He was apparently the Nimrod of the company, for he exhibited every characteristic of a "mighty hunter." He had buckskin breeches, and hunting-shirt, coon-skin cap, black bushy beard, and a visage of the color and texture of his bullet-pouch. At his belt hung the knife and hatchet, and the huge, indispensable powder-horn across a breast bare and brown as the hills he traversed in his forays, yet it covered a brave and noble heart.
He beckoned with his hand to Mr. Clay to approach him.
Mr. Clay immediately complied.
"Young man," said he, "you want to go to the Legislature, I see."
"Why, yes," replied Mr. Clay; "yes, I should like to go, since my friends have put me up as a candidate before the people. I don't wish to be defeated, of course; few people do."
"Are you a good shot, young man?" asked the hunter.
"I consider myself as good as any in the county."
"Then you shall go: but you must give us a specimen of your skill; we must see you shoot."
"I never shoot any rifle but my own, and that is at home," said the young orator.
"No matter," quickly responded the hunter, "here's Old Bess; she never failed yet in the hands of a marksman. She has put a bullet through many a squirrel's head at a hundred yards, and day-light through many a red-skin twice that distance. If you can shoot any gun, young man, you can shoot 'Old Bess!'"