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.