A SHOOTING MATCH AND ITS CONSEQUENCES--NEW FRIENDS INTRODUCED TO THE
READER--CRUSOE AND HIS MOTHER CHANGE MASTERS.
Shortly after the incident narrated in the last chapter, the squatters
of the Mustang Valley lost their leader. Major Hope suddenly announced
his intention of quitting the settlement, and returning to the civilised
world. Private matters, he said, required his presence there--matters
which he did not choose to speak of but which would prevent his
returning again to reside among them. Go he must, and, being a man of
determination, go he did; but before going he distributed all his goods
and chattels among the settlers. He even gave away his rifle, and Fan,
and Crusoe. These last, however, he resolved should go together; and as
they were well worth having, he announced that he would give them to the
best shot in the valley. He stipulated that the winner should escort
him to the nearest settlement eastward, after which he might return with
the rifle on his shoulder.
Accordingly, a long level piece of ground on the river's bank, with a
perpendicular cliff at the end of it, was selected as the shooting
ground, and, on the appointed day, at the appointed hour, the
competitors began to assemble.
"Well, lad, first as usual," exclaimed Joe Blunt, as he reached the
ground and found Dick Varley there before him.
"I've bin here more than an hour lookin' for a new kind o' flower that
Jack Morgan told me he'd seen. And I've found it too. Look here; did
you ever see one like it before?"
Blunt leaned his rifle against a tree, and carefully examined the
flower.
"Why, yes, I've seed a-many o' them up about the Rocky Mountains, but
never one here-away. It seems to have gone lost itself. The last I
seed, if I remimber rightly, wos near the head-waters o' the Yellowstone
River, it wos--jest where I shot a grizzly bar."
"Was that the bar that gave you the wipe on the cheek?" asked Varley,
forgetting the flower in his interest about the bear.
"It was. I put six balls in that bar's carcase, and stuck my knife into
its heart ten times afore it gave out; an' it nearly ripped the shirt
off my back afore I was done with it."
"I would give my rifle to get a chance at a grizzly!" exclaimed Varley,
with a sudden burst of enthusiasm.
"Whoever got it wouldn't have much to brag of," remarked a burly young
backwoodsman, as he joined them.
His remark was true, for poor Dick's weapon was but a sorry affair. It
missed fire, and it hung fire, and even when it did fire it remained a
matter of doubt in its owner's mind whether the slight deviations from
the direct line made by his bullets were the result of _his_ or _its_
bad shooting.
Further comment upon it was checked by the arrival of a dozen or more
hunters on the scene of action. They were a sturdy set of bronzed,
bold, fearless men, and one felt, on looking at them, that they would
prove more than a match for several hundreds of Indians in open fight.
A few minutes after, the major himself came on the ground with the prize
rifle on his shoulder, and Fan and Crusoe at his heels--the latter
tumbling, scrambling, and yelping after its mother, fat and clumsy, and
happy as possible, having evidently quite forgotten that it had been
nearly roasted alive only a few weeks before.
Immediately all eyes were on the rifle, and its merits were discussed
with animation.
And well did it deserve discussion, for such a piece had never before
been seen on the western frontier. It was shorter in the barrel and
larger in the bore than the weapons chiefly in vogue at that time, and,
besides being of beautiful workmanship, was silver-mounted. But the
grand peculiarity about it, and that which afterwards rendered it the
mystery of mysteries to the savages, was, that it had two sets of
locks--one percussion, the other flint--so that, when caps failed, by
taking off the one set of locks and affixing the others, it was
converted into a flint-rifle. The major, however, took care never to
run short of caps, so that the flint locks were merely held as a reserve
in case of need.
"Now, lads," cried Major Hope, stepping up to the point whence they were
to shoot, "remember the terms. He who first drives the nail obtains the
rifle, Fan, and her pup, and accompanies me to the nearest settlements.
Each man shoots with his own gun, and draws lots for the chance."
"Agreed," cried the men.
"Well, then, wipe your guns and draw lots. Henri will fix the nail.
Here it is."
The individual who stepped, or rather plunged forward to receive the
nail was a rare and remarkable specimen of mankind. Like his comrades,
he was half a farmer and half a hunter. Like them, too, he was clad in
deerskin, and was tall and strong--nay, more, he was gigantic. But,
unlike them, he was clumsy, awkward, loose-jointed, and a bad shot.
Nevertheless Henri was an immense favourite in the settlement, for his
good-humour knew no bounds. No one ever saw him frown. Even when
fighting with the savages, as he was sometimes compelled to do in
self-defence, he went at them with a sort of jovial rage that was almost
laughable. Inconsiderate recklessness was one of his chief
characteristics, so that his comrades were rather afraid of him on the
war-trail or in the hunt, where caution, and frequently _soundless_
motion, were essential to success or safety. But when Henri had a
comrade at his side to check him he was safe enough, being humble-minded
and obedient. Men used to say he must have been born under a lucky
star, for, notwithstanding his natural inaptitude for all sorts of
backwoods life, he managed to scramble through everything with safety,
often with success, and sometimes with credit.
To see Henri stalk a deer was worth a long day's journey. Joe Blunt
used to say he was "all jints together, from the top of his head to the
sole of his moccasin." He threw his immense form into the most
inconceivable contortions, and slowly wound his way, sometimes on hands
and knees, sometimes flat, through bush and brake, as if there was not a
bone in his body, and without the slightest noise. This sort of work
was so much against his plunging nature, that he took long to learn it,
but when, through hard practice and the loss of many a fine deer, he
came at length to break himself in to it, he gradually progressed to
perfection, and ultimately became the best stalker in the valley. This,
and this alone, enabled him to procure game, for, being short-sighted,
he could hit nothing beyond fifty yards, except a buffalo or a barn
door.
Yet that same lithe body, which seemed as though totally unhinged, could
no more be bent, when the muscles were strung, than an iron post. No
one wrestled with Henri unless he wished to have his back broken. Few
could equal and none could beat him at running or leaping except Dick
Varley. When Henri ran a race even Joe Blunt laughed outright, for arms
and legs went like independent flails. When he leaped, he hurled
himself into space with a degree of violence that seemed to insure a
somersault--yet he always came down with a crash on his feet. Plunging
was Henri's forte. He generally lounged about the settlement, when
unoccupied, with his hands behind his back, apparently in a reverie, and
when called on to act, he seemed to fancy he must have lost time, and
could only make up for it by _plunging_. This habit got him into many
awkward scrapes, but his herculean power as often got him out of them.
He was a French-Canadian, and a particularly bad speaker of the English
language.
We offer no apology for this elaborate introduction of Henri, for he was
as good-hearted a fellow as ever lived, and deserves special notice.
But to return. The sort of rifle practice called "driving the nail," by
which this match was to be decided, was, and we believe still is, common
among the hunters of the far west. It consisted in this,--an ordinary
large-headed nail was driven a short way into a plank or a tree, and the
hunters, standing at a distance of fifty yards or so, fired at it until
they succeeded in driving it home. On the present occasion the major
resolved to test their shooting by making the distance seventy yards.
Some of the older men shook their heads.
"It's too far," said one; "ye might as well try to snuff the nose o' a
mosquito."
"Jim Scraggs is the only man as'll hit that," said another.
The man referred to was a long, lank, lantern-jawed fellow with a
cross-grained expression of countenance. He used the long, heavy,
Kentucky rifle, which, from the ball being little larger than a pea, was
called a pea-rifle. Jim was no favourite, and had been named Scraggs by
his companions on account of his appearance.
In a few minutes the lots were drawn, and the shooting began. Each
hunter wiped out the barrel of his piece with his ramrod as he stepped
forward; then, placing a ball in the palm of his left hand, he drew the
stopper of his powder-horn with his teeth, and poured out as much powder
as sufficed to cover the bullet. This was the regular _measure_ among
them. Little time was lost in firing, for these men did not "hang" on
their aim. The point of the rifle was slowly raised to the object, and,
the instant the sight covered it, the ball sped to its mark. In a few
minutes the nail was encircled by bullet-holes, scarcely two of which
were more than an inch distant from the mark, and one--fired by Joe
Blunt--entered the tree close beside it.
"Ah, Joe!" said the major, "I thought you would have carried off the
prize."
"So did not I, sir," returned Blunt, with a shake of his head. "Had it
a-bin a half-dollar at a hundred yards, I'd ha' done better, but I never
_could_ hit the nail. It's too small to _see_."
"That's cos ye've got no eyes," remarked Jim Scraggs, with a sneer, as
he stepped forward.
All tongues were now hushed, for the expected champion was about to
fire. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had
hit the nail-head on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it.
"That wins if there's no better," said the major, scarce able to conceal
his disappointment. "Who comes next?"
To this question Henri answered by stepping up to the line, straddling
his legs, and executing preliminary movements with his rifle, that
seemed to indicate an intention on his part to throw the weapon bodily
at the mark. He was received with a shout of mingled laughter and
applause. After gazing steadily at the mark for a few seconds, a broad
grin overspread his countenance, and, looking round at his companions,
he said--"Ha! mes boys, I cannot behold de nail at all!"
"Can ye `behold' the _tree_?" shouted a voice, when the laugh that
followed this announcement had somewhat abated.
"Oh! oui," replied Henri quite coolly; "I can see _him_, an' a goot
small bit of de forest beyond."
"Fire at it, then. If ye hit the tree ye desarve the rifle--leastwise
ye ought to get the pup."
Henri grinned again, and fired instantly, without taking aim.
The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise, for the bullet was
found close beside the nail!
"It's more be good luck than good shootin'," remarked Jim Scraggs.
"Possiblement," answered Henri modestly, as he retreated to the rear and
wiped out his rifle; "mais I have kill most of my deer by dat same goot
luck."
"Bravo! Henri," said Major Hope as he passed; "you _deserve_ to win,
anyhow. Who's next?"
"Dick Varley," cried several voices; "where's Varley? Come on,
youngster, an' take yer shot."
The youth came forward with evident reluctance. "It's of no manner o'
use," he whispered to Joe Blunt as he passed, "I can't depend on my old
gun."
"Never give in," whispered Blunt encouragingly. Poor Varley's want of
confidence in his rifle was merited, for, on pulling the trigger, the
faithless lock missed fire.
"Lend him another gun," cried several voices. "'Gainst rules laid down
by Major Hope," said Scraggs.
"Well, so it is; try again."
Varley did try again, and so successfully, too, that the ball hit the
nail on the head, leaving a portion of the lead sticking to its edge.
Of course this was greeted with a cheer, and a loud dispute began as to
which was the better shot of the two.
"There are others to shoot yet," cried the major. "Make way. Look
out."
The men fell back, and the few hunters who had not yet fired took their
shots, but without coming nearer the mark.
It was now agreed that Jim Scraggs and Dick Varley, being the two best
shots, should try over again; and it was also agreed that Dick should
have the use of Blunt's rifle. Lots were again drawn for the first
shot, and it fell to Dick, who immediately stepped out, aimed somewhat
hastily, and fired.
"Hit again!" shouted those who had run forward to examine the mark.
"_Half_ the bullet cut off by the nail-head!"
Some of the more enthusiastic of Dick's friends cheered lustily, but the
most of the hunters were grave and silent, for they knew Jim's powers,
and felt that he would certainly do his best. Jim now stepped up to the
line, and, looking earnestly at the mark, threw forward his rifle.
At that moment our friend Crusoe--tired of tormenting his mother--
waddled stupidly and innocently into the midst of the crowd of men, and,
in so doing, received Henri's heel and the full weight of his
elephantine body on its fore-paw. The horrible and electric yell that
instantly issued from his agonised throat could only be compared, as Joe
Blunt expressed it, "to the last dyin' screech o' a bustin' steam
biler!" We cannot say that the effect was startling, for these
backwoodsmen had been born and bred in the midst of alarms, and were so
used to them that a "bustin' steam biler" itself, unless it had blown
them fairly off their legs, would not have startled them. But the
effect, such as it was, was sufficient to disconcert the aim of Jim
Scraggs, who fired at the same instant, and missed the nail by a
hair's-breadth.
Turning round in towering wrath, Scraggs aimed a kick at the poor pup,
which, had it taken effect, would certainly have terminated the innocent
existence of that remarkable dog on the spot, but quick as lightning
Henri interposed the butt of his rifle, and Jim's shin met it with a
violence that caused him to howl with rage and pain.
"Oh! pardon me, broder," cried Henri, shrinking back, with the drollest
expression of mingled pity and glee.
Jim's discretion, on this occasion, was superior to his valour; he
turned away with a coarse expression of anger and left the ground.
Meanwhile the major handed the silver rifle to young Varley. "It
couldn't have fallen into better hands," he said. "You'll do it credit,
lad, I know that full well, and let me assure you it will never play you
false. Only keep it clean, don't overcharge it, aim true, and it will
never miss the mark."
While the hunters crowded round Dick to congratulate him and examine the
piece, he stood with a mingled feeling of bashfulness and delight at his
unexpected good fortune. Recovering himself suddenly he seized his old
rifle, and, dropping quietly to the outskirts of the crowd, while the
men were still busy handling and discussing the merits of the prize,
went up, unobserved, to a boy of about thirteen years of age, and
touched him on the shoulder.
"Here, Marston, you know I often said ye should have the old rifle when
I was rich enough to get a new one. Take it _now_, lad. It's come to
ye sooner than either o' us expected."
"Dick," said the boy, grasping his friend's hand warmly, "yer true as
heart of oak. It's good of 'ee, that's a fact."
"Not a bit, boy; it costs me nothin' to give away an old gun that I've
no use for, an's worth little, but it makes me right glad to have the
chance to do it."
Marston had longed for a rifle ever since he could walk, but his
prospects of obtaining one were very poor indeed at that time, and it is
a question whether he did not at that moment experience as much joy in
handling the old piece as his friend felt in shouldering the prize.
A difficulty now occurred which had not before been thought of. This
was no less than the absolute refusal of Dick Varley's canine property
to follow him. Fan had no idea of changing masters without her consent
being asked, or her inclination being consulted.
"You'll have to tie her up for a while, I fear," said the major.
"No fear," answered the youth. "Dog natur's like human natur'!"
Saying this he seized Crusoe by the neck, stuffed him comfortably into
the bosom of his hunting shirt, and walked rapidly away with the prize
rifle on his shoulder.
Fan had not bargained for this. She stood irresolute, gazing now to the
right and now to the left, as the major retired in one direction and
Dick with Crusoe in another. Suddenly Crusoe, who, although comfortable
in body, was ill at ease in spirit, gave utterance to a melancholy howl.
The mother's love instantly prevailed. For one moment she pricked up
her ears at the sound, and then, lowering them, trotted quietly after
her new master, and followed him to his cottage on the margin of the
lake.