Part 12 (1/2)

Martin Cooper had not lost hope. Owen, he was convinced, had but one equal in the State, and had it not been for an unforeseen accident, he would have divided honors with c.o.o.n-Hollow Jim. In shooting on the wing he thought that his young friend was superior to any one on the grounds.

”Bad luck, Owen,” said Martin, as the two met after the conferring of the first prize.

”All Bertha's fault,” said Owen. ”I had my new powder horn ready, and was about to start, when she came running out with this old one. Since she had gone to the trouble of weaving a new string, and of putting these yellow ta.s.sels at each end, I changed to please her. The powder in the old horn was damp, and this spoiled all that I put in.”

”Too bad! wasn't it?” replied Martin. ”But you have another chance yet, and I am sure you are going to show the crowd what you can do.”

”Well, the powder is dry. I am certain of that. Mr. Lane, or c.o.o.n-Hollow Jim, as we call him, gave me half of his. He says it's the best made.”

”So his real name is Mr. Lane,” answered Martin, with some surprise.

”Isn't he a good and kind fellow? He made everybody laugh when he carried you to the place for shooting.”

”When I offered to pay him for the powder,” continued Owen, ”he tapped me on the head saying 'that's all right, my little man, I hope you take the next prize, but I am going to do all I can to get it myself.'”

”If you do win,” said Martin, ”it will be the whole story of David and Goliath, for you will use c.o.o.n-Hollow Jim's powder to beat him with, just as David used the sword of the giant to cut off his head.”

”I shall do my best, Mart!” said Owen, ”but, see, the men are getting ready. It's time for the second part.”

”Now for work! Show them what you can do!”

CHAPTER XII.

KILLING GOLIATH WITH HIS OWN SWORD.

After the few preparations were completed, Squire Grundy again arose, and in a solemn voice announced the second part of the program.

Hurrah followed hurrah when c.o.o.n-Hollow Jim's name was the first to be drawn from the box, and the big giant stepped forth to win a second victory. How gracefully he swung his rifle from his shoulder! How true his aim! How telling was every shot! At one time he brought a robin to the ground before it had risen above the heads of the spectators; at another he let it sail so far away that to kill it seemed impossible. It mattered little which way they flew--to the right or left, up into the air, or directly from him--every shot was equally fatal. The marksman wondered at his own skill, for never before had he made such a record--twenty birds in twenty shots. How the crowd yelled! yelled louder and louder at each successive shot, until, at last, when the twentieth bird was killed, c.o.o.n-Hollow Jim was lifted from the ground and carried to the judge's platform.

After such an exhibition of rifle-craft, and such an outburst of wild enthusiasm, the shooting that followed was slow and uninteresting. Any one who failed in a single attempt was forced to retire, since by this failure he forfeited all chance of winning a prize. The man with the owl-like eyes missed the first robin at which he fired; the seedy representative from Poplar Flat shared the same fate, while the noted marksman from Green Briar disappointed his numerous friends by letting the fifth bird escape.

Then came Jerry's turn. The reappearance of the jolly old fiddler at the shooting-match was of itself sufficient to revive the waning enthusiasm of the spectators. ”Swing corners,” shouted a voice from the crowd.

”Balance all,” yelled another, for the sight of Jolly Jerry awakened many pleasant recollections of summer picnics and winter dances. He killed the first bird, the second, the third; then the crowd became excited again. The hurrahs were almost as deafening as those which c.o.o.n-Hollow Jim received. In fact, the giant marksman became restive in his seat as he saw bird after bird fall before the steady aim of the old trapper. Then there came a silence. It seemed as if every spectator there was suddenly stricken dumb. Every eye was riveted upon an object which was slowly becoming but a small speck in the sky. It was the robin which Jerry had missed--not missed altogether, however, for the bullet had cut several feathers from its wings, so that it flew with great difficulty.

A horseman galloped after it in order to bring it back if it should fall. This would count, provided the bird could be placed in the trap before five minutes had pa.s.sed. The robin sailed toward the ground, then into the air again; here it fluttered, sailed and fluttered again. Would it fall? Yes--no. It reached the woods, and was safe. Jerry gazed at the crowd as if soliciting sympathy, then turned toward c.o.o.n-Hollow Jim, brandished his rifle in the air, and said:

”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 circ.u.mstances 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 l.u.s.tily 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.