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sent, 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 stepp
ed 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 he stepped out,
tolerably appropriate. “Here comes
the corn-stock and the sucker!’ 1 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, Mealy,” said
one.
“Yes, a blamed good shot!” said a
second.
“Well done, Meal!” said a third.
I was rejoiced when one of the com
pany inquired, “Where is it?” For I
could hardly believe that they were
founding these remarks upon the evi
dence of their senses.
“Just on the right-hand side 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 pa
per. Their report, however, was true;
so much keener is the vision of a prac
ticed than an unpracticed eye.
The next in order was Hiram Baugh.
Hiram was like some race-horses that
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 b’lieve my racket. My pow
der are not good powder, gentlemen; I
bought it thum (from) Zeb Daggett,
and gin him three quarters of a dol
lar 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 pa
per, or comes mighty near it.”
“Well, blaze away,” said Mealy,
“and be d —d to you, and Zeb Daggett,
and your powder, and Buck killer, and
your powder horn and shot pouch to
boot! How long you gwine stand
there 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 seem
ing to look, at the target. “Buck kil
ler made a clear racket. Where am
I, gentlemen?”
“You are just between Mealy and
the diamond,” was the reply.
“I said I’d eat paper, and I’ve done
it; haven’t I gentlemen?”
“And ’spose you have!” said Mealy,
“What does that amount to? You’ll
not 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
the devil an’t able to beat Meal ’Cot
ton! I don’ make no pretense of bein’
nothin’ great, no how; but you always
makes out as if you was gwine to
keep ’em makin’ crosses for you con
stant, and then do nothin’ but 'eat
paper' at last; an’ that’s a long way
from eatin’ beef, ’cordin’ to Meal ’Cot
ton’s notions, as you call him.”
Simon Stow was now called on.
“Oh Lord!” exclaimed two or three:
"Now we have it. It will take him
as long to shoot as it would ’Squire
Dobbins to run round a track o’ land.”
“Good bye, boys,” said Bob Martin.
“Where are you goin’, Bob?”
“Goin’ 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 the rifle
with equal caution, shoved in 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 over carefully, selected
one without a flaw, or wrinkle, drew
out his patching, found the most even
part of it, sprung open the grease
box in the breech of his rifle, took up
just as much grease, distributed it
with great equality over the chosen
part of his patching, laid it over the
muzzle of his gun, grease side down,
placed his ball upon it, pressed in a
little, then took it up, turned the neck
a little more perpendicularly down
ward, placed his knife handle upon 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, meas
ured the contents of his gun with his
first and second fingers on the pro
truding part of the ramrod, shook his
head again to signify 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 place, got a friend to hold his
hat over the foresight to shade it, took
a very long sight, fired, and didn’t even
eat the paper.
“My piece was badly loaded,” said
Simon, when he learned the place of
his ball.
“Oh, you didn’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 singular fact
that, though probably no part of the
world is more healthful than the moun
tainous parts of Georgia, the mountain
eers have not generally robust frames
or fine compelxions; they are, howev
er, almost inexhausitble by toil.
Moses kept us not long in suspense.
His rifle was already charged, and he
fired it upon the target with a steadi
ness of nerve and aim that was as
tonishing to me, and alarming to aU
the rest. A few seconds, and the re
port of his rifle broke the deathlike
silence that prevailed.
“No great harm done yet,” said
Spivey, manifestly relieved from anx
iety by an event which seemed to me
to be better calculated to produce de
spair. Firmby’s ball had cut out the
lower angle of the diamond, directly
on the right line with the cross.
Three or four followed him without
bettering his shot; all of whom, how
ever, with one exception “eat the pa
per.”
It now came to Spivey’s turn. There
was nothing remarkable in his person
or manner. He took his place, low
ered his rifle slowly from a perpen
dicular until It came on a line with
the mark, held it there like a vice for
a moment, and fired.
“Pretty sevigrous, but nothing kill
ed 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; beat
ing Firmby about half its width.
A few more shots in which there
was nothing remarkable, brought ns
TfiE WEEKLY JEFFERSONIAN.
to Billy Curlew. Billy stepped out
with much confidence, and brougnt
the soap stick to an order, while he
deliberately rolled up his shirt sleeves.
Had I judged of Billy’s chance for
success from 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
a poor apology for its clumsy appear
ance. An augur hole in the breech
served for a grease box; a cotton
string assisted a single screw in hold
ing on the block; 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 coming and she’ll be along in
there among them presently.”
Billy now planted himself astraddle,
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 his old
Soap stick, and fixed her upon the
mark with untrembling hand. His
sight was long, and the swelling mus
cles of his left hand, led me to be
lieve that he was lessening his chance
of success with every second that he
kept it burdened with his ponderous
rifle; but it neither flagged, nor wa
vered, until Soap stick made her re
port.
“Where am I?” said Billy, as the
smoke rose from before his eye.
“Youv’e jist 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
was a baby.”
I begged to reserve my shot until 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 per
sonage than Mealy Whitecotton, whom
chance seemed to favor 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
all 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 undefaced parts of the once
intersecting lines, by means of which
the original position of the cross is
precisely ascertained. Each bullethole
being nicely pegged up as it is made,
it is easy to ascertain its circumfer
ence. 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 center of the bullet hole. To
make a draw shot, therefore, between
two who drive the cross, it is necessa
ry that the center 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
(Continued on page 10.)
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