“Dang it, Melissa, dry up!” he exclaimed, boiling with anger, “you know I hate that daddrated man. I'd fling my hat as high as the moon ef some o' these young bucks 'u'd beat him this fall; he's as full o' brag as a lazy calf is with fleas.”
“No use a hopin' fur anything o' that sort, paw; Lawson's too old a han'. He ain't got his equal at shootin' ur lawin.' The whole country couldn't rake up a better one.” After speaking in this manner she would stifle a giggle by holding her hand over her mouth until she was livid in the face, and escape from her mystified parent, leaving him to vent his spleen on the empty air.
The day of the annual shooting match drew near. It was not known who were to be the participants aside from Lawson, for the others usually waited till the time arrived to announce their intentions. No better day could have been chosen. The sky was blue and sprinkled with frothy clouds, and the weather was not unpleasantly cold. Women and men, boys, girls and children from all directions were assembled to witness the sport and were seated in chairs and wagons all over the wide, open space.
Melissa was there in a cluster of girls, and her father was near by in a group of men, all of whom—like himself—disliked the blustering, boasting Lawson and fondly hoped that someone would beat him on this occasion. Lawson stood by himself, with a confident smile on his face. His rifle butt rested on the grass and his hands were folded across each other on the end of his gun barrel.
“Wilks,” said he to the clerk of the county court, who had been chosen as referee for the occasion, “git up yore list o' fellers that are bold enough to shoot agin the champion. I reckon my nerves are 'bout as they wuz six yeer ago when I fust took my stan' here to larn this settlement how to shoot.”
Just before the list of aspirants was read aloud Dick managed to reach Melissa's side unobserved by her father.
“Did you keep yore promise 'bout cut-tin' my patchin' fur me?” he asked in a whisper.
With trembling fingers she drew from her pocket several little pieces of white cotton cloth about the size of a silver quarter of a dollar and gave them to him.
“They're jest right to a gnat's heel,” he said, warmly. “A ball packed in one o' them'll go straight ur I'm no judge.”
“Dick,” whispered she, looking him directly in the eyes, “you ain't a bit flustered. I believe you'll win.”