Читать книгу The Long Rifle - Stewart Edward White - Страница 18

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The Squire’s command to proceed with the next stage of the Great Match was delayed in obedience to a storm of vigorous protest on the part of Detrick, backed by his fellow craftsmen, who demanded that this new-fangled contraption be excluded from competition. The basis of the protest seemed to be a vague “unfairness.” But the Squire, grinning in relish over the situation, brushed this aside.

“Nay, my masters,” he observed, with fundamental common sense, “I see nought of unfairness here. This is a contest of rifles; and while this new piece of Master Farrell’s is of unusual appearance, and most certainly of unusual performance—and I confess myself curious to examine it further—it is most indubitably a rifle. Continue.”

In the course of the subsequent proceedings the crowd fell from its vociferous excitement to a low buzz of attention that, strangely enough, seemed to have in its elements a strong compound of something curiously like awe. Or perhaps not so strangely. Possibly they felt across the occasion the shadow of greatness; realizing dimly in the instinctive parts of themselves that they assisted at one of those significant events that turn the currents of history. As why not? For in the chronicles of their country the patched ball and the grooved barrel were to play a great part and the sharp crack of the American rifle was destined to call them into far places.

The matches that succeeded were in no true sense contests, and need not here be described in what would prove wearisome detail. In the peg match each man fired five shots at seventy-five yards. Pegs were inserted in the bullet holes, and around the outside a string was stretched. He who had the shortest string was pronounced the winner. Of the others, the man Dall turned in one of nine and five eighths inches, which was commented upon as close to a record; but Don’s measured but a scant five, and one shot a trifle out.^[1] And even in the loading contest, which was a matter of speed and personal dexterity, the patched ball so advantaged Farrell’s arm that Don reported ready in the astounding time of twenty seconds,^[2] which far outdid his nearest competitor.

It was a clean sweep, and nobody awaited the Squire’s formal announcement of the winner. The instant the Match had closed, the crowd swarmed about Farrell, eager to examine the new weapon, to hear the principles of its miraculous precision. The marksman, Dall, was the first to get his hands upon it, turning it over and over, his shrewd expert’s eye noting its features, his ear cocked to Farrell’s explanations.

“You must e’en make me one of these, Master Farrell,” said he at the last. “I bespeak one now.”

“And I!” “And I!” interposed several others.

It was the little gunmaker’s great moment. He was the center of all attention, speaking his piece over and over again to changing audiences who listened to him with the keen and intelligent attention that men would now bestow on the impossible him who might suddenly bring forth a club that could never fail of a three-hundred-yard drive. Detrick and his fellow artisans stood apart in a disgruntlement that tried unsuccessfully for an air of disdain. Don, also apart, received likewise his share, though lesser, of the attention. Men’s eagerest interest centered for the moment—and practically so—more on the possibilities of the new weapon for themselves than on the feats they had witnessed. A few praised his marksmanship; but most pressed him for his impressions of the rifle; its trigger pull, its sights, its powder charge and the weight of the ball, and the secrets of its loading. The young man replied as best he could, but always in modest repudiation of his own part.

“Nay, sirs,” he insisted, “ye must award the day to Master Farrell, not to me. For these others be noted marksmen, as you well know; and with this same rifle any one of them, or indeed any other man who is skilled to hold a piece, could have done as well, or better.”

But at last the concourse began to thin. The sun was low and the air was cooling. Long flights of crows crossed the redness of the skies. Negroes and other servants were collecting together the various gear that had been used for the different purposes and were piling it in a wagon. Lines of men streamed across the fields toward the tavern’s cheer. Here and there in the village shone lights in windows.

Farrell, freed at last, joined his guest, and the two turned toward home. The little gunmaker was still so excited that he fairly babbled. The young man strode silently at his side, listening.

“Did ye note their glum faces, lad!” cried Farrell. “And did ye see how their own very champions left them apart to come to me! And did you remark how each of them jumped to possess one of my rifles: nay, and gave order for them on the spot! I must hasten to write down their names, so that I shall not disappoint them! And,” the old man chuckled triumphantly, “the matter that warms my heart the most is that now, will they, nill they, these stiff-necked obstinate fools must themselves make arms of my pattern—unless they would sell only to farmers and the like! That will grind their haughty souls. For, lad, you shall see, all the world shall now use the long grooved barrel and the patched ball; for the old style is past and gone, and ye shall soon see them only on the walls to be viewed by the curious, as one looks upon the arquebuses of ancient days!”

Which was in the main an excellent bit of soothsaying; though Master Farrell overlooked the asinine conservatism of government officialdom, or his prophetic eye would have seen the troops of otherwise progressive nations banging away with smooth-bore slugs a hundred years after.

But soon he turned his pæan of exultation.

“And you, lad!” he cried. “You were magnificent! Never have I seen any man who held so; and I have seen many of the best. You beat all records; as well I know, for I know them all.”

“Nay, suh,” repeated Don. “Any man who could hold a bar’l could have done the like. If so happed I beat records, as you say, it was because never on range before was fired a bar’l that shot so true.”

“That is so. Natheless I do maintain, and always shall, that none could have done as well. Some might have done its equal from a rest, but none in my knowledge could have done so offhand.”

The youth flushed with a pleasure he could not conceal.

“I am obleeged to you fo’ your good opinion, suh,” said he steadily. “And I am rejoiced if you deem I have been of service to you.”

“Richly do you deserve the prize!” cried Farrell.

“Anon?” queried Don.

“The prize, lad,” repeated the gunmaker. “Did you not realize it is yours?”

“Nay, suh. I but stood in your stead.”

“Mine is the gold medal of the craft. Nay, do not protest. It goes to you according to established rule.”

The young man stopped in his tracks.

“And what, suh,” he enquired with quiet humor, “should I do with a ‘great fat ox’? Drive it afore me on my journey?”

Farrell laughed appreciatively.

“I doubt not the matter may be compounded for a sum,” said he. “I will charge myself with that. And I shall insist you take the further sum I would have paid John Gladden. That is but just.”

“Why, suh,” said Don, “I will not gainsay you but this is a welcome surprise, for the thought had not occurred to me, and I admit my purse is but slender.”

“It is nought, nought!” cried Farrell. “And were it thrice as much I should still be in your debt; for were it not for this happy chance I would even yet be suffering scorn, and now I shall prosper greatly, for all men will desire a rifle of Farrell’s make, and——”

He in his turn stopped short in the illumination of a sudden idea. He thrust the rifle, which he had been carrying, into the young man’s hands.

“This is yours!” said he.

“Mine?” repeated Don, incredulously.

“Whose the better right? Nay, protest not; I shall not listen.”

A slow flush overspread the youth’s face; then drained away, leaving it almost pale.

“Gainsay me not!” commanded the gunmaker peremptorily. “I shall make scores, nay hundreds more; and all because of you.”

“I cannot refuse you, suh,” replied the young man in a low voice, “for I will confess that ever since I first pulled trigger at the Shooting my heart has been eaten with the desire for one such. But I know not how to tell you——”

“No need, lad; no need!” Farrell interrupted, his face glowing with pleasure. “And with it shall go molds for balls, and a horn thin as paper and——”

“Nay, suh, you overwhelm me!” expostulated Don. His head was up, and his eyes were far away. “I shall try to do it honor, suh,” said he slowly, “and I can see it is to stand me in good stead, for I shall take it with me over the mountains to the west, where even now I am preparing to go.”

“Over the mountains?”

“Into the land known as Kentucky, suh, where, save for John Finley, no man has trod.”

“And the work of my hands shall be carried into new and strange lands!” exulted the gunmaker. “And what could better befall, for itself is new and strange! And so shall I share in a great undertaking! And,” he cried, inspired, “so shall we name it, so that men forever shall speak of the Kentucky Rifle!” He reached his hand and took the weapon from the young man’s grasp. “See, right here, I shall set it down, in fair engraved letters, your name and mine together. That I shall do before you depart. But I know you only as Don. What is your surname?”

The young man looked a little embarrassed.

“No, suh, my name is not Don,” he confessed. “You misheard me; and I did not trouble to set you right.”

“Not Don? What is it then?” rejoined the other.

“Dan, suh,” said the young man. “Dan’l Boone.”

[1] These figures are actual measured records.

[2] Same as above.