Chapter C: O N T E N T S (5)

Giles scratched his head and stared with wonder, but they never came back to give any account of themselves: he is certain although, that had he got through the incantation half a minute sooner, the hen would have been as safe as a thief in a mill. I have heard people say that he has still some expectation of their return, but I believe he has given up speculating in poultry. However, the memory of the story remains in those parts, and when a person does anything that shows uncommon wisdom, such as discovering that the Dutch have taken Holland, or that asses have ears, he is said to be akin to the witches, like Bob Lee’s hen.

XVI.
THE SHOOTING-MATCH.

Shooting-matches are probably nearly coeval with the colonization of Georgia. They are still common throughout the Southern States; though they are not as common as they were twenty-five or thirty years ago. I was travelling in one of the north-eastern counties, when I overtook a swarthy, bright-eyed, smirky little fellow, riding a small pony, and bearing on his shoulder a long, heavy rifle, which, judging from its looks, I should say had done service in Morgan’s corps.

“Good morning, Sir,” said I, reining up my horse, as I came beside him.

“How goes it, stranger?” said he, with a tone of independence and self-confidence that awakened my curiosity to know a little of his character.

“Going driving?” inquired I.

“Not exactly,” replied he, surveying my horse with a quizzical smile, “I haven’t been a-driving _by myself_ for a year or two, and my nose has got so bad lately I can’t carry a cold-trail _without hounds to help me_.”

Alone, and without hounds as he was, the question was rather a silly one; but it answered the purpose for which it was put, which was only to draw him into conversation, and I proceeded to make as decent a retreat as I could.

“I didn’t know,” I said, “but that you were going to meet the huntsmen, or going to your stand.”

“Ah, sure enough,” rejoined he, “that _mout_ be a bee, as the old woman said when she killed a wasp. It seems to me I ought to know you.”

“Well, if you _ought_ why _don’t_ you?”

“What _mout_ your name be?”

“It _might_ be anything,” said I, with borrowed wit; for I knew my man, and knew what kind of conversation would please him most.

“Well, what _is_ it then?”

“It _is_ Hall,” said I; “but, you know, it might as well have been anything else.”

“Pretty digging,” said he, “I find you’re not the fool I took you to be; so here’s to a better acquaintance with you.”

“With all my heart,” returned I; “but you must be as clever as I’ve been, and give me your name.”

“To be sure I will, my old ’coon; take it, take it, and welcome. Anything else about me you’d like to have?”

“No,” said I, “there’s nothing else about you worth having.”

“Oh yes, there is, stranger. Do you see this?” holding up his ponderous rifle with an ease that astonished me. “If you will go with me to the shooting-match, and see me knock out the _bull’s_-eye with her a few times, you’ll agree the old _soap-stick_’s worth something when Billy Curlew puts his shoulder to her.”

This short sentence was replete with information to me: it taught me that my companion was Billy Curlew; that he was going to a _shooting-match_; that he called his rifle the _soap-stick_; and that he was very confident of winning beef with her; or, which is nearly, but not quite the same thing—_driving the cross with her_.

“Well,” said I, “if the shooting-match is not too far out of my way, I’ll go to it with pleasure.”

“Unless your way lies through the woods from here,” said Billy, “it’ll not be much out of your way; for it’s only a mile a-head of us, and there’s no other road for you to take till you get there; and as that thing you’re riding in, ain’t well suited to fast travelling among bushy knobs, I reckon you won’t lose much by going by. I reckon you hardly ever was at a shooting-match, stranger, from the cut of your coat?”

“Oh yes,” returned I, “many a time. I won beef at one, when I was hardly old enough to hold a shot-gun off-hand.”

“Children don’t go to shooting-matches about here,” said he, with a smile of incredulity. “I never heard of but one that did, and he was a little _swinge-cat_. He was born a-shooting, and killed squirrels before he was weaned.”

“Nor did I ever hear of but one,” replied I, “and that one was myself.”

“And where did you win beef so young, stranger?”

“At Berry Adam’s.”

“Why stop, stranger, let me look at you. Good. Is your name Lyman Hall?”

“The very same,” said I.

“Well, dang my buttons, if you ain’t the very boy my daddy used to tell me about! I was too young to recollect you myself; but I’ve heard daddy talk about you many a-time. I believe mammy’s got a neck-handkerchief now that daddy won on your shooting at Collen Reid’s store, when you were hardly knee-high. Come along, Lyman, and I’ll go my death upon you at the shooting-match, with the old soap-stick at your shoulder.”

“Ah, Billy,” said I, “the old soap-stick will do much better at your own shoulder. It was my mother’s notion that sent me to the shooting-match at Berry Adam’s; and, to tell you the honest truth, it was altogether a chance shot that made me win beef; but that wasn’t generally known, and most everybody believed that I was carried there on account of my skill in shooting; and my fame was spread far and wide, I well remember.

“I remember, too, perfectly well your father’s bet on me at the store. He was at the shooting-match, and nothing could make him believe but that I was a great shot with a rifle, as well as a shot-gun. Bet he would on me, in spite of all I could say, though I assured him that I had never shot a rifle in my life. It so happened too, that there were but two bullets, or rather a bullet and a half; and so confident was your father in my skill that he made me shoot the half bullet, and strange to tell, by another chance shot I like to have drove the cross, and won his bet.”

“Now I know you’re the very chap; for I heard daddy tell the very thing about the half bullet. Don’t say anything about it, Lyman, and durn my old shoes if I don’t tear the lint off the boys with you at the shooting-match. They’ll never ’spect such a looking man as you are of knowing anything about a rifle. I’ll risk your _chance_ shot.”

I soon discovered that the father had eaten sour grapes, and the son’s teeth were on edge; for Billy was just as incorrigibly obstinate in his belief of my dexterity with a rifle, as his father had been before him.

We soon reached the place appointed for the shooting-match. It went by the name of Sims’ Cross Roads, because, from the time that the first had been laid out, Archibald Sims had resided there. Archibald had been a Justice of the Peace in his day (and where is the man of his age in Georgia who has not?), consequently, he was called Squire Sims. It is the custom in this state, when a man has once acquired a title, civil or military, to force it upon him as long as he lives; hence the countless number of titled personages who are introduced in these sketches.

We stopped at the Squire’s door. Billy hastily dismounted, gave me the shake of the hand which he had been reluctantly reserving for a mile back, and leading me to the Squire, thus introduced me:

“Uncle Archy, this is Lyman Hall; and for all you see him in these fine clothes he’s a _swinge_-cat—a darn sight cleverer fellow than he looks to be. Wait till you see him lift the old soap-stick, and draw a bead upon the bull’s-eye. You _gwine_ to see fun to-day? Don’t say nothing about it.”

“Well, Mr. Swinge-cat,” said the Squire, “here’s to a better acquaintance with you,” offering me his hand.

“How goes it, Uncle Archy?” said I, taking his hand warmly: for I’m always free and easy with those who are so with me, and in this course I rarely fail to please. “How’s the old woman?”

“Egad!” said the Squire, chuckling, “there you’re too hard for me; for she died two-and-twenty years ago, and I havn’t heard a word from her since!”

“What! and you never married again?”

“Well, that’s not my fault.”

“No, nor mine _ni_ther,” said I.

Here we were interrupted by the cry of another, Rancey Sniffle.

“Hello, here! All you as wish to put in for the shooting-match come on here! for the put’n in’s _riddy_ to begin.”

About sixty persons, including men spectators, had collected; and the most of them were more or less obedient to the call of Mealy Whitecotton—for that was the name of the self-constituted commander-in-chief. Some hastened and some loitered, as they desired to be first or last on the list; for they shoot in the order in which their names are entered.

The beef was not present, nor is it ever upon such occasions; but several of the company had seen it, who all concurred in the opinion that it was good beef, and well worth the price that was set upon it—eleven dollars. A general inquiry ran, in order to form some opinion as to the number of shots that would be taken; for, of course, the price of a shot is cheapened in proportion to the increase of that number. It was soon ascertained that not more than twenty persons would take chances; but these twenty agreed to take the number of shots at twenty-five cents each.

The competitors now began to give in their names; some for one, some for two, three, and a few for as many as four shots.

Billy Curlew hung back to the last, and when the list was offered to him, five lists remained undisposed of.

“How many shots left?” inquired Billy.

“Five,” was the reply.

“Well, I take them all. Put down four shots for me, and one to Lyman Hall, paid for by William Curlew.”

I was thunderstruck; not at his proposition to pay for my shot, because that Billy meant it as a token of friendship, and he would have been hurt if I had refused to let him do me this favour; but at the unexpected announcement of my name as a competitor for beef, at least one hundred miles from the place of my residence!

I was prepared for a challenge from Billy to some of his neighbours for a private match upon me, but not for this. I therefore protested against his putting in for me, and urged every reason to dissuade him from it that I could, without wounding his feelings.

“Put it down,” said Billy, with the authority of an emperor, and with a look that spoke volumes, intelligible to every bystander. “Reckon I don’t know what I’m about?” Then, wheeling off, and muttering in an under, self-confident tone: “Dang old Roper,” continued he, “if he don’t knock that cross to the north corner of creation, and back again, before a cat can lick her foot!”

Had I been king of the cat-tribe, they could not have regarded me with more curious attention than did the whole company, from this moment. Every inch of me was examined with the nicest scrutiny; and some plainly expressed, by their looks, that they never would have taken me for such a bite. I saw no alternative, but to throw myself upon a third chance-shot; for, though by the rules of sport I would have been allowed to shoot by proxy, by all the rules of good-breeding I was bound to shoot in person. It would have been unpardonable to disappoint the expectations which had been raised on me. Unfortunately too for me, the match differed, in one respect, from those which I had been in the habit of attending in my younger days. In olden-time, the contest was carried on chiefly with _shot-guns_, a generic term, which, in those days, embraced three descriptions of fire-arms: _Indian-traders_—a long, cheap, but sometimes excellent, kind of gun, that Mother Britain used to send hither for traffic with the Indians—the _large musket_, and the _shot-gun_, properly so-called.

Rifles were, however, always permitted to compete with them, under equitable restrictions. These were, that they should be fired off-hand, while the shot-guns were allowed a rest, the distance being equal; or that the distance should be one hundred yards for the rifle to sixty for the shot-gun, the mode of firing being equal.

But this was a match of rifles exclusively; and these are by far the most common at this time.

Most of the competitors fire at the same target, which is usually a board from nine inches to a foot wide, charred on one side as black as it can be made by fire, without impairing materially the uniformity of its surface; on the darkened side of which is pegged, a square piece of white paper, which is larger or smaller, according to the distance at which it is to be placed from the marksmen. This is almost invariably sixty yards, and for it the paper is reduced to about two and a half inches square. Out of the centre of it is cut a rhombus of about the width of an inch, measured diagonally—this is the bull’s-eye, or diamond, as the marksmen choose to call it; in the centre of this is the cross. But every man is permitted to fix his target to his own taste; and accordingly, some remove one fourth of the paper, cutting from the centre of the square to the two lower corners, so as to leave a large opening from the centre downwards; while others reduce the angle more or less; but it is rarely the case that all are not satisfied with one of these figures.

The beef is divided into five prizes, or as they are commonly termed, five _quarters_, the hide and tallow counting as one. For several years after the revolutionary war, a sixth was added; the _lead_ which was shot in the match. This was the prize of the sixth best shot; and it used to be carefully extracted from the board, or tree, in which it was lodged, and afterwards remoulded. But this grew out of the exigency of the times, and has, I believe, been long since abandoned everywhere.

The three master shots and rivals were Moses Firmby, Larkin Spivey, and Billy Curlew, to whom was added, upon this occasion, by common consent, and with awful forebodings—your humble servant.

The target was fixed at an elevation of about three feet from the ground; and the judges (Captain Turner and Squire Porter) took their stands by it, joined by about half the spectators.

The first name on the catalogue was Mealy Whitecotton. Mealy stept out, rifle in hand, and toed the mark. His rifle was about three inches longer than himself, and near enough his own thickness to make the remark of Darby Chisholm, as be stept out, tolerably appropriate.

“Here comes the corn-stack and the sucker!” said Darby.

“Kiss my foot!” said Mealy; “the way I’ll creep into that bull’s eye’s a fact.”

“You’d better creep into your hind sight,” said Darby.

Mealy raised and fired.

“A pretty good shot, Meal,” said one.

“Yes, a blamed good shot!” said a second.

“Well done, Meal!” said a third.

I was rejoiced when one of the company inquired, “Where is it?” for I could hardly believe they were founding these remarks upon the evidence of their senses.

“Just on the right hand of the bull’s-eye,” was the reply.

I looked with all the power of my eyes, but was unable to discover the least change in the surface of the paper. Their report, however, was true—so much keener is the vision of a practised than an unpractised eye.

The next in order was Hiram Baugh. Hiram was like some race-horses which I have seen—he was too good not to contend for every prize, and too good-for-nothing ever to win one.

“Gentlemen,” said he, as he came to the mark, “I don’t say that I’ll win beef; but if my piece don’t blow, I’ll eat the paper, or be mighty apt to do it, if you’ll believe my rocket. My powder are not good powder, gentlemen—I bought it _thum_ (from) Teb Dagget, and gin him three quarters of a dollar a pound for it; but it are not what I call good powder, gentlemen: but if old Buck-killer burns it clear, the boy you call Hiram Baugh eats paper or comes mighty near it.”

“Well, blaze away!” said Mealy. “And be hanged, you and Teb Dagget, and your powder and Buck-killer, and your powder-horn and shot-pouch to boot! How long you gwine stand thar talking ’fore you shoot?”

“Never mind,” said Hiram, “I can talk a little and shoot a little too; but that’s nothin’. Here goes!”

Hiram assumed the figure of a note of interrogation, took a long sight, and fired.

“I’ve eat paper,” said he, at the crack of the gun, without looking, or seeming to look towards the target. “Buck-killer made a clear rocket. Where am I, gentlemen?”

“You’re just between Mealy and the diamond,” was the reply.

“I said I’d eat paper, and I’ve done it, havn’t I, gentlemen?”

“And s’pose you have!” said Mealy, “what do that amount to? You’ll no’ win beef, and never did.”

“Be that as it mout be, I’ve beat Meal ’Cotton mighty easy; and the boy you call Hiram Baugh are able to do it.”

“And what do that ’mount to? Who ain’t able to beat Meal ’Cotton! I don’t make no pretence of being nothing great no how: but you always makes out as if you were gwine to keep ’em making crosses for you, constant; and then do nothin’ but eat paper at last; and that’s a long way from eating beef ’cording to Meal ’Cotton’s notions, as you call him!”

Simon Stow was now called for.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed two or three, “now we have it. It’ll take him as long to shoot as it would take Squire Dobbins to run a track o’land.”

“Good-bye, boys,” said Bob Martin.

“Where you going, Bob?”

“Going to gather in my crop. I’ll be back again though by the time Sime Stow shoots.”

Simon was used to all this, and therefore it did not disconcert him in the least. He went off, and brought his own target, and set it up with his own hand.

He then wiped out his rifle—rubbed the pan with his hat—drew a piece of tow through the touch-hole with his wiper—filled his charger with great care—poured the powder into his rifle with equal caution—shoved with his finger the two or three vagrant grains that lodged round the mouth of his piece—took out a handful of bullets—looked them all over carefully—selected one without flaw or wrinkle—drew out his patching—found the most even part of it—sprung upon the grease-box in the breech of his rifle, greased side down—placed his ball upon it—pressed it a little—then took it up and turned the neck a little more perpendicularly downward—placed his knife-handle on it—just buried it in the mouth of the rifle—cut off the redundant patching just above the bullet—looked at it and shook his head in token that he had cut off too much or too little, no one knew which—sent down the ball—measured the contents of his gun with his first and second fingers, on the protruding part of the ramrod—shook his head again to signify that there was too much or too little powder—primed carefully—placed an arched piece of tin over the hind sight to shade it—took his piece—got a friend to hold his hat over the foresight to shade it—took a very long sight—fired, and didn’t even eat paper.

“My piece was badly _load’nd_,” said Simon, when he heard the place of his ball.

“Oh, you don’t take time,” said Mealy. “No man can shoot that’s in such a hurry as you is. I’d hardly got to sleep ’fore I heard the crack o’ the gun.”

The next was Moses Firmby. He was a tall, slim man, of rather sallow complexion: and it is a very singular fact, that though probably no part of the world is more healthy than the mountainous regions of Georgia, the mountaineers have not generally robust forms or fine complexions: they are, however, almost inexhaustible by toil.

Moses kept us not long in suspense. His rifle was already charged, and he fixed it upon the target with a steadiness of nerve and aim that was astonishing to me and alarming to all the rest. A few seconds, and the report of his rifle broke the death-like silence which prevailed.

“No great harm done yet,” said Spivey, manifestly relieved from anxiety by an event which seemed to me better calculated to produce despair.

Firmby’s ball had cut the lower angle of the diamond, directly on a right line with the cross.

Three or four followed him without bettering his shot; all of whom, however, with one exception, “eat the paper.”

It now came to Spivey’s turn. There was nothing remarkable in his person or manner. He took his place, lowered his rifle slowly from a perpendicular, until it came on a line with the mark—held it there like a vise for a moment, and fired.

“Pretty _seoigrous_, but nothing killing yet,” said Billy Curlew, as he learned the place of Spivey’s ball.

Spivey’s ball had just broken the upper angle of the diamond, beating Firmby about half its width.

A few more shots, in which there was nothing remarkable, brought us to Billy Curlew. Billy stept out with much confidence, and brought the soap-stick to an order, while he deliberately rolled up his shirt sleeves. Had I judged Billy’s chance by the looks of his gun, I should have said it was hopeless. The stock of soap-stick seemed to have been made with a case-knife, and had it been, the tool would have been but a poor apology for its clumsy appearance.

An augur hole in the breech served for a grease-box, a cotton string assisted a single screw in holding on the lock, and the thimbles were made, one of brass, one of iron, and one of tin.

“Where’s Lark Spivey’s bullet?” called out Billy to the judges, as he finished rolling up his sleeves.

“About three quarters of an inch from the cross,” was the reply.

“Well, clear the way! the soap-stick’s a coming, and she’ll be along in there among ’em presently.”

Billy now planted himself a-straddle, like an inverted V, shot forward his left hip, drew his body back to an angle of about forty-five degrees with the plane of the horizon, brought his cheek down close to the breech of old soap-stick, and fixed her upon the mark with an untrembling hand. His sight was long, and the swelling muscles of his left arm led me to believe that he was lessening his chance of success with every half second that he kept it burdened with his ponderous rifle; but it neither flagged nor wavered until soap-stick made her report.

“Where am I?” said Billy, as the smoke rose from before his eye.

“You’ve just touched the cross on the lower side,” was the reply of one of the judges.

“I was afraid I was drawing my bead a _leetle_ too fine,” said Billy. “Now, Lyman, you see what the soap-stick can do. Take her, and show the boys how you used to do when you were a baby.”

I begged to reserve my shot to the last; pleading, rather sophistically, that it was, in point of fact, one of Billy’s shots. My plea was rather indulged than sustained; and the marksmen who had taken more than one shot commenced the second round. This round was a manifest improvement upon the first. The cross was driven three times, once by Spivey, once by Firmby, and once by no less a personage than Mealy Whitecotton, whom chance seemed to favour for this time, merely that he might retaliate upon Hiram Baugh; and the bull’s-eye was disfigured out of all shape.

The third and fourth rounds were shot. Billy discharged his last shot, which left the rights of parties thus; Billy Curlew first and fourth choice, Spivey second, Firmby third, and Whitecotton fifth. Some of my readers may be curious to learn how a distinction comes to be made between several, all of whom drive the cross. The distinction is perfectly natural and equitable. Threads are stretched from the uneffaced parts of the once interesting lines, by means of which the original position of the cross is precisely ascertained. Each bullet-hole being nicely pegged up as it is made, it is easy to ascertain its circumference. To this, I believe, they usually, if not invariably, measure where none of the balls touch the cross; but if the cross be driven, they measure from it to the centre of the bullet hole. To make a draw shot, therefore, between two who drive the cross, it is necessary that the centre of both balls should pass directly through the cross—a thing that very rarely happens.

The _bite_ alone remained to shoot. Billy wiped out his rifle carefully, loaded her to the top of his skill, and handed her to me.

“Now,” said he, “Lyman, draw a fine bead, but not too fine; for soap-stick bears up her ball well. Take care, and don’t touch the trigger until you’ve got your bead; for she’s spring-triggered, and goes mighty easy; but you hold her to the place you want her, and if she don’t go there, dang old Roper.”

I took old soap-stick, and lapsed immediately into the most hopeless despair. I’m sure I never handled as heavy a gun in all my life.

“Why, Billy,” said I, “you little mortal, you! what do you use such a gun as this, for?”

“Look at the bull’s-eye, yonder,” said he.

“True,” said I; “but I can’t shoot her—it is impossible.”

“Go ’long, you old coon,” said Billy; “I see what you’re at.” (Intimating that all this was merely to make the coming shot the more remarkable.) “Daddy’s little boy don’t shoot anything but the old soap-stick, here, to-day, I know.”

The judges, I knew, were becoming impatient, and, withal, my situation was growing more embarrassing every second; so I e’en resolved to try the soap-stick, without farther parley.

I stept out, and the most intense interest was excited all around me, and it flashed like electricity round the target, as I judged from the anxious gaze of all in that direction.

Policy dictated that I should fire with a falling rifle, and I adopted this mode, determining to fire as soon as the sights came on a line with the diamond, _bead_ or _no bead_. Accordingly, I commenced lowering old soap-stick; but, in spite of all my muscular powers, she was strictly obedient to the laws of gravitation, and came down with an uniformly accelerated velocity. Before I could arrest her downward flight, she had not only passed the target, but was making rapid encroachments on my own toes.

“Why, he’s the weakest man in the arms I ever seed,” said one, in a half whisper.

“It’s only his fun,” said Billy; “I know him.”

“It may be fun,” said the other, “but it looks mightily like yearnest to a man up a tree.”

I now, of course, determined to reverse the mode of firing, and put forth all my physical energies to raise soap-stick to the mark. The effort silenced Billy, and gave tongue to his companions. I had just strength enough to master soap-stick’s obstinate proclivity, and consequently my nerves began to exhibit palpable signs of distress with her first imperceptible movement upward.

A trembling commenced in my arms, increased and extended rapidly to my body and lower extremities, so that, by the time I brought soap-stick up to the mark, I was shaking from head to foot, exactly like a man under the continued action of a strong galvanic battery. In the meantime, my friends gave vent to their feelings freely.

“I swear, point blank,” said one, “that man can’t shoot.”

“He used to shoot well,” said another; “but can’t now, nor never could.”

“You better git away from ’bout that mark,” bawled a third; “for I’ll be d——d if Broadcloth don’t give some of you the dry gripes, if you stand too close there.”

“The stranger’s got the _Peedoddles_,” said a fourth, with humorous gravity.

“If he had bullets enough in his gun, he’d shoot a ring round the bull’s-eye, big as a spinning-well,” said a fifth.

As soon as I found that soap-stick was high enough (for I made no further use of the sights, than to ascertain this fact), I pulled the trigger, and off she went.

I have always found the most creditable way of relieving myself of derision, was to heighten it myself as much as possible. It is a good plan in all circles, but by far the best which can be adopted among the plain, rough farmers of the country. Accordingly, I brought old soap-stick to an order with an air of triumph, tipped Billy the wink, and observed:

“Now Billy’s your time to make your fortune. Bet ’em two to one that I’ve knocked out the cross.”

“No, I’ll be dod blamed if I do,” said Billy; “but I’ll bet you two to one that you ha’nt hit the plank.”

“Ah, Billy,” said I, “I was joking about betting, for I never bet, nor would I have you bet; indeed, I do not feel exactly right in shooting for beef, for it is a species of gaming, at last; but I’ll say this much, if that cross has not been knocked out, I’ll never shoot for beef again as long as I live.”

“By dod,” said Mealy Whitecotton, “you’ll lose no great things at that.”

“Well,” said I, “I reckon I know a little about wabbling. Is it possible, Billy, a man who shoots as well as you do, never practised shooting with the double wabble? It’s the greatest take in, in the world, when you learn to drive the cross with it. Another sort for getting bets upon, to the drop sight and single wabble; and the soap-stick’s the very yarn for it.”

“Tell you what, stranger,” said one; “you’re too hard for us all, here. We never _hearn_ o’ that sort o’ shoot’n in these parts.”

“Well,” returned I, “you’ve seen it now, and I’m the boy that can do it.”

The judges were now approaching with the target, and a singular combination of circumstances had kept all my party in utter ignorance of the result of my shot.

Those about the target had been prepared for a great shot from me; their expectations had received assurance from the courtesy which had been extended to me; and nothing had happened to disappoint them, but the single caution against the “dry gripes,” which was as likely to have been given in irony as in earnest; for my agonies under the weight of the soap-stick were either imperceptible to them, at the distance of sixty yards, or being visible, were taken as the flourishes of an expert, who wished to “astonish the natives.” The other party did not think the direction of my ball worth the trouble of a question; or if they did, my airs and harangues had put the thought to flight before it was delivered. Consequently, they were all transfixed with astonishment, when the judges presented the target to them, and gravely observed:

“It’s only second best, after all the fuss.”

“Second best!” exclaimed I, with uncontrollable transports.

The whole of my party rushed to the target, to have the evidence of their senses, before they would believe the report; but most marvellous fortune decreed that it should be true. Their incredulity and astonishment were most fortunate for me, for they blinded my hearers to the real feelings with which the exclamation was uttered, and allowed me sufficient time to prepare myself for making the best use of what I had said before, with a very different object.

“Second best!” reiterated I, with an air of despondency, as the company turned from the target to me; “second best, only! Here, Billy, my son, take the old soap-stick; she’s a good piece, but I’m getting too old and dim-sighted to shoot a rifle; especially with the drop sight and double wabbles.”

“Why, darn my buttons!” said Billy, with a look that baffles all description; “ain’t you _driv_ the cross!”

“Oh, driv the cross,” rejoined I, carelessly. “What’s that? Just look where my ball is! I do believe, in my soul, its centre is a quarter of an inch from the cross. I wanted to lay the centre of the bullet upon the cross, just as if you’d put it there with your fingers.”

Several received this palaver with a contemptuous, but very appropriate, curl of the nose; and Mealy Whitecotton offered to bet half-a-pint, “that I couldn’t do the like agin, with no sort of wabbles, he didn’t care what.”

But I had fortified myself on this quarter by my morality. A decided majority, however, were clearly of opinion that I was serious; and they regarded me as one of the wonders of the world. Billy increased the majority by now coming out fully with my history, as he had received it from his father; to which I listened, with quite as much astonishment as any other one of his hearers. He begged me to go home with him for the night, or, as he expressed it, “go home with him, and swap lies that night, and it shouldn’t cost me a cent;” the true reading of which is, that if I would go home with him, and give him the pleasure of an evening’s chat about old times, his house should be as free to me as my own. But I could not accept his hospitality, without retracing five or six miles of the road which I had already passed; and therefore I declined it.

“Well, if you won’t go, what must I tell the old woman for you? for she’ll be mighty glad to hear from the boy that won the silk-handkerchief for her; and I expect she’ll lick me for not bringing you home with me.”

“Tell her,” said I, “that I send her a quarter of beef, which I won as I did the handkerchief, by nothing in the world but mere good luck.”

“Hold your jaw, Lyman,” said Billy; “I ain’t a gwine to tell the old woman any such lies; for she’s a _rael_, reg’lar built Meth’dist.”

As I turned to depart—

“Stop a minute, stranger,” said one; then lowering his voice to a confidential, but strictly audible tone: “What are you offering for?” continued he.

I assured him I was not a candidate for anything—that I had accidentally fallen in with Billy Curlew, who begged me to come with him to the shooting-match; and as it lay right on my road, I had stopped.

“Oh,” said he, with a conciliatory nod, “if you’re up for anything, you needn’t be mealy-mouthed about it, ’fore us boys; for we’ll all go in for you here, up to the handle.”

“Yes,” said Billy, “dang old Roper, if we don’t go our deaths for you, no matter who offers. If ever you come out for anything, Lyman, just let the boys of Upper Hogthief know it, and they’ll go for you, to the hilt, against creation, tit or no tit, that’s _tatur_.”

I thanked him kindly, but repeated my assurances.

The reader will not suppose that the district took its name from the character of the inhabitants. In almost every county in the State, there is some spot or district which bears a contemptuous appellation, usually derived from local rivalship, or from a single accidental circumstance.

XVII.
THE HORSE SWAP.

During the session of the Superior Court, in the village of ——, about three weeks ago, when a number of people were collected in the principal street of the village, I observed a young man riding up and down the street, as I supposed, in a violent passion. He galloped this way, then that, and then the other. Spurred his horse to one group of citizens, then to another. Then dashed off at half speed, as if fleeing from danger; and suddenly checking his horse, returned—first in a pace, then in a trot, and then in a canter. While he was performing these various evolutions, he cursed, swore, whooped, screamed, and tossed himself in every attitude which man could assume on horseback. In short, he _cavorted_ most magnanimously (a term which, in our tongue, expresses all that I have described, and a little more), and seemed to be setting all creation at defiance.

As I like to see all that is passing, I determined to take a position a little nearer to him, and to ascertain, if possible, what it was that affected him so sensibly. Accordingly, I approached a crowd before which he had stopped for a moment, and examined it with the strictest scrutiny. But I could see nothing in it that seemed to have anything to do with the cavorter. Every man appeared to be in a good humour, and all minding their own business. Not one so much as noticed the principal figure. Still he went on. After a semicolon pause, which my appearance seemed to produce—for he eyed me closely as I approached—he fetched a whoop, and swore that “he could out-swap any live man, woman or child, that ever walked these hills, or that ever straddled horse-flesh since the days of old daddy Adam.”

“Stranger,” said he to me, “did you ever see the _Yallow Blossom_ from Jasper?”

“No,” said I “but I have often heard of him.”

“I’m the boy,” continued he; “perhaps a _leetle_—jist a _leetle_ of the best man, at a horse swap, that ever trod shoe-leather.”

I began to feel my situation a little awkward, when I was relieved by a man somewhat advanced in years, who stepped up and began to survey the “_Yallow Blossom’s_” horse with much apparent interest. This drew the rider’s attention, and he turned the conversation from me to the stranger.

“Well, my old ’coon,” said he, “do you want to swap _hosses_?”

“Why, I don’t know,” replied the stranger; “I believe I’ve got a beast I’d trade with you for that one, if you like him.”

“Well, fetch up your nag, my old cock; you’re jist the lark I wanted to get hold of. I am perhaps a _leetle_, jist a _leetle_, of the best man at a horse swap, that ever stole _cracklins_ out of his mammy’s fat-gourd. Where’s your _hoss_?”

“I’ll bring him presently; but I want to examine your horse a little.”

“Oh! look at him,” said the Blossom, alighting and hitting him a cut, “look at him. He’s the best piece of _hoss_ flesh in the thirteen united universal worlds. There’s no sort o’ mistake in little Bullet. He can pick up miles on his feet and fling ’em behind him as fast as the next man’s _hoss_, I don’t care where he comes from. And he can keep at it as long as the sun can shine without resting.”

During this harangue, little Bullet looked as if he understood it all, believed it, and was ready at any moment to verify it. He was a horse of goodly countenance, rather expressive of vigilance than fire; though an unnatural appearance of fierceness was thrown into it, by the loss of his ears, which had been cropped pretty close to his head. Nature had done but little for Bullet’s head and neck; but he managed, in a great measure, to hide their defects, by bowing perpetually. He had obviously suffered severely for corn; but if his ribs and hip bones had not disclosed the fact, _he_ never would have done it; for he was, in all respects, as cheerful and happy as if he commanded all the corn-cribs and fodder-stacks in Georgia. His height was about twelve hands; but as his shape partook somewhat of that of the giraffe, his haunches stood much lower. They were short, strait, peaked and concave. Bullet’s tail, however, made amends for all his defects. All that the artist could do to beautify it, had been done; and all that horse could do to compliment the artist, Bullet did. His tail was nicked in superior style, and exhibited the line of beauty in so many directions, that it could not fail to hit the most fastidious taste in some of them. From the root it dropped into a graceful festoon; then rose in a handsome curve; then resumed its first direction; and then mounted suddenly upwards like a cypress knee, to a perpendicular of about two and a half inches. The whole had a careless and bewitching inclination to the right.

Bullet obviously knew where his beauty lay, and took all occasions to display it to the best advantage. If a stick cracked, or if any one moved suddenly about him, or coughed, or hawked, or spoke a little louder than common, up went Bullet’s tail like lightning; and if the _going up_ did not please, the _coming down_ must of necessity, for it was as different from the other movement, as was its direction. The first, was a bold and rapid flight upward; usually to an angle of forty-five degrees. In this position he kept his interesting appendage, until he satisfied himself that nothing in particular was to be done; when he commenced dropping it by half inches, in second beats—then in tripple time—then faster and shorter, and faster and shorter still; until it finally died away imperceptibly into its natural position. If I might compare sights to sounds, I should say its _settling_ was more like the note of a locust than anything else in nature.

Either from native sprightliness of disposition, from uncontrollable activity, or from an unconquerable habit of removing flies by the stamping of the feet, Bullet never stood still; but always kept up a gentle fly-scaring movement of his limbs, which was peculiarly interesting.

“I tell you, man,” proceeded the Yellow Blossom, “he’s the best live hoss that ever trod the grit of Georgia. Bob Smart knows the hoss. Come here, Bob, and mount this hoss and show Bullet’s motions.”

Here, Bullet bristled up, and looked as if he had been hunting for Bob all day long, and had just found him. Bob sprang on his back.

“Boo-oo-oo!” said Bob, with a fluttering noise of the lips; and away went Bullet, as if in a quarter race, with all his beauties spread in handsome style.

“Now fetch him back,” said Blossom.

Bullet turned and came in pretty much as he went out.

“Now trot him by.”

Bullet reduced his tail to “_customary_”—sidled to the right and left airily, and exhibited at least three varieties of trot, in the short space of fifty yards.

“Make him pace!”

Bob commenced twitching the bridle and kicking at the same time. These inconsistent movements obviously (and most naturally) disconcerted Bullet; for it was impossible for him to learn, from them, whether he was to proceed or stand still. He started to trot—and was told that wouldn’t do. He attempted a canter—and was checked again. He stopt—and was urged to go on. Bullet now rushed into the wide field of experiment, and struck out a gait of his own, that completely turned the tables upon his rider, and certainly deserved a patent. It seemed to have derived its elements from the jig, the minuet, and the cotillon. If it was not a pace, it certainly had _pace_ in it; and no man would venture to call it any thing else; so it passed off to the satisfaction of the owner.

“Walk him!”

Bullet was now at home again; and he walked as if money was staked on him.

The stranger, whose name I afterwards learned was Peter Ketch, having examined Bullet to his heart’s content, ordered his son Neddy to go and bring up Kit. Neddy soon appeared upon Kit; a well-formed sorrel of the middle size, and in good order. His _tout ensemble_ threw Bullet entirely in the shade; though a glance was sufficient to satisfy any one, that Bullet had the decided advantage of him in point of intellect.

“Why man,” said Blossom, “do you bring such a hoss as that to trade for Bullet? Oh, I see you’re no notion of trading.”

“Ride him off, Neddy!” said Peter.

Kit put off at a handsome lope.

“Trot him back!”

Kit came in at a long, sweeping trot, and stopt suddenly at the crowd.

“Well,” said Blossom, “let me look at him; maybe he’ll do to plough.”

“Examine him!” said Peter, taking hold of the bridle close to the mouth. “He’s nothing but a tacky. He an’t as _pretty_ a horse as Bullet, I know; but he’ll do. Start ’em together for a hundred and fifty _mile_; and if Kit an’t twenty mile ahead of him at the coming out, any man may take Kit for nothing. But he’s a monstrous mean horse, gentlemen; any man may see that. He’s the scariest horse, too, you ever saw. He won’t do to hunt on, no how. Stranger, will you let Neddy have your rifle to shoot off him? Lay the rifle between his ears, Neddy, and shoot at the blaze in that stump. Tell me when his head is high enough.”

Ned fired, and hit the blaze: and Kit did not move a hair’s breadth.

“Neddy, take a couple of sticks and beat on that hogshead at Kit’s tail.”

Ned made a tremendous rattling; at which Bullet took fright, broke his bridle and dashed off in grand style; and would have stopt all farther negociations, by going home in disgust, had not a traveller arrested him and brought him back: but Kit did not move.

“I tell you, gentlemen,” continued Peter, “he’s the scariest horse you ever saw. He an’t as gentle as Bullet; but he won’t do any harm if you watch him. Shall I put him in a cart, gig, or wagon for you, stranger? He’ll cut the same capers there he does here. He’s a monstrous mean horse.”

During all this time, Blossom was examining him with the nicest scrutiny. Having examined his frame and limbs, he now looked at his eyes.

“He’s got a curious look out of his eyes,” said Blossom.

“Oh yes, Sir,” said Peter, “just as blind as a bat. Blind horses always have clear eyes. Make a motion at his eyes, if you please, Sir.”

Blossom did so, and Kit threw up his head rather as if something pricked him under the chin, than as if fearing a blow. Blossom repeated the experiment, and Kit jirked back with considerable astonishment.

“Stone blind, you see, gentlemen,” proceeded Peter; “but he’s just as good to travel of a dark night as if he had eyes.”

“Blame my buttons,” said Blossom, “if I like them eyes.”

“No,” said Peter, “nor I either. I’d rather have ’em made of diamonds; but they’ll do, if they don’t show as much white as Bullet’s.”

“Well,” said Blossom, “make a pass at me.”

“No,” said Peter; “you made the banter, now make your pass.”

“Well, I’m never afraid to price my hosses. You must give me twenty-five dollars boot.”

“Oh certainly; say fifty, and my saddle and bridle in. Here, Neddy, my son, take away daddy’s horse.”

“Well,” said Blossom, “I’ve made my pass, now you make yours.”

“I’m for short talk in a horse swap; and therefore always tell a gentleman, at once, what I mean to do. You must give me ten dollars.”

Blossom swore absolutely, roundly, and profanely, that he never would give boot.

“Well,” said Peter, “I didn’t care about trading; but you cut such high shines that I thought I’d like to back you out; and I’ve done it. Gentlemen, you see I’ve brought him to a hack.”

“Come, old man,” said Blossom, “I’ve been joking with you. I begin to think you do want to trade; therefore give me five dollars and take Bullet. I’d rather lose ten dollars, any time, than not make a trade; though I hate to fling away a good hoss.”

“Well,” said Peter, “I’ll be as clever as you are. Just put the five dollars on Bullet’s back and hand him over, it’s a trade.”

Blossom swore again, as roundly as before, that he would not give boot; and, said he:

“Bullet wouldn’t hold five dollars on his back no how. But as I bantered you, if you say an even swap, here’s at you.”

“I told you,” said Peter, “I’d be as clever as you; therefore, here goes two dollars more, just for trade sake. Give me three dollars, and it’s a bargain.”

Blossom repeated his former assertion; and here the parties stood for a long time, and the by-standers (for many were now collected,) began to taunt both parties. After some time, however, it was pretty unanimously decided that the old man had backed Blossom out.

At length Blossom swore he “never would be backed out, for three dollars, after bantering a man;” and accordingly they closed the trade.

“Now,” said Blossom, as he handed Peter the three dollars, “I’m a man, that when he makes a bad trade, makes the most of it until he can make a better. I’m for no rues and after-claps.”

“That’s just my way,” said Peter; “I never goes to law to mend my bargains.”

“Ah, you’re the kind of boy I love to trade with. Here’s your hoss, old man. Take the saddle and bridle off him, and I’ll strip yours; but lift up the blanket easy from Bullet’s back, for he’s a mighty tender-backed hoss.”

The old man removed the saddle, but the blanket stuck fast. He attempted to raise it, and Bullet bowed himself, switched his tail, danced a little, and gave signs of biting.

“Don’t hurt him, old man,” said Blossom archly; “take it off easy. I am, perhaps, a leetle of the best man at a horse-swap that ever catched a ’coon.”

Peter continued to pull at the blanket more and more roughly; and Bullet became more and more _cavortish_: in so much, that when the blanket came off, he had reached the _kicking_ point in good earnest.

The removal of the blanket, disclosed a sore on Bullet’s back-bone, that seemed to have defied all medical skill. It measured six full inches in length, and four in breadth; and had as many features as Bullet had motions. My heart sickened at the sight; and I felt that the brute who had been riding him in that situation, deserved the halter.

The prevailing feeling, however, was that of mirth. The laugh became loud and general, at the old man’s expense; and rustic witticisms were liberally bestowed upon him and his late purchase. These, Blossom continued to provoke by various remarks. He asked the old man, “if he thought Bullet would let five dollars lie on his back.” He declared most seriously, that he had owned that horse three months, and had never discovered before that he had a sore back, “or he never should have thought of trading him,” &c. &c.

The old man bore it all with the most philosophic composure. He evinced no astonishment at his late discovery, and made no replies. But his son, Neddy, had not disciplined his feelings quite so well. His eyes opened wider and wider, from the first to the last pull of the blanket; and when the whole sore burst upon his view, astonishment and fright seemed to contend for the mastery of his countenance. As the blanket disappeared he stuck his hands in his breeches pockets, heaved a deep sigh, and lapsed into a profound reverie; from which he was only roused by the cuts at his father. He bore them as long as he could; and when he could contain himself no longer, he began with a certain wildness of expression, which gave a peculiar interest to what he uttered:

“His buck’s mighty bad off, but ded drot my soal if he’s put it to daddy as bad as he thinks he has, for old Kit’s both blind and _deef_, I’ll be ded drot if he eint.”

“The devil he is,” said Blossom.

“Yes, ded drot my soal if he _eint_. You walk him and see if he _eint_. His eyes don’t look like it; but he _jist as live go agin_ the horse with you, or in a ditch, as anyhow. Now you go try him.”

The laugh was now turned on Blossom; and many rushed to test the fidelity of the little boy’s report. A few experiments established its truth, beyond controversy.