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