Читать книгу The Long Rifle - Stewart Edward White - Страница 14

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By the time he had reached the Big Bend the day’s activities were well under way. Don sauntered here and there, surveying them gravely. Mostly he passed unnoticed, though here and there he was proffered a greeting from some spectator of yesterday’s fight, and twice he was invited boisterously to come up to the tables and take a drink as a stout lad! But he responded so gravely to the salutations and refused the invitations so firmly that they turned away from him without further thought.

The river grove and the meadow immediately adjacent were thronged. Many jostled about the tables in the bowers, breaking their morning’s fast or fortifying themselves with ale or spirits. Smaller and shifting groups hovered about certain peddlers who had laid out their wares. Others clustered talking politics or crops or religion, as was to be expected. Only a comparatively few partisans or acquaintances had as yet gravitated to where the rifles were already whanging away, and where hung the thin acrid fog of powder. It was to this point, however, that Don at once betook himself. He arrived just as one match had come to an end and the preparations for another were about to begin.

On a stool behind a table sat the man Don had yesterday heard called the Squire. The day was yet young and cool, and he wore still his green greatcoat with the many capes. Below the table stood a large basket filled with pine blocks split to about six inches square and the surfaces blackened by charring. These the Squire was engaged in passing out to would-be contestants in the next event, selling them at the rate of sixpence apiece. As but one shot could be fired at each block, some were buying three, four, or as many as five. Others, either because of the slenderness of their purses or confidence in their luck or ability, contented themselves with but one. Each, on receiving his targets, drew apart to mark them. This was done either by scribing deep crosslines with a knife, or by tacking on a bit of paper or tin. The marks on the crosslines rarely centered the block of wood, for while the prize money would go to the man whose ball struck nearest the exact middle, each placed his point of aim at the spot where experience had taught him the sight should be held to compensate for the error of his gun.

The range for this match was one hundred yards and each assumed what position and took what time he pleased. If a man missed clean, he cursed vividly or withdrew in sullen silence, leaving the untouched target to be retrieved by an attendant Negro, for sale and use again. If, under the bullet’s impact, the block spun from its position, he whooped and ran forward to reclaim it himself; and was on his return immediately surrounded, all eager to examine how near to center the ball had struck. When the last block had taken its chance, the best were submitted to the Squire’s measurement, which determined the winner. The latter was immediately presented with the cash prize, which was a goodly percentage of the sum resulting from the entrance fees, the remainder constituting a “Kitty” that went to the promotion fund of the enterprise. In this match nearly half the targets were hit: and the winning bullet was officially declared to have entered within two inches of center.

“What think ye of that?” exulted a spectator at Don’s elbow. “Is not that a good shooting?”

“Why, I think it very good,” agreed the young man, “and these men can stand with the best in any company.”

He turned away to where, from the right, came the sounds of occasional desultory firing. Here he found men engaged in shooting at a turkey loosely tethered at full two hundred yards. The entrance fee was also but a sixpence; and he who hit the turkey would take it away for his dinner; but the fact that the bird could continually move about within a short radius, combined with the additional fact that the range was beyond what approximate exactness the rifles of the day possessed, made of the investment no undue risk to the management.

That both contestants and bystanders realized fully the large part played by chance was fully evidenced by the atmosphere of hilarity. Men shouted facetious comments and advice, dissolved in yells of laughter as a sudden movement on the part of the distracted turkey avoided a lucky bullet. The rivals muttered curses or voiced humorous chagrin according to their various temperaments. One elderly man held his rifle at aim for a full two minutes, following with his sights in vain the erratic motions of the bird—at last lowering his arm tired with its long exertion.

“Consarn the pesky critter!” he shouted in exasperation. “Hold still, if you want to be killed!”

At last in desperation he loosed off anyhow, and a puff of dust far to the right elicited only a startled squawk.

The mark was attained after a deal of banging by a smooth-faced boy who raced excitedly to retrieve his prey, only to be greeted by a great shout of laughter as he returned with it.

“Hope you like dark meat!” “Never mind, bub, turkey hash is fine!”

The heavy bullet had smashed its way squarely through the middle of the breast.

Don shook his head.

“That’s a waste of good eatin’,” he remarked to one near him. “Whar I come from we just let the head stick out, and shoot at it—at a hundred ya’ds,” he added.

Another small and amused group attracted him further. Here he found two men with rifles, seated on the ground. One, his piece held in a knee and elbow rest, was painfully and patiently squinting at a cockerel tethered a scant fifty yards distant. The other, his rifle laid alongside him on the ground, smoked a pipe and watched. The rooster was a noble and iridescent specimen of his kind, a beautiful creature except for one blemish. What should have been an abundant and sweeping tail consisted of four scattered feathers only.

For some time the young visitor watched. Still the rifleman held his fire. Don was puzzled.

“Why delays he, suh,” he asked a bystander at last. “Shorely it is no great feat to kill the fowl at that range.”

His interlocutor, a middle-aged man of evidently the better class, chuckled.

“That is the last thing he wants to do,” he replied in a low and guarded voice.

“I do not understand, suh,” submitted Don.

“Why,” explained the other, “I see you are a stranger here. Know, then, that this is a private match between two very noted marksmen who are such rivals that I think they would very gladly use one another as targets in a duel. E’en last night at the tavern, and they in their cups, I think it might have come to blows, but the Squire, who is a rare wag at times, and hath ideas one would never suspect in so thick a noodle, bethought him of this. The terms are these: that each man in turn plucks with his bullet from the tail of that cockerel a feather. The one who shoots away the last feather wins the contest and the wager they have made. But he who by mischance slays the chicken not only loses the match, but must double the bet.”

The young man chuckled in his throat.

“Already,” continued the gentleman, “they have sat there three hours. Each has fired twice, and the cockerel still unscathed. They are like to be there all day. What think you of that?”

“Why,” rejoined the stranger, “I think it right good shootin’—and right good luck, suh, also.”

The colloquy was interrupted by the resounding boom of the heavy rifle. The chicken squawked and leaped convulsively to the end of its tether. A tail feather whirled aloft and floated gently to the earth. The marksman laid aside his piece with the deep sigh of relief from long tension.

“Yore turn,” he informed his rival curtly.

Beneath an arbor, and in charge of a young chap of about Don’s age, was located the official sales place for ammunition. Here were canisters of the best French powder, both of the very fine grain for priming the pan, and of the coarser grain for the charge in the barrel; and clear, beautifully shaped English flints, each guaranteed to be good for fifty shots; and frizzen pricks, plain or ornamental; and bars of lead; and twists of unspun flax for swabbing the bore. Besides these essentials were exhibits of other things, brought either for sale or as samples by which to order. Of the former were hand-forged traps; moccasins and shot pouches sewn and decorated by the women; tomahawks fashioned by blacksmiths; knives of various shapes and hardness of blade; powder horns scraped so thin that the grains of powder could be seen through their sides. This bazaar was a sort of company affair; and the young man in charge was paid by fees from whoever had matters to advertise or things to sell. Thus he was prepared to take orders for the products of any one of the half-dozen or so gunmakers of the neighborhood; or to accept for reboring worn-down or rusted barrels, and either to ream out the old bullet mold to fit the new size or to supply a new mold. Between other activities he demonstrated over and over a new invention for the kindling of fire. This was in appearance a sort of pistol, with a very small stock, a full-sized flintlock, and a barrel not over an inch long, but with a huge bore fully as wide. The young man stuffed into this barrel a tight wad of unspun flax, poured a little gunpowder into the pan, and pulled the trigger. From the muzzle he pulled the smouldering flax and blew it to a glow. He extolled this simple contraption highly as an immense improvement over the ordinary flint and steel; but he sold few. The thing was expensive; and citizens settled in houses rarely required to make new fire, for they took good care to bank their coals. As for the backwoods farmers, they plugged the touch hole of their rifles, placed the flax in the pans, and got the same result. If the plug did not fit tightly enough the maneuver might result not only in the desired fire, but also in a badly frightened family and a bullet among the pewter; but it worked.

Since it was by now approaching noon, Don next took his way to the refreshment bower, where, after careful inquiry of prices, he purchased a half-loaf of bread, a slice of cold venison, and a chunk of cheese. With these he retired to sit with his back against a post, unsheathed his knife, and set to with a hearty appetite. For several minutes, so busy was he with his meal, he did not overhear the conversation near him. Then he could not but become aware that the four very solid men who sat at the table above him were members of the same craft as his host. He could not see their faces, but the wide broadclothed backs presented to him were the very sign of pompous dignity. Their talk was technical and therefore interesting to the young man; and he did not scruple to listen, though rather idly, and off the surface of his attention. It had to do with the softness and the toughness of various charcoal irons as materials for barrels; and the relative merits of sugar or red maplewood for stocks; and the pros and cons as to whether it paid better to import Belgian-made locks entire—which they acknowledged to be excellent—or to make them at home, in which case a man knew what he had; and a rather sneering unanimity of opinion as to some visionary who had ideas as to the value of gain twist, which evidently had been suggested to him by specimens of early arquebuses.

“There is always a fool or so thinks he can improve upon the ripe wisdom of the craft,” remarked the broadest back contemptuously. “I have seen in my time a score such who would overturn the world.”

“And speaking of such, I see not Master Farrell’s sour face to-day,” observed another.

“I deem his absence no loss to the company,” pronounced broad-back. “I doubt not he mourns in private his champion’s fall.”

“How is that? What mean ye?” queried a third.

“Have ye not heard? Nay, but that is the choicest morsel of all.”

“I arrived but an hour since,” explained the other.

“Why,” began broad-back in the unctuous tones of one about to retail a cozy bit of gossip, “Master Farrell, I would have you know, had retained John Gladden to shoot for him in the great match.”

“Nay,” rejoined the other with asperity, “that I know but too well; for I had thought to engage him for myself.”

“Good fortune, then, attended you,” said broad-back: and paused relishingly for the question.

“Good fortune? How now?” it came.

“Why, that this John Gladden will not hold a piece to-day, nor yet for many days to come; and the reason is simple—that he cannot, on account that his arm is broken in two places.”

Don jerked back his head, his whole attention caught.

Broad-back chuckled.

“See ye not our good-man Farrell——” he was going on, when he felt his shoulder seized; and, turning in outraged dignity at the unmannerly assault, met two blazing blue eyes within a foot of his own.

“Broken, you say? How happed that?” cried their owner.

“How now, sirrah——” But broad-back broke off his indignation with a stare of recognition. “Meseems you should know that,” he chuckled. “For, if my eyes deceive me not, you are he who——”

But the young man was gone.