THE EVENTFUL DAY.
"Do you think you'll win?" asked Bertha, as Owen mounted his horse and
started off toward Grundy's farm for the eventful shooting-match.
"I don't know," was the answer. "I have done my part by practicing every
day, and you have done yours by making me this gay coat, and by putting
a new cord on my powder-horn."
"I only wish that I could do more for you--something that would win the
prize."
"If I kill as many robins as I did in my last practice, it will be
difficult to beat me," said Owen, taking the rifle which Bertha handed
him, and balancing it on the pommel in front of him.
"And did you really bring down twenty birds in twenty shots?" asked
Bertha.
"Certainly I did."
"And didn't miss one?"
"Not one! But why do you ask me that question? You heard me tell father
all about it when I came home last night."
"I know that I did, Owen, but I wanted to hear you say so again. It
makes me feel so much more certain that you are going to win."
"Well, if you are that easily pleased, I can repeat it half a dozen
times."
"No! no! once will do! But, oh, me! I do hope you'll win," said Bertha,
with a prolonged sigh.
"And so do I." With these words, Owen galloped off, while Bertha
continued to repeat: "Oh, me! I hope you'll win! I hope he'll win!"
Owen was joined by Martin Cooper--generous Martin, who had encouraged
him so much, who had been of such service to him during the three weeks
of practice, and who was now accompanying him to the scene of the
long-expected combat.
A large crowd had already assembled, and the preparations were gradually
being completed. A rectangular space, measuring seventy by thirty feet,
was marked off for the contestants. At one side was a platform for the
three judges, and here those who wished to compete registered their
names. The whole was enclosed by a temporary fence, strong enough to
withstand the pressure of the crowd. This provision was necessary to
preserve order, for as many as four thousand persons often assembled on
such occasions. Some were so eager to witness these contests that they
rode a hundred miles, and considered their two hours' enjoyment
sufficient recompense for their two days of traveling.
The target was made of a thick piece of sheet-iron, one yard in
diameter, and divided into thirteen rings of equal distance, gradually
widening out from the center, called the bull's eye. It was considered a
disgrace to go beyond number ten, and the one thus branded was expected
to retire from the lists.
As each contestant stepped up to the platform to register his name,
cheer upon cheer burst forth from the excited crowd. If he had won
honors on a former occasion, his name passed from mouth to mouth, and he
was welcomed back with loud and prolonged shouts.
"Hurrah--hurrah! for Poplar Flat!" cried a voice, as a long, gaunt and
seedy looking fellow swaggered through the crowd. "Hurrah--hurrah! for
Poplar Flat!" echoed a thousand voices. Now Poplar Flat was not the name
of the individual thus welcomed. It was a low tract of land about thirty
miles from Grundy's farm, and received its name from the fact that it
was overgrown with large poplar trees. Its seedy representative was
quite a favorite at the shooting-matches, and always answered his
admirers by awkward bows, and three times throwing his cap into the air.
When he had retired, a heavy-set, low-statured contestant stalked up to
the judge's stand. He carried his rifle with much grace, and registered
his name "Green Briar." Green Briar was a rocky and barren locality,
which produced nothing but briars, interspersed here and there with
patches of sassafras bushes, and where the people, it was said, lived on
blackberries and rabbits. The little rifleman, however, was not ashamed
of his country, for he turned to the crowd and yelled at the top of his
voice:
"Three cheers for Green Briar." Some inquired of him, in jest, if
rabbits were plentiful, and if the blackberry crop had failed, while an
old chum remarked to those around, "Look out for number one when that
fellow raises his rifle."
All was suddenly hushed into silence as a young aspirant stepped into
the ranks. Unlike the others, who gloried in their rude and almost wild
costumes, he was dressed in what the country folks called "city style."
His suit was not made of "home-spun;" he wore a felt hat, and his legs
were cased in calf boots; both of which things were considered luxuries
in the back woods of Kentucky. This remarkable personage was no other
than the son of Old Bowen. It was simply to pose before the admiring
crowd, that Charlie Bowen attended the shooting-match, for he had no
chance of even a fair record in the contest; and from the way he held
his rifle all could see that he was not accustomed to use it.
It was now Owen's turn to register.
"Courage, Owen, courage!" whispered Martin, as Owen left his side with a
light but nervous step.
"Hurrah for the boy! hurrah! hurrah!" yelled a corpulent gentleman, who
seemed to have an unlimited supply of lung power, and an unlimited stock
of suggestions for applause whenever the cheering ceased. The motley
crowd swayed to and fro, and seemed eager for applause, so the hurrahs
were re-echoed until Owen reached the judges' stand.
Here, however, his youthful hopes were crushed. The oldest of the judges
eyed him from beneath his black, overhanging eye-brows, and remarked in
a dignified way that the contest was not for boys. Owen was a boy; a boy
in age, in build, in appearance; if he entered the lists, he would have
to enter as a boy.
"If the shooting-match is only for men," said he, "then, sir, I shall
have to wait some time, for I am only fifteen."
"Fifteen!" growled the judge, forgetting his dignity, and again turning
his dark eyes upon Owen. "Fifteen! why it would disgrace the whole
contest, bring discredit upon the State, and, in fact, knock a hole
through the entire 'riggar-mar-rang.'"
While the judge paused for breath after this spontaneous outburst of
eloquence, Owen continued:
"Nothing was mentioned about the required age on the different notices
posted in the neighborhood."
"Understood! understood!" cried the judge, waving his cane over his
head, and then bringing it against the platform with such force that his
two assistants started from their seats. "Why, at this rate, every
impudent brat that owns a rifle would hand in his name, bullets would be
flying around here in every direction, and there would be as many sons
of America slain, as perished in the battles of Lexington and Bunker
Hill. No, boy, you are too young; you cannot enter your name!" The judge
was evidently pleased with this last attempt. He resumed his seat and
gazed out over the crowd with much complacency.
Owen turned away with a heavy heart, and was about to leave the
platform, when the jolly, corpulent gentleman cried out:
"Wait a moment, Judge! Give the boy a chance! Hurrah for the boy!
hurrah! hurrah!" The crowd was not slow in joining in the chorus.
Encouraged by the prolonged yells, Owen paused, although he could not
summon strength enough to face the judge again. The yelling ceased; and
while the stern judge deliberated whether he should abide by his iron
rule or grant the crowd their wish, an old negro mounted a stump and
began:
"Skuze me, Massar Judge, for 'sturbin' ob dis heah congregashun. But let
dis niggar tol' you somethin'. Dat's de shootinest little feller ebbar
you seed, and dis niggar will chaw his head off if he don't be de fust
in de--de--de--" here he paused and racked his memory for a large word
with which to end his climax. But the word would not come. So he
commenced again:
"Ya! dis niggar hab seen him shootin', an' will chaw his head off if he
don't be fust in de--de--de--" still the word refused to come, so the
sable orator threw both arms above his head and leaped from the stump.
His speech, however, gained the day; it was followed by peals of
laughter and bursts of applause, and Owen Howard's name was recorded
among the contestants.
Here several men galloped pell mell into the grounds. They had certainly
traveled at no moderate speed, for their horses were spattered with
foam, and, when the reins were drawn, stood panting like engines. The
leader of the party dismounted, and shouldering his long deer-rifle,
strode through the crowd with giant-like steps. What a picture of
manhood! He did not appear to belong to the present generation, but
rather to that race of ancient warriors, who wielded battle-axes, which
men of our age can scarcely lift.
His disheveled hair reached his shoulders, his fox-skin cap was plumed
with an eagle-feather, his deer-skin coat almost reached his knees, and
his belt was made of the skin of a rattle-snake; while his dark
moccasins completed his wild but attractive costume. He was
pre-eminently the king of marksmen. Old and young elbowed their way
through the crowd to catch a glimpse of this wondrous being; and from
the time that Coon-Hollow Jim,--for it was he--dismounted, until the
judge called for the shooting to begin, his admirers yelled with
unabated force.