_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
civilized 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 wos. I put six balls in that bar's carcass, and stuck my knife
into its heart ten times, afore it gave out; an' it nearly ripped the
shirt off my back afore I wos 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
settlement. 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 can-not 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--leastways
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 agonized 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, "ye're 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.