The Cave by the Beech Fork: A Story of Kentucky—1815

MR. HOWARD IS SURPRISED BY A VISITOR.—OWEN HEARS OF THE GREAT SHOOTING MATCH.

A few minutes after Father Byrne had left the house to visit the sick of the neighborhood a man rode up to the yard gate and called out, "Halloo!"

Mr. Howard, who was sitting on the front porch reading a book which Father Byrne had brought, looked up, and to his surprise saw before him Louis Bowen. The two men had been neighbors for fourteen years, yet they had exchanged but few words; not once during this entire period did Louis Bowen enter the Howard house. As he did not on this occasion dismount from his horse or seem inclined to come nearer, Mr. Howard walked out to the gate to meet him.

"Good morning," said he, approaching the visitor.

"I have been robbed, Howard! Burned out! Lost four hundred bushels of corn!" ejaculated Bowen, without seeming to notice Mr. Howard's welcome.

"I saw the fire early Saturday morning, but it was only to-day that I learned that your corn-crib was burned."

"The thieves first broke into my house, stole a small sack of money, and then set fire to my crib—my new crib, too, and full to the top."

"Truly unfortunate."

"The third time that my crib has been burned!" continued Bowen, growing more enraged.

"And it was full of corn each time, was it not?" inquired Mr. Howard.

"It was, Zach," said the sufferer, with a terrible oath. "Brim full to the rafters! The dogs waited until I had worked like a slave, and then in a single night they destroyed all that I had made!"

"And have you no clue to the thieves?"

"None at all! This it is that brings me here to-day, Zach! I want your help! I cannot track the rascals alone; this I have tried to do for three years, but without success. I have sneaked up and down the river, looked into the shipping stations, watched the 'arks' and flat-boats when they were being loaded, but found nothing! The State is full of hungry, lazy dogs, who do nothing but steal and live on other people's work."

"It is very strange," replied Mr. Howard. "I've been in this settlement for fourteen years, and as far as I know have not lost an ear of corn or a single potato. I really can't account for your loss."

"The thieves are not from this place, Howard! Starving dogs who rob and then burn what they cannot carry away! Many of the poorest people of the neighborhood come here to your house for prayer-meeting. I suspect some of them—I tell——"

"Louis Bowen!" interrupted the farmer, "every one of them is an honest man. If you accuse them of stealing, and cannot prove your words, I'll club you as sure as my name is Zachary Howard!"

"See here, Zach," said the cringing coward, who was not prepared for such a reception, "I didn't come here to fight. I came to ask your assistance in catching the thieves."

"The thieves, if there are thieves, are on your own farm—those poor slaves, whom you treat as beasts. Let me tell you, Louis Bowen, every man in this section of the country is talking of your cruelty toward those poor negroes!"

"That's my business, and not yours!"

"Then, if it's your business, don't come to me about it."

"So you refuse to help me to track the thieves?"

"I have given you my opinion on the subject, and I repeat now what I said—treat those negroes as if they were human beings, and you will have no further cause of fearing thieves and fires."

"I am not here to be insulted or dictated to. Again I ask, will you give me any assistance in this matter?"

"I have said all I have to say upon the subject. I have nothing else to add."

"Then let me tell you, Zach Howard, before we part," said the angered visitor, riding away at a safe distance from the man whom he was addressing, "I'll track those thieves alone, and when I find them, white or black, I'll—I'll treat them in such a way that all this country round will wonder that man could be so cruel and heartless." Going a little further on, he shook his fist at Mr. Howard and shouted: "I'll turn Indian, and burn them at the stake!"

Old Bowen departed. The farmer returned to the place where he had been reading, but he could not read. He was anxious and troubled. He felt that there was something more than a fire and a robbery connected with this visit, but what it was he could not divine.

In the meantime, Father Byrne and Owen had visited the different houses and were returning home, when they came to a place where two roads intersected. Here Owen's attention was attracted by a notice posted against a large oak-tree. It was evidently written by one who knew more of rifle-shooting than of the rules of orthography. It ran thus:

The Grate kintuckky rifle-shootin' for the fall Season will be on grundys Farm saterday, november 2, at hafe pass two in the Evenin'.

Nic Officar.

"Just what I've been waiting for!" exclaimed Owen.

"Why? Do you intend to compete?" asked the priest.

"Yes, Father," was the reply. "Martin Cooper was there last year, and he says that I can shoot better than Coon-Hollow Jim."

"And who is Coon-Hollow Jim?" interrupted Father Byrne.

"Coon-Hollow Jim!" repeated Owen. "Why, I thought that everybody knew him! He is the best marksman in twelve miles from here, in a place called Coon-Hollow. They say he is about six feet and a half high."

"And do you think you can shoot better than such a man?" asked the priest, who was amused at the boy's earnestness.

"Martin told me that I could. Besides, I've been practicing for nearly a year. If you only help me, I think that I have a chance for the prize."

"How can I help you?" inquired the priest.

"By asking mother to let me go to the shooting match. She may think that I am too young. But if you ask her, she'll be sure to let me go."

"Well, then," said Father Byrne, "since you are so anxious, and have been practicing for such a long time, I'll ask permission for you."

"Thank you, Father. To-morrow Martin and I will catch robins; then we'll go out and practice every evening until the day of the shooting match."

"It will be something like the fight between David and Goliath," said the priest. "I would like to be there myself to witness the battle. But now, Owen, you will have to ride in silence while I say a part of my office."

Father Byrne was not unfrequently in the saddle from morning till night, visiting his scattered flock. He rode a trusty animal with a quick and easy gait, and by long practice, could recite his office with as little inconvenience when traveling as when in his room.

Not wishing to disturb him, Owen rode ahead several paces. Twice he glanced furtively behind him. The good Father seemed lost to all around, and to have his thoughts fixed only on heaven, so that Owen wondered and wondered how he could pray so long and fervently. Half an hour passed. Again Owen turned, and saw that Father Byrne had dismounted and was kneeling. As he knelt there upon a moss-covered root, a sunbeam stole through the golden and crimson foliage of the forest and rested like a halo upon his face. Shadow and sunshine checkered the gay, leafy carpet which nature had spread out around him. The foxglove and wild bergamot, yet untouched by the frost, offered their fragrance in unison with his prayers, while bough and leaf which canopied him stirred not, as if unwilling to break the holy silence. And again Owen wondered and wondered how Father Byrne could pray so long.

"Father," said Owen, when the priest had rejoined him, and the two were again riding along together, "since you cannot come with me to the shooting match, perhaps you would like to see me try my rifle at the house. I can bring down swallows on the wing; and they are harder to hit than robins."

"Bring down swallows on the wing!" repeated the priest. "Why, I never heard of any one doing that before."

"I once killed seven in succession," replied Owen, with no little satisfaction.

"You must get your rifle as soon as we return. I'll be satisfied with five swallows. If you kill five in succession, I'll acknowledge that you are a better marksman than Coon-Hollow Jim."

Shortly after returning home, Owen donned his cap and hunting-jacket, threw his powder-horn over his left shoulder, strapped his bullet-pouch around his waist, and sallied forth into the yard. He selected an open spot in front of the house, where he had a clear range in every direction, while Father Byrne, with Mr. and Mrs. Howard, stood on the open porch near by. Robin, who was always frightened by the report of a gun, sought protection under a bed.

It was about half an hour from sunset. The swallows were flittering and diving through the air in quest of gnats and other insects, many of the birds passing not twenty feet overhead.

"Father," said Owen, adjusting his rifle for action, "we received a new keg of powder by the last stage, and I haven't had time to test its strength yet; so, if I miss the first few shots, you'll know the reason."

"No excuse! no excuse!" said the priest, with a laugh. "If you do not kill five birds in succession, you are no match for the giant."

"Twit-r-r-r," and a swallow sailed by within ten feet of Owen's head.

"Twit-r-r-r-r," another had come and gone.

"Twit-r-r-r-r-r," and a third flew away unhurt.

"There!" exclaimed Father Byrne.

"There!" repeated Mr. Howard.

"I am waiting for one to come in the right direction," was the reply of the young marksman.

Soon one did come in the right direction. The rifle cracked, and the doomed bird fell to the ground with a flutter.

"Lo'd, dat's a shootin' boy!" exclaimed Mose, who just then appeared at the door of the negro cabin, and with this exclamation he began a lively jig on his fiddle.

"Twit-r-r-r-r,"—bang; and Wash, who had also appeared on the scene, ran for the second swallow.

Again the music started, again it was succeeded by the report of the rifle, and again Wash picked up the unlucky bird.

Owen waited for his chance every time. Six shots and six swallows were the results of the trial.

"Well, Owen," said Father Byrne, "you have more than surprised me. I predict success for you at the shooting match."

Even Mr. Howard was surprised at the deftness with which his son handled a rifle. He himself when young had been something of a marksman, but in his best days he had never equaled Owen. To kill six swallows in succession was almost marvelous. Prize shooters, even with sporting guns, could not bring them down with certainty; and when rifles were used, not one bird in ten was killed.

Rifle-shooting is an art. The marksman must know his gun, its exact range, the strength of his powder and exactly how much is required. Owen was not jesting when he told Father Byrne that he was not certain of his mark until he had tested the quality of his powder; this known, he could calculate the number of grains to use. Owen had one difficulty, however, which he had not yet mastered. In practicing he had observed that it was more difficult to kill a bird flying in a bee-line to or from him than one that flew to the right or to the left. When shooting swallows, he could wait for those which passed within the most advantageous range, but at the shooting-match he would be forced to take his robin as it flew from the trap. Owen resolved, with Martin's aid, to spend the following three weeks in overcoming this difficulty.

HAPPY DAYS.

On the following morning the children were again assembled at Mr. Howard's for catechism. Those who lived within five miles of the farmer's house returned home at night, while others who were unable to come and go each day, stayed in the immediate neighborhood. Those were happy days for the dear little ones whom Father Byrne gathered around him. Prayers, instructions and lessons finished, the boys scampered off to the river to fish, or played "hide-and-go-seek" in the great hayloft, while the girls spent their happy hours in the grape-vine swings which Mr. Howard had made for them, or wandered out into the woods or into the fields to gather clusters of golden-rods.

No one enjoyed these days more than did Mr. and Mrs. Howard. They deemed it an honor and a privilege to have this troop of innocent children assembled beneath their roof. They insisted, too, on giving them a warm dinner each day, and supplying them with a bountiful repast before their departure. When the crowd began to break up in the afternoon (or rather in the evening, for the country folks of Kentucky never use the word afternoon), Mr. Howard was always there to see the children off safely. He took great delight in bringing their horses to the stile-block, in strapping on the blankets which they generally used instead of saddles, and in seeing them nestled snugly in their places, sometimes as many as four in a row on one horse. Then off they rode, laughing and talking, and saying a dozen goodbyes, and munching the biscuits and jam which Mrs. Howard had distributed among them. If the day was pleasant, the benches were brought out from the chapel beneath a large oak-tree near the house. Here Father Byrne heard the lessons and gave his instructions.

Early in the afternoon of the third day of class Mr. Howard came blustering into the room, and told Father Byrne to dismiss the children at once.

"I reckon, Father," said he, "we're going to have a heavy rain! Better get the children off at once!"

"Why do you think it is going to rain before night?" inquired the priest, with some surprise, walking to the door and surveying the heavens.

"Rain before night!" repeated the farmer. "Your reverence, it will be pouring down in less than two hours. Just look at that sun drawing up water. I tell you, if he keeps that up much longer, he'll have enough rain up in the skies to drown the country." Here Mr. Howard pointed toward the west to the long amber streaks, each one of which in his mind was a mighty pump supplying the rain-clouds from the distant ocean.

"I'll leave the matter to your judgment," said the priest. "It would be well to follow the more prudent course."

"You see, we shouldn't have room for them to stay over night," was the farmer's answer. "So I'll get the horses, and I'll start them at once."

There was a general murmur of disapprobation in the room, for the children disliked to disband so soon.

"Owen! Here, Owen!" yelled the farmer, going to the corner of the yard and calling his son, who was grubbing around the apple-trees in the orchard. "Come and help me to get the horses ready for the children!"

"Wife," he continued, appearing at the kitchen door, "can you get the little things something to eat? I am going to send them home before it rains."

"Why, dear," replied Mrs. Howard, "it has not been an hour since they had their dinner. And what makes you think it is going to rain?"

"The sun has been sucking up water now for some time. Just as soon as the sky is full, it will come pouring down."

"Well, the biscuits and chicken were cooked at dinner time. Aunt Margaret can have them ready in a few minutes," answered the wife, much amused at her husband's solicitude for the children.

"Great Jarusulum!" exclaimed the old negress in utter amazement, when ordered to get a lunch ready for the whole class. "Dem chilluns is goin' to eat up dis hole house, I know dey is!" for never in her experience had she seen such quantities of jam, biscuits and chickens disappear. In former years, the catechism class numbered about ten; this season it had more than trebled. Aunt Margaret began to fear that the whole tribe of chickens would become extinct, and when she went out in the morning to scatter food to the younger broods, she uttered words of prophetic warning. "You'se better hop off to de barn and get away from heah," she said, "for when dem chilluns is devou'd youse big brudders and sisters, dey'll be after youse, too."

While the lunch was being prepared, Owen and his father brought the horses to the front of the house. The latter again surveyed the sky, where the amber streaks had grown to twice their size, an evident proof that the sun was drawing up an unusual amount of water. This was a deep-seated conviction of the farmer, of which it was impossible to disabuse him.

"Owen," said he, "take these horses back to the stable."

"Don't you think it is going to rain?" asked Owen, in surprise.

"I don't think anything about it! I know it! It is going to rain pitchforks and millstones in less than an hour," said the farmer, emphatically.

Mr. Howard then stalked into the class-room, and told the children that they would all remain until after the rain—after the rain which would begin in about half an hour. The farmer proved a prophet; the rain came as he predicted, and at the time he predicted. It rained—it poured—it came down in torrents. Four, five, six o'clock, and still it rained, but this was not the only difficulty. The little creeks which crossed the road on either side of the house were swollen into rapid streams, which it was not only dangerous but impossible to ford.

"We shall have to keep the little ones with us," said Mr. Howard to his wife, when he saw that it was getting late and the rain had not in the least abated.

"And where can we stow them all away?"

"That's what I've been thinking about."

"You can send the boys home, and we can make room for the girls," suggested Bertha.

"It wouldn't hurt them to get a little wet, my dear, but I am afraid they cannot cross the creeks," replied the father. "I'll walk down to Cedar Creek. I can judge from it whether or not the fords are dangerous."

Mr. Howard's report was most unfavorable. Not even a strong man could pass to the other side of the stream without the risk of his life; it would be rash to let one of the children start home.

"Well, where can they sleep?" asked the wife.

"You take care of the girls," said the farmer. "I'll see that the boys live until morning."

"Oh, father! You are not going to put them up in the dusty garret!" expostulated Bertha.

"You and your mother see to the girls," said Mr. Howard, with a laugh. "I'll give you the whole house for their accommodation," and with these words he went out on the porch, where Father Byrne was talking with the children.

"What are you going to do with this little troop?" asked the priest.

"I went down to examine the creek, and found that it could not be forded. Even if the rain holds up awhile, which I don't think it will do, it will be impossible for any of the children to go home," replied the farmer.

A general burst of approbation went up from the crowd—the little girls danced, while the boys shouted and threw their hats into the air.

"Have you room for all of them?" inquired the priest

"Room for the girls, I believe."

"Yes," said Bertha, who appeared on the scene; "we can put them all in the dining-room, and have a cover for each."

"Where are the boys going to sleep?" asked Father Byrne, turning to Mr. Howard.

"I have a much better place for them than Bertha has for the girls," answered the farmer, with a laugh.

"Where?"

"In the hayloft."

His words were followed by loud exclamations of joy from the boys, all of whom were delighted at the prospect of sleeping in the big hayloft. They had enjoyed their games of "hide-and-go-seek" there so much during the past days that it had become for them a home.

"I am going to find a good bed!" exclaimed one of the boys.

"So am I! So am I!" cried two others, and off the whole crowd went to burrow like so many rabbits into the heaps of oats and hay.

Aunt Margaret heard with utter consternation that her ravenous little guests were to remain until the morrow, thus demanding two extra meals to satisfy the cravings of their inordinate appetites. She groaned piteously when she reflected how many innocent chickens would be sacrificed to accomplish this end, and, following the instincts of self-preservation, she concealed a large ham in the chimney, lest she should die of hunger during the famine which must necessarily follow. Mr. Howard, however, saved the lives of the chickens by killing a sheep, which supplied the children with abundant repast.

Every effort was made by Father Byrne and the Howard family to entertain the children that evening. Father Byrne told them many stories of his missionary life in the almost uninhabitable sections of the State, where he was often forced to sleep in the open forest, with his horse tethered by his side. Once he was pursued by wolves, and was forced to abandon his horse to their fury. At another time, when in imminent danger of losing his life in a rapid current, he saved himself by grasping his horse's tail, and allowing the animal to drag him ashore. The priest interrupted his narratives at times to draw some beautiful and instructive moral for the children—how they should always trust in God, pray to Him in danger and temptation, and remember that their guardian angels watched over them day and night to shield them from all harm.

When Father Byrne had entertained the guests for an hour, Uncle Pius made his appearance with the other negroes, offering to serenade the visitors.

How they clapped their hands with joy at the announcement of such good news! Their eyes were fixed upon the venerable old negro as he tuned his fiddle and directed his assistants. Something was coming, something very funny! The music began. Uncle Pius rolled his large white eyeballs toward heaven in a most mysterious way; he twitched and screwed his face into every distorted shape; he knocked his knees together and struck the floor heavily with his big, broad foot; he whistled, he sang, he screamed, he shouted, until the whole house was in convulsions of laughter.

It was now growing late, and Mr. Howard announced that it was time for children to be in bed. They pleaded for one more song, which was granted. Then followed night prayers in common. Here no distinction was made between slave and master—all knelt to offer homage to God in unison.

"I'm scared," said one of the smallest of the boys, going to the window after prayers and looking out into the dark night.

"I tell you, it's dark outside," rejoined his companion.

"Say, do you think there'll be any ghosts in that barn to-night?" asked the first speaker.

"Don't know! Ghosts like barns, though."

"I ain't going!"

"Neither'm I!"

"Come on, boys!" cried the stentorian voice of Mr. Howard. "Come on! Let us be off to bed."

"John's afraid of ghosts!" said one of the boys.

"I am going to stay with you all night, boys, and leave the lantern burning," answered Mr. Howard.

This seemed to allay John's fears, for no ghosts, thought he, would ever venture where there was the least ray of light.

The barn was reached without accident, and the boys scrambled up the rickety ladder into their novel abode.

"Tom's in my bed."

"No, I ain't."

"I know you are. I know that's the bed I made!"

"What's the matter there, boys?" called out Mr. Howard.

"Tom Scott's in my bed."

"This is my bed, Mr. Howard," answered Tom, who by this time had burrowed deep into the oats, and had no intention of leaving his snug nest.

"Come up here, my little man," said the farmer. "I'll have a bed for you before you can say 'Jack Robinson.'" He then pulled two bundles of oats from the stack, and shoved the little sleeper into his improvised resting-place.

"Is everybody fixed for the night?" asked he. "We have two kinds of beds in this hotel—one of oats and the other of straw. You can have your choice, the cost is the same."

Everybody seemed contented.

"Well, go to sleep, boys! I'll be here with you all night."

Mr. Howard took a seat on an old barrel in front of the crowd. The boys were completely exhausted after their day's romping, and were soon fast asleep. Seeing that his services were no longer needed, the farmer threw himself upon the hay and followed their example.

On the following morning the children were dismissed immediately after breakfast. Father Byrne also took his departure; not, however, until he had encouraged David to prepare well for his coming battle with Goliath.

THE PRACTICE.

After supper on that same day, Owen left the house, and with a quick step followed a path which led over the hills through a large cedar grove. Here he mounted an old stump and gave a shrill whistle. No answer came but the distant echo. So he sat down upon the stump and began to mend a wide-mouthed sack, which he carried under his arm and which the mice had evidently been using for their habitation, having gnawed spacious doors and miniature windows in many places.

Every few seconds the prevailing stillness was broken by the whiz of myriads of wings, as flock after flock of robins settled in the deep glade for the night. It has been asserted by some naturalists that the robin is not a migratory bird. It is true that a few can be found in the thicket and barnyard during the winter months, but by far the greater number follow the swallow and blue-bird to warmer climes. Toward the latter part of autumn they pass through the Middle States, not by thousands only, but by millions. The thick cedar glades in central Kentucky were a favorite resort for them in their passage, and at night countless numbers roosted in the dark evergreen branches.

It was to secure a number of robins that Owen had ventured out. After repairing the sack with strips of elm bark, he again mounted the stump and gave another whistle. Soon Martin Cooper issued from among the cedars, at the same time waving a lantern above his head. He, too, carried a sack.

When it was quite dark, and the robins had settled down for the night, the boys crept stealthily along into the thickest part of the glade, carrying the lighted lantern. Now the fun began. Climbing a few feet up the trees and opening their sacks, Owen and Martin commenced to capture the affrighted robins. Many of the birds were so dazed by the light that they sat perfectly quiet, and were thrust into the sacks as easily as if they were apples hanging from a bough. Many, too, startled by the swaying branches, flew madly into the thicket, and by their cries spread the alarm throughout the evergreen domain.

Soon the whole glade was alive with the flutter and cries of the robins. Darting from tree to tree, they frightened those yet undisturbed. Robins screamed piteously. Robins yelled like street boys at the sound of the fire alarm. Old robins were demanding silence, and young robins were asking advice. Captured robins were fluttering in their prisons, and affrighted robins, dropping suddenly among the branches around the lantern, shared the fate of their doomed companions. Robins, robins, robins; singing, screaming, crying, laughing, up and down, back and forth they flew, until the sacks were filled and the boys departed.

An hour later all was quiet again among the evergreen. Old robins dozed quietly on the branches, while young robins on their first trip to the South dreamed of the rice-fields and orange-groves of the tropic zone. And still an hour later not less than four hundred captured robins, though imprisoned in a coop, dreamed that they were roosting among the cedars; while Owen and Martin in their snug beds dreamed of the shooting-match, and their future victory over Coon-Hollow Jim.

"Helloo, Mart! What made you so late?" said Owen as Martin entered the field chosen as the place of practice.

"Late! It isn't late yet. You can kill many a robin before dark," answered Martin, at the same time putting down a box which he carried on his shoulder. "Here is the trap which I promised to make for you," he continued. "It works well, too. I had hard work in getting a good piece of wood for the trigger. That's what made me so late."

"Works nicely," said Owen, as Martin touched the trigger and the door flew open.

"How many robins did you bring along?" inquired Martin.

"About fifty."

"That's as many as we can use. Now let us start to work."

Owen marked off the proper distance, while Martin put a robin in the trap for the first trial.

"Now I'm ready," said Owen, stepping up to the mark and raising his rifle.

As soon as the trigger was sprung the robin rose about six feet into the air, and then darted off directly in front of the boy. Almost at the same instant Owen fired.

"That'll never do," said Martin; "you didn't touch a feather."

"It is just as I told you," answered Owen; "I often miss them when they fly directly away. But let them go off one side, or in a half-circle, and they'll not escape so easily."

"Now for another trial," and Martin put the second robin into the box.

"What did I tell you!" exclaimed Owen, as his rifle cracked and the bird fluttered to the ground.

He then continued to shoot with varied success until it was so dark that his aim was no longer true.

Each afternoon he and Martin met at the same place for practice. During the first few days Owen failed in many shots, but toward the end of the third week, scarcely a robin flew from the trap that did not fall to the ground.

Besides Martin Cooper's practical assistance, Owen received no little aid, in the way of interest and encouragement from his sister, Bertha. At evening, when he returned home after practicing, she almost overwhelmed him with a multiplicity of questions. "Are you improving? How many robins did you kill? How many did you miss? Do you think you will win? Oh, I hope you will! Don't you?" Thus she continued to ply question after question, and to interlard them with exclamations and surmises until she was forced to stop for want of breath. But Bertha did not content herself with words. In the woods she collected several kinds of bark used in dyeing, and made Owen a shooting jacket, resembling in some respects the many colored coat of Joseph. His old hunting cap was replaced by a new one made of the skin of a red-fox, with the bushy tail hanging at one side.

The weather remained clear for the next three weeks. The robins still tarried in the woods and thickets, rifling the elderbushes of their red berries, stealing the newly sown grain from the wheat fields, and at evening from bush and fence and swaying tree-tops caroling to the glories of the setting sun. They still sought their favorite haunts among the evergreen at night, where old robins again dozed quietly, and young robins dreamed of the sunny South; while in his snug bed Owen again dreamed of the coming contest with Coon-Hollow Jim.

THE EVENTFUL DAY.

"Do you think you'll win?" asked Bertha, as Owen mounted his horse and started off toward Grundy's farm for the eventful shooting-match.

"I don't know," was the answer. "I have done my part by practicing every day, and you have done yours by making me this gay coat, and by putting a new cord on my powder-horn."

"I only wish that I could do more for you—something that would win the prize."

"If I kill as many robins as I did in my last practice, it will be difficult to beat me," said Owen, taking the rifle which Bertha handed him, and balancing it on the pommel in front of him.

"And did you really bring down twenty birds in twenty shots?" asked Bertha.

"Certainly I did."

"And didn't miss one?"

"Not one! But why do you ask me that question? You heard me tell father all about it when I came home last night."

"I know that I did, Owen, but I wanted to hear you say so again. It makes me feel so much more certain that you are going to win."

"Well, if you are that easily pleased, I can repeat it half a dozen times."

"No! no! once will do! But, oh, me! I do hope you'll win," said Bertha, with a prolonged sigh.

"And so do I." With these words, Owen galloped off, while Bertha continued to repeat: "Oh, me! I hope you'll win! I hope he'll win!"

Owen was joined by Martin Cooper—generous Martin, who had encouraged him so much, who had been of such service to him during the three weeks of practice, and who was now accompanying him to the scene of the long-expected combat.

A large crowd had already assembled, and the preparations were gradually being completed. A rectangular space, measuring seventy by thirty feet, was marked off for the contestants. At one side was a platform for the three judges, and here those who wished to compete registered their names. The whole was enclosed by a temporary fence, strong enough to withstand the pressure of the crowd. This provision was necessary to preserve order, for as many as four thousand persons often assembled on such occasions. Some were so eager to witness these contests that they rode a hundred miles, and considered their two hours' enjoyment sufficient recompense for their two days of traveling.

The target was made of a thick piece of sheet-iron, one yard in diameter, and divided into thirteen rings of equal distance, gradually widening out from the center, called the bull's eye. It was considered a disgrace to go beyond number ten, and the one thus branded was expected to retire from the lists.

As each contestant stepped up to the platform to register his name, cheer upon cheer burst forth from the excited crowd. If he had won honors on a former occasion, his name passed from mouth to mouth, and he was welcomed back with loud and prolonged shouts.

"Hurrah—hurrah! for Poplar Flat!" cried a voice, as a long, gaunt and seedy looking fellow swaggered through the crowd. "Hurrah—hurrah! for Poplar Flat!" echoed a thousand voices. Now Poplar Flat was not the name of the individual thus welcomed. It was a low tract of land about thirty miles from Grundy's farm, and received its name from the fact that it was overgrown with large poplar trees. Its seedy representative was quite a favorite at the shooting-matches, and always answered his admirers by awkward bows, and three times throwing his cap into the air.

When he had retired, a heavy-set, low-statured contestant stalked up to the judge's stand. He carried his rifle with much grace, and registered his name "Green Briar." Green Briar was a rocky and barren locality, which produced nothing but briars, interspersed here and there with patches of sassafras bushes, and where the people, it was said, lived on blackberries and rabbits. The little rifleman, however, was not ashamed of his country, for he turned to the crowd and yelled at the top of his voice:

"Three cheers for Green Briar." Some inquired of him, in jest, if rabbits were plentiful, and if the blackberry crop had failed, while an old chum remarked to those around, "Look out for number one when that fellow raises his rifle."

All was suddenly hushed into silence as a young aspirant stepped into the ranks. Unlike the others, who gloried in their rude and almost wild costumes, he was dressed in what the country folks called "city style." His suit was not made of "home-spun;" he wore a felt hat, and his legs were cased in calf boots; both of which things were considered luxuries in the back woods of Kentucky. This remarkable personage was no other than the son of Old Bowen. It was simply to pose before the admiring crowd, that Charlie Bowen attended the shooting-match, for he had no chance of even a fair record in the contest; and from the way he held his rifle all could see that he was not accustomed to use it.

It was now Owen's turn to register.

"Courage, Owen, courage!" whispered Martin, as Owen left his side with a light but nervous step.

"Hurrah for the boy! hurrah! hurrah!" yelled a corpulent gentleman, who seemed to have an unlimited supply of lung power, and an unlimited stock of suggestions for applause whenever the cheering ceased. The motley crowd swayed to and fro, and seemed eager for applause, so the hurrahs were re-echoed until Owen reached the judges' stand.

Here, however, his youthful hopes were crushed. The oldest of the judges eyed him from beneath his black, overhanging eye-brows, and remarked in a dignified way that the contest was not for boys. Owen was a boy; a boy in age, in build, in appearance; if he entered the lists, he would have to enter as a boy.

"If the shooting-match is only for men," said he, "then, sir, I shall have to wait some time, for I am only fifteen."

"Fifteen!" growled the judge, forgetting his dignity, and again turning his dark eyes upon Owen. "Fifteen! why it would disgrace the whole contest, bring discredit upon the State, and, in fact, knock a hole through the entire 'riggar-mar-rang.'"

While the judge paused for breath after this spontaneous outburst of eloquence, Owen continued:

"Nothing was mentioned about the required age on the different notices posted in the neighborhood."

"Understood! understood!" cried the judge, waving his cane over his head, and then bringing it against the platform with such force that his two assistants started from their seats. "Why, at this rate, every impudent brat that owns a rifle would hand in his name, bullets would be flying around here in every direction, and there would be as many sons of America slain, as perished in the battles of Lexington and Bunker Hill. No, boy, you are too young; you cannot enter your name!" The judge was evidently pleased with this last attempt. He resumed his seat and gazed out over the crowd with much complacency.

Owen turned away with a heavy heart, and was about to leave the platform, when the jolly, corpulent gentleman cried out:

"Wait a moment, Judge! Give the boy a chance! Hurrah for the boy! hurrah! hurrah!" The crowd was not slow in joining in the chorus. Encouraged by the prolonged yells, Owen paused, although he could not summon strength enough to face the judge again. The yelling ceased; and while the stern judge deliberated whether he should abide by his iron rule or grant the crowd their wish, an old negro mounted a stump and began:

"Skuze me, Massar Judge, for 'sturbin' ob dis heah congregashun. But let dis niggar tol' you somethin'. Dat's de shootinest little feller ebbar you seed, and dis niggar will chaw his head off if he don't be de fust in de—de—de—" here he paused and racked his memory for a large word with which to end his climax. But the word would not come. So he commenced again:

"Ya! dis niggar hab seen him shootin', an' will chaw his head off if he don't be fust in de—de—de—" still the word refused to come, so the sable orator threw both arms above his head and leaped from the stump. His speech, however, gained the day; it was followed by peals of laughter and bursts of applause, and Owen Howard's name was recorded among the contestants.

Here several men galloped pell mell into the grounds. They had certainly traveled at no moderate speed, for their horses were spattered with foam, and, when the reins were drawn, stood panting like engines. The leader of the party dismounted, and shouldering his long deer-rifle, strode through the crowd with giant-like steps. What a picture of manhood! He did not appear to belong to the present generation, but rather to that race of ancient warriors, who wielded battle-axes, which men of our age can scarcely lift.

His disheveled hair reached his shoulders, his fox-skin cap was plumed with an eagle-feather, his deer-skin coat almost reached his knees, and his belt was made of the skin of a rattle-snake; while his dark moccasins completed his wild but attractive costume. He was pre-eminently the king of marksmen. Old and young elbowed their way through the crowd to catch a glimpse of this wondrous being; and from the time that Coon-Hollow Jim,—for it was he—dismounted, until the judge called for the shooting to begin, his admirers yelled with unabated force.

DAVID AND GOLIATH.

All was now ready. The judge rising from his seat said in a solemn tone: "I have the honor, gentlemen, to announce the opening of the yearly Kentucky shooting match. As I am to address you at length at the close of the contest, I shall not now detain you by any inopportune remarks. I was going to remark that—but no—I'll not keep the crowd waiting longer. The men who are going to take part will please answer to their names when called by the director of the field."

The names of the participants were put into a box. To avoid delay two were drawn forth at a time; one firing while the other loaded.

Charlie Bowen was the first. The man at the target called out number thirteen, and the crestfallen humiliated youth disappeared in the midst of the crowd.

Poplar Flat's seedy representative sent two balls to number one, but becoming nervous at the third shot he struck the target between six and seven. Others then shot with varied success. "Green Briar" sent but one ball home, that is, to number one. The next two, however, grouping together in number three, made him the first among the twenty-six who had already fired.

But two now remained, Owen Howard and Coon-Hollow Jim. So Father Byrne's prediction was verified,—David and Goliath came forth to combat.

"Great pos—sim—mons! Youngster!" cried the old marksman, when he saw the size of his opponent. "You is a brave boy to fight a feller like me!" With these words he lifted Owen from the ground and carried him to the place of battle.

Since Goliath's name was called first, he stepped to the front, and raising his rifle sent the ball into the center of number one. Owen was encouraged by the giant's familiarity. He, too, was conscious of his power, so bringing his rifle to a level, with a true and steady aim he fired.

"Great pos-sim-mons!" exclaimed Coon-Hollow Jim, as soon as he heard the report of Owen's rifle. "She is not well loaded, or the powder is bad."

As these words were uttered the cry came from the target, "number nine."

Owen, too, noticed that his rifle had not its usual, clear ring. Seeing that he had shot so far from the mark, he knew that something was wrong. For months he had practiced at objects at the same distance as the target before him. Never had his aim been so untrue. The cause of his failure flashed upon his mind in an instant. Bertha had put a new red-strap in his old powder horn. This was the first time he had used it since the night when he and Martin were caught in a heavy rain while returning from a hunt. The powder, he remembered, was then damaged. What was to be done? As Coon-Hollow Jim stepped forward for his second shot, Owen asked him for a few charges of powder. This was readily granted, and to the great surprise of all, the boy sent the next two balls to the center of the target.

Goliath "drove all three home." When the last shot had been fired the crowd rushed around him, raised him from the ground, and carried him to the platform in triumph.

A marksman in those days was held in high repute, and the champion at a shooting match was as jealous of his prowess as the crowned victor of the Olympic games. No honor was considered too great for him. We know from an episode in the life of Henry Clay, that, when candidate for the State Assembly, he once carried a whole district by a chance shot with a rifle.

Coon-Hollow Jim was now to receive the honors he had so well deserved. Seated on the platform with his long rifle in his hand, and the large eagle-feather dallying above his head, he listened to the eulogy pronounced upon himself, and the other heroes of America. For in the opinion of the speaker, Squire Grundy, the marksman at his side was as great a hero as was Jefferson or Washington. The Squire was certainly a professional "stump speaker." Bombastic and incongruous words were strangely intermingled in his half finished sentences. Still he was never at a loss for a word. He spoke right on, whether there was sense in what he said or not. He needed no artful introduction to gain the attention of his hearers. So beginning with the discovery of America, he traced the progress of the country during Colonial days; dwelt at length upon the Revolutionary War, the battles of Lexington, Saratoga and Yorktown. Coming closer to his own day, he eulogized the great Admirals Hull and Perry, and added by way of parenthesis that he himself, Squire Grundy, had known the hero of Erie's battle. History unfortunately has preserved but a single fragment of his speech, though just where it was introduced the writer was unable to ascertain. "I am," said he, "a follower of the immortal Jefferson, the framer of our Constitution, and the pioneer of the human race." He concluded with a prayer for America's progress, and with much ceremony bestowed the prize, a silver mounted pistol, upon the champion marksman of Kentucky.

An intermission of thirty minutes was allowed the marksmen, while preparations were made for the second part of the program. In this each had twenty chances at robins, flying from a box at a distance of thirty yards. The "wing-shot," it is needless to say, was more difficult than target-shooting, and some who had acquitted themselves creditably during the first contest, withdrew their names.

Scattered in knots over the field, many were talking in a mysterious way. Some hinted that every one would be surprised except themselves. Others claimed that three of the marksmen who had held back during the target shooting, would bring down every robin which flew from the box. It was also rumored that two men, who had just registered their names, were marvels in the rifle-craft, that they had won prizes at every shooting-match in the United States; that one, who had large, owl-like eyes, could kill a swallow further than most men could see it. Jolly Jerry, too, was there, exchanging jokes with his old friends and making arrangements for the winter dances; he had not entered the lists thus far, but had reserved his prowess for a more signal battle.

Martin Cooper had not lost hope. Owen, he was convinced, had but one equal in the State, and had it not been for an unforeseen accident, he would have divided honors with Coon-Hollow Jim. In shooting on the wing he thought that his young friend was superior to any one on the grounds.

"Bad luck, Owen," said Martin, as the two met after the conferring of the first prize.

"All Bertha's fault," said Owen. "I had my new powder horn ready, and was about to start, when she came running out with this old one. Since she had gone to the trouble of weaving a new string, and of putting these yellow tassels at each end, I changed to please her. The powder in the old horn was damp, and this spoiled all that I put in."

"Too bad! wasn't it?" replied Martin. "But you have another chance yet, and I am sure you are going to show the crowd what you can do."

"Well, the powder is dry. I am certain of that. Mr. Lane, or Coon-Hollow Jim, as we call him, gave me half of his. He says it's the best made."

"So his real name is Mr. Lane," answered Martin, with some surprise. "Isn't he a good and kind fellow? He made everybody laugh when he carried you to the place for shooting."

"When I offered to pay him for the powder," continued Owen, "he tapped me on the head saying 'that's all right, my little man, I hope you take the next prize, but I am going to do all I can to get it myself.'"

"If you do win," said Martin, "it will be the whole story of David and Goliath, for you will use Coon-Hollow Jim's powder to beat him with, just as David used the sword of the giant to cut off his head."

"I shall do my best, Mart!" said Owen, "but, see, the men are getting ready. It's time for the second part."

"Now for work! Show them what you can do!"

KILLING GOLIATH WITH HIS OWN SWORD.

After the few preparations were completed, Squire Grundy again arose, and in a solemn voice announced the second part of the program.

Hurrah followed hurrah when Coon-Hollow Jim's name was the first to be drawn from the box, and the big giant stepped forth to win a second victory. How gracefully he swung his rifle from his shoulder! How true his aim! How telling was every shot! At one time he brought a robin to the ground before it had risen above the heads of the spectators; at another he let it sail so far away that to kill it seemed impossible. It mattered little which way they flew—to the right or left, up into the air, or directly from him—every shot was equally fatal. The marksman wondered at his own skill, for never before had he made such a record—twenty birds in twenty shots. How the crowd yelled! yelled louder and louder at each successive shot, until, at last, when the twentieth bird was killed, Coon-Hollow Jim was lifted from the ground and carried to the judge's platform.

After such an exhibition of rifle-craft, and such an outburst of wild enthusiasm, the shooting that followed was slow and uninteresting. Any one who failed in a single attempt was forced to retire, since by this failure he forfeited all chance of winning a prize. The man with the owl-like eyes missed the first robin at which he fired; the seedy representative from Poplar Flat shared the same fate, while the noted marksman from Green Briar disappointed his numerous friends by letting the fifth bird escape.

Then came Jerry's turn. The reappearance of the jolly old fiddler at the shooting-match was of itself sufficient to revive the waning enthusiasm of the spectators. "Swing corners," shouted a voice from the crowd. "Balance all," yelled another, for the sight of Jolly Jerry awakened many pleasant recollections of summer picnics and winter dances. He killed the first bird, the second, the third; then the crowd became excited again. The hurrahs were almost as deafening as those which Coon-Hollow Jim received. In fact, the giant marksman became restive in his seat as he saw bird after bird fall before the steady aim of the old trapper. Then there came a silence. It seemed as if every spectator there was suddenly stricken dumb. Every eye was riveted upon an object which was slowly becoming but a small speck in the sky. It was the robin which Jerry had missed—not missed altogether, however, for the bullet had cut several feathers from its wings, so that it flew with great difficulty.

A horseman galloped after it in order to bring it back if it should fall. This would count, provided the bird could be placed in the trap before five minutes had passed. The robin sailed toward the ground, then into the air again; here it fluttered, sailed and fluttered again. Would it fall? Yes—no. It reached the woods, and was safe. Jerry gazed at the crowd as if soliciting sympathy, then turned toward Coon-Hollow Jim, brandished his rifle in the air, and said:

"I'm gettin' old now, an' my han's ain't steady, but there was a time when no man in this hare State could out-shoot Jerry, the trapper."

The men who followed met with but little success. Then came Owen's turn, the last of all. By this time the crowd was beginning to break, and many had already departed, so it was not under very favorable circumstances that our young hero came forth to make a name.

The trap flew open, the bird flew out, the rifle cracked, and down came poor robin red-breast.

"That's the last he'll get," said a tall man with a high voice.

But it wasn't the last. The next bird shared the same fate; so did the next, and the next, and the next, until at last eight had fallen.

The crowd cheered—cheered so lustily that many who had started off turned in their saddles and looked around. Owen all the while was scarcely conscious of the surging crowd around him. He loaded his rifle rapidly, fired rapidly, loaded and fired again.

"Great pos-sim-mons!" exclaimed Coon-Hollow Jim.

"Hurrah! hurrah for the boy!"

"Hurrah for the boy! hurrah for the boy!" re-echoed the frantic crowd.

The excitement spread. The horsemen, who had reined up near the grounds, called to those in front of them. These in turn signaled to the moving groups farther on, until the alarm reached the bands that had first departed. What had happened, the different parties knew not. Certainly it was something extraordinary. So without exception each horseman put spurs to his animal and galloped back. When Owen raised his rifle for the last and crowning shot, a deathlike silence fell upon the spectators. But this silence was of short duration. The robin flew straight into the air, then wheeled around with a graceful curve—a sharp report, and down the bird twirled to the ground.

Martin all the while was standing apart from the crowd, watching Owen's every movement, confident of his power, yet dreading some possible accident. As the twentieth bird flew from the trap, he buried his face in his hands, nor did he dare look up until the wild cheers told that his friend had won.

Owen was nearly suffocated by the men who pressed around him. "Great pos-sim-mons! don't be a killin' of the feller!" cried Coon-Hollow Jim, who had left the platform and was standing close to the boy's side. With this expostulation he lifted Owen to his shoulder, worked his way through the crowd like an old crusader on the battle-field, and placed his charge on the judge's bench.

Squire Grundy rose to make a speech, but the crowd yelled him down, and demanded that the two heroes of the day should come forward again to test their skill. Owen's heart beat with honest pride as he stepped down from the platform and walked side by side with his giant opponent,—still his wannest friend. Again David and Goliath came forth to battle.

Goliath was the first to fire; he killed his bird, but so did David; he brought down the second, but David also brought down the second; he killed the third, the fourth, the fifth; but David did the same. At each shot the mobile crowd swayed to and fro and reiterated its deafening cheers. Then there came another silence for, alas! Goliath had failed to hit the fluttering mark. The silence was prolonged, for each one seemed to hold his breath as he watched Owen's last attempt. Martin again closed his eyes and hid his face within his hands. He heard the sharp report of Owen's rifle, and then such shouts as he had never listened to before. The yearly shooting-match was over, and Owen Howard had made a record which was never before or afterward equaled.

Our little hero would certainly have been crushed to death had he not been rescued a second time by his giant friend, who again carried him to the platform, piled together the benches of the stand, and high above the heads of both the judge and people placed the youthful victor.

When Owen had received the glittering, long-coveted prize, Coon-Hollow Jim arose and demanded a hearing. He spoke of the years that he had used the rifle, of his many victories in different parts of the State, and concluded by frankly owning that he had met his superior. With this acknowledgment he removed the pistol-strap from his own waist and handed it to Owen, and upon his refusal to take it, despite all protestations, secured the belt around the boy's waist. Coon-Hollow Jim never again appeared at a shooting match.

Years afterward old men were wont to speak of this eventful day, when a youthful hero took the prize from the best marksman in the State.

BERTHA HEARS THE NEWS OF VICTORY.

The night after the shooting-match was damp and chilly. Near the fire which roared up the spacious chimney in what was called the family-room, sat Mr. Howard whittling at a wooden latch for the kitchen door. Mrs. Howard was busy with her knitting needles, while Bertha kept the spinning-wheel in perpetual motion.

"It's getting late," said the father, as the old-fashioned clock above the mantel struck eleven. "We can't wait for Owen much longer."

"Oh, me! Let us wait, father! I shall not be able to close my eyes to-night until I've heard Owen tell all about the shooting match. I do just hope he will win! Don't you?" answered Bertha, and in her excitement she made the spinning-wheel buzz and screech.

"You have said that at least twenty thousand times to-day," drawled out the farmer, as he cut a long shaving from the hickory stick in his hand.

"Yes! she has been wishing, and wishing, and wishing all day," remarked the wife.

"You don't know how I feel," said Bertha. "Oh! I just hope he'll win! I can't stand this waiting any longer!"

Here the conversation was interrupted by the barking of Bounce.

"Oh! there he is!" cried Bertha, letting the yarn drop from the spindle, and running to the door. "Owen! Owen! did you win, Owen? Owen, did you win?"

"What is all this excitement about?" inquired Father Byrne, as he dismounted from his horse and walked into the yard.

"Why, Father Byrne!" said Bertha, immediately changing her tone of voice, and addressing the priest with the greatest respect. "I thought you were Owen. He has been at the shooting match all day, and I do just hope he will win!"

"And so do I," rejoined the priest with a smile.

"Welcome! Welcome! Father," said Mr. Howard, who appeared at the door carrying a lighted candle.

"I am returning from a long sick-call," said the priest; "have been riding all day, without having anything to eat. During the last two weeks I have had three sick-calls of over sixty miles each."

"You must be tired indeed," said the kind farmer in a sympathetic way. "Sit down near this bright fire, Father. Bertha will soon have a warm supper ready."

"She will have to hurry," said the priest, "for it is past eleven. I'll take a short rest of two hours, and then be on my way again in time to say Mass."

Father Byrne had scarcely taken his seat when Bounce gave a second alarm.

Again Bertha ran from the house toward the yard-gate, exclaiming: "Owen! Owen! did you win, Owen?"

"Good evening," answered a strange voice.

"Where is he? Did he not come?"

"Your brother Owen will probably not be home to-night."

"Has anything happened?"

"No; but you do not know me?"

"Oh, do tell me the news, sir."

"I'm Walter Stayford."

"And were you at the shooting-match, Mr. Stayford? Did Owen win? Why won't he come to-night? Oh, do tell me."

"Nothing serious has happened," said Stayford, very deliberately. He had never visited the Howards, but had often met Owen and his sister at dances and picnics, so he felt that he was not altogether a stranger to Bertha. Her eagerness and curiosity provoked him to withhold the good news he had come to tell.

"But did he win? where is he?"

"We left him at Grundy's farm."

"Then you were there?"

"Yes."

"And you saw the shooting match?"

"Yes."

"And did Owen take part in it?"

"Yes."

"Oh, do tell me, sir."

"Good evening, Mr. Howard," said Stayford, turning toward the farmer, who had just then walked out into the yard in the full light of the blazing fire-place. "I have just been trying to tell this young lady all about her brother's victory; but she won't listen to me."

"Then he won," exclaimed Bertha, in boisterous glee.

"Yes—yes, he won—outshot the whole State."

"He can certainly handle a rifle," said the father.

"That he can. I reckon he'll never meet his equal."

"Well, I reckon too much praise will spoil the boy. But where is he?"

"Why, he stayed to take supper with Squire Grundy. It's customary for the winner, you know. He will probably not be back to-night."

"Won't you step into the house?"

"No, I reckon not," answered Stayford. "I'm waiting for Jerry. I rode ahead to bring the good news. You see, Owen beat Jerry, too; but the old trapper didn't care as long as Coon-Hollow Jim lost the prize. He's in Tom Barn's hay-wagon with Sisco, Bechem, Brown, Craycroft and half a dozen others. I reckon he's coming now."

Far down the road could be heard the notes of Jerry's fiddle.

Suddenly with a wild shout two horsemen dashed up. They were Martin and Owen. The latter had declined the Squire's invitation to dine; hence the boys had arrived sooner than was expected.

"So David returns with the head of Goliath," said Father Byrne, grasping the boy's hand.

"Yes, Father, I have won," replied Owen. "But to your kindness and Martin's help belongs more than half the victory."

Bertha was not there. She had gone away to weep for very joy.