THE SHOOTING-MATCH.
A shooting-match in the days of the pioneers was always sure to attract
a large crowd of spectators and a goodly number of marksmen. Such was
the case in Tyng Township. It is true there had been a spirited trial
of the kind at the last Thanksgiving, among the Tyngsmen, but over
eight months had elapsed since then, and as keen an interest was felt
on this occasion as before. In fact, there was greater excitement and
anxiety, as certain elements had entered into this contest which had
been unknown in the other. Previously there had been merely a friendly
rivalry among kindred spirits. Now scores were to be settled between
antagonistic parties.
The match had been the outcome of a boyish dispute and quarrel. Willie
Tyng, a grandson of the celebrated Captain Tyng of the “snow-shoe
expedition,” and Archie Gamble, son of one of the foremost Scotch-Irish
settlers, had together shot at an eagle. One shot missed the bird,
while the other brought the victim to the ground. Then each claimed the
honour of the successful shot, each being really at a loss to prove
his assertion. From angry words they came to challenge each other to a
test with the gun, in order to show who was the better marksman. Then,
the friends of the two taking up the dispute, plans were made for a
general match, which all could enter who wished.
As the most convenient grounds for the affair, the plateau on the
summit of the elevation known as Chestnut Corners, or the Three Pines,
was selected. This had really been chosen as the site for a proposed
meeting-house, so a clearing large enough for the occasion had been
made.
Fortunately, the day did not promise the excessive heat of the closing
of July, and the fog which had hung over the river during the morning
had lifted, so the weather was all that could be asked.
“I suppose you will win the prize in the first class,” said Norman
to the Woodranger, as he walked along on the right hand side of the
forester, while Rob Rogers kept step on the other side.
“Doubtful, my lad, doubtful. Such sport does well enough for boys, but
it seems to me a wanton waste o’ powder to an ol’ man, who has but
enough for the game he must o’ necessity bring down. Then, too, having
been perambulating the woods so much of late, I had nary inkling o’
such doings. However, I ’vise you to try a bead, just to show ’em that
with proper practice you can ketch the bird’s eye, e’en if it be a
hawk.”
“You must enter on our side, Woodranger,” said Rob. “We’re going to
beat ’em to-day if it takes a tooth.”
“Ordinarily that is right, Robby, but it is good reason why I should
not mix in the ’fair. ’Twould only stir bad blood and aggravate the
ol’ wound. No, no, lads, I’m neutral in this quarrel. It’s my humble
opinion this match had better been settled ’mong the lads, where it
begun. A shooting-match is a dangerous ’fair where there is hot blood
ready to be spilt. It looks so there was going to be a goodish crowd.”
They were then approaching the grounds, which were already thronged
with loud-talking men and boys, who had come early so as not to miss
any of the “fun.”
Already the committee, consisting of three men from each party, had
perfected the preliminary arrangements. The contesting marksmen had
been divided into two classes. The boys, or younger members of the
rival factions, were to pit themselves against each other first, after
which the men were to try their more experienced hands. This decision
meeting with the approval of all, the names of the youthful claimants
for the honour were listed, until six on each side had been included.
Among those on the Tyng Township part were Johnny Goffe, Willie Tyng,
John Spaulding, and Burton Woods, with two others. The Scotch-Irish
were represented by Norman McNiel, Robert Rogers, Archie Gamble, and
three more, whose names need not be given.
Our hero had been somewhat loath to participate in the trial, though
he felt certain he need not feel ashamed of his skill with his rifle.
Woodranger had advised him to enter the list, so he had done so.
Some objection was raised at first to Robert Rogers, as he lived out
of town. But when he cheerfully offered to withdraw, it was almost
demanded by all that he remain.
This selection of the marksmen took nearly half an hour’s time. Then
a hundred yards, the distance agreed upon, was measured off, and the
target put up against the trunk of a big pine. The object at which they
were to shoot was a stave about six inches wide and a couple of feet
long, which had been rived from a pine expressly for this occasion.
Near its centre had been marked a spot the size of a bullet, which was
called the bull’s-eye. Around this a line had been traced, making a
circle just an inch in diameter. Outside of this mark were two more
circles, each an added inch in size, so the largest was three inches
across. Whichever side should succeed in placing the greater number of
bullets inside the inch ring would be declared the victor. Should all
fail to come so near to the bull’s-eye, the party which should put the
most inside the second or middle circle would be the winner. Failing
in this the third circle would count, but no bullet hitting the stave
outside that should, under any circumstances, be counted at all.
By this time seventy-five persons had gathered on the clearing,
an anxious, curious, excitable crowd, anticipating the result
with conjectures in regard to the relative skill of the different
contestants. It was pretty generally agreed that the parties were very
evenly matched, though the ability of Norman was less known than that
of his companions.
“Now, stand back, so the boys can have a chance at a clear field,” said
Captain Goffe, who had been unanimously chosen master of ceremonies. A
skurrying to get out of the way followed. Woodranger, who had scarcely
spoken since the beginning, took a position where he could command a
view of the whole situation. Assuming his favourite position, with arms
akimbo across the muzzle of his rifle, he watched and waited in silence.
It had been decided that the firing should be done alternately by the
two parties. It fell to the Tyng boys to lead, and young Goffe stepped
into the small arena designated as the marksman’s stand. Taking
careful aim, he sent the first ball inside the smallest ring, amid the
cheers of those who were in sympathy with him.
“Beat that with yer Gambles and McNiels if you can!” called out a lusty
voice. “Three cheers for Johnny Goffe!”
Three hearty huzzas were given for the boy marksman, while the name
of the first on the list of the Scotch-Irish was called. He was a
tall, strapping youth by the name of MacKnight, afterward noted as a
sturdy patriot in the French and Indian wars and in that of American
Independence. Perhaps he was overconfident of his skill, for, with a
hasty aim, he sent his bullet barely in the second ring. Groans on the
part of the English succeeded, but not a cheer from their rivals. The
disappointed lad retired crestfallen from the scene.
Again the Tyng portion of the crowd was on the alert, as the second of
their favourites took his position. Put on his guard perhaps by the
failure of MacKnight, he raised his gun slowly and carefully until it
was on a line with the mark. His hand trembled, showing the suppressed
excitement under which he was labouring. Hesitating a moment, he
lowered the weapon, while the Scotch-Irish took advantage of the action
to break forth into loud jeers.
The lack of confidence the boy marksman evinced was manifested by the
result of his shot. His bullet fell outside of the second line, and
the opposing party gave shouts of derision.
Archie Gamble’s turn came next. He took a careful aim, occupying what
seemed to the bystanders a long time, but fired at his first poise.
“First ring!” cried the foremost of those who rushed forward to examine
the stave. A deafening cheer went up from the Scotch-Irish. But this
applause proved premature, for, upon closer examination, it was found
that the lead, while it had cut the line, lay with its larger part
outside of the mark. The Tyng boys were still ahead.
Willie Tyng then took the stand, sending a bullet with such accuracy
that it lodged inside the smallest ring. The applause from his admirers
was louder and more prolonged than any before.
This so disconcerted the next marksman that he missed the stave
altogether! At least that was the excuse his friends made. Be that as
it might, the result was the same.
One-half of the rivals had now tried their hands and the Tyng boys were
well ahead. As soon as he could make himself heard for the wild cries
uttered, the person, who had interjected his boastful words before,
again shouted:
“Git home, ye sons o’ Scotch-Irish Macs, and take yer blunderbusses
with yer. They may do to hang yer pots an’ kittles on, but they never――”
Captain Goffe tried to check this foolish speech at the outset, but the
speaker would not stop, though the cheers of his companions drowned his
concluding words.
The sun of the Tyng boys seemed to be in the ascendant surely, for
their fourth representative placed his bullet inside the magical
circle. Their score now stood at three. Every Scotch-Irish boy left on
the list had got to score the centre circle in order to make a record
even with their rivals. Even the most candid of their opponents could
not blame the English crowd for the loud huzzas which followed their
last triumph.
“Norman McNiel!” called off Captain Goffe, as soon as he could make
himself heard above the confusion of voices. Then the young refugee
stepped quickly into the ring, and silence again fell on the scene. No
one present really knew his ability as a marksman, and it is safe to
say he was watched with keener interest and deeper anxiety than any one
before him. Should he fail, the Scotch-Irish might as well bid adieu to
their hopes. More curious than anxious, the rival party looked on in
silence, somewhat indifferent as to the result.
This being his first appearance before a crowd, and realising how
much was depending upon himself and his two companions, Norman felt a
nervousness which was ominous of his failure. It was with difficulty
he quieted his nerves enough to hold his gun steadily. He had been
taught that the first sight was best, and the report of his weapon rang
out before the spectators were prepared for the shot.
But, as usual, some one was beside the stave in the twinkling of an
eye. No one was expecting the announcement he yelled forth in wild
excitement, unless it was the Woodranger, who had smiled as he had seen
Norman pull the trigger:
“The bull’s-eye! He’s cut out the dot!”
At first the spectators could not realise the truth of these words, but
as soon as it was found to be so such shouts went from the Scotch-Irish
as awoke the surrounding woods and put to shame the applause of their
rivals.
“It is the handsomest shot I’ve seen for many a day,” frankly declared
Captain Goffe, who made no attempt to still the shouts, though his
sympathies were really with the other side.
It was a proud moment for Norman, though he retired modestly to the
background. Woodranger, speaking for the first time since the opening
of the match, was heard to say:
“The lad has it in him. It is a natural knack few can boast of. Aweel,
it will be so much to the red man’s cost, or I cannot read the futur’.”
The fifth Tyng representative failed to get nearer the bull’s-eye than
the outer edge of the second ring. His competitor sent his bullet so
as to cut the inside circle, very similar to the shot of Archie Gamble.
His effort was considered better than the others, however, as he made a
perfect line shot.
The sixth and last contestant for the honour of Tyng Township proved
himself worthy of the confidence placed in him. His bullet struck by
the side of Johnny Goffe’s. The Tyng boys had now assured their triumph
beyond dispute, no matter what the result of the concluding trial.
So they were jubilant, while the Scotch-Irish were correspondingly
low-spirited.
The latter party had, wisely or not, kept their most hopeful champion
for the last. For his years, Robert Rogers had been considered the best
shot in Silver River country. Thus some persisted in cheering, as he
took the stand. A portion of the opposition improved the opportunity to
deride the boy marksman.
“Give ’em all th’ chance that belongs to ’em,” cried a burly onlooker.
“We’re safe. See Rob’s hand tremble. It’s ten to one he couldn’t hit
th’ broadside o’ a deer. Say, Rob, did ye ever hev th’ buck fever?”
“Close your mouth or I’ll take your head for a target, Bill Exeter,
and I’ll hit the bull’s-eye, too,” cried young Rogers, sharply, as
he prepared to take aim. He was nettled and disappointed by the
blundering shots of all his associates, except Norman. “’Taint no fair
show, anyway,” he continued, “when a bull’s-eye don’t count more’n a
ringer. I told ’em so and――”
_Spang!_ rang out the sharp report of his weapon, in the midst of
his own speech. The smoke had not cleared away before the cry came
tauntingly above the medley of sounds:
“Rob ain’t hit the stave!”
“Prove it or I’ll make you eat them words!” he exclaimed, fiercely,
starting toward the target.
“It’s so, and I can prove it by Captain Goffe. There ain’t no new hole
made in the stave since Ben Butterfield fired. Where’s your boasts now,
Rob Rogers?”
“As sound as a nut. No new hole in the stave, eh? Does that prove that
I ain’t hit the bull’s-eye? Look where Norman McNiel put his lead, and
if I ain’t got a chunk of lead there on top of his I’ll never draw bead
again on buck nor redskin.”
The youthful scout showed that he was terribly in earnest, and a deep
silence fell on the scene, while Captain Goffe, removing the target,
began an examination for the bullet in the pine. In a minute he had
extricated a piece of lead, somewhat flattened, but with the shape
of the bullet still remaining. As he held this up to the gaze of the
spectators, he said:
“McNiel’s bullet is still left in the tree, directly beneath where this
was embedded. Rob was right; he put his bullet through the bull’s-eye
in the exact track――”
He was not allowed to finish. The Scotch-Irish spectators began to yell
themselves hoarse. The score of their team, though lower than the other
side, showed two of the best shots which had been made. If they had
been defeated, it was a proud defeat.
Rob Rogers crossed over to where Norman and Woodranger were conversing,
and grasping our hero’s hand, exclaimed:
“Mac, I like your style, and I want you for a friend. When you go
on the trail of the red enemy I want you to let me go with you.
Woodranger, I wish to thank you for training me in the way you have.”
“Tut, tut, lad! the knack o’ drawing a true bead is God’s gift, not
man’s. He who gave life sees fit to give the power to take it. It is
the manner in which that gift is used that counts in the great string
o’ knots at the last. You both made good shots, lads, and you’ll make a
powerful team――a powerful team, lads.”
“I shall be glad to go with you, Rob,” said Norman, as he clasped the
other’s hand.
Little did either of them dream of the stern reality which was to
cement the boyish pledge so impulsively made. Little did any of those
young marksmen dream of the more trying test of their skill which
was so soon to come. Those who now hung their heads with shame were
destined to lift them with a proud consciousness of duty well done in
the savage warfare so soon to carry terror to their New England homes.