Rancho Del Muerto and Other Stories of Adventure from «Outing» by Various Authors. Various
from meeting through the woods alone, the very one who was uppermost in her troubled mind joined her. He emerged from the thick-growing bushes which skirted her path, with a very pale face and unhappy mien.
“I jest couldn’t wait another minute, Melissa,” he said, standing awkwardly before her, “not ef I had to be shot fur it.”
“Paw’s mighty stubborn an’ contrary when he takes a notion,” she said, with hanging head and an embarrassed kick of her foot at a tuft of grass. “I think he mought let me alone. You ain’t the only one he hates. Thar’s ol’ man Lawson; law, he hates him wuss’n canker! I heerd ‘im say tother day ef somebody ‘u’d jest beat Lawson shootin’ next match he’d be his friend till death. He ain’t never got over his lawsuit with Lawson over the sheep our dog killed. Paw fit it in court through three terms, an’ then had to give in an’ settle the claim an’ all the costs besides. It mighty nigh broke im. Fur the last five years Lawson has driv home the prize beef from the fall match, an’ every time paw jest fairly shakes with madness over it.”
When Dick left Melissa at the bars in sight of her house and turned toward his home a warm idea was tingling in his brain, and by the time he had reached his father’s cottage he was fairly afire with it. The shooting match was to take place in a month – what was to prevent him from taking part in it? He had an excellent rifle, and had done some good shooting at squirrels. Perhaps if he would practice a good deal he might win. Lawson was deemed the best marksman in all the Cohutta valleys, and frequently it had been hard to get anyone to enter a match against him. Dick at last decided to enter the forthcoming match at all events. He went into his cottage and took down his rifle from its deer-horn rack over the door. While he was eyeing the long, rusty barrel critically his old mother entered.
“Fixin’ fur a hunt, Dick? Thar’s a power o’ pa’tridges in the sage field down the hollar. A rifle ain’t as good fur that sort o’ game as a shotgun; suppose you step over an’ ax Hanson to loan you his’n?”
“I jest ‘lowed I’d shine this un up a bit bein’ as it’s Sunday an’ I hate to be idle,” he answered, evasively, as he seated himself at the wide fireplace with a pan of grease and a piece of cloth and rubbed his gun barrel until it fairly shone in the firelight. The next morning he threw it over his shoulder and, taking an axe in his hand, he started toward the woods.
“Didn’t know but I mought find a bee tree somers,” he said sheepishly, as he saw his mother looking wonderingly at the axe. “Not likely, but I mought, thar’s no tellin’, though the darn little varmints do keep powerful close hid this time o’ year.”
He went over the hills and through the tangled woods until he came to a secluded old field. He singled out a walnut tree near its centre, and going to it he cut a square white spot in the bark with his axe. It is needless to detail all that took place there that day, or on other days following it. For the first week the earnest fellow would return from this spot each afternoon with a very despondent look upon him. As time passed, however, and his visits to the riddled tree grew more frequent his face began to grow brighter.
Once his mother came suddenly upon him as he stood in the cottage before the open door with his rifle placed in position for firing. He lowered his gun with a deep blush.
“I ‘us jest a tryin’ to see how long I could keep the sight on that shiny spot out thar in the field without flinchin’. Blame me, ef you hadn’t come in I believe I could a helt her thar tell it thundered.”
“Dick,” said the old woman, with a deep breath, “what on earth has got in you here lately? Are you gwine plump stark crazy ‘bout that old gun? You never tuk on that way before.”
“I’ve jest found out I’m purty good on a shot, that’s all,” he replied, evasively.
“Well,” said she, “as fur as that’s concerned, in old times our stock was reckoned to be the best marksmen in our section. You ort to be; yore narrer ‘twixt the eyes, an’ that’s a shore sign.”
Dick caught a glimpse of Melissa now and then, and managed to exchange a few words with her occasionally, the nature of which we will not disclose. It may be said, however, that she was always in good spirits, which puzzled her father considerably, for he was at a loss to see why she should be so when Dick had not visited her since the night of the corn shucking. Moreover, she continually roused her father’s anger by speaking frequently of the great honor that belonged to Farmer Lawson for so often Winning the prizes in the shooting matches.
“Dang it, Melissa, dry up!” he exclaimed, boiling with anger, “you know I hate that daddrated man. I’d fling my hat as high as the moon ef some o’ these young bucks ‘u’d beat him this fall; he’s as full o’ brag as a lazy calf is with fleas.”
“No use a hopin’ fur anything o’ that sort, paw; Lawson’s too old a han’. He ain’t got his equal at shootin’ ur lawin.’ The whole country couldn’t rake up a better one.” After speaking in this manner she would stifle a giggle by holding her hand over her mouth until she was livid in the face, and escape from her mystified parent, leaving him to vent his spleen on the empty air.
The day of the annual shooting match drew near. It was not known who were to be the participants aside from Lawson, for the others usually waited till the time arrived to announce their intentions. No better day could have been chosen. The sky was blue and sprinkled with frothy clouds, and the weather was not unpleasantly cold. Women and men, boys, girls and children from all directions were assembled to witness the sport and were seated in chairs and wagons all over the wide, open space.
Melissa was there in a cluster of girls, and her father was near by in a group of men, all of whom – like himself – disliked the blustering, boasting Lawson and fondly hoped that someone would beat him on this occasion. Lawson stood by himself, with a confident smile on his face. His rifle butt rested on the grass and his hands were folded across each other on the end of his gun barrel.
“Wilks,” said he to the clerk of the county court, who had been chosen as referee for the occasion, “git up yore list o’ fellers that are bold enough to shoot agin the champion. I reckon my nerves are ‘bout as they wuz six yeer ago when I fust took my stan’ here to larn this settlement how to shoot.”
Just before the list of aspirants was read aloud Dick managed to reach Melissa’s side unobserved by her father.
“Did you keep yore promise ‘bout cut-tin’ my patchin’ fur me?” he asked in a whisper.
With trembling fingers she drew from her pocket several little pieces of white cotton cloth about the size of a silver quarter of a dollar and gave them to him.
“They’re jest right to a gnat’s heel,” he said, warmly. “A ball packed in one o’ them’ll go straight ur I’m no judge.”
“Dick,” whispered she, looking him directly in the eyes, “you ain’t a bit flustered. I believe you’ll win.”
With a smile Dick turned away and joined the crowd round the referee’s chair, and when his name was called a moment later among the names of four others he brought his rifle from a wagon and stood in view of the crowd. The first applause given that day was accorded him, for in addition to its being his first appearance in a shooting match he was universally popular.
“Bully fur you, Dick; here’s my han’ wishing you luck!” said a cheery-voiced farmer, shaking Dick’s hand.
“It’s the way with all these young strips,” said Lawson in a loud, boastful tone. “Gwine to conquer the whole round world. He’ll grin on tother side o’ his mouth when Bettie, the lead queen, barks and spits in the very centre o’ that spot out yander.”
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