THE MYSTERY OF A BULLET. 



CHARLES W. SAWYER. 



One September day in 1895 John and I 

 were starting for our vacation in Northern 

 Vermont. As we walked through the city 

 streets on our way to the train, we saw a 

 sign in a gun store window, "The U. M. C. 

 Company's new cartridge, 22 short smoke- 

 less mushroom, just received." John had 

 in his hand a fancy 22 caliber single shot 

 rifle, and he bought a few hundred of these 

 new cartridges. No suspicion of the trou- 

 ble they would get us into shadowed our 

 sunny spirits while the train bore us to the 

 beautiful woods of the North. Forests and 

 fields, hills and valleys, sunlit waters and 

 shadowy crags passed in endless proces- 

 sion, until, at last, far from the towns the 

 conductor called "Staceyville.'' At this 

 little railroad station the farmer we were 

 to board with met us, and drove us a 3 

 hours' rough-and-tumble, jouncing, jolting, 

 bumping ride, up hill and down dale, 

 through woods and past clearings to the 

 'way-back farm that was to be our home. 

 In this quiet, sweet smelling, old fashioned 

 farm house, in the fields, pastures, and ram- 

 bling orchards that made up the clearing, 

 and in the border of the woods around the 

 clearing, we were for a time content. There 

 were ruffed grouse and squirrels for John 

 to shoot with his rifle and new cartridges. 

 There was a range sufficiently long, shel- 

 tered, and well lighted, whereon I could 

 play at tarsret shooting with my powerful 

 hunting rifle. There were rest, recreation, 

 rustic beauty, and every attraction to 

 keep us at home, yet we soon became rest- 

 less, and strayed farther and farther away. 



In going about the country we often 

 stopped at the outlying farms, and became 

 friendly with the inmates. They were a 

 pleasant lot of people, always ready to 

 stop work for a chance to gossip. There 

 was one of the lot, Ezekiel Withington, on 

 whom we did not at first call, because the 

 farmer with whom we boarded was at law 

 with him, and told us terrible tales about 

 him. We found, however, that some of the 

 other farmers spoke well of Withington, so 

 one day we stopped at his house. We liked 

 him very well. He treated us to cider, and 

 showed us about his farm. He had a mag- 

 nificent place, of some 1,500 acres, pictur- 

 esque buildings, herds of cattle, and a big 

 flock of sheep. We soon found that some 

 of the best small game hunting in the 

 country was to be had in his woods. He 

 was interested in John's rifle, and examined 

 it and the ammunition with much care. 

 Then he brought out his grandfather's 

 muzzle loading rifle, which was a remarka- 



bly fine weapon, and we had some Shoot- 

 ing. We found the man and his woods so 

 attractive that we spent considerable 

 time there. One thing seemed odd to us. 

 He let his cattle, with a bull in the herd, 

 and his sheep, with several rams among 

 them, roam at will about the country, al- 

 though a town road ran through his farm. 

 We asked him if it was not dangerous. He 

 said the bull would not hurt anybody, as he 

 was tame, and the sheep were all pets ; but 

 we heard elsewhere that Withington had 

 sometimes had his sheep shot. The coun- 

 try was heavily forested, and in the fall 

 and winter there were numerous camps of 

 hunters and woodchoppers, so it was diffi- 

 cult to fix the blame. The loss and an- 

 noyance had become so great that With- 

 ington and other farmers had succeeded in 

 getting a law passed making the illegal 

 killing of sheep punishable by both fine and 

 imprisonment. In telling us about it Well- 

 ington's eyes snapped and his manner was 

 such that we could see it would go hard 

 with an offender if Withington could catch 

 him. 



Soon after this we were going along the 

 road one morning, guns in hand, on our 

 way to a shooting match at the village. 

 John had his new rifle. As we came out 

 of the woods we saw Withington's sheep, 

 an immense flock, feeding on both sides of 

 the road in the pasture. They scattered 

 from us right and left. I can do a little 

 something at imitating the calls of various 

 animals, and we had considerable fun in 

 mystifying the sheep with the plaintive 

 bleat of a lamb in distress, that drew them 

 toward us, and the deep bass of a watchful 

 old ram, that sent them running off again. 

 Suddenly there was a slight sound behind 

 us. I had only time to turn my head part 

 way round when something like a great 

 dirty white streak struck John in the back. 

 At the heavy thud my friend doubled back- 

 ward like a bent bow, and was thrown for- 

 ward bv the impact of the mass 10 or 12 

 feet. He fell in a heap as if dead. At the 

 same time his assailant, an old ram, with 

 great curved horns, came down on his feet, 

 lowered his head, and stood ready to 

 charge again at the least sign of life. I 

 laid down mv rifle and ran at him. He 

 promptly wheeled and charged me. As his 

 ponderous head almost struck me I leaped 

 aside, put out one foot, and tripped him. 

 He was up in an instant, but before he 

 could get away I had him by the tail, then 

 by one hind leg, then, after a struggle, by 

 both hind legs. I tied them with a piece 



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