WHEN the great bell struck the hour of the next noon,
mountaineers with long rifles across their shoulders were moving
through the camp. The glen opened into a valley, which, blocked
on the east by Pine Mountain, was thus shut in on every side by
wooded heights. Here the marksmen gathered. All were
mountaineers, lank, bearded, men, coatless for the most part, and
dressed in brown home-made jeans, slouched, formless hats, and
high, coarse boots. Sun and wind had tanned their faces to
sympathy, in color, with their clothes, which had the dun look of
the soil. They seemed peculiarly a race of the soil, to have sprung
as they were from the earth, which had left indelible stains upon
them. All carried long rifles, old-fashioned and home-made, some
even with flint-locks. It was Saturday, and many of their wives
had come with them to the camp. These stood near, huddled into a
listless group, with their faces half hidden in check bonnets of
various colors. A barbaric love of color was apparent in bonnet,
shawl, and gown, and surprisingly in contrast with such crudeness
of taste was a face when fully seen, so modest was it. The features
were always delicately wrought, and softened sometimes by a look
of patient suffering almost into refinement.
On the other side of the contestants were the people of the camp, a
few miners with pipes lounging on the ground, and women and
girls, who returned the furtive glances of the mountain women
with stares of curiosity and low laughter.
Clayton had been delayed by his work, and the match was already
going on when he reached the grounds.
"You've missed mighty fine shootin'," said Uncle Tommy Brooks,
who was squatted on the ground near the group of marksmen.
Sherd's been a-beatin' ever'body. I'm afeard Easter hain't a-comm'.
The match is 'most over now. Ef she'd been here, I don't think
Sherd would 'a' got the ch'ice parts o' that beef so easy."
"Which is he? " asked Clayton.