The Leatherstocking Tales II

by James Fenimore Cooper

  “You’ve saved your bacon, Quarter Master, as they say in the settlements of their creatur’s,” cried Pathfinder laughing, “but it would take a long time to build a house with a hammer no better than yourn. Jasper, here, will show you how a nail is to be started, or the lad has lost some of his steadiness of hand, and sartainty of eye. You would have done better yourself, Lieutenant, had you not been so much bent on so’gerizing your figure. Shooting is a nat’ral gift, and is to be exercised in a nat’ral way.”

  “We shall see, Pathfinder; I call that a pretty attempt at a nail, and I doubt if the 55th has another hammer, as you call it, that can do just the same thing, over again.”

  “Jasper is not in the 55th, but there goes his rap!”

  As the Pathfinder spoke, the bullet of Eau douce hit the nail square, and drove it into the target, within an inch of the head.

  “Be all ready to clench it, boys,” cried out Pathfinder, stepping into his friend’s tracks the instant they were vacant. “Never mind a new nail; I can see that, though the paint is gone, and what I can see, I can hit at a hundred yards, though it were only a mosquitoe’s eye. Be ready to clench!”

  The rifle cracked, the bullet sped its way, and the head of the nail was buried in the wood, covered by the piece of flattened lead.

  “Well, Jasper, lad,” continued Pathfinder, dropping the breech of his rifle to the ground, and resuming the discourse, as if he thought nothing of his own exploit, “you improve daily. A few more tramps on land, in my company, and the best marksman on the frontiers will have occasion to look keenly, when he takes his stand ag’in you. The Quarter Master is respectable, but he will never get any farther, whereas you, Jasper, have the gift, and may one day defy any who pull trigger.”

  “Hoot—hoot!” exclaimed Muir, “do you call hitting the head of a nail respectable only, when it’s the perfection of the art! Any one, in the least refined and elevated in sentiment, knows that the delicate touches denote the master, whereas your sledge-hammer blows come from the rude and uninstructed. If ‘a miss is as good as a mile,’ a hit ought to be better, Pathfinder, whether it wound or kill.”

  “The surest way of settling this rivalry, will be to make another trial,” observed Lundie; “and that will be of the potatoe. You’re Scotch, Mr. Muir, and might fare better were it a cake or a thistle, but frontier law has declared for the American fruit, and the potatoe, it shall be.”

  As Major Duncan manifested some impatience of manner, Muir had too much tact to delay the sports any longer, with his discursive remarks, but judiciously prepared himself for the next appeal. To say the truth, the Quarter Master had little, or no faith in his own success in the trial of skill that was to follow, nor would he have been so free in presenting himself as a competitor, at all, had he anticipated it would have been made, but Major Duncan, who was somewhat of a humorist, in his own quiet Scotch way, had secretly ordered it to be introduced, expressly to mortify him; for, a Laird himself, Lundie did not relish the notion that one who might claim to be a gentleman, should bring discredit on his caste by forming an unequal alliance. As soon as every thing was prepared, Muir was summoned to the stand, and the potatoe was held in readiness to be thrown. As the sort of feat we are about to offer to the reader, however, may be new to him, a word in explanation will render the matter more clear. A potatoe of large size was selected, and given to one, who stood at the distance of twenty yards from the stand. At the word “heave,” which was given by the marksman, the vegetable was thrown, with a gentle toss, into the air, and it was the business of the adventurer to cause a ball to pass through it, before it reached the ground.

  The Quarter Master, in a hundred experiments, had once succeeded in accomplishing this difficult feat, but he now essayed to perform it again, with a sort of blind hope, that was fated to be disappointed. The potatoe was thrown in the usual manner, the rifle was discharged, but the flying target was untouched.

  “To the right-about, and fall out, Quarter Master,” said Lundie, smiling at the success of his own artifice—“The honor of the silken calash will lie between Jasper Eau douce and Pathfinder.”

  “And how is the trial to end, Major?” enquired the latter. “Are we to have the two potatoe trial, or is it to be settled by centre and skin?”

  “By centre and skin, if there is any perceptible difference; otherwise the double shot must follow.”

  “This is an awful moment to me, Pathfinder,” observed Jasper, as he moved towards the stand, his face actually losing its colour in intensity of feeling.

  Pathfinder gazed earnestly at the young man, and then begging Major Duncan to have patience for a moment he led his friend out of the hearing of all near him, before he spoke.

  “You seem to take this matter to heart, Jasper?” the hunter remarked keeping his eyes fastened on those of the youth.

  “I must own, Pathfinder, that my feelings were never before so much bound up in success.”

  “And do you so much crave to outdo me, an old and tried friend, and, that, as it might be, in my own way? Shooting is my gift, boy, and no common hand can equal mine!”

  “I know it—I know it, Pathfinder—but—yet—”

  “But what, Jasper, boy;—speak freely; you talk to a friend.”

  The young man compressed his lips, dashed a hand across his eye, and flushed and paled, alternately like a girl, confessing her love. Then squeezing the other’s hand he said calmly, like one whose manhood has overcome all other sensations—

  “I would lose an arm, Pathfinder, to be able to make an offering of that calash to Mabel Dunham.”

  The hunter dropped his eyes to the ground, and as he walked slowly back towards the stand, he seemed to ponder deeply on what he had just heard.

  “You never could succeed in the double trial, Jasper?” he suddenly remarked.

  “Of that I am certain, and it troubles me.”

  “What a creatur’ is mortal man! He pines for things which are not of his gift, and treats the bounties of Providence lightly. No matter—no matter. Take your station, Jasper, for the Major is waiting—and, harkee, lad—I must touch the skin, for I could not show my face in the garrison with less than that.”

  “I suppose I must submit to my fate,” returned Jasper, flushing and losing his colour, as before, “but I will make the effort, if I die.”

  “What a thing is mortal man!” repeated Pathfinder, falling back to allow his friend room to take his aim—“he overlooks his own gifts, and craves them of another!”

  The potatoe was thrown, Jasper fired, and the shout that followed preceded the announcement of the fact, that he had driven his bullet through its centre, or so nearly so, as to merit that award.

  “Here is a competitor worthy of you, Pathfinder,” cried Major Duncan with delight, as the former took his station, “and we may look to some fine shooting, in the double trial.”

  “What a thing is mortal man!” repeated the hunter, scarce seeming to notice what was passing around him, so much were his thoughts absorbed in his own reflections— “Toss.”

  The potatoe was tossed, the rifle cracked, it was remarked just as the little black ball seemed stationary in the air, for the marksman evidently took unusual heed to his aim, and then a look of disappointment and wonder succeeded among those who caught the falling target.

  “Two holes in one?” called out the Major.

  “The skin—the skin—” was the answer—“only the skin!”

  “How’s this, Pathfinder! Is Jasper Eau douce to carry off the honors of the day!”

  “The calash is hisn,” returned the other, shaking his head, and walking quietly away from the stand. “What a creatur’ is a mortal man! Never satisfied with his own gifts, but forever craving that which Providence denies!”

  As Pathfinder had not buried his bullet in the potatoe, but had cut through the skin, the prize was immediately adjudged to Jasper. The calash was in the hands of the latter, when the Quarter Master approached, and with a politic air of cordi
ality, he wished his successful rival, joy for his victory.

  “But now you’ve got the calash, lad, it’s of no use to you,” he added; “it will never make a sail, nor even an ensign. I’m thinking, Eau douce, you’d no be sorry to see its value in good siller of the King?”

  “Money cannot buy it, Lieutenant,” returned Jasper, whose eye lighted up with all the fire of success and joy. “I would rather have won this calash, than have obtained fifty new suits of sails for the Scud!”

  “Hoot—hoot—lad; you are going mad, like all the rest of them. I’d even venture to offer half a guinea for the trifle, rather than it should lie kicking about in the cabin of your cutter, and, in the end, become an ornament for the head of a squaw.”

  Although Jasper did not know that the wary Quarter Master had not offered half the actual cost of the prize, he heard the proposition with indifference. Shaking his head in the negative, he advanced towards the stage, where his approach excited a little commotion, the officers’ ladies, one and all, having determined to accept the present should the gallantry of the young sailor induce him to offer it. But Jasper’s diffidence, no less than admiration for another, would have prevented him from aspiring to the honor of complimenting any whom he thought so much his superiors.

  “Mabel,” he said, “this prize is for you, unless—”

  “Unless, what, Jasper—” answered the girl, losing her own bashfulness, in the natural and generous wish to relieve his embarrassment, though both reddened in a way to betray strong feeling.

  “Unless you may think too indifferently of it, because it is offered by one who may have no right to believe his gift will be accepted.”

  “I do accept it, Jasper, and it shall be a sign of the danger I have passed in your company, and of the gratitude I feel for your care of me—your care and that of the Pathfinder.”

  “Never mind me, never mind me,” exclaimed the latter; “this is Jasper’s luck and Jasper’s gift, give him full credit for both. My turn may come another day; mine and the Quarter Master’s, who seems to grudge the boy the calash, though what he can want of it, I cannot understand, for he has no wife.”

  “And has Jasper Eau douce a wife? Or have you a wife, yoursel’, Pathfinder? I may want it to help get a wife, or as a memorial that I have had a wife, or as a proof how much I admire the sex, or because it is a female garment, or for some other equally respectable motive. It’s not the unreflecting that are the most prized by the thoughtful, and there is no surer sign that a man made a good husband to his first consort, let me tell ye all, than to see him speedily looking round for a competent successor. The affections are good gifts from Providence, and they that have loved one faithfully, prove how much of this bounty has been lavished upon them, by loving another as soon as possible.”

  “It may be so—it may be so. I am no practitioner in such things, and cannot gainsay it. But Mabel, here, the sarjeant’s daughter, will give you full credit for the words. Come, Jasper, although our hands are out, let us see what the other lads can do with the rifle.”

  Pathfinder and his companions retired, for the sports were about to proceed. The ladies, however, were not so much engrossed with rifle shooting as to neglect the calash. It passed from hand to hand; the silk was felt, the fashion criticised and the work examined, and divers opinions were privately ventured concerning the fitness of so handsome a thing’s passing into the possession of a non-commissioned officer’s child.

  “Perhaps you will be disposed to sell that calash, Mabel, when it has been a short time in your possession?” inquired the captain’s lady—“Wear it, I should think, you never can.”

  “I may not wear it, madam,” returned our heroine modestly, “but I should not like to part with it, either.”

  “I dare say Serjeant Dunham keeps you above the necessity of selling your clothes, child, but, at the same time, it is money thrown away to keep an article of dress you can never wear.”

  “I should be unwilling to part with the gift of a friend.”

  “But the young man himself, will think all the better of you, for your prudence, after the triumph of the day is forgotten. It is a pretty and a becoming calash, and ought not to be thrown away.”

  “I’ve no intention to throw it away, ma’am, and, if you please, would rather keep it.”

  “As you will child; girls of your age often overlook their real advantages. Remember, however, if you do determine to dispose of the thing, that it is bespoke, and that I will not take it, if you ever even put it on your own head.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Mabel, in the meekest voice imaginable, though her eyes looked like diamonds and her cheeks reddened to the tints of two roses, as she placed the forbidden garment over her well turned shoulders, where she kept it a minute, as if to try its fitness, and then quietly removed it, again.

  The remainder of the sports offered nothing of interest. The shooting was reasonably good, but the trials were all of a scale lower than those related, and the competitors were soon left to themselves. The ladies, and most of the officers withdrew, and the remainder of the females soon followed their example. Mabel was returning along the low flat rocks that line the shore of the lake, dangling her pretty calash from a prettier finger, when Pathfinder met her. He carried the rifle which he had used that day, but his manner had less of the frank ease of the hunter about it, than usual, while his eye seemed roving and uneasy. After a few unmeaning words concerning the noble sheet of water before them, he turned towards his companion with strong interest in his countenance, and said—

  “Jasper earned that calash for you, Mabel, without much trial of his gifts.”

  “It was fairly done, Pathfinder.”

  “No doubt—no doubt. The bullet passed neatly through the potatoe, and no man could have done more; though others might have done as much.”

  “But no one did as much!” exclaimed Mabel with an animation that she instantly regretted, for she saw by the pained look of the guide that he was mortified equally by the remark, and by the feeling with which it was uttered.

  “It is true—it is true, Mabel, no one did as much there, but—yes, there is no reason I should deny my gifts which come from Providence—yes, yes; no one did as much there, but you shall know what can be done here. Do you observe the gulls that are flying over our heads?”

  “Certainly, Pathfinder—there are too many to escape notice.”

  “Here, where they cross each other, in sailing about—” he added, cocking and raising his rifle—“the two—the two— now look!”

  The piece was presented quick as thought, as two of the birds came in a line, though distant from each other many yards, the report followed, and the bullet passed through the bodies of both the victims. No sooner had the gulls fallen into the lake, than Pathfinder dropped the breech of the rifle, and laughed in his own peculiar manner, every shade of dissatisfaction and mortified pride having left his honest face.

  “That is something, Mabel, that is something; although I’ve no calash to give you! But ask Jasper, himself; I’ll leave it all to Jasper, for a truer tongue and heart, are not in America.”

  “Then it was not Jasper’s fault that he gained the prize!”

  “Not it. He did his best, and he did well. For one that has water gifts, rather than land gifts, Jasper is oncommonly expart, and a better backer no one need wish, ashore or afloat. But it was my fault, Mabel, that he got the calash; though it makes no difference—it makes no difference, for the thing has gone to the right person.”

  “I believe I understand you, Pathfinder,” said Mabel, blushing in spite of herself, “and I look upon the calash as the joint gift of yourself and Jasper.”

  “That would not be doing justice to the lad, neither. He won the garment, and had a right to give it away. The most you may think, Mabel, is to believe that had I won it, it would have gone to the same person.”

  “I will remember that, Pathfinder, and take care that others know your skill, as it has been proved upon the p
oor gulls, in my presence.”

  “Lord bless you, Mabel, there is no more need of your talking in favor of my shooting, on this frontier, than of your talking about the water in the lake, or the sun in the heavens. Every body knows what I can do in that way, and your words would be thrown away, as much as French would be thrown away on an American bear.”

  “Then you think that Jasper knew you were giving him this advantage, of which he has so unhandsomely availed himself?” said Mabel, the colour which had imparted so much lustre to her eyes gradually leaving her face, which became grave and thoughtful.

  “I do not say that, but very far from it. We all forget things that we have known, when eager after our wishes. Jasper is satisfied that I can pass one bullet through two potatoes, as I sent my bullet through the gulls, and he knows no other man on the frontier can do the same thing. But with the calash before his eyes, and the hope of giving it to you, the lad was inclined to think better of himself, just at that moment, perhaps, than he ought. No—no—there’s nothing mean or distrustful about Jasper Eau douce, though it is a gift nat’ral to all young men to wish to appear well in the eyes of handsome young women.”

  “I’ll try to forget all, but the kindness you’ve both shown to a poor motherless girl,” said Mabel, struggling to keep down emotions that she scarcely knew how to account for, herself. “Believe me, Pathfinder, I can never forget all you have already done for me—you and Jasper—and this new proof of your regard is not thrown away. Here—here is a brooch that is of silver, and I offer it as a token that I owe you life, or liberty.”

  “What shall I do with this, Mabel?” asked the bewildered hunter, holding the simple trinket in his hand. “I have neither buckle nor button about me, for I wear nothing but leathern strings and them of good deer-skins. It’s pretty to the eye, but it is prettier far on the spot it came from, than it can be about me.”