Читать книгу The Long Rifle - Stewart Edward White - Страница 16

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At the Bend all firing had ceased. Even the two men still patiently engaged in plucking with their bullets the cockerel’s tail had been ordered to desist; and that demoralized fowl was enjoying a respite and the continued possession of two widely separated feathers. The concourse, which now numbered almost every available human being, was held back of a designated line by men whose official position was advertised by a white handkerchief bound about the left arm. The open space in front was occupied only by the table at which still sat the Squire, flanked by two assistants. But even as Farrell and his guest—the former somewhat out of breath—reached the outskirts, one of the assistants arose and cried out a name in a great bull voice that could have been heard in the village street. A man, whom Don recognized as broad-back, pushed forward; at his elbow a small unobtrusive fellow chewing tobacco nonchalantly and carrying a rifle which, even from a distance, could plainly be distinguished as brand-new and of fine workmanship. The two took their places to the left of the table.

“We are but just in time,” observed Farrell, removing his hat and mopping his brow. “They call the contestants. That is Master Detrick, the gunmaker from Lancaster, and the small man with him is Mark Dall who will fire for him.”

But now the announcer was calling other names; and other men were coming forward in response. Unlike the more impromptu and lesser matches of the earlier part of the day, the entries for this Great Match had been all made and paid for and closed the day previous: and there remained now but the formality of reading the entrants from the list. So it went until fourteen men had taken their places, of whom five were gunmakers standing only in the rôle of sponsors, five their hired champions, and the other four free lances competing on their own for their chance at the “great fat ox” and the snap haunce gun and the glory. Then the announcer sat down.

“How now! How now!” cried Farrell, breaking through the cordon. “Find ye not my name on your list?”

The Squire slowly turned his great bulk to survey the speaker.

“And is it you, Master Farrell!” he exclaimed in surprise. He turned his eyes toward Detrick. “But of a certain it is here, and you are welcome.”

“Then why was I not called?” indignantly demanded the gunmaker.

“We were informed,” said the Squire slowly, “that you had withdrawn.” He continued to stare at Detrick, until the latter stirred uneasily and muttered:

“It is known to all that John Gladden lies abed and——”

“You take much upon yourself, sir!” interrupted Farrell, hotly.

“Peace, gentlemen!” commanded the Squire with authority, “Your name is here, Master Farrell. You will yourself shoot your match?”

“Nay, I have a man for that.”

“His name?”

“Don—nay, I know not the rest. Where is the pesky lad?” Farrell searched vainly with his eyes in the shifting crowd.

“Put him down as Master Don,” the Squire told the recorder. “Time passes. Your man fires last,” he instructed Farrell. “See that he is here.”

The first test was at one hundred yards. The targets were the six-inch wooden blocks already described. The number of shots, five. Each man was to fire once in rotation until the tally was complete.

Detrick’s champion was called upon. The little man, still chewing his tobacco, stepped calmly forward. His piece was already charged, so all he had to do by way of preparation was to shake the priming powder into the pan. Any position was allowed, so Dall disposed himself deliberately with muzzle and elbow rest, aimed carefully for what seemed a very long time, and fired. His block spun backward as the heavy bullet smashed into it. Dall arose deliberately and withdrew to the background, where he at once set about an elaborate cleaning of his piece. One by one the other contestants took their turn. The majority followed his example in selecting the muzzle and elbow rest as the most certain; though one man lay prone; and one other sat, his elbows clamped between his knees. Of the nine, seven registered hits; and a murmur of admiration swept the spectators, for this was marvelous percentage. The location of the hits would not be determined until later; which delay enhanced the dramatic suspence.

“Master Don, firing for Master Farrell,” called the announcer.

Farrell slapped the young man on the back and pushed him forward.

“God be with ye, lad,” he muttered.

He was shifting from one foot to the other nervously, and he was breathing sharply; but Don seemed unconcerned. He walked forward to the mark carrying the long rifle at trail, woodsman fashion. A wave of excited comment rose. Men’s interest was caught by the strange appearance of the new weapon.

“Look at the length of that bar’l,” they murmured to one another. “What think you is in the hinged boxes in the butt?” “Flints,” suggested another.

Farrell suppressed a cry of anguish, for Don, instead of disposing himself in any one of the several positions that afforded a steadying rest, had squared to his shot standing upright on his two feet. And barely, it seemed, had the muzzle reached the level when, without perceptible pause for aim, as it seemed, the piece was discharged.

The excited babel was now full-voiced, for there was much to say.

“Don’t you suppose the damn fool knows he don’t have to shoot offhand?” “He didn’t hardly take no aim at all!” “Must have a ha’r trigger and she went off on him accidental,” surmised one sagely. And everybody commented on the salient phenomenon of the whole performance; the sharp whip-like crack of the discharge, in arresting contrast to the full roar of the other rifles. The fact that the block of wood had been struck was unremarked, unimportant, dismissed as a lucky accident that could not recur in the same conditions.

“Lad! Lad!” agonized Farrell, as the young man returned to his side. “Be not so hasty and so rash! Get ye a steady rest, and assure your aim better!”

Don dropped the butt of the long rifle to the ground and prepared to reload.

“Nay, suh,” he returned tranquilly. “I have never la’rned these fancy tricks. I must e’en do as I may; and my schooling has been in the forests. An I dwell upon my aim or seek a spot whereon to rest my piece I am like to lose either my dinner or my scalp.”

“Think you can hit the mark again?” asked Farrell anxiously.

“That we shall see in good time,” replied Don. “But this I will say.” His grave face lighted for an instant with a rare enthusiasm. “Never have I held a piece so sweet to the hand; never have I pulled trigger so smooth to the touch; never have I looked across sights so clear to the eye. And if the ball speeds as true as the rifle holds, why, then, suh, without wishin’ to boast, I may say that I will knock over those bits of wood as long as men will cut ’em fo’ me!”

Suddenly he lapsed into an embarrassed silence.

“I babble overmuch,” he muttered; and went on loading.

The second round proceeded with no more than the usual cries of encouragement and comment. But when the young stranger again methodically took his place, and with the same absence of delay proceeded to spin his second block of wood from its resting place, the noise rose to a pandemonium, and the guards found difficulty in holding back the surge of the crowd.

Farrell was hopping about with joy; and the young man himself showed symptoms of excitement. But it was the excitement of a growing interest and enthusiasm, not of nervousness, against which now his patron was frantically urging him to beware. At last Don stopped him with a good-humored laugh.

“I will do my possible, suh,” he reassured the old man. “And I think you need not be afeard, for yore billets carry neither arrows nor fusees, nor are they like to run away.”

The five rounds finished at last and in an excitement that constantly grew, for never had the like been seen before. Men told one another that they were present at the greatest shooting match ever known. All records had gone by the board. For of the fifty shots delivered, thirty-seven had found the mark, which in itself was enough to make history. And of the thirty-seven hits, five must be accredited to the young stranger! He had not once missed!

This alone was sufficient to set men’s tongues clacking with amazement. But still remained the decision; for the award must go to him whose ball had struck closest to dead center, and all awaited the announcement from the table on which the attendant Negro had piled the basketful of billets he had gathered up. Each had been marked with the name of its owner, of course, and the Squire and his assistants sorted them out and laid them aside for examination, and the contestants and their sponsors gathered close about, awaiting his verdict. At last the Squire looked up, and his broad face was amazed.

“Gentlemen,” said he, holding up one of the blocks, and it could be seen that the ball had cut almost into the cross itself, “Here is the winning shot, and a good one it is. But, gentlemen, here are the others that come nearest.” He exhibited one after the other four other targets, and of them all the farthest ball had centered not over three inches from perfection. “That is good shooting; each one of these is worthy of a prize, for never in the long years of my life have I seen the like!” He slowly arose to his full height, and his rubicund face was overspread with an emotion that was close to awe. “And this I must tell you, that these balls, one and all, were delivered by the same hand!” His face broke into a broad grin as he turned to Farrell. “Methinks,” said he, “fate did you a shrewd good turn that this young man stood for you in the stead of Gladden. As for you, my lad, you shoot as well as you fight—or you fight as well as you shoot, I know not how to say it.”

“It is the rifle,” stated Don modestly. “Never was piece made that shot so true.”

“A man cannot win at cards without an ace,” agreed the Squire. “And of the rifle, more anon; for I confess myself curious to examine it. Natheless the holding was better than I have seen. But to your places, gentlemen. It waxeth toward evening, and we must finish. Announcer, call the list for the peg shot.”