Part 11

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.