosen part of his patching, laid it over the muzzle
of his rifle, grease side down, placed his ball upon it, pressed it a
little, then took it up and turned the neck a little more
perpendicularly downward, placed his knife handle on it, just buried it
in the mouth of the rifle, cut off the redundant patching just above the
bullet, looked at it, and shook his head in token that he had cut off
too much or too little, no one knew which, sent down the ball, measured
the contents of his gun with his first and second fingers on the
protruding part of the ramrod, shook his head again, to signify there
was too much or too little powder, primed carefully, placed an arched
piece of tin over the hind sight to shade it, took his place, got a
friend to hold his hat over the foresight to shade it, took a very long
sight, fired, and didn't even eat the paper.
"My piece was badly _loadned_," said Simon, when he learned the place of
his ball.
"Oh, you didn't take time," said Mealy. "No man can shoot that's in such
a hurry as you is. I'd hardly got to sleep 'fore I heard the crack o'
the gun."
The next was Moses Firmby. He was a tall, slim man, of rather sallow
complexion; and it is a singular fact, that though probably no part of
the world is more healthy than the mountainous parts of Georgia, the
mountaineers have not generally robust frames or fine complexions: they
are, however, almost inexhaustible by toil.
Moses kept us not long in suspense. His rifle was already charged, and
he fixed it upon the target with a steadiness of nerve and aim that was
astonishing to me and alarming to all the rest. A few seconds, and the
report of his rifle broke the deathlike silence which prevailed.
"No great harm done yet," said Spivey, manifestly relieved from anxiety
by an event which seemed to me better calculated to produce despair.
Firmby's ball had cut out the lower angle of the diamond, directly on a
right line with the cross.
Three or four followed him without bettering his shot; all of whom,
however, with one exception, "eat the paper."
It now came to Spivey's turn. There was nothing remarkable in his person
or manner. He took his place, lowered his rifle slowly from a
perpendicular until it came on a line with the mark, held it there like
a vice for a moment and fired.
"Pretty _sevigrous_, but nothing killing yet," said Billy Curlew, as he
learned the place of Spivey's ball.
Spivey's ball had just broken the upper angle of the diamond; beating
Firmby about half its width.
A few more shots, in which there was nothing remarkable, brought us to
Billy Curlew. Billy stepped out with much confidence, and brought the
Soap-stick to an order, while he deliberately rolled up his shirt
sleeves. Had I judged Billy's chance of success from the looks of his
gun, I should have said it was hopeless. The stock of Soap-stick seemed
to have been made with a case-knife; and had it been, the tool would
have been but a poor apology for its clumsy appearance. An auger-hole in
the breech served for a grease-box; a cotton string assisted a single
screw in holding on the lock; and the thimbles were made, one of brass,
one of iron, and one of tin.
"Where's Lark Spivey's bullet?" called out Billy to the judges, as he
finished rolling up his sleeves.
"About three-quarters of an inch from the cross," was the reply.
"Well, clear the way! the Soap-stick's coming, and she'll be along in
there among 'em presently."
Billy now planted himself astraddle, like an inverted V; shot forward
his left hip, drew his body back to an angle of about forty-five degrees
with the plane of the horizon, brought his cheek down close to the
breech of old Soap-stick, and fixed her upon the mark with untrembling
hand. His sight was long, and the swelling muscles of his left arm led
me to believe that he was lessening his chance of success with every
half second that he kept it burdened with his ponderous rifle; but it
neither flagged nor wavered until Soap-stick made her report.
"Where am I?" said Billy, as the smoke rose from before his eye.
"You've jist touched the cross on the lower side," was the reply of one
of the judges.
"I was afraid I was drawing my bead a _leetle_ too fine," said Billy.
"Now, Lyman, you see what the Soap-stick can do. Take her, and show the
boys how you used to do when you was a baby."
I begged to reserve my shot to the last; pleading, rather
sophistically, that it was, in point of fact, one of the Billy's shots.
My plea was rather indulged than sustained, and the marksmen who had
taken more than one shot commenced the second round. This round was a
manifest improvement upon the first. The cross was driven three times:
once by Spivey, once by Firmby, and once by no less a personage than
Mealy Whitecotton, whom chance seemed to favor for this time, merely
that he might retaliate upon Hiram Baugh; and the bull's-eye was
disfigured out of all shape.
The third and fourth rounds were shot. Billy discharged his last shot,
which left the rights of parties thus: Billy Curlew first and fourth
choice, Spivey second, Firmby third and Whitecotton fifth. Some of my
readers may perhaps be curious to learn how a distinction comes to be
made between several, all of whom drive the cross. The distinction is
perfectly natural and equitable. Threads are stretched from the
uneffaced parts of the once intersecting lines, by means of which the
original position of the cross is precisely ascertained. Each
bullet-hole being nicely pegged up as it is made, it is easy to
ascertain its circumference. To this I believe they usually, if not
invariably, measure, where none of the balls touch the cross; but if the
cross be driven, they measure from it to the center of the bullet-hole.
To make a draw shot, therefore, between two who drive the cross, it is
necessary that the center of both balls should pass directly through the
cross; a thing that very rarely happens.
_The Bite_ alone remained to shoot. Billy wiped out his rifle carefully,
loaded her to the top of his skill, and handed her to me. "Now," said
he, "Lyman, draw a fine bead, but not too fine; for Soap-stick bears up
her ball well. Take care and don't touch the trigger until you've got
your bead; for she's spring-trigger'd and goes mighty easy: but you
hold her to the place you want her, and if she don't go there, dang old
Roper."
I took hold of Soap-stick, and lapsed immediately into the most hopeless
despair. I am sure I never handled as heavy a gun in all my life. "Why,
Billy," said I, "you little mortal, you! what do you use such a gun as
this for?"
"Look at the bull's-eye yonder!" said he.
"True," said I, "but _I_ can't shoot her; it is impossible."
"Go 'long, you old coon!" said Billy; "I see what you're at;" intimating
that all this was merely to make the coming shot the more remarkable.
"Daddy's little boy don't shoot anything but the old Soap-stick here
to-day, I know."
The judges, I knew, were becoming impatient, and, withal, my situation
was growing more embarrassing every second; so I e'en resolved to try
the Soap-stick without further parley.
I stepped out, and the most intense interest was excited all around me,
and it flashed like electricity around the target, as I judged from the
anxious gaze of all in that direction.
Policy dictated that I should fire with a falling rifle, and I adopted
this mode; determining to fire as soon as the sights came on a line with
the diamond, _bead_ or no _bead_. Accordingly, I commenced lowering old
Soap-stick; but, in spite of all my muscular powers, she was strictly
obedient to the laws of gravitation, and came down with a uniformly
accelerated velocity. Before I could arrest her downward flight, she had
not only passed the target, but was making rapid encroachments on my own
toes.
"Why, he's the weakest man in the arms I ever seed," said one, in a half
whisper.
"It's only his fun," said Billy; "I know him."
"It may be fun," said the other, "but it looks mightily like yearnest to
a man up a tree."
I now, of course, determined to reverse the mode of firing, and put
forth all my physical energies to raise Soap-stick to the mark. The
effort silenced Billy, and gave tongue to all his companions. I had just
strength enough to master Soap-stick's obstinate proclivity, and,
consequently, my nerves began to exhibit palpable signs of distress with
her first imperceptible movement upward. A trembling commenced in my
arms; increased, and extended rapidly to my body and lower extremities;
so that, by the time that I had brought Soap-stick up to the mark, I was
shaking from head to foot, exactly like a man under the continued action
of a strong galvanic battery. In the meantime my friends gave vent to
their feelings freely.
"I swear poin' blank," said one, "that man can't shoot."
"He used to shoot well," said another; "but can't now, nor never could."
"You better git away from 'bout that mark!" bawled a third, "for I'll be
dod darned if Broadcloth don't give some of you the dry gripes if you
stand too close thare."
"The stranger's got the peedoddles," said a fourth, with humorous
gravity.
"If he had bullets enough in his gun, he'd shoot a ring round the
bull's-eye big as a spinning wheel," said a fifth.
As soon as I found that Soap-stick was high enough (for I made no
farther use of the sights than to ascertain this fact), I pulled
trigger, and off she went. I have always found that the most creditable
way of relieving myself of derision was to heighten it myself as much as
possible. It is a good plan in all circles, but by far the best which
can be adopted among the plain, rough farmers of the country.
Accordingly, I brought old Soap-stick to an order with an air of
triumph; tipped Billy a wink, and observed, "Now, Billy, 's your time to
make your fortune. Bet 'em two to one that I've knocked out the cross."
"No, I'll be dod blamed if I do," said Billy; "but I'll bet you two to
one that you hain't hit the plank."
"Ah, Billy," said I, "I was joking about _betting_, for I never bet; nor
would I have you to bet: indeed, I do not feel exactly right in shooting
for beef; for it is a species of gaming at last: but I'll say this much:
if that cross isn't knocked out, I'll never shoot for beef again as long
as I live."
"By dod," said Mealy Whitecotton, "you'll lose no great things at that."
"Well," said I, "I reckon I know a little about wabbling. Is it
possible, Billy, a man who shoots as well as you do, never practiced
shooting with the double wabble? It's the greatest take in the world
when you learn to drive the cross with it. Another sort for getting bets
upon, to the drop-sight, with a single wabble! And the Soap-stick's the
very yarn for it."
"Tell you what, stranger," said one, "you're too hard for us all here.
We never _hearn_ o' that sort o' shoot'n' in these parts."
"Well," returned I, "you've seen it now, and I'm the boy that can do
it."
The judges were now approaching with the target, and a singular
combination of circumstances had kept all my party in utter ignorance of
the result of my shot. Those about the target had been prepared by Billy
Curlew for a great shot from me; their expectations had received
assurance from the courtesy which had been extended to me; and nothing
had happened to disappoint them but the single caution to them against
the "dry gripes," which was as likely to have been given in irony as in
earnest; for my agonies under the weight of the Soap-stick were either
imperceptible to them at the distance of sixty yards, or, being visible,
were taken as the flourishes of an expert who wished to "astonish the
natives." The other party did not think the direction of my ball worth
the trouble of a question; or if they did, my airs and harangue had put
the thought to flight before it was delivered. Consequently, they were
all transfixed with astonishment when the judges presented the target to
them, and gravely observed, "It's only second best, after all the fuss."
"Second best!" exclaimed I, with uncontrollable transports.
The whole of my party rushed to the target to have the evidence of their
senses before they would believe the report; but most marvelous fortune
decreed that it should be true. Their incredulity and astonishment were
most fortunate for me; for they blinded my hearers to the real feelings
with which the exclamation was uttered, and allowed me sufficient time
to prepare myself for making the best use of what I had said before with
a very different object.
"Second best!" reiterated I, with an air of despondency, as the company
turned from the target to me. "Second best, only? Here, Billy, my son,
take the old Soap-stick; she's a good piece, but I'm getting too old and
dim-sighted to shoot a rifle, especially with the drop-sight and double
wabbles."
"Why, good Lord a'mighty!" said Billy, with a look that baffles all
description, "an't you _driv_ the cross?"
"Oh, driv the cross!" rejoined I, carelessly. "What's that! Just look
where my ball is! I do believe in my soul its center is a full quarter
of an inch from the cross. I wanted to lay the center of the bullet upon
the cross, just as if you'd put it there with your fingers."
Several received this palaver with a contemptuous but very appropriate
curl of the nose; and Mealy Whitecotton offered to bet a half pint "that
I couldn't do the like again with no sort o' wabbles, he didn't care
what." But I had already fortified myself on this quarter of my
morality. A decided majority, however, were clearly of opinion that I
was serious; and they regarded me as one of the wonders of the world.
Billy increased the majority by now coming out fully with my history, as
he had received it from his father; to which I listened with quite as
much astonishment as any other one of his hearers. He begged me to go
home with him for the night, or, as he expressed it, "to go home with
him and swap lies that night, and it shouldn't cost me a cent;" the true
reading of which is, that if I would go home with him, and give him the
pleasure of an evening's chat about old times, his house should be as
free to me as my own. But I could not accept his hospitality without
retracing five or six miles of the road which I had already passed, and
therefore I declined it.
"Well, if you won't go, what must I tell the old woman for you, for
she'll be mighty glad to hear from the boy that won the silk
handkerchief for her, and I expect she'll lick me for not bringing you
home with me."
"Tell her," said I, "that I send her a quarter of beef which I won, as I
did the handkerchief, by nothing in the world but mere good luck."
"Hold your jaw, Lyman!" said Billy; "I an't a gwine to tell the old
woman any such lies; for she's a reg'lar built Meth'dist."
As I turned to depart, "Stop a minute, stranger!" said one: then
lowering his voice to a confidential but distinctly audible tone, "What
you offering for?" continued he. I assured him I was not a candidate for
anything; that I had accidentally fallen in with Billy Curlew, who
begged me to come with him to the shooting-match, and, as it lay right
on my road, I had stopped. "Oh," said he, with a conciliatory nod, "if
you're up for anything, you needn't be mealy-mouthed about it 'fore us
boys; for we'll all go in for you here up to the handle."
"Yes," said Billy, "dang old Roper if we don't go our death for you, no
matter who offers. If ever you come out for anything, Lyman, jist let
the boys of Upper Hogthief know it, and they'll go for you to the hilt,
against creation, tit or no tit, that's the _tatur_."
I thanked them, kindly, but repeated my assurances. The reader will not
suppose that the district took its name from the character of the
inhabitants. In almost every county in the state there is some spot or
district which bears a contemptuous appellation, usually derived from
local rivalships, or from a single accidental circumstance.