"That's Wad; Rufe is down on the grass."
"What sort of a crop is that,—buckwheat?"
Link grinned. "There's something funny about that! Ye see, a buckwheat-lot is a great place for prairie hens. So one day I took the old gun, and the powder and shot you gave me for carrying you home that night, and went in, and scared up five or six, and fired at 'em, but I didn't hit any. Wad came along and yelled at me. 'Don't you know any better 'n to be trampling down the buckwheat?' says he. 'Out of there, quicker!' And he took the gun away from me. But he'd seen one of the hens I started light again on the edge of the buckwheat; so he went in to find her. 'You're trampling the buckwheat yourself!' says I. 'No, I ain't,' says he,—'I step between the spears; and I'm coming out in a minute.' He stayed in, though, about an hour, and went all over the patch, and shot two prairie chickens. Then Rufe came along, and he was mad enough, 'cause Wad was treading down the buckwheat. 'Come out of that!' says he, 'or I'll go in after ye, and put that gun where you won't see it again.' So Wad came out; and the sight of his chickens made Rufe's eyes shine. 'Did ye shoot them in the buckwheat?' says he. 'Yes,' says Wad; 'and I could shoot plenty more; the patch is full of 'em.' Rufe said he wanted the gun to go and shoot ducks with, on the river; but he didn't find any ducks, and coming along back he thought he would try his luck in the buckwheat,—treading between the spears! He had shot three prairie chickens, when father came along, and scolded him, and made him come out. 'I've heard you fire twenty times,' says father; 'you're wasting powder and ruining the crop. Let me take the gun.' 'But you mustn't ruin the crop,' says Rufe. Father's a splendid shot,—can drop a bird every time,—only he don't like to go hunting very often. He thought 't would pay for him to go through the patch once; besides, he said, if the birds were getting the buckwheat, we might as well get the birds. He thought he could tread between the spears! Well, since then," said Link, "we've just made a hunting-ground of that patch, always treading between the spears till lately; now it's got so trampled it never'll pay to cut it; so we just put it through. See that hen!"
There was a sound of whirring wings,—a flash, a loud report, a curl of smoke,—a broken-winged grouse shooting down aslant into the buckwheat, and a young hunter running to the spot.
"That's the way he does it," said Rufe, getting up from the grass.
He greeted Jack good-naturedly, inquired about Snowfoot, heard with surprise of Vinnie's arrival, and finally asked if Jack would like to try his hand at a shot.
"I should," replied Jack, "if it wasn't for treading down your buckwheat."
"That's past caring for," said Rufe, with a laugh. "Here, Wad, bring us the gun."
"Is that your land the other side of the fence?" Jack asked.
"That lot belongs to old Peakslow," said Rufe, speaking the name with great contempt. "And he pretends to claim a big strip this side too. That's what caused the feud between our families."