by Anonymous
VII
UNTIL THE LAST SHOT
There remained as consolation after this heartbreaking defection buttwo interesting things in life--the printing press and the FlobertRifle. Somehow the week dragged through until Sunday, when Bobby dulyscrubbed and dressed, had to go to church with his father and mother.Bobby, to tell the truth, did not care very much for church. Always hisglance was straying to a single upper-section of one of the windows,which, being tipped inward at the bottom, permitted him a glimpse ofgreen leaves flushed with sunlight. A very joyous bird emphasized thedifference between the bright world and this dim, decorous interior withits faint church aroma compounded of morocco leather, flowers, and theodour of Sunday garments. Only when the four ushers tiptoed about withthe collection boxes on the end of handles, like exaggeratedcorn-poppers, did the lethargy into which he had fallen break for amoment. The irregular passage of the receptacle from one to another wasat least a motion not ordered in the deliberate rhythm of decorum; andthe clink of the money was pleasantly removed from the soporific. Bobbygazed with awe at the coins as they passed beneath his little nose. Hesupposed there must be enough of them to buy the Flobert Rifle.
The thought gave him a pleasant little shock. It had never occurred tohim that probably the Flobert Rifle had a price. It had seemed sopassionately to be desired as to belong to the category of theinaccessible--like Mr. Orde's revolver on the top shelf of the closet,or unlimited ice cream, or the curios locked behind the glass in AuntieKate's cabinet. Now the revelation almost stopped his heart.
"Perhaps it doesn't cost more'n a thousand dollars!" he said to himself.And he had already made up his mind to save a thousand dollars for thepurpose of getting a boat. The boat idea lost attraction. His papa hadagreed to give half. Bobby lost himself in an exciting daydreaminvolving actual possession of the Flobert Rifle. He resolved that, onthe way home, if the curtains were not down, he would take another lookat the weapon.
The curtains were not down; but now, attached to the Flobert Rifle, wasa stencilled card. Bobby set himself to reading it.
"First Prize," he deciphered, "An-nual Trap Shoot, Monrovia Sportsman'sClub, Sep. 10, 1879."
For some moments the significance of this did not reach him. Then all atonce a sob caught in his throat. It had never occurred to poor littleBobby that there might be other Flobert rifles in the world; and herethis one was withdrawn from circulation, as it were, to be won as prizeat the trap shooting.
Bobby did not recover from this shock until the following morning. Thena bright idea struck him, an idea filled with comfort. The Rifle was notnecessarily lost, after all. He trudged down to the store, enteredboldly, and asked to examine the weapon.
"My papa's going to win it and give it to me," he announced.
A very brown-faced man with twinkling gray eyes turned from buying blackpowder and felt wads to look at him amusedly.
"Hullo, Bobby," said he, "so your father's going to win the rifle andgive it to you, is he? Are you sure?"
"Of course," replied Bobby simply; "my papa can do anything he wantsto."
The man laughed.
"What do you know about rifles, and what would you do with one?" heasked.
"I know all about them," replied Bobby with great positiveness, "and Iknow where there's lots of squirrels."
The storekeeper had by now taken the Flobert from the show window. Theother man reached out his hand for it.
"Well, tell me about this one," he challenged.
"It's a Flobert," said Bobby without hesitation, "and it weighs five anda half pounds; and its ri-fling has one turn in twenty-eight inches; andit has a knife-blade front sight, and a bar rear sight; and it shoots 22longs, 22 shorts, C B caps, and B B caps. Only B B caps aren't very goodfor it," he added.
"Whew!" cried the man. "Here, take it!"
Bobby looked it over with delight and reverence. This was the first timehe had enjoyed it at close hand. The blue of the octagon barrel was likesatin; the polish of the stock like a mirror; the gold plating of themost fancy lock and guards like the sheen of silk. Bobby loved, too, theindescribable _gun_ smell of it--compounded probably of the odours ofsteel, wood and oil. With some difficulty he lifted it to his face andlooked through the rather wobbly sights. Reluctantly he gave it backinto the storekeeper's hands.
"Would you mind, please," he asked, a little awed, "would you mindletting me see a box of cartridges?"
Stafford smiled and reached to the shelf behind, from which he took asmall, square, delightful, red box. It had reading on it, and a portraitof the little cartridges it contained. Bobby feasted his eyes insilence.
"I--I know it's a prize," said he at last. "But--how much _was_ it?"
"Fifteen dollars," replied Mr. Bishop.
Bobby's eyes widened to their utmost capacity.
"Why--why--why!" he gasped; "I thought it must be a thousand."
Both men exploded in laughter, in the confusion of which, stunned,surprised, delighted and excited with the thought of eventual ownership,Bobby marched out the door, where he was joined gravely by Duke, hisbeautiful feather tail waving slowly to and fro as he walked.
Later in the day Kincaid, the spare, brown man with the twinkling grayeyes, met Mr. Orde on the street.
"Hullo, Orde!" he greeted. "Hear you have a sure win of the tournament."
"Sure win!" said Orde, puzzled, "What you talking about? You know Icouldn't shoot against you fellows."
"Well, your small boy told me you were going to win that rifle down atBishop's, and give it to him."
Orde's face clouded.
"He's been talking nothing but rifle for a month," said he. "I'm goingWest in September. Wouldn't have any show against you fellows, anyway."
When Bobby heard this paralyzing piece of news, his entire scheme ofthings seemed shattered. For a long time he sat staring with death inhis heart. Then he arose silently and disappeared.
In the Proper Place, among Bobby's other possessions, was a small toygun. Its stock was of pine, its lock of polished cast iron, and itsbarrel of tin. The pulling of the trigger released a spring in thebarrel, which in turn projected a pebble or other missile a short andharmless distance. Then a ramrod re-set the spring. When, the previousChristmas, Bobby had acquired this weapon, he had been very proud of it.Latterly, however, it had fallen into disfavour as offering too painfula contrast to the real thing as exemplified by the Flobert Rifle.
Bobby rummaged the darkness of the Proper Place until he found this toygun. From the sack in his father's closet--forbidden--he deliberatelyabstracted a handful of bird-shot. Retiring to the woodshed, he set thespring in the gun, poured in what he considered to be about the properquantity of shot, and solemnly discharged it at the high fence. Theleaden pellets sprayed out and spattered harmlessly against the boards.Thrice Bobby repeated this. Then, quite without heat or rancour, hethrew the toy gun and what remained of the shot over the fence into thevacant lot behind it. His common sense had foretold just this result tohis experiment, so he was not in the least disappointed; but he hadconsidered it his duty to try the only expedient his ingenuity couldinvent. For if--by a miracle--the little gun had discharged the shotwith force; Bobby might--by a miracle--be permitted to participate withit in the Shoot; and might--by a miracle--win the Flobert himself. Bobbywas no fool. He marked the necessity of three miracles; and he did notin the least expect them. Merely he wished to fulfill his entire duty tothe situation.
Saturday morning--the very day of the Shoot--Mr. Orde left forCalifornia.
After lunch Bobby trudged to Main Street, turned to the right, away fromtown, and set himself in patient motion toward the shooting grounds.
These were situated some two miles out along the county road. Bobby haddriven to them many times, but had never attempted to cover the distanceafoot. The sun was hot, and the way dusty. Many buggies and one largecarry-all passed him, each full of the participants in the contest. Noone thought of giving Bobby a lift, in fact no one noticed him at all.He could not he
lp thinking how different it would be if only his fatherhad not gone West.
"Hello!" called a hearty voice behind him.
He turned to see a yellow two-wheeled cart drawn by a gaunt white horse.On the seat close to the horse's tail sat Mr. Kincaid.
"Going to the Shoot?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," said Bobby.
"Well, jump in."
Mr. Kincaid moved one side, and lifted half the seat so Bobby couldclimb in from the rear. Then he let the seat down again and clucked tothe horse.
Mr. Kincaid wore an ancient gray slouch hat pulled low over his eyes;and a very old suit of gray clothes, wrinkled and baggy. Somehow, incontrast, his skin showed browner than ever. He looked down at Bobby,the fine good-humour lines about his eyes deepening.
"Well youngster," said he, "where's your father?"
Bobby's eyes fell; he kicked his feet back and forth. Beneath them layMr. Kincaid's worn leather gun-case, and an oblong japanned box whichBobby knew contained shells. For an instant he struggled with himself.
"He--he had to go to California," he choked; and looked away quickly tohide the tears that sprang to his eyes.
Mr. Kincaid whistled and raised his hand so abruptly that the old whitehorse, mistaking the movement for a signal, stopped dead, and instantlywent to sleep.
"Get ap, Bucephalus!" cried Mr. Kincaid indignantly.
Bucephalus deliberately awoke, and after a moment's pause moved on. ToBobby's relief Mr. Kincaid said nothing further, but humped over thereins, and looked ahead steadily across the horse's back. He stole aglance at the older man; and suddenly without reason a great wave ofaffection swept over him. He liked his companion's clear brown skin, andthe close clipped gray of his hair, and his big gray moustache beneathwhich the corners of his mouth quirked faintly up, and the network offine crow's feet at his temples, and the clear steady steel-colour ofhis eyes beneath the bushy brows. On the spot Bobby enshrined a hero.
But now they turned off the main road through a gap in the snake-fence,and followed many wheel tracks to the farther confines of the fieldwhere, under a huge tree they could see a group of men. These hailed Mr.Kincaid with joy.
"Hello, Kin, old man," they roared. "Got here, did you? What day did youstart? The old thing must be about dead. Lean him up against a tree, andcome tell us about the voyage."
"The cannon-ball express is strictly on schedule time, boys," repliedMr. Kincaid, looking solemnly at his watch.
He drove to the fence, where he tied Bucephalus. The other rigs werehitched here and there at distances that varied as the gun-shyness ofthe horses. Bobby proudly bore the gun-case. Mr. Kincaid lifted out theheavy box of shells.
Bobby took in the details of the scene with a delight that even his justcause for depression could not quench.
The men, some twenty in number, sprawled on the ground or sat on boxes.Before them stood a wooden rack with sockets, in which already werestacked a number of shotguns. Two pails of water flanked this rack, ineach of which had been thrust a slotted hickory "wiper" threaded with asquare of cloth. A fairly large empty wooden box, for the reception ofexploded shells, marked the spot on which the shooters would stand. Therotary trap lay in plain sight eighteen yards away. That completed thelist of arrangements, which were, in the light of modern methods, asevery trap shooter of to-day will recognize, exceedingly crude.
The men, however, supplied the interest which the equipment might lack.At that time every trap-shot was also a field shot. The class whichconfines itself to targets had not even been thought of. And goodpicked-shots have in common everywhere certain qualities, probablydeveloped by the life in the open, and the unique influences of woodlandand upland hunting. They are generous, and large in spirit, andabsolutely democratic--the millionaire and the mechanic meet on equalground--and deliberate in humour, and dry of wit. The quiet chaffing,tolerant, good-humoured, genuine intercourse of hunters cannot bematched in any other class.
The components of this group had each served his apprenticeship in theblinds or the cover. They knew each other in the freemasonry of theField; and when they met together, as now, they spoke from the gentlemagic of the open heart.
One exception must be made to this statement, however. Joseph Newmark,in advance of his time, shot methodically and well at the trap, neverwent afield, and maintained toward his neighbours an habitual dryattitude of politeness.
Bobby seated himself on the ground and prepared to listen with thecompletest enjoyment. These men were to him great or little accordingas they shot well or ill. That was to him the sole criterion. It did notmatter to him that Mr. Heinzman controlled the largest interests in thewestern part of the state--he "couldn't hit a balloon"; nor that youngWellman was looked upon as worthless and a loafer--he was well up amongthe first five.
Nearly everybody smoked something. The tobacco smelled good in the openair.
"Well," remarked Kincaid, "if that Stafford party doesn't show up beforelong, I'm going home. I can't stand you fellows without some excitementfor a counter-irritant."
"That's right, Kin," called somebody, "Better start that old Buzzardtoward town pretty soon, if you want to get in for breakfast--there's agood moon!"
But at this moment a delivery wagon turned into the field, and drovebriskly to the spot. From it Mr. Stafford descended spryly.
"Sorry to be a little late, boys; just couldn't help it," he apologized.
His arrival galvanized the crowd into activity. From the delivery wagonthey unloaded boxes of shells, two camp stools and a number of barrels.The driver then hitched his horses to the fence, and returned to act astrap-puller.
One of the barrels was rolled out to the trap, opened, and its contentscarefully spilled on the ground. It contained a quantity of sawdustand brown glass balls. These were about the size of a base-ball, had anopening at the top, and were filled with feathers. John, the driver ofthe delivery wagon, climbed down into a pit below the trap. He set thespring of the trap and placed a glass ball in its receptacle at the endof one of the two projecting arms. A long cord ran from the trap back tothe shooting stand.
Mr. Stafford opened a camp stool, sat down, and produced a long blankbook. In this he inscribed the men's names. Each gave him two dollarsand a half as an entrance fee. A referee and scorer were appointed fromamong the half-dozen non-shooting spectators.
"Newmark to shoot; Heinzman on deck!" called the scorer in abusiness-like voice.
The trapper ducked into his hole. Mr. Newmark thrust five loaded shellsinto his side pocket, picked his gun from the rack and stepped forwardto the mark. Then he loaded one barrel of the gun and stood at ready.In those days nobody thought of standing gun to shoulder, as is thepresent custom. The rule was, "stock below elbow."
"Ready," said he in his dry incisive voice.
"Ready," repeated the trap puller at his elbow.
"Pull!" commanded Mr. Newmark abruptly.
Immediately the trap began to revolve rapidly; after a moment or so itsprung, and the glass ball, projected violently upward, sailed awaythrough the air. The mechanism of the trap was such that no one couldtell precisely how long it would revolve before springing; nor in whatdirection it would throw the target. Nevertheless the mark offered wouldnow, in comparison with our saucer-shaped target, be considered easy.Mr. Newmark brought his gun to his shoulder and discharged it apparentlywith one motion, before the ball had more than begun its flight. A roarof the noisy black powder shook the air. The glass sphere seemedactually to puff out in fine smoke. Only the feathers it had containedfloated down wind.
"Dead!" announced the referee in a brisk business-like voice.
Mr. Newmark broke his gun and flipped the empty yellow shell into thebox next him. A cloud of white powder smoke drifted down over thegroup. Bobby snuffed it eagerly. He thought it the most delicious smellin the world; and so continued to think it for many years until thenitros displaced the old-fashioned compounds. Four times Mr. Newmarkrepeated his initial performance; then stepped aside.
"He
inzman to shoot; Wellman on deck!" announced the scorer.
Mr. Heinzman was already at the mark; and young Wellman arose and beganto break open a box of shells. Mr. Newmark thrust his gun barrels intoone of the pails and with the hickory wiper pumped the water up anddown.
"He's a good snap-shot," Bobby heard a man tell a stranger, in ahalf-voice.
"Has a brilliant style," commented the other.
They fell into a low-toned conversation on the partridge season, and theducks, to which Bobby listened with all his ears, the while his eyesmissed nothing of what took place before him. Nobody now spoke aloud.The chaffing had ceased. Shooter's etiquette prohibited anything thateven by remote possibility might "rattle" the contestants. Only thevoices of the men at mark and the referee were heard, and the heavy_bang_ of the black powder. Bobby liked to listen to the referee.Reporting, as he did, hundreds of results in the course of theafternoon, his intonation became mechanical.
"Dead!" he snapped in the crispest, shortest syllable, when the glassball was broken by the charge.
"Law-s-s-t!" he drawled when the little sphere sailed away unharmed.
Each shooter on finishing his first string of five, swabbed out his gun,leaned it against the rack, and went to squat in the group where hecommented to his friends on his own or others' luck, but always quietly.An air of the strictest business held the entire assembly.
This broke slightly when Mr. Kincaid's name was called. A stir wentthrough the crowd; and some one called out,
"Go it, Old Reliable. Have you had any hoops put around her lately?"
Mr. Kincaid grinned good-naturedly, but made no reply. He had discardedhis coat; and now wore a brown cardigan jacket. He took his place withthe greatest deliberation, consuming twice as much time as any one else.
"Ready," said he.
"Ready," replied the trapper mechanically.
"Pool!" cried Mr. Kincaid.
The discharge delayed so long that Bobby looked to see if a misfire hadoccurred; but when the ball reached the exact top of its swing, Mr.Kincaid broke it.
"One of the most reliable duck shots we have," said Bobby's neighbour tothe stranger. "He shoots just like that, always. Never in a hurry; buthe seems to get there. Kills a lot of game in the season."
The shoot progressed with almost the precision of a machine. Bobbyamused himself by closing his eyes to hear the regular _ready, pull,bang!_ that marked the progress of the score. From his level with thetops of the brown grasses of late summer he enjoyed the wandering puffsof hot air, the drift of pungent aromatic powder smoke, the rapidsuccessive bending of the stalks as though fairies were running overthem when the breezelets passed. It was all very pleasant and, for thetime being, he forgot his disappointment.
The match was to be at one-hundred balls--sixty singles, and twentypairs of doubles. Early in the game the different shooters began roughlyto group themselves on the score-cards according to their ability. Oneclass, among whom were Newmark and Kincaid, continued to break theirtargets with unvarying accuracy. Young Wellman by rights belonged withthese; but he had undershot a strong incomer; and the miss had cost himtwo others before he could recover his temper. The second class hadmissed from one to five each. The third class, typified by Mr. Heinzman,had a long string of "goose-eggs" to their discredit.
The fiftieth bird, however, Mr. Kincaid missed. It flipped sideways fromthe arm of the trap, and flew for twenty feet close to the ground. Thereferee had actually started to call "no bird"; but Mr. Kincaid electedto try for it; missed; and had to abide by his decision. At the close ofthe singles, Newmark had a score of sixty straight; Kincaid fifty-nine;and the others strung out variously in the rear.
At this point, a short recess was taken. The crowd of men lit freshcigars; talked out loud; circulated about; and relaxed generally fromthe long strain. Some scattered out into the grass to help the trapperto look for unbroken balls. Ordinarily Bobby loved to do this; butto-day he sidled up to where his friend was stooping over the japannedbox. Bobby watched him a moment in silence, methodically laying awaythe used brass shells, one up and one down in regular succession.
"It's too bad you got beat," he ventured timidly at last.
Mr. Kincaid ceased his occupation, removed his pipe from his mouth, andlooked up at Bobby searchingly.
"Youngster," he said kindly, "I'm not beat."
"You're behind," insisted Bobby, "and Newmark never misses."
Mr. Kincaid arose slowly, and without a word took Bobby by the arm andled him around the tree. He stopped and raised Bobby's chin in hisgnarled brown hand until the little boy's eyes looked straight into hisown. Bobby noticed that the twinkle had--not disappeared--but drawn farback into their gray depths, which had become unaccountably sober.
"Bobby," said Mr. Kincaid gravely, "always remember this, all your life,no matter what happens to you; a man is never defeated until the verylast shot is fired."
He paused.
"And remember this, too: that even if he is defeated, he is not beaten,provided he has done the very best he could, and has never lost heart."
He looked a moment longer into Bobby's eyes; and the little boy saw thegray twinkle flickering back to the surface, and the crow's-feetdeepening good-naturedly.
"That's all, sonny," he said, and withdrew his hand from Bobby's chin.
"So you want to see me win the rifle, do you?" asked Mr. Kincaid, asthey turned away.
"Yes, sir," replied Bobby.
"Why?"
"Because you're a friend of mine," replied Bobby with simple dignity.
"And that's the very best reason in the world!" cried Mr. Kincaidheartily.
The shooting at the doubles began. Two balls were placed in the trap atonce--it will be remembered that it was provided with double arms--andthrown in the air together. At this game many good scores fell intodisintegration, for it required great quickness of manipulation to catchboth before one should reach the ground. Mr. Newmark's snap method herestood him in good stead. When Mr. Kincaid stepped to the trap, thestranger turned to his friend.
"Here's where the old fellow falls down, I'm afraid," said he a trifleregretfully. "He's too deliberate for this business. I'm sorry. I'dlike to see him give Newmark a race for it."
"Deliberate!" snorted the local man.
Mr. Kincaid's preparations were as careful and as wasteful of time asever. But when he enunciated his famous "pool!" the stranger was treatedto a surprise. The first ball was literally snuffed into nothingnessbefore it had risen five feet above the trap! Then quite slowly Mr.Kincaid followed the second to the top of its flight and broke it asthough it had been a single.
"Lord!" gasped the visitor. "He surely can't do that with anycertainty!"
"Can't he!" said the other grimly, "Watch him."
Interest soon centred on Newmark and Kincaid, as those who had madestraight scores on the singles now dropped one or more. Both thecontestants named broke their nine pair straight. Bobby sent stronglittle waves of hope for a miss after each of Mr. Newmark's targets, butwithout avail. Only one pair apiece remained to be shot at; and in orderthat Mr. Kincaid should win the match, it would be necessary thatNewmark should miss both. This was inconceivable. Bobby threw himselfface downward in the grass, sick at heart. He made up his mind he wouldnot look. Nevertheless when Mr. Newmark's name was called, he sat up.
"Pull!" came Mr. Newmark's dry, incisive voice.
The balls sprang into the air. A sharp _click_ followed. Evidently amisfire. The referee, imperturbable, stepped forward to examine theshell. He found the primer well indented; so, in accordance with therules, he announced:
"No bird!"
Mr. Newmark reloaded.
"Pull!" he called again.
On the first bird he scored his first miss of the day.
"Misfire threw him off," exclaimed the spectators afterward.
And then, curiously enough, a queer current of air, springing fromnowhere, utterly abnormal, seized the dense powder smoke and whirled itbackward, complet
ely enveloping the shooter. The obscuration wasmomentary, but complete. By the time it had passed the second ball hadfallen almost to the ground. Newmark snapped hastily at it.
"Lost! Lost!" announced the scorer.
A deep sigh of emotion swept over the crowd. Bobby gripped his hands sotightly that the knuckles turned white. He resented the intervention ofa half-dozen other contestants before Mr. Kincaid should be called; androlled about in an agony of impatience until his friend stepped to themark.
The men unconsciously straightened and removed the cigars from theirlips. Two hits would win; one miss would tie. Bobby stood up, his breathcoming and going rapidly, his sight a little blurred. But Mr. Kincaidwent through his motions of preparation, and broke the two balls, withno more haste or excitement than if they had been the first two of thematch.
A cheer broke out. Others were still to shoot, but this decided thewinner.
"Congratulations!" said Newmark dryly as his rival stepped from themark.
"That's all right," replied Kincaid, "but it was sheer rank hard luckfor you."
On the way home just about sunset many teams passed the old white horsewith his old yellow cart, and his driver hunched comfortably over thereins. Everybody shouted final chaffing, kindly congratulations as theysped by.
Bobby, hunched alongside in loyal imitation of his companion'sattitude, glowed through and through.
"My! I'm glad you won!" he repeated again and again.
Kincaid looked straight ahead of him, his gray eyes pensive, the shortpipe shifted to the corner of his mouth. Finally he glanced downamusedly at his ecstatic companion.
"You see, Bobby?" he said, "--until the last shot is fired."