# The Dog Crusoe and His Master/Chapter 2

Chapter II.—A Shooting Match.
SHORTLY after the incident narrated in the last chapter the squatters of the Mustang Valley lost their leader. Major Hope suddenly announced his intention of quitting the settlement and returning to the civilized world. Private matters, he said, required his presence there—matters which he did not choose to speak of, but which would prevent his returning again to reside among them. Go he must, and, being a man of determination, go he did; but before going he distributed all his goods and chattels among the settlers. He even gave away his rifle, and Fan and Crusoe. These last, however, he resolved should go together; and as they were well worth having, he announced that he would give them to the best shot in the valley. He stipulated that the winner should escort him to the nearest settlement eastward, after which he might return with the rifle on his shoulder.
Accordingly, a long level piece of ground on the river’s bank, with a perpendicular cliff at the end of it, was selected as the shooting-ground, and, on the appointed day, the competitors began to assemble.
“Well, lad, first as usual,” exclaimed Joe Blunt, as he reached the ground and found Dick there before him.
“I’ve bin here more than an hour lookin’ for a new kind o’ flower that Jack Morgan told me he’d seen. I’ve found it too. Did you ever see one like it before?”
Blunt carefully examined the flower.
“Why, yes, I’ve seed a-many o’ them up about the Rocky Mountains, but never one here-away. It seems to have gone lost itself. The last I seed, if I remimber rightly, wos near the head-waters o’ Yellowstone River, it wos—jest where I shot a grizzly bar.”
“Was that the bar that gave you the wipe on the cheek?” asked Varley, forgetting the flower in his interest about the bear.
“It wos. I put six balls in that bar’s carcass, and ​stuck my knife into its heart ten times, an’ it nearly ripped the shirt off my back afore I wos done with it.”
“I would give my rifle to get a chance at a grizzly!” exclaimed Varley, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm.
“Whoever got it wouldn’t have much to brag of,” remarked a burly young backwoodsman, as he joined them.
His remark was true, for poor Dick’s weapon was but a sorry affair. It missed fire, and it hung fire; and even when it did fire it remained a matter of doubt in its owner’s mind whether the slight deviations from the direct line made by his bullets were the result of his or its bad shooting.
Further comment upon it was checked by the arrival of a dozen or more hunters on the scene of action. They were a sturdy set of bronzed, bold, fearless men, and one felt, on looking at them, that they would prove more than a match for several hundreds of Indians in open fight. A few minutes after, the major himself came on the ground with the prize rifle on his shoulder, and Fan and Crusoe at his heels—the latter tumbling, scrambling, and yelping after its mother, fat and clumsy, and happy as possible, having evidently quite forgotten that it had been nearly roasted alive only a few weeks before.
Immediately all eyes were on the rifle, and its merits were discussed with animation.
And well did it deserve discussion, for such a piece had never before been seen on the western frontier. It was shorter in the barrel and larger in the bore than the weapons chiefly in vogue at that time, and, besides being of beautiful workmanship, was silver-mounted. But the grand peculiarity about it, and that which afterwards rendered it the mystery of mysteries to the savages, was that it had two sets of locks—one percussion, the other flint—so that, when caps failed, by taking off the one set of locks and affixing the others, it was converted into a flint rifle. The major, however, took care never to run short of caps, so that the flint locks were merely held as a reserve.
“Now, lads,” cried Major Hope, stepping up to the point whence they were to shoot, “remember the terms. He who first drives the nail obtains the rifle, Fan, and her pup, and accompanies me to the settlement. Each shoots with his own gun, and draws lots for the chance.”
“Agreed,” cried the men.
“Well, then, wipe your guns and draw lots. Henri will fix the nail. Here it is.”
​The individual who stepped, or rather plunged forward to receive the nail was a rare and remarkable specimen of mankind. Like his comrades, he was half a farmer and half a hunter. Like them, too, he was clad in deerskin, and was tall and strong—nay, more, he was gigantic. But, unlike them, he was clumsy, awkward, loose-jointed, and a bad shot. Nevertheless Henri was an immense favourite in the settlement, for his good-humour knew no bounds. Inconsiderate recklessness was one of his chief characteristics, so that his comrades were rather afraid of him on the war-trail or in the hunt, where caution, and frequently, soundless motion was essential to success or safety. But when Henri had a comrade at his side to check him he was safe enough, being humble-minded and obedient. Men used to say he must have been borne under a lucky star, for, notwithstanding his natural inaptitude for all sorts of backwoods life, he managed to scramble through everything with safety.
To see Henri stalk a deer was worth a long day’s journey. Joe Blunt used to say he was “all jints together, from the top of his head to the sole of his moccasin.” He threw his immense form into the most inconceivable contortions, and slowly wound his way, sometimes on hands and knees, sometimes flat, through bush and brake, as if there was not a bone in his body, and without the slightest noise. This sort of work was so much against his plunging nature that he took long to learn it; but when, through hard practice and the loss of many a fine deer, he came at length to break himself in to it, he gradually progressed to perfection, and ultimately became the best stalker in the valley. This, and this alone, enabled him to procure game, for, being short-sighted, he could hit nothing beyond fifty yards, except a buffalo or a barn-door.
Yet that same lithe body, which seemed as though totally unhinged, could no more be bent, when the muscles were strung, than an iron post. No one wrestled with Henri unless he wished to have his back broken. Few could equal and none could beat him at running or leaping except Dick Varley. When Henri ran a race even Joe Blunt laughed outright, for arms and legs went like independent flails. When he leaped, he hurled himself into space with a degree of violence that seemed to insure a somersault; yet he always came down with a crash on his feet. Plunging was Henri’s forte. He generally ​lounged about the settlement when unoccupied, with his hands behind his back, apparently in a reverie, and when called on to act, he seemed to fancy he must have lost time, and could only make up for it by plunging. This habit got him into many awkward scrapes, but his herculean power got him out of them. He was a French-Canadian, a particularly bad speaker of the English language.
But to return. The sort of rifle practice called “driving the nail,” by which this match was to be decided, was, and we believe still is, common among the hunters of the far west. It consisted in this: an ordinary large-headed nail was driven a short way into a plank or a tree, and the hunters, standing at a distance of fifty yards or so, fired at it until they succeeded in driving it home. On the present occasion the major resolved to test their shooting by making the distance seventy yards.
Some of the older men shook their heads.
“It’s too far,” said one; “ye might as well try to snuff the nose o’ a mosquito.”
“Jim Scraggs is the only man as’ll hit it,” said another.
The man referred to was a long, lank, lantern-jawed fellow, with a cross-grained expression of countenance. He used the long, heavy Kentucky rifle, which, from the ball being little larger than a pea, was called a pea-rifle. Jim was no favourite, and had been named Scraggs by his companions on account of his appearance.
In a few minutes the lots were drawn, and the shooting began. Each hunter wiped out the barrel of his piece with his ramrod as he stepped forward; then, placing a ball in the palm of his left hand, he drew the stopper of his powder-horn with his teeth, and poured out as much powder as sufficed to cover the bullet. This was the regular measure among them. In a few minutes the nail was encircled by bullet holes, scarcely two of which were more than an inch distant from the mark, and one—fired by Joe Blunt—entered the tree close beside it.
“Ah, Joe!” said the major, “I thought you would have carried off the prize.”
“So did not I, sir,” returned Blunt, with a shake of his head. “Had it a-bin a half-dollar at a hundred yards, I’d ha’ done better, but I never could hit the nail. It’s too small to see.”
“That’s cos ye’ve got no eyes,” remarked Jim Scraggs, with a sneer, as he stepped forward.
​All tongues were now hushed, for the expected champion was about to fire. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had hit the nail-head on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it.
“That wins if there’s no better,” said the major, scarce able to conceal his disappointment. “Who comes next?”
To this question Henri answered by stepping up to the line. He was received with a shout of mingled laughter and applause. After gazing steadily at the mark for a few seconds, a broad grin overspread his countenance, and looking round at his companions, he said,—
“Ha! mes boys, I can-not behold de nail at all!”
“Can ye 'behold’ the tree?” shouted a voice, when the laugh that followed had somewhat abated.
“Oh! oui,” replied Henri quite coolly; “I can see him, an’ a good small bit of de forest beyond.”
“Fire at it, then. If ye hit the tree ye desarve the rifle, leastways ye ought to get the pup.”
Henri grinned, and fired instantly, without taking aim.
The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise, for the bullet was found close beside the nail.
“It’s more be good luck than good shootin’,” remarked Jim Scraggs.
“Possiblement,” answered Henri modestly, as he retreated to the rear and wiped out his rifle; “mais I have kill most of my deer by dat same goot luck.”
“Bravo, Henri!” said Major Hope as he passed; “you deserve to win, anyhow. Who’s next?”
“Dick Varley,” cried several voices. “Where’s Varley? Come on, youngster, an’ take yer shot.”
The youth came forward with evident reluctance. “It’s of no manner o’ use,” he whispered to Joe Blunt as he passed; “I can’t depend on my old gun.”
“Never give in,” whispered Blunt encouragingly.
Poor Varley’s want of confidence in his rifle was merited, for, on pulling the trigger, the faithless lock missed fire.
“Lend him another gun,” cried several voices.
“’Gainst rules laid down by Major Hope,” said Scraggs.
“Well, so it is; try again.”
Varley did try again, and so successfully, too, that the ball hit the nail on the head, leaving a portion of the lead sticking to its edge.
Of course this was greeted with a cheer, and a loud dispute began as to which was the better shot of the two.
​“There are others to shoot yet,” cried the major.
The men fell back, and the hunters who had not yet fired took their shots, but without coming nearer the mark.
It was now agreed that Jim Scraggs and Dick Varley, being the best two shots, should try over again, and that Dick should have the use of Blunt’s rifle. Lots were drawn for the first shot, and it fell to Dick, who immediately stepped out, aimed somewhat hastily, and fired.
“Hit again!” shouted those who had run to examine the mark. “Half the bullet cut off by the nail head!”
Some of the more enthusiastic of Dick’s friends cheered lustily, but the most of the hunters were grave and silent, for they knew Jim’s powers, and felt that he would certainly do his best. Jim now stepped up to the line, and, looking earnestly at the mark, threw forward his rifle.
At that moment our friend Crusoe, tired of tormenting his mother, waddled stupidly and innocently into the midst of the crowd of men, and in so doing received Henri’s heel and the full weight of his elephantine body on its fore paw. The horrible and electric yell that instantly issued from his agonized throat could only be compared, as Joe Blunt expressed it, “to the last dyin’ screech o’ a bustin’ steam biler!” We cannot say that the effect was startling, for these backwoodsmen had been born and bred in the midst of alarms, and were so used to them that a “bustin’ steam biler” itself, unless it had blown them fairly off their legs, would not have startled them. But the effect, such as it was, was sufficient to disconcert the aim of Jim Scraggs, who fired at the same instant, and missed the nail by a hair’s-breadth.
Turning round in towering wrath, Scraggs aimed a kick at the poor pup, which, had it taken effect, would certainly have terminated the innocent existence of that remarkable dog on the spot; but quick as lightning Henri interposed the butt of his rifle, and Jim’s shin met it with a violence that caused him to howl with rage and pain.
“Oh! pardon me, broder,” cried Henri, shrinking back, with the drollest expression of mingled pity and glee.
Jim’s discretion, on this occasion, was superior to his valour; he turned away with a coarse expression of anger and left the ground.
Meanwhile the major handed the silver rifle to young Varley. “It couldn’t have fallen into better hands,” he said. “You’ll do it credit, lad, I know that full well; ​and let me assure you that it will never play you false. Only keep it clean, don’t overcharge it, aim true, and it will never miss the mark.”
While the hunters crowded round Dick to congratulate him and examine the piece, he stood with a mingled feeling of bashfulness and delight at his unexpected good fortune. Recovering himself suddenly, he seized his old rifle, and dropping quietly to the outskirts of the crowd, while the men were still busy handling and discussing the merits of the prize, went up, unobserved, to a boy of about thirteen years of age, and touched him on the shoulder.
“Here, Marston, you know I often said ye should have the old rifle when I was rich enough to get a new one. Take it now, lad. It’s come to ye sooner than we expected.”
“Dick,” said the boy, grasping his friend’s hand warmly, “ye’re true as heart of oak. It’s good of ’ee, that’s a fact.”
“Not a bit, boy; it costs me nothin’ to give away an old gun that I’ve no use for, an’s worth little, but it makes me right glad to have the chance to do it.”
Marston had longed for a rifle ever since he could walk: but his prospects of obtaining one were very poor indeed at that time, and it is a question whether he did not at that moment experience as much joy in handling the old piece as his friend felt in shouldering the prize.
A difficulty now occurred which had not before been thought of. This was no less than the absolute refusal of Dick Varley’s canine property to follow him. Fan had no idea of changing masters without her consent being asked or her inclination being consulted.
“You’ll have to tie her up I fear,” said the major.
“No fear," answered the youth. “Dog natur’s like human natur’!”
Saying this he seized Crusoe by the neck, stuffed him comfortably into the bosom of his hunting-shirt, and walked rapidly away with the prize rifle on his shoulder.
Fan had not bargained for this. She stood irresolute, gazing now to the right and now to the left, as the major retired in one direction and Dick and Crusoe in another. Suddenly Crusoe, who, although comfortable in body, was ill at ease in spirit, gave utterance to a melancholy howl. The mother’s love instantly prevailed. For one moment she pricked up her ears at the sound, and then, lowering them, trotted quietly after her new master, and followed him to his cottage on the margin of the lake.
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