"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.