Rancho Del Muerto and Other Stories of Adventure from «Outing» by Various Authors

“I ‘us jest a tryin’ to see how long I could keep the sight on that shiny spot out thar in the field without flinchin’. Blame me, ef you hadn’t come in I believe I could a helt her thar tell it thundered.”

“Dick,” said the old woman, with a deep breath, “what on earth has got in you here lately? Are you gwine plump stark crazy ‘bout that old gun? You never tuk on that way before.”

“I’ve jest found out I’m purty good on a shot, that’s all,” he replied, evasively.

“Well,” said she, “as fur as that’s concerned, in old times our stock was reckoned to be the best marksmen in our section. You ort to be; yore narrer ‘twixt the eyes, an’ that’s a shore sign.”

Dick caught a glimpse of Melissa now and then, and managed to exchange a few words with her occasionally, the nature of which we will not disclose. It may be said, however, that she was always in good spirits, which puzzled her father considerably, for he was at a loss to see why she should be so when Dick had not visited her since the night of the corn shucking. Moreover, she continually roused her father’s anger by speaking frequently of the great honor that belonged to Farmer Lawson for so often Winning the prizes in the shooting matches.

“Dang it, Melissa, dry up!” he exclaimed, boiling with anger, “you know I hate that daddrated man. I’d fling my hat as high as the moon ef some o’ these young bucks ‘u’d beat him this fall; he’s as full o’ brag as a lazy calf is with fleas.”

“No use a hopin’ fur anything o’ that sort, paw; Lawson’s too old a han’. He ain’t got his equal at shootin’ ur lawin.’ The whole country couldn’t rake up a better one.” After speaking in this manner she would stifle a giggle by holding her hand over her mouth until she was livid in the face, and escape from her mystified parent, leaving him to vent his spleen on the empty air.

The day of the annual shooting match drew near. It was not known who were to be the participants aside from Lawson, for the others usually waited till the time arrived to announce their intentions. No better day could have been chosen. The sky was blue and sprinkled with frothy clouds, and the weather was not unpleasantly cold. Women and men, boys, girls and children from all directions were assembled to witness the sport and were seated in chairs and wagons all over the wide, open space.

Melissa was there in a cluster of girls, and her father was near by in a group of men, all of whom – like himself – disliked the blustering, boasting Lawson and fondly hoped that someone would beat him on this occasion. Lawson stood by himself, with a confident smile on his face. His rifle butt rested on the grass and his hands were folded across each other on the end of his gun barrel.

“Wilks,” said he to the clerk of the county court, who had been chosen as referee for the occasion, “git up yore list o’ fellers that are bold enough to shoot agin the champion. I reckon my nerves are ‘bout as they wuz six yeer ago when I fust took my stan’ here to larn this settlement how to shoot.”

Just before the list of aspirants was read aloud Dick managed to reach Melissa’s side unobserved by her father.

“Did you keep yore promise ‘bout cut-tin’ my patchin’ fur me?” he asked in a whisper.

With trembling fingers she drew from her pocket several little pieces of white cotton cloth about the size of a silver quarter of a dollar and gave them to him.

“They’re jest right to a gnat’s heel,” he said, warmly. “A ball packed in one o’ them’ll go straight ur I’m no judge.”

“Dick,” whispered she, looking him directly in the eyes, “you ain’t a bit flustered. I believe you’ll win.”

With a smile Dick turned away and joined the crowd round the referee’s chair, and when his name was called a moment later among the names of four others he brought his rifle from a wagon and stood in view of the crowd. The first applause given that day was accorded him, for in addition to its being his first appearance in a shooting match he was universally popular.

“Bully fur you, Dick; here’s my han’ wishing you luck!” said a cheery-voiced farmer, shaking Dick’s hand.

“It’s the way with all these young strips,” said Lawson in a loud, boastful tone. “Gwine to conquer the whole round world. He’ll grin on tother side o’ his mouth when Bettie, the lead queen, barks and spits in the very centre o’ that spot out yander.”

A feeble murmur of admiration greeted this vaunting remark, but it quickly subsided as the crowd noted that Dick Martin did not reply even by so much as to raise his eyes from the inspection of his gun. The referee called for order.

“Jim Baker,” said he, “be so kind as to drive round yore stall-fed heifer. Ladies an’ gentlemen [as a man emerged from a group of wagons and drove a fine-looking young cow into the open space], here’s a heifer in fine enough order to make any man’s eyes sore to look. Fifteen round dollars has been paid in, by the five men who are to burn powder to-day, $3 apiece, an’ the man whose shootin’ iron can fling lead the straightest on this occasion is entitled to the beef and the championship o’ this valley till next fall. Now, Mr. Baker, lead out yore cow, an’ the shooters will please form in a line.”

When the aspirants stood in front of him the referee continued:

“Here is five pieces o’ straw, all different lengths. The man who gets the shortest one shoots fust, the next longest next, an’ so on till you’ve all had yore crack.”

Passing the straws to the riflemen, and af ter they had drawn one each from his tightly closed hands, he ordered a man to set up the target – a planed plank, about one foot in width and six in length, with a round marked spot about three inches in diameter, near the top.

“I’d willin’ly give my chance o’ oats to have some o’ them boys knock the stuffin’ clean out’n Lawson; he’s that stuck up he cayn’t hardly walk,” said Bagley, his anger intensified by observing the sneering smile on Lawson’s face.

“I’m mighty afeard,” said the man to whom Bagley was speaking, “that Dick Martin ‘ll lose his $3. I never heerd o’ him bein’ any han’ with a gun.”

To this Bagley offered no reply. In his hatred for Lawson, and at such a time he had no thought to give to Dick.

“All ready!” rang out the voice of the referee. “Bob Ransom gits the first pull at trigger to-day.”

Silence fell on the crowd as the tall, slender young man stepped forth and stood with his left foot on a line cut in the grass exactly 100 yards from the tree against which the yellow board with its single eye leaned in the sunbeams. Not a whisper escaped the motionless assembly as the young man slowly brought his weapon into position. “Crack!” sounded the rifle out of a balloon-shaped cloud of blue smoke.

“Missed centre, board, tree an’ all!” cried out Bagley, in a tone of deep regret.

“I seed yore lead plough up the dirt away out tother side; it’s powerful hard to hold a steady han’ when you are fust called on.”

“Next is Taylor Banks!” announced the referee; and as a middle-aged man advanced and toed the mark, Lawson was heard to say, with a loud laugh; “Fust one missed the tree; you folks on the left out thar ‘u’d better set back fur-der; no tellin’ who Banks ‘ll hit, fur he’s a-tremblin’ like so much jelly.”

“Hit about three inches due north o’ the spot,” called out the referee, as the smoke rose from the peering marksman. “I’m afraid, Tayl’, that somebody ‘ll come nigher than that when the pinch comes. Joe Burk is the next, an’ I’ll take occasion to say here that I know of no man in all this mountain country that is more prompt to pay his taxes.”

“Crack!” A universal bending of necks to get the target in better view and a rolling billow of voices in the crowd.

“A inch an’ a half below the spot!” proclaimed the referee. “Why, friends, what ails you all? This ain’t nigh such shootin’ as we had last fall. Too many women present, I reckon. Ladies, if you’ll cover up yore faces maybe the next two will do better. The straws say that Abraham Lawson has the next whack. Lawson, make yore bow.”

The champion of the settlement stepped into view with a haughty strut, dragging his rifle butt on the ground and swinging his broad-brimmed hat carelessly in his hand. Turning to a negro behind him as he took his place, he said so that all could hear:

“Tobe, git yore rope ready an’ stan’ over thar nigh the beef. When you git ‘er home turn ‘er in the pastur’. Ef this thing goes on year atter year I’ll start a cattle ranch an’ quit farmin’.”

“Dang his hide!” exclaimed Bagley to Melissa, who was very pale and quite speechless. “Dang it, I’d lay this here right arm on any man’s meat block an’ give ‘im leave to chop it off ef he’d jest git beat. He’s that spiled flies is on ‘im.”

Lawson’s hat was now on the grass at his feet and he had deliberately raised his brightly-polished weapon to his broad shoulder. The sun glittered on the long steel tube. The silence for an instant was so profound that the birds could be heard singing in the woods and the cawing of the crows in the corn fields near by sounded harsh to the ear. For an instant the sturdy champion stood as if molded in metal, his long hair falling over his gun stock, against which his tanned cheek was closely pressed. Not a sound passed the lips of the assembly, and when the rifle report came it sent a twinge to many a heart.

“Dang it!” ejaculated Lawson, as he lowered his gun and peered through the rising smoke toward the target. “I felt a unsteady quiver tech me jest as I pulled the trigger.”

“About half an inch from the very centre o’ the mark. Yore ahead. Nobody is likely to come up to you, Lawson,” said the referee. “The’ ain’t but one more.”

“I don’t keer,” replied Lawson. “I know the cow’s mine; but I did want to come up to my record. I walked too fast over here an’ it made me unsteady.”

“The next an’ last candidate for glory,” said the referee, “is Dick Martin. No cheerin’, friends, it ain’t been give to the others and you oughtn’t to show partiality. Besides, it might excite him, an’ he needs all the nerve he’s got.”

Bagley was still at Melissa’s side. He had his eyes too intently fixed on the stalwart form of Dick Martin and the young man’s pale, determined visage to note that his daughter had covered her pale face with her cold, trembling hands and bowed her head.

“By Jinks! he’s the coolest cucumber that’s lifted shootin’ iron to-day,” said Bagley under his breath. “Ef he beats Lawson dagg me if I don’t give him a dance in my barn an’ invite every man, woman an’ child in the whole valley.” With his left foot on the mark and his right thrown back easily, as if he were taking a step forward, and his well-formed body bent slightly toward the target, Dick stood motionless, sighting along his gun barrel at the target. Then, to the surprise of all, he raised his gun until it pointed to the top of the tree against which the target leaned. Here a gentle sigh, born from the union of half surprise and half disappointment, swept over the crowd as low as the whisper of a breeze through a dry foliaged tree. The sigh died away and intense silence claimed the moment, for the gun’s point was sweeping rapidly downward. Hardly a second did it pause in a line with the target’s centre before the report came, putting every breast in sudden motion. The marker’s eyes saw a clean splinter fly from the very centre of the round.

“The beef is won by Dick Martin!” loudly proclaimed the referee.

“Whoopee! Glory! Glory!” The shout was from the lips of Bagley, and in an instant he had stridden across to Dick with outstretched hand. “Glory, Glory! Dick!” he exclaimed; “le’me have a hold o’ yore fist. Tell judgment day I’m yore friend. I’ve said some sneakin’ underhand things about you that’s hurt yore feelin’s an’ I want to ax yore pardon. Dang it! I cayn’t harbor no ill will agin a feller that’s beat Abrum Lawson a-shootin’. Thank goodness you’ve fetched his kingdom to a end!”

When down-fallen Lawson had slunk away unnoticed from the enthusiastic crowd who were eager to congratulate Dick, Bagley came up to him and said:

“Dick, le’me have the honor o’ drivin’ the prize home fur you. Fur some reason ur other you didn’t stay to supper with us corn-shuckin’ night; Melissa’s a waitin’ fur you out thar in the bresh to ax you to come home with us to-night. By glory, Tobe,” turning to Lawson’s negro, “this yer’s the same identical beef Lawson ordered you to drive home an’ put in his pastur’, ain’t it? Well, you jest tell ‘im his friend Bagley tuk the job off’n yore han’s.”

MOERAN’S MOOSE – A HUNTING STORY, By Ed. W. Sandys

ONE of the best fellows among the hardy lot who have ran the trails and paddled the lonely tributaries of the tipper Ottawa was Moeran. No bolder sportsman ever went into the woods, and few, or none of the guides or professional hunters could rival his skill with rifle or paddle. The tough old “Leatherstockings” fairly idolized him, for he got his game as they did, by straight shooting, perfect woodcraft, and honest hard work; and most of them, while they usually charged a heavy price for their services, would have gladly thrown in their lots with him for an outing of a month or more, and asked nothing save what he considered a fair division of the spoils. He was also a keen observer and a close student of the ways of bird and beast. The real pleasure of sport seemed to him to lie in the fact that it brought him very near to nature, and permitted him to pore at will over that marvelous open page which all might read if they chose, yet which few pause to study. His genial disposition and long experience made him ever a welcome and valuable companion afield or afloat, and the comrades he shot with season after season would have as soon gone into the woods without their rifles as without Moeran. Physically, he was an excellent type of the genuine sportsman. Straight and tall, and strongly made, his powerful arms could make a paddle spring, if need be, or his broad shoulders bear a canoe or pack over a portage that taxed even the rugged guides; and his long limbs could cover ground in a fashion that made the miles seem many and long to whoever tramped a day with him.

And this was the kind of man that planned a trip for a party of four after the lordly moose. Moeran had, until that year, never seen a wild moose free in his own forest domain, and needless to say he was keenly anxious to pay his respects to the great king of the Canadian wilderness. He had been in the moose country many times while fishing or shooting in the provinces of New Brunswick, Quebec, Ontario and Manitoba; he had seen the slots of the huge deer about pool and stream, on beaver meadow and brule; he had spent more than one September night “calling,” with a crafty Indian to simulate the plaintive appeals of a love-lorn cow; he had heard the great bulls answer from the distant hills – had heard even the low, grunting inquiry a bull moose generally makes ere emerging from the last few yards of shadowy cover, and revealing himself in all his mighty strength and pride in the moonlit open. More than once he had lain quivering with excitement and hardly daring to breathe, close-hidden in a little clump of scrub, about which stretched full forty yards of level grass on every side – lain so for an hour with every nerve strained to the ready, with ears striving to catch the faintest sound on the stillness of the night, and with eyes sweeping warily over the expanse of moonlit grass and striving vainly to pierce the black borders of forest, somewhere behind which his royal quarry was hidden. Upon such occasions he had lain and listened and watched until he fancied he could see the moose standing silently alert among the saplings, with ears shifting to and fro and with keen nose searching the air ceaselessly for trace of his mortal enemy. The occasional distant rattle of broad antlers against the trees as the big brute shook himself or plunged about in lusty strength had sounded on his ears, followed by the faint sounds of cautiously advancing footsteps seemingly bent straight toward the ambush. Then would follow a long agonizing pause, and then a snap of a twig or a faint rustling told that the crafty bull was stealing in a circle through the cover around the open space before venturing upon such dangerous ground.

At last a deathlike silence for many minutes, and then a faint, far snap of twigs and “wish” of straightening branches as the great bull stole away to his forested hills, having read in breeze or on ground a warning of the foe concealed in the harmless scrub. All these were disappointments, but not necessarily bitter ones. The long night-vigils were after all rarely spent entirely in vain, for each brought to him some new ideas, or let him a little further into the dark mysteries of the great wild world’s nightly moods and methods. The skilled craft of his Indian “caller;” the strange voices of the night that came to his ears, telling of the movements of creatures but seldom seen or heard by day, were full of interest to a genuine woodsman. And then the fierce though subdued excitement of the weird watch for the huge beast that never came, and yet might come at any moment full into the silvery moonlight from out the black belt of silent wood – these were each fascinating to such a nature as his. But still he had never once seen his long-looked-for game, though several seasons had slipped away and the month of July, 18 – , had come and half passed by. Then Moeran got ready his fishing tackle and camping gear and vowed to find a good district for the party to shoot over the coming season, even if he had to remain in the woods an entire month. Right well he knew some of the likeliest points in New Brunswick, Quebec and Manitoba, the eastern portion of the latter province being the best moose country now available, but none of them met the requirements of the party, and so he decided to go into northern Ontario and prospect until he found what he sought.

In the region of the upper Ottawa River, and in the wild lands about the Mattawa River and about the lakes forming its headwaters, is a country beloved of moose. Thither went Moe-ran, satisfied that his quest would not be in vain. Early in the third week of July he and his Peterboro canoe and outfit reached the railway station of North Bay, on the shore of noble Lake Nipissing. While awaiting the arrival of the guide and team for the next stage of his journey, he put rod together and strolled out on the long pier which extends for a considerable distance into the lake. Reaching the farther end and looking down into the clear, green depths below, he saw watchful black bass skulking in the shadows, and lazy pickerel drifting hither and thither, in and out, among the great piles which supported the pier. To tempt a few of these to their doom was an easy task, and soon the lithe rod was arching over a game black gladiator and a master hand was meeting every desperate struggle of a fighting fish, or slowly raising a varlet pickerel to his inglorious death. In time a hail announced the arrival of the team, and after presenting his captives to the few loungers on the pier, he busied himself stowing canoe and outfit upon the wagon.

Their objective point was on the shore of Trout Lake, a lovely sheet of water distant from Nipissing about four miles. The road was in many places extremely bad and the team made slow progress, but there was plenty of time to spare and about noon they reached the lake. The guide, as guides are given to do, lied cheerfully and insistently every yard of the way, about the beauty of the lake, the countless deer and grouse upon its shores, the gigantic fish within its ice-cold depths, the game he, and parties he had guided, had killed, and the fish they had caught. He did well with these minor subjects, but when he touched upon moose and bear he rose to the sublime, and lied with a wild abandon which made Moeran seriously consider the advantage of upsetting the canoe later on and quietly drowning him. But he was not so far astray in his description of the lake. It formed a superb picture, stretching its narrow length for a dozen miles between huge, rolling, magnificently wooded hills, while here and there lovely islands spangled its silver breast. After a hurried lunch they launched the good canoe, the guide insisting upon taking his rifle, as, according to his story, they were almost certain to see one or more bear. The guide proved that he could paddle almost as well as he could lie, and the two of them drove the light craft along like a scared thing, the paddles rising and falling, flashing and disappearing, with that beautiful, smooth, regular sweep that only experts can give. For mile after mile they sped along, until at last they neared the farther end of the lake, where the huge hills dwindled to mere scattered mounds, between which spread broad beaver meadows, the nearest of them having a pond covering many acres near its center. All about this pond was a dense growth of tall water-grasses, and in many places these grasses extended far into the water which was almost covered, save a few open leads, with the round, crowding leaves of the water-lily. A channel, broad and deep enough to float the canoe, connected this pond with the lake, and, as the locality was an ideal summer haunt for moose, Moeran decided to investigate it thoroughly and read such “sign” as might be found. Landing noiselessly, he and the guide changed places, Moeran kneeling, forward, with the rifle on the bottom of the canoe in front of him, where he alone could reach it. “Now,” he whispered, “you know the route and how to paddle; work her up as if a sound would cost your life. I’ll do the watching.”

Slowly, silently, foot by foot, and sometimes inch by inch, the canoe stole up the currentless channel, the guide never raising his paddle, but pushing with it cautiously against the soft bottom and lily-roots. It was a good piece of canoe work, worthy even of Moeran’s noted skill, and he thoroughly appreciated it. By motions of his hand he indicated when to halt and advance, while his eyes scanned sharply every yard of marsh revealed by the windings of the channel. Not the slightest sound marked their progress until they had almost entered the open water in the center of the pond, and were creeping past the last fringe of tall grass. Suddenly Moeran’s hand signaled a halt, and the canoe lost its slow, forward motion. He looked and looked, staring fixedly at a point some twenty yards distant, where the growth of grass was thin and short and the lily-pads denser than usual, and as he gazed with a strange concentration, a wild light flashed in his eyes until they fairly blazed with exultant triumph. Straight before him among the faded greens and bewildering browns of the lily-pads was a motionless, elongated brown object very like the curved back of a beaver, and a foot or more from it, in the shadow of a clump of grass, something shone with a peculiar liquid gleam. It was an eye – a great, round, wild eye – staring full into his own – the eye of a moose – and the curving object like the back of a beaver was naught else than the enormous nose, or muffle, of a full-grown bull. Something like a sigh came from it, and then it slowly rose higher and higher until the head and neck were exposed. The big ears pointed stiffly forward, and the nose twitched and trembled for an instant as it caught the dreaded taint; then with a mighty floundering and splashing the great brute struggled to his feet. It was a grewsome spectacle to see this uncouth creature uprise from a place where it seemed a muskrat could hardly have hidden. For a few seconds he stood still.

“Shoot! Shoot!”

Moeran simply picked up the rifle and brought it level.

“Load! ‘Tain’t loaded – the lever – quick!”

He made no response, merely covered, first the point of the shoulder and then the ear, and then, as the bull plunged for the shore, he covered the shoulder twice more, then lowered the rifle, while a horribly excited guide cursed and raved and implored by turns in vain. And just how great was the temptation was never known, but it certainly would have proved irresistible to most men who call themselves sportsmen. In speaking about it afterward Moeran said: “It would have been a crime to have murdered the beast under such conditions, and out of season. I covered him fair four times, and could have dropped him dead where he stood – but we’ll attend to them later on.” For there were, in all, four moose in the pond, and, shortly after the big bull commenced his noisy retreat, a tremendous splashing and plunging from the other side of the pond attracted their attention. They turned just in time to see a grand old cow and two younger moose struggle through the last few yards of mud and water, and then crash their way into the cover at the rapid, pounding trot peculiar to the species.