One day, not over a week later, Bob working in the woods, noticed
California John picking his way through the new slashing. This was a
difficult matter, for the fresh-peeled logs and the debris of the tops
afforded few openings for the passage of a horse. The old man made it,
however, and finally emerged on solid ground, much in the fashion of one
climbing a bank after an uncertain ford. He caught sight of Bob.
"You fellows can change the face of the country beyant all belief,"
announced the old man, pushing back his hat. "You're worse than snow
that way. I ought to know this country pretty well, but when I get down
into one of your pesky slashings, I'm lost for a way out!"
Bob laughed, and exchanged a few commonplace remarks.
"If you can get off, you better come over our way," said California
John, as he gathered up his reins. "We're holding ranger
examinations--something new. You got to tell what you know these days
before you can work for Uncle Sam."
"What do you have to know?" asked Bob.
"Come over and find out."
Bob reflected.
"I believe I will," he decided. "There's nothing to keep me here."
Accordingly, early next morning he rode over to the Upper Camp. Outside,
near the creek, he came upon the deserted evidences of a gathering of
men. Bed rolls lay scattered under the trees, saddles had been thrown
over fallen trunks, bags of provisions hung from saplings, cooking
utensils flanked the smouldering remains of a fire which was, however,
surrounded by a scraped circle of earth after the careful fashion of the
mountains. Bob's eye, by now practised in the refinements of such
matters, ran over the various accoutrements thus spread abroad. He
estimated the number of their owners at about a score. The bedroll of
the cowman, the "turkey" of the lumber jack, the quilts of the
mountaineer, were all in evidence; as well as bedding plainly makeshift
in character, belonging to those who must have come from a distance. A
half-dozen horses dozed in an improvised fence-corner corral. As many
more were tied to trees. Saddles, buckboards, two-wheeled carts, and
even one top buggy represented the means of transportation.
Bob rode on through the gate to headquarters.. This he found deserted,
except for Amy Thorne. She was engaged in wiping the breakfast dishes,
and she excitedly waved a towel at the young man as he rode up.
"A godsend!" she cried. "I'm just dancing with impatience! They've been
gone five minutes! Come help me finish!"
Bob fastened his horse, rolled back his sleeves, and took hold with a
will.
"Where's your examining board, and your candidates?" he inquired. "I
thought I was going to see an examination."
"Up the Meadow Trail," panted the girl. "Don't stop to talk. Hurry!"
They hurried, to such good purpose, that shortly they were clambering,
rather breathless, up the steeps of the Meadow Trail. This led to a
flat, upper shelf or bench in which, as the name implied, was situated a
small meadow. At the upper end were grouped twenty-five men, closely
gathered about some object.
Amy and Bob plunged into the dew-heavy grasses. The men proved to be
watching Thorne, who was engaged in tacking a small target on the stub
of a dead sugar pine. This accomplished, he led the way back some
seventy-five or eighty paces.
"Three shots each," said he, consulting his note-book. "Off-hand.
Hicks!"
The man so named stepped forward to the designated mark, sighted his
piece carefully, and fired.
"Do I get each shot called?" he inquired; but Thorne shook his head.
"You ought to know where your guns shoot," said he.
After the third shot, the whole group went forward to examine the
target. Thorne marked the results in his note-book, and called upon the
next contestant.
While the shooting went on, Bob had leisure to examine the men. They
numbered, as he had guessed, about twenty. Three were plainly from the
towns, for they wore thin shoes, white shirts, and clothes of a sort ill
adapted to out-of-door work in the mountains. Two others, while more
appropriately dressed in khakis and high boots, were as evidently
foreign to the hills. Bob guessed them recent college graduates, perhaps
even of some one of the forestry schools. In this he was correct. The
rest were professional out-of-door men. Bob recognized two of his own
woods-crew--good men they were, too. He nodded to them. A half-dozen
lithe, slender youths, handsome and browned, drew apart by themselves.
He remembered having noticed one of them as a particularly daring rider
after Pollock's cattle the fall before; and guessed his companions to be
of the same breed. Among the remainder, two picturesque, lean, slow and
quizzical prospectors attracted his particular attention.
Most of these men were well practised in the use of the rifle, but
evidently not to exhibiting their skill in company. What seemed to Bob a
rather _exaggerated_ earnestness oppressed them. The shooting, with two
exceptions, was not good. Several, whom Bob strongly suspected had many
a time brought down their deer on the run, even missed the target
entirely! It was to be remarked that each contestant, though he might
turn red beneath his tan, took the announcement of the result in
silence.
The two notable exceptions referred to were strangely contrasted. The
elder was one of the prospectors. He was armed with an ancient 45-70
Winchester, worn smooth and shiny by long carrying in a saddle holster.
This arm was fitted with buckhorn sights of the old mountain type. When
it exploded, its black powder blew forth a stunning detonation and
volume of smoke. Nevertheless, of the three bullets, two were within the
tiny black Thorne had seen fit to mark as bullseye, and the other
clipped close to its edge. A murmur of admiration went up from the
bystanders. Even eliminating the unaccountable nervousness that had
thrown so many shots wild, it seemed improbable that any of the other
contestants felt themselves qualified to equal this score.
"Good shooting," whispered Bob to Amy. "I doubt if I could make out that
bullseye through sights."
The other exception, whose turn came somewhat later, was one of the
Easterners mentioned as a graduate of the forestry school. This young
man, not over twenty-two years of age, was an attractive youngster, with
refined features, and engaging dark-blue eyes. His arm was the then
latest model, a 33-calibre high power, fitted with aperture sights. This
he manipulated with great care, adjusting it again and again; and fired
with such deliberation that some of the spectators moved impatiently.
Nevertheless, the target, on examination, showed that he had duplicated
the prospector's score. To be sure, the worst shot had not cut quite as
close to the bull as had that of the older man, but on the other hand,
those in the black were slightly nearer the centre. It was generally
adjudged a good tie.
"Well, youngster!" cried the prospector, heartily, "we're the cocks of
the walk! If you can handle the other weep'n as well, I'll give you my
hand for a good shot."
The young man smiled shyly, but said nothing.
The distance was now shortened to something under twenty paces, and a
new target substituted for the old. The black in this was fully six
inches in diameter.
"Five shots with six-shooter," announced Thorne briefly.
"A man should hit a dollar twice in five at that distance," muttered the
prospector. Thorne caught the remark.
"You hit that five out of five, and I'll forgive you," said he curtly.
"Hicks, you begin."
The contest went forward with varying success. Not over half of the men
were practised with the smaller arm. Some very wild work was done. On
the other hand, eight or ten performed very creditably, placing their
bullets in or near the black. Indeed, two succeeded in hitting the
bullseye four times out of five. Every man took the utmost pains with
every shot.
"Now, Ware," said Thorne, at last, "step up. You've got to make good
that five out of five to win."
The prospector stood forward, at the same time producing from an open
holster blackened by time one of the long-barrelled single-action Colt's
45's, so universally in use on the frontier. He glanced carelessly
toward the mark, grinned back at the crowd, turned, and instantly began
firing. He shot the five shots without appreciable sighting before each,
as fast as his thumb could pull back the long-shanked hammer. The muzzle
of the weapon rose and fell with a regularity positively mechanical, and
the five shots had been delivered in half that number of seconds.
"There's your five," said he, carelessly dropping his gun back into its
holster.
The five bullets were found to be scattered within the six-inch black.
The concourse withdrew to give space for the next contestant. Silence
fell as the man was taking his aim. Amy touched Bob's arm. He looked
down. Her eyes were shining, and her cheeks red with excitement.
"Doesn't it remind you of anything?" she whispered eagerly.
"What?" he asked, not guessing her meaning.
"This: all of it!" she waved her hand abroad at the fair oval meadow
with its fringe of tall trees and the blue sky above it; at the
close-gathered knot of spectators, and the single contestant advanced
before them. He shook his head. "Wait," she breathed, laying her fingers
across her lips.
The contest wore along until it again came the turn of the younger man.
He stepped to the front, unbuckled a covered holster of the sort never
carried in the West, and produced one of those beautifully balanced,
beautifully finished revolvers known as the Officer's Model. Taking the
firm yet easy position of the practised target shot, he sighted with
great deliberation, firing only when he considered his aim assured.
Indeed, once he lowered his weapon until a puff of wind had passed. The
five shots were found to be not only within the black, but grouped
inside a three-inch diameter.
"'_A Hubert! A Hubert_!'" breathed the girl in Bob's ear. "_In the
clout_!"
"I thought his name was Elliott," said Bob. "Is it Hubert?"
The girl eyed him reproachfully, but said nothing.
"You're a _good_ shot, youngster!" cried Ware, in the heartiest
congratulation; "but if Mr. Thorne don't mind, I'd like to shoot off
this tie. Down in our country we don't shoot quite that way, or at that
kind of a mark. Will you take a try my way?"
Amy leaned again toward Bob, her face aflame.
"_'And now,'_" she shot at him, "'_I will crave your Grace's permission
to plant such a mark as is used in the north country; and welcome every
brave yeoman who shall try a shot at it_--'Don't dare tell me you don't
remember!"
"'_A man can but do his best_,'" Bob took up the tale. "Of course, I
remember; you're right."
"All right," Thorne was agreeing, "but make it short. We've got a lot to
do."
Ware selected another target--one intended for the six-shooters--that
had not been used. This he tacked up in place of the one already
disfigured by many shots. Then he paced off twelve yards.
"That looks easier than the other," Thorne commented.
"Mebbe," agreed Ware, non-committally, "but you may change your mind. As
for that sort of monkey-work," he indicated the discarded target, "down
our way we'd as soon shoot at a barn."
The girl softly clapped her hands.
"'_For his own part_,'" she quoted in a breath, and so rapidly that the
words fairly tumbled over one another, "'_in the land where he was bred,
men would as soon take for their mark King Arthur's round table, which
held sixty knights around it. A child of seven might hit yonder target
with a headless shaft_.' Oh, this is perfect."
"Now," said Ware to young Elliott, "if you'll hit that mark in my
fashion of shooting, you're all right."
Bob turned to the girl, his eyes dancing with delight.
"'--_he that hits yon mark at I-forget-how-many yards_,'" he declaimed,
"'_I will call him an archer fit to bear bow before a king_'--or
something to that effect; I'm afraid I'm not letter perfect."
He laughed amusedly, and the girl laughed with him. "Just the same, I'm
glad you remember," she told him.
Ware had by now taken his place at the new mark he had established.
"Fifteen shots," he announced. At the word his hand dropped to the butt
of his gun, his right shoulder hunched forward, and with one lightning
smooth motion the weapon glided from the holster. Hardly had it left the
leather when it was exploded. The hammer had been cocked during the
upward flip of the muzzle. The first discharge was followed immediately
by the five others in a succession so rapid that Bob believed the man
had substituted a self-cocking arm until he caught the rapid play of the
marksman's thumb. The weapon was at no time raised above the level of
the man's waist.
"Hold on!" commanded Ware, as the bystanders started forward to examine
the result of the shots. "Let's finish the string first."
He had been deliberately pushing out the exploded cartridges one by one.
Now he as deliberately reloaded. Taking a position somewhat to the left
of the target, he folded his arms so that the revolver lay across his
breast with its muzzle resting over his left elbow. Then he strode
rapidly but evenly across the face of the target, discharging the five
bullets as he walked.
Again he reloaded. This time he stood with the revolver hanging in his
right hand gazing intently for some moments at the target, measuring
carefully with his eye its direction and height. He turned his back;
and, flipping his gun over his left shoulder, fired without looking
back.
"The first ten ought to be in the black," announced Ware, "The last five
ought to be somewheres on the paper. A fellow can't expect more than to
generally wing a man over his shoulder."
But on examination the black proved to hold but eight bullet holes. The
other seven, however, all showed on the paper.
"Comes of not wiping out the dirt once in a while when you're shooting
black powder," said Ware philosophically.
The crowd gazed upon him with admiration.
"That's a remarkable group of shots to be literally _thrown_ out at that
speed," muttered Thorne to Bob. "Why, you could cover them with your
hat! Well, young man," he addressed Elliott, "step up!"
But Elliott shook his head.
"Couldn't touch that with a ten-foot pole," said he pleasantly. "Mr.
Ware has given me a new idea of what can be done with a revolver. His
work is especially good with that heavily charged arm. I wish he would
give us a little exhibition of how close he can shoot with my gun. It's
supposed to be a more accurate weapon."
"No, thank you," spoke up Ware. "I couldn't hit a flock of feather
pillers with your gun. You see, I shoot by _throw_, and I'm used to the
balance of my gun."
Thorne finished making some notes.
"All right, boys," he said, snapping shut his book. "We'll go down to
headquarters next."