Rancho Del Muerto and Other Stories of Adventure from «Outing» by Various Authors. Various
no opportunity of examining his riddled quarry.
“Why, how is this?” exclaimed he. “Oh, I remember; the other side was toward me.”
We went around to the other side. Had the doe died of fright? After much searching we found one bullet hole just behind the shoulder. Blount always put four extra bullets into his load. So he had showered down forty buckshot upon a doe lying in her bed at a distance of twenty feet and struck her with one.
“I say, Jack, for the Lord’s sake don’t tell the boys!”
After these two days our luck improved, and at the end of the hunt our score reached seventy-eight; the smallest number, by the way, that the club had ever killed. It would hardly be interesting to go into the details of each day’s sport, but our hero’s adventures one night seem worth recording. To this joyous and indefatigable spirit the day was all too short. No sooner had he eaten his supper each day than he began to importune the younger men of the party to join him in a “fire hunt;” but, as they were not Blounts, they felt that a long day in the saddle was enough. In his despair Blount turned to Beverly. That amiable creature, not knowing how to refuse the request of a white gentmun, assented, but with a quaking heart, for were not the surrounding forests swarming with ravenous wolves? He had often lain awake and listened complacently enough to their howling, but to trust, to thrust, himself wantonly among them at dead of night!
“Wid nobody along but Marse Billy Blount, an’ he couldn’t hit nothin’, even by daylight, onless dey asleep. He hear ‘em say wolf ‘fraid o’ fire. Maybe he is. But lights draws dem wild varmints, an’ ‘sposin’ arter a whole congregation un ‘em done come up starin’ at de light; ‘sposin’ somehow or nuther de torch got out – whar Beverly den? Marse Billy got de gun; but whar Beverly? Ain’t I hear people say wolf more ambitiouser for nig-gar dan for sheep meat? Howsomever, ef my own mahster willin’ to resk losin’ of me, I can stand it, I reckon. But Tom, ef you should wake up, and hear something coming through de bresh like a drove o’ steers, you needn’t ax what dat; it’s me and de wolves a-makin’ for camp; an’ me in the lead, wid de help o’ de Laud.” Sitting in front of the blazing logs and chatting with his fellow cooks, Beverly could see the humor of his quite real fears.
Behold, then, the burly knight and his dusky and not over-valiant squire setting forth in quest of adventure – the one mounted on his tall gray, the other astraddle of Ned. It appears incredible that any man in his senses would take two such ani-malson such an expedition, but there never was but one Blount. Beverly carried the gun, his chief the torch, consisting of “lightwood” knots blazing in the bowl of a long-handled frying pan. The handle, resting on the right shoulder, was held somewhat depressed, so that the light should shine above the head of the huntsman, illumining the woods in his front. The sportsman, slowly waving the handle to and fro, peers intently into the darkness in quest of the gleaming eyes of some staring buck.
Presently a dismal howl from far away to the right came stealing through the silence. And presently an answering cry from the left, and much nearer. And another, and another! Ugh! what was that? A rabbit had darted under Ned, across the rattling leaves. Beverly, shivering, dug his heels into Ned’s ribs. Ned pressed forward till his nose touched the ticklish flank of the gray. The gray let fly with whizzing hoof. Ned shut his eyes, unwilling to witness the enormity of an aged mule being kicked at by torchlight.
“Beverly! Beverly!” breathed the knight eagerly, “gimme the gun! gimme the gun! I see a pair of eyes as big as saucers!”
“M – M – Marse B – B – Billy – ”
“Quick! gimme the gun! What the devil is the matter with you?”
“De wolves, Marse Billy! ‘Sposin’ arter de gun done empty dey splunge in upon us? I bound a whole nation un ‘em watchin’ us dis minute!”
Blount wrested the gun from the reluctant Beverly, whose knee now trembled against his. Pressing down the pan handle so as to throw the light well in front, he cocked the gun, adjusted it to his shoulder, took aim, and pulled the trigger.
Blount, in reply to the warning of his friends, had urged that it might very well be that a horse that shied by day at a gun would act differently at night. And he was right. By daylight the gray was in the habit of making one or two violent plunges when his rider fired. But tonight, when that terrible roar broke the stillness and that fierce blaze flashed into his eyes —
Immediately after the sound of the gun reached us we heard the anxious, jolting bray of a trotting mule. The disjointed, semi-asinine song came nearer, and presently Ned hurried past the fire to his place by his tethered mate, with a low equine chuckle of satisfaction. In his wake rushed Beverly, panting, wide eyed. It was a full minute before he could speak.
“Lord, mahsters, don’t ax me nothin’; I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout it. I ‘most don’t know whether I here or no arter de way dem revengious varmints whoop me through dem woods, a-yelpin’ an’ a-gnash-in’ o’ deir teeth. B’fo’ Gaud, I thought every minute was gwine to be my next! When Marse Billy shoot, though I beg him not to, seein’ dat de whole woods was a-bilin’ wid wolves, dat fool of a horse o’ hisn jess riz on his hind legs an’ splunge right over me an’ Ned, jess like we warn’t nothin't all. Dem lightwood knots flew right up, same as one o’ dem blaze o’ glories I see when I got religion. I lit on my head. Ned he went oneway; Marse Billy horse anudder. But seein’ as I done knowed Ned de longest, I followed him – an’ he fotch me home. Run? No, twarnt runnin’, twas flyin’; an’ every jump de varmints was a-reachin’ for me. I hear deir teeth, jess as plain, clashin’ like sheep shears. Umgh-umgh! Beverly hump heself he did. Jess look at my clothes! I left de rest of ‘em on de bushes. Whar Marse Billy? Lord a-mussy, I dunno! I mighty ‘fraid de wolves done got him, leastwise ef he didn’t set hard on dat dere fool gray.
“Mahster, couldn’t you gimme jess a leetle tetch o’ dat whiskey? I’se powerful downhearted. Thank you, mahster. But mahster, don’t lemme go no mo’ a spotin’ along o’ Marse Billy; seem like I ain’t dat kind. Lemme drive my mules, lemme cook, don’t lemme go projickin’ about wid Marse Billy Blount no mo’. You laughin’, is you, Tom? Nemmind – you go next time!”
Presently there came to us from far away a doleful yell, with nothing of the bugle blast in it. “There he is!” and we made response with laughter-choked shouts.
About fifteen minutes afterward the sound of hoofs was heard, and presently our mighty hunter appeared, but quantum mutatus ab illo! No hat, no gun, one skirt of his coat and half of the buttons gone; shirt bosom torn out, trousers hanging in ribbons! But though his face was scratched beyond recognition he remained the one, only true Blount in the world; though his eyes were bloodshot they beamed with conscious victory.
“Boys,” said he, “which of you will go and help me bring him in?”
“Bring what in?”
“Why, the buck – I blew his infernal head off, sure!”
Next morning Blount and Beverly rode to the scene of their exploit, and Blount secured his gun and Beverly his frying pan. ‘The buck had either walked off without his head or been swallowed by one of the varmints.
A CAHUTTA VALLEY SHOOTING MATCH, By Will N. Harben
THERE was a sound of merriment on Farmer Bagley’s place. It was “corn shucking” night, and the young people from all sides had met to partake of mirth and hospitality. After all had taken seats in the large sitting room and parlor, the men were invited with a mysterious wink and grin from the countenance of jovial Bagley to taste the contents of a large brown jug which smiled on a shelf beside the water bucket out in the entry. Its saturated corn-cob stopper, lying whiskey colored in the moonlight by the side of the jug, gave a most tempting aroma to the crisp, invigorating November air and rendered Bagley’s signs and hints all the more comprehensible.
They were mostly young men who, with clattering boots, filed out to the shelf and turned, with smacking lips wiped on their hands, back to the clusters of shy, tittering maidens round the blazing log fires. They wore new jean trousers neatly folded round muscular calves and stowed away, without a visible wrinkle, into high, colored-topped