CHAPTER XIX

THE SHOOTING CONTEST

To Dave and Henry, left at Fort Pitt, the days passed slowly. Occasionally they went out hunting, with fair success, but, warned by Captain Ecuyer, did not venture far away. They waited patiently for some word from Rodney, and some word from Dave’s father, but no news came to them.

“I hope Rodney got home in safety,” said Henry, one day. “I don’t see why we don’t hear from him.”

“I wish father would send some word,” answered Dave. “I am beginning to grow anxious.”

October slipped into November, and winter was now on them in earnest. It snowed a great deal, and Fort Pitt was cut off from communication in all directions. The soldiers scarcely knew what to do with themselves, and the settlers who had gone to the stronghold for protection were also weary of the confinement.

To pass the time some of the men one day got up a shooting contest, and asked Dave and Henry to join. The youths were willing, and paid the admission fee, two shillings. The first prize was a silver mug, the second prize a fancy bullet-mold, and the third a new hunting knife.

Among the soldiers to participate in the contest were two named Gasway and Pelton. Both were beefy Englishmen, from London, who had come over the year before. Each was given to boasting, and each felt certain of winning either the first or the second prize.

“What! you boys going to compete!” cried Gasway, to Dave, disdainfully. “Sure, ’twill be good money thrown away.”

“Perhaps we’ll not do so badly,” said Dave, nettled by Gasway’s superior manner.

“The first prize will go to me and the second to my friend Pelton,” went on the English soldier. “I take it you chits will be at the end of the list.”

Left to himself, Dave sought out his cousin and told him what Gasway had said. Henry smiled grimly.

“He had better do his crowing after the shooting, not before, Dave.”

“I wish we could beat him, and beat Pelton, too.”

“Well, we can try.”

The contest was to come off on the following afternoon. The day proved clear, and a goodly number of those stationed at the fort gathered to witness the shooting. The target, a large affair of wood, with several rings and a bull’s-eye, was nailed to a tree, and a stump marked the spot where each contestant must stand while shooting. Each contestant was to have three shots, and the highest possible score was eighteen points.

The first soldier to shoot, a man named Pepperley, made two points with his first shot. Another made three, and another five. Then came Gasway, who made five also, and Pelton, who made six.

“Now, Dave,” said Henry, and Dave stepped to the front, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger.

“Four!” announced the officer who was keeping the tally.

Dave was a trifle disappointed, as he had hoped to make at least five. Yet he managed to smile as he turned to Henry.

“You can do better than that, I know,” he said.

Two other marksmen now came to the front, making four each. Then it was Henry’s turn.

The youth took his time about shooting, and when the smoke cleared away a shout went up:

“A bull’s-eye for Henry Morris!”

“Good—that counts six for you, Henry!” exclaimed Dave.

Soon the men were shooting for the second time. Dave got a bull’s-eye and Henry a five, giving them 10 and 11 respectively. Strange to say Gasway and Pelton also scored 10 and 11, so the friends on each side were a tie. The other marksmen got from 8 to 10 each.

Those to make the highest scores were to shoot last, and as a consequence Dave was pitted against a soldier named Brocaw and against Gasway, while Henry was pitted against Pelton.

Brocaw was the first to shoot and made a four, much to his disgust.

“You go next,” said Gasway to Dave.

“Toss up for it,” said the officer who was judging the contest, and the toss of a penny sent Gasway to the front. He was a trifle nervous and took so long to shoot that some friends jeered at him.

“Five!” called out the judge, when the shot had been taken.

“Now, Dave, make a bull’s-eye!” cried Henry.

It must be confessed that Dave was also nervous, although he did his best to conceal it. This time he raised his rifle quickly and blazed away before anybody expected it.

“A bull’s-eye, sure enough!”

“That gives him two points above Brocaw and one point above Gasway!”

The toss of the penny now brought Pelton to the front, and he shot with great care, yet all he could make was a five, which gave him a total of 16 points, just what Dave had.

“Now, Henry, a bull’s-eye sure,” said Dave.

“More likely he’ll make a three,” sneered Gasway. He was disgusted because of his own showing.

Henry was cool, for his nerves seldom bothered him. He took aim with great deliberation, and hit the target exactly in the center.

“Seventeen points for Henry Morris!” was the cry.

“He takes the first prize!”

“He certainly can shoot, even if he is young.”

It was decided that Dave Morris and Ike Pelton should have one more shot each, the one coming nearest to the center of the target taking the second prize and the other taking the third prize. The toss made Pelton shoot first. All of the other shots on the target were chalked over, so that there might be no mistakes in scoring.

This time Pelton took more care than ever in shooting, and as a consequence put his bullet directly on the inner ring,—something which, though between 5 and 6, would count the higher number.

“I fancy the youngster can’t beat that,” said Gasway.

“Don’t be so sure,” answered a soldier who favored Dave.

Dave’s heart thumped loudly in his breast as he stepped up beside the tree-stump. But he kept outwardly calm and did what he could to steady his arms. He took one good look at the target, raised his rifle, and fired. The smoke cleared away and there was a second of silence.

“A miss!”

“What!” cried Dave and Henry, in a breath.

“The bullet does not seem to have touched the target,” announced the judge.

“Oh, I must have hit the target!” went on Dave. “Why, I aimed as carefully as before, when I made 16 in three shots.”

“Can’t help it. The target has not been touched. You can see for yourself.”

Dave ran forward, and so did all of the others. There was Pelton’s shot and all of the others’, each marked with chalk.

“I know wot he did!” shouted one old frontiersman.

“And so do I!” added Henry, triumphantly. “It’s been done before, too.”

“What?” came in a chorus.

“His bullet is on top of mine, directly in the center of the bull’s-eye.”

“Can that be possible?” cried the officer in charge. “We’ll soon see.”

He got out his penknife and began to dig at the hole in the middle of the target. Soon one bullet came up, and another was revealed beneath it.

“Dave Morris gets the second prize, and Pelton takes third!”

“And Gasway and the others get nothing,” said one of the soldiers. “Gasway, maybe you won’t blow so much after this.”

“Bah! The shooting didn’t amount to much anyway!” growled Gasway, and lost no time in getting out of sight. But he never said anything more to Dave or Henry about target shooting, nor did Pelton mention the subject.

After that Henry was urged to try his hand at long-distance shooting. To please his friends he complied, and made several remarkable shots, which called forth praise from Captain Ecuyer and many others.

“I know of nobody who can shoot better than you,” said the commandant of the fort.

“I know one man who can—the man who taught me,” answered the youth.

“And who is he?”

“Sam Barringford. I don’t know if he can do any better at a target, but he can best me in shooting at running game or flying birds. He is remarkably quick that way.”

“But you must be able to hit a bird on the wing.”

“I can generally. Once in a while I miss,” answered Henry.

“But not often,” said Dave. “He is the best hunter in our family, by a good deal,” he added, warmly.

“Well, you can do a little too,” said Captain Ecuyer, with a laugh.

The shooting had taken place in a clearing behind Fort Pitt. The party was about to return to the fort, when a sudden shouting was heard.

“What is the matter?” asked Captain Ecuyer, quickly.

“Somebody is coming down the trail!”

“A messenger! A messenger!” was the cry.

“It is Peaceful Jones!”

The report proved true; it was indeed Peaceful Jones who was coming along the trail leading from the west. He walked slowly, as if very tired or full of pain.

“Let’s go to meet him!” cried Dave, and ran forward, followed by Henry and half a dozen others. It did not take them long to reach the trapper, who, as soon as he saw them, stopped short and clutched a tree for support.

“What is it, Jones?” asked Henry, and then started, as did Dave, for they saw the man was very thin, as if he had suffered from a long illness.

“Thank Heaven I—I am ba—back at last!” gasped Peaceful Jones. “I th—thought I’d never ma—make it!”

“You are sick—you have been hurt!” burst out Dave, and helped to support him.

“Yes—got shot—Bevoir’s crowd—got away—sick—lost in forest—Indians—old medicine man—got away again—come here—and now——” Peaceful Jones could not go on.

“You were shot?” queried Dave; “and by Bevoir’s crowd? What of my father?” And the youth’s heart seemed to stop beating.

“Dead—everybody is dead but me, and I—I—oh!” And then Peaceful Jones dropped limply into the arms of Dave and Henry. His eyes closed, and for the time being he knew no more.

“He has fainted from exhaustion,” said an under officer who had come up. “Carry him to the fort, and we will do what we can to revive him. He must have important news to tell.”

“Yes,” said Dave, brokenly. The mist was swimming before his eyes. “Oh, Henry, can this be true? Can father be dead?”

“Let us hope for the best,” answered his cousin. He, too, could hardly speak.

Then some soldiers raised Peaceful Jones to their shoulders and marched off to the fort with him. Dave and Henry followed in their rear, each with a heart that sank lower and lower at every step.