MR. WEBSTER'S GUNS
It was about a week after the boys' hunting trip when Mr. Oliver's
nearest neighbor, Mr. Webster, drove up to the ranch in a dilapidated
wagon. It was dark when he arrived, for the days were rapidly getting
shorter. When Jake had taken his horse away he laid what appeared to be
a small armory on the kitchen table and sat down by the stove. He was a
young man with a careless, good-humored expression, and Harry aside
informed Frank that his ranch was not much of a place.
"I've brought you my guns along," said Mr. Webster, addressing Mr.
Oliver, and then looked down at the dog, who had walked up to him in the
meanwhile and now stood regarding him with its head on one side.
"Hello!" he added, patting it, "I'd 'most forgotten you. You have
managed to put up with him, Miss Oliver?"
Miss Oliver said that she had grown fond of him, and the dog, after
standing up with a paw upon the man's knee, dropped down on all fours at
the sound of her voice and trotted back to her without waiting for
another pat.
"I always had a notion he was an ungrateful as well as an ordinary
beast," said Mr. Webster. "Would you have fancied my dog would leave me
like that after all I've done for him? I guess I've laid into him with
'most everything about the ranch from the grubhoe handle to the riding
quirt."
Mr. Oliver laughed. "But why have you brought your guns?"
"For you to take care of. My place gets damp in winter without the stove
on and I'm going away for a month or two. I've taken on a log-bridge
contract with a fellow I used to work with, on one of the new settlement
roads. The man who's been clearing land up the creek took the few head
of stock I had off my hands and the fruit trees will grow along all
right without worrying anybody until I get back again. If one hadn't to
do so much cutting every now and then, they'd be a long sight handier
than raising stock."
"Well," Mr. Oliver assured, "I think we can promise to look after the
guns. I didn't know you had so many of them."
Mr. Webster arose and walked toward the table. "Though I never was a
great shot, guns are rather a hobby of mine. I needn't say anything
about these two--single-shot Marlin, Winchester repeater--but the
old-timers seem to have a notion that a man must excuse himself for
keeping a scatter gun. This"--and he picked up what seemed to Frank a
handsome single barrel--"is a thing I bought for a few dollars last time
I was in Portland. I allowed she would do to keep the pigeons off my
oats. Not much of a gun, but she throws out the shell." Then he took up
a double gun with the brown rubbed off the barrels, leaving bright
patches. "This one's different; there's some tone about her. A sport I
once had boarding with me gave her to me when he went away. Said I'd
given him a great time, and as he was fixed, it might be two or three
years before he could get out into the woods again."
He sat down on the table and looked over with a smile at the boys. "I
don't know any reason why you two shouldn't have those guns until I come
back; they'll keep better if they're used and rubbed out once in a
while, and there's a box of shells in the wagon. You can't call yourself
a sport until you can drop a flying bird with the scatter gun, and
there's considerably more to it than most of the old-timers who can
only plug a deer with a rifle seem to think."
He evidently noticed the interest in Frank's face, for he proceeded to
demonstrate, standing up with the double gun held across him a little
above his waist.
"Now," he added, "you don't want to aim, poking the gun about. You keep
it down and your eyes on the bird, until you're ready, and then pitch it
up right on the spot first time--it's better with both eyes open, if you
can manage it." The gun went in to his shoulder and Frank heard the
striker click, after which the man swung the muzzle half a foot or so.
"Say you missed. You've still got the second barrel--"
They heard no more, for there was an appalling crash, a short cry from
Miss Oliver, and a yelp from the dog who jumped into the air, while a
filmy cloud of smoke drifted about the room. When it cleared Mr.
Webster, who had opened the door, sat down on the table looking very
sheepish and turned toward Miss Oliver.
"I'm sorry--dreadful sorry," he observed contritely. "I hadn't the least
notion there was anything in the thing."
Mr. Oliver glanced at the ragged hole high up in the log wall and then
looked at Mr. Webster with ironical amusement in his eyes.
"Your instructions were good as far as they went, but you have forgotten
one rather important point." He turned to the boys. "It's this. Never
bring a gun of any kind into a house without first opening the magazine
or breach, and if there's a shell in it, immediately take it out. It's a
precaution that's as simple as it's effective, and though there was
perhaps some excuse for an accident in the old days when a man couldn't
readily empty his gun unless he fired off the charge, there's none now."
"Sure," agreed Mr. Webster, who seemed to be getting over his
confusion, for he addressed the boys again. "With winter coming on, the
best sport I know with a scatter gun is shooting flighting duck, and
there's plenty of them along the beach. They've a way of moving around
in flocks between the light and dark, which is the best time, though you
can get them through the night if there's not too bright a moon. A good
place would be those patches of sand and mud behind the islands,
especially when the tide's just leaving the flats. Take the sloop or
canoe along sometime and try it."
The boys thanked him and Frank's eyes glistened as he handled the light
single gun.
"What are you going to do with your team?" asked Mr. Oliver, changing
the subject.
"Anson down by Nare's Hill will take them for their keep, but I might
have made a few dollars out of them if I'd been staying on."
"How's that?"
"Well," in a significant tone, "a man came along three or four nights
ago. I don't know where he came from, and I don't know where he went--he
just walked in with the lamp lit when I was getting supper. He wanted to
know if I was open to hire him a team for a night or two."
"What kind of a man?"
"A stranger. He looked like a sailor and seemed liberal. Said he wanted
the team particularly, and if I'd have them handy when he turned up we
needn't quarrel about the figure. That must have meant I could charge
most what I liked."
"What did you say?"
Mr. Webster smiled. "I just told him the horses were promised and I
couldn't make the deal. Anyway"--and he added this in a different
voice--"I'd no notion of going back on you."
"Thanks," said Mr. Oliver quietly, and they talked about other matters
until Webster, making a few more excuses to Miss Oliver, drove away.
When he had gone she looked at her brother and laughed softly.
"I was startled but not very much astonished when the gun went off," she
said. "The little incident was so characteristic of the man."
The next day the boys commenced practicing at flung-up meat cans with
the cartridges he had given them and in a week they could hit one every
now and then at thirty yards. Soon afterward Mr. Oliver went away. He
only told the boys that he was going to Tacoma, but Harry thought it
possible that he wanted to see Mr. Barclay, since Mr. Webster's story
made it clear that the dope runners were about again. He announced
ingenuously that they had better try the flight-shooting while his
father was away, because if they came back all right with several ducks
he would probably not object to their going another time. Miss Oliver
seemed doubtful when they casually mentioned the project to her, but as
she did not actually forbid it they set out with the sloop late one
afternoon, taking the dog with them.
It was falling dusk and the tide had been running ebb two or three hours
when they beat in under the lee side of one of the islands they had
passed on a previous occasion on their way to the settlement. After
anchoring the sloop where she would lie afloat at low water some
distance off the beach they got into the canoe and paddling ashore
crossed the island, which was small and narrow. It was covered with thin
underbrush and dwarf firs, and on its opposite side a broad stretch of
wet sand and shingle with pools and creeks in it stretched back toward
the channel, which cut it off from the mainland.
To the eastward, the pale silver sickle of a crescent moon hung low in
the sky, but westward a wide band of flaring crimson and saffron still
burned beneath dusky masses of ragged cloud and the uncovered sands
gleamed blood-red in the fading glow. A cold wind stirred the pines to
an eerie sighing, and the splash of a tiny surf came up faintly from the
outer edge of the sands. The whole scene struck Frank as very forbidding
and desolate, and he fancied that there was a threat of wind in the sky.
Something in the loneliness troubled him, and for no particular reason
he felt half sorry that he had come. He realized that it would have been
much more cozy in the sloop's cabin than upon that dreary beach, and he
said something about the weather to Harry.
"We'll be sheltered here if the breeze does come up, and this looks just
the place where we ought to get a duck," his companion answered. "There
aren't many spots like it around this part of the coast, where we've
generally deeper water. Perhaps we'd better move on a little nearer
yonder clump of firs. They'll hide us from any birds that come sailing
down to the flats."
"What's the matter with the dog?" Frank asked. "What's he snuffing at?"
The animal was trotting about with his nose upon the ground and would
not come when they called him.
"I don't know," said Harry carelessly. "Perhaps somebody's been across
the island lately, though I don't think it's often a white man lands
here."
They took up their stations a little apart from each other among some
very rough boulders, with the nearest of the firs on a rocky ridge some
thirty or forty yards away from them. Their ragged branches cut in a
sharp ebony pattern against the sky, which was duskily blue. It was very
cold and the wind seemed fresher, for the trees were rustling and
moaning, and the calling of distant wildfowl came up through the
increasing murmur of the surf.
Frank's boots had suffered from hard wear in the bush, and, as he had
stumbled into a pool, his feet were very wet, but he crouched behind a
boulder, clutching the single-barreled gun with cold fingers, and
watching the sky beyond the fir tops, for what seemed a considerable
time. Nothing moved across it except a long wisp of torn-edged cloud,
and he was commencing to wonder whether it would not be better to go
back to the sloop when Harry called softly, and he heard a new sound in
the darkness somewhere beyond the firs. It suggested the regular
movement of a row of fans, which was the best comparison that occurred
to him, for there was a kind of measured beat in it, and in another few
moments he recognized it as the rhythmic stroke of wings. Then a double
line of dark bodies spreading out from a point in the shape of a wedge
appeared close above him against the sky.
He saw that they had long necks, but that was all, for they were coming
on with an extraordinary swiftness. There was a crash as Harry's gun
flung a streak of red fire into the darkness. Then Frank pitched up the
single barrel, pulling hard upon the trigger as the butt struck his
shoulder. He felt the jar of it and saw a whirling blaze, after which he
swung around when Harry's gun flashed again.
The wedge, which had scattered, was reuniting. He could just see it
dotted upon the sky, but he fancied that one dark object had come
whirling down and struck the flats outshore of him a few seconds
earlier.
"One, sure!" cried Harry. "I've an idea there's a cripple, too, trailing
on the ground. Where's that dog? I wonder if he'd hunt it up?"
They called, but there was no sign of the animal.
"He'd probably sit down and eat it, if he got it," said Frank, laughing.
"As he isn't here, we'd better get after the birds."
They soon picked up the dead one, a mallard, Harry said; but it was some
minutes before they saw the other fluttering across a patch of wet sand.
Breaking into a run they were astonished to find that they did not get
much nearer, and it must be admitted that Frank fired again without
stopping it. After that, it led them through several pools and runlets
of water, until at a flash of Harry's gun it lay still, but they were
almost up to their knees in a little channel before they retrieved it.
"I wonder how long we'll have to wait before some more ducks come," said
Harry as they made their way back to the boulders. Then he suddenly
looked about him. "Where can that dog have gone?"
They called a second time, but there was still no answer, and while they
listened it struck Frank that the sound of the surf was growing more
distinct.
"He seemed to be trailing something when I last saw him," he answered.
"I don't feel keen on going after him. The top of the island's rough.
Perhaps, we'd better wait here until he comes."
They waited for about ten minutes and then a succession of quick barks
reached them, apparently from across the island. There was something
startling in the sound and Frank turned sharply toward his companion.
"He doesn't bark like that for nothing. Hadn't we better go along?" he
suggested.
They started on the moment, stumbling among the boulders and splashing
into pools. The going was no easier when they reached the firs, but they
broke through them somehow, and when at length they approached the
beach, which was steep on that side, the dog came bounding toward them
and then ran back with a growl to the edge of the water. Looking around
with strained attention, Frank made out the sloop, a dim, dark shape
upon the water, for the moon was covered now. After that he ran down
toward the edge of the tide, but there was nothing unusual to be seen,
though the dog again yelped savagely. As he stopped close beside the
animal Harry's voice reached him.
"Where's the canoe?" he cried.
It was a moment or two before Frank saw her, and then he started and
cast a quick glance at the strip of beach left uncovered by the ebbing
tide. The breeze was off the shore, and on arriving they had thrown over
a lump of iron with a rope made fast to it and then paddled the canoe
ashore and shoved her out again to drift off as far as the rope would
allow her, in order to avoid dragging her down over the rough stones
when they went away. Now she seemed farther off than she should have
been, and in another moment he realized that she was moving.
"She's adrift!" he shouted.
"Then we will have to get her," Harry answered.
Frank laid down his gun and threw off his jacket. Harry could swim
better than he could, but Harry was some distance back and the beach was
very rough, while it was clear that every moment would increase the
distance between it and the canoe. He struck his knees against something
which hurt as he floundered into the water stumbling among the stones,
but that did not matter then, and as soon as it was deep enough he flung
himself down. A horrible chill struck through him as he swung his left
arm out, and he was badly hampered by his boots and clothes, and though
he swam savagely the canoe was still some way in front of him when at
length he turned breathlessly upon his breast. What was worse, she was
steadily drifting farther off shore.
Chilled and anxious as he was, he thought quickly. He was far from
certain that he could get back to the beach, and even if he did so, he
would have to spend the night wet through without any means of making a
shelter. The sloop was lying a good way out and he did not think that
Harry could swim so far in that cold water. He was quite sure that he
could not, and it was evident that there was nothing for it but to
overtake the canoe.
For what seemed a very long time he swam desperately, and then just as
he was almost alongside the craft something came up behind him and
seized his arm. Turning his head with a half-choked cry, he saw that it
was the dog, who apparently intended to stick fast to him. The animal,
however, hampered him terribly, and flinging it off he made a last
effort and contrived to clutch the canoe before it seized him again.
Holding on by the low stern he tried to recover his breath, while he
wondered if he could manage to lift himself in. It seemed to him that if
he failed to do it at that moment he could not expect to succeed
afterward, in which case he would in all probability have to let go
before very long. Setting his lips he made the attempt, and falling
headforemost into the canoe he lay still for a few moments gasping,
until he rose and pulled the dog on board. Then he hauled up the iron,
which was still attached to the rope, though it was not upon the bottom,
and found a paddle. Two or three minutes later he was back at the beach,
and Harry got in.
"Make for the sloop as fast as you can," he said.
Frank, now chilled to the bone, was glad to paddle, and they were soon
alongside. Harry handed him up the birds and guns when he got on board,
and then made the painter fast.
"I'll start the stove first thing while you tie two reefs in the
mainsail," he said. "I guess we'll want them, and the work will warm
you."
He disappeared below, and before he came out again Frank had managed to
get the tack and leach down, which was not so difficult now that the
sail lay along the boom.
Harry gave him a quick look.
"Go in and strip yourself," he said. "There's a blanket forward and some
coffee in the can. I'll be down by the time you have wrung out your
things."