About sixty persons, including men spectators, had collected; and the most of them were more or less obedient to the call of Mealy Whitecotton—for that was the name of the self-constituted commander-in-chief. Some hastened and some loitered, as they desired to be first or last on the list; for they shoot in the order in which their names are entered.
The beef was not present, nor is it ever upon such occasions; but several of the company had seen it, who all concurred in the opinion that it was good beef, and well worth the price that was set upon it—eleven dollars. A general inquiry ran, in order to form some opinion as to the number of shots that would be taken; for, of course, the price of a shot is cheapened in proportion to the increase of that number. It was soon ascertained that not more than twenty persons would take chances; but these twenty agreed to take the number of shots at twenty-five cents each.
The competitors now began to give in their names; some for one, some for two, three, and a few for as many as four shots.
Billy Curlew hung back to the last, and when the list was offered to him, five lists remained undisposed of.
“How many shots left?” inquired Billy.
“Five,” was the reply.
“Well, I take them all. Put down four shots for me, and one to Lyman Hall, paid for by William Curlew.”
I was thunderstruck; not at his proposition to pay for my shot, because that Billy meant it as a token of friendship, and he would have been hurt if I had refused to let him do me this favour; but at the unexpected announcement of my name as a competitor for beef, at least one hundred miles from the place of my residence!
I was prepared for a challenge from Billy to some of his neighbours for a private match upon me, but not for this. I therefore protested against his putting in for me, and urged every reason to dissuade him from it that I could, without wounding his feelings.
“Put it down,” said Billy, with the authority of an emperor, and with a look that spoke volumes, intelligible to every bystander. “Reckon I don’t know what I’m about?” Then, wheeling off, and muttering in an under, self-confident tone: “Dang old Roper,” continued he, “if he don’t knock that cross to the north corner of creation, and back again, before a cat can lick her foot!”