Dec. 25, i897.J 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
BOB 
woodpeckers a winter repast. Seeing my interest in the 
bird's movements, Sim said: "Dat all's a clacker-mouth, an' 
w'tn he finds a good feedin' spot he jess clacks till he calls 
all the clacker-mouths, an' dey come an' help eat what he 
finds. Jess lis'en to him clack now." 
I had known the bird by the name of high-hole, high- 
holder, yellowhammer, clape, flicker, wakeup, dodger and 
pigeon woodpecker, as well as by the book name of "golden- 
winged woodpecker and the cognomen which cold-blooded 
science gives it, and the new name of "clacker-mouth" 
seemed as gjod as any. 
I put my foot in the stirrup, swung my right leg over the 
saddle, and Ben Johnson, Sim and I started oS for the shoot- 
ing match, some six miles away. A crossroads tavern in 
Arkansas is much like the same thing in other parts. The 
bar is the main part of it and is the largest room in the house, 
for it is also the office, reading room and barber shop, and a 
chance traveler is fed and lodged up stairs. Across the road 
a temporary shed had been put up, with rude tables and 
shelves for the shooters. We were early, and as the darky, 
Pete, bad moved his barber's chair into the woodshed and 
taken the crates of turkeys into the field, I had no doubt of 
gaining his confidence by a direct method. "Pete," said I, 
"you see dis yere dollar?" 
"Yass, sab. I sees it." 
"Well, you keep it. I may want to go out and see you 
put up the turkeys some lime to-day, and that's for you to 
remember me by; you'll know me when you see me again." 
"1 'spects I knows you, sah, fo' shu', but dat ah place 
whah I puts up de tuckeys is dange'us, caze de bullits might 
come when yo' ain' lookin'." 
Up came Bill Turley, the man whom it was "not safe to go 
proj^ciin' around," and Sile Johnson, brother of my host, on 
tbe'same old bay plow-horse with white feet which he had 
ridden some weeks before at the gander pull. They dis- 
mounted, and Sile said : "Gunnel, l.got drunk at that gandah 
pull, an' I gin'ally do git drunk at gandah pulls, fo' a man 
can twist a gandah's head off as well w'en he's drunk as w'en 
he's sobah ; but tbah's a shootin' match on to-day, an' a man 
who's got a dozen drinks in him can't shoot a rifle; he can't 
do it if he's only got fo' drinks in his carcass, an' I'm heah 
to win to-day, an' I don't take nary drink till the thing's 
ovah." 
We men of the world are not surprised at such talk. Sile 
put the case fairly, but as Bill Turley never went astray to 
seek the worm of the still there was no such explanation, 
nor was there need of it. 
I went out with Pete, and saw the hole in the ground 
where he and his turkeys were, and I counted forty birds, 
gobblers eveiy one of thtm. 1 turned back to look at the 
guns. The horses were tied to the long hitching-pole, which 
is a prominent feature of every country store or tavern in the 
South, where all men ride horseback. There was a rack for 
the guns, and while the greetings were going on 1 looked 
them over. 
There stood six of the old-fashioned Kentucky rifles, with 
their narrow, thin stocks deeply cleft at the butt-plate and 
stocked to the muzzle. I had not seen one in a dozen years, 
and the shooting match, came off over twenty years ago. 
These rifles were of different calibers, but all had the brass- 
laound box for carrying greased patches in the stock and 
had the same faulty balance of the old-time rifles, for the 
theory was that the weight should be at the muzzle or the 
arm could not be held steady. Jo. Bevins, the blacksmith, 
said, as he recognized me, "That's my gun, and it's the best 
rifle in Arkansaw. Wait till you see me knock 'em. Just 
look at that thing Sile Johnson's goin' to shoot, with a peek- 
hole fo' a sight. Say, Sile! what is this thing, anyhow?" 
I had picked up the gun and saw .that it was a patent- 
muzzle target gun made by Billinghurst, Rochester, N, Y., 
and while heavier than the others was better balanced. 
"That thing, as you call it," said Sile, " '11 show you what 
it is afore the day is ovah." Then, turning to me: "That's 
one o' yo' Yaqkee guns. When I was shot in the laig in the 
Wilderness an' went to the hospital they brought in one o' 
yo' sharpshooters who was shot through the chist, an' this 
yere gun was in the stretcher with him, an' they set it up by 
him as he lay on the barn floor by my side. He was fevery 
an' I Dussed him as well as I could, kept wet cloths on his 
haid an' wet his lips, But he knew he was a-goin', an' he 
give me some papers to be sent JNawth an' his gun. I had 
trouble to get that gun in the ambulance when I was moved 
out, but thah it is, an' Bill Turley an' me's a-goin' to shoot it 
when it comes to rest shootin' fo' the bull, and we'll use his 
Sharps rifle awn the turkeys." 
Wes Martin had an U. S. Springfield rifle, model of 1863, 
one so familiar as to need but a glance. Pete had a turkey 
in the box and the box had a hole in the top, through which 
the royal American bird, which Ben Franklin thought 
should be our emblem instead of the uneatable and tyrannical 
eagle, could stick its head and a portion of its neck and 
dodge a bullet, after the bullet had passed. The box con- 
taining the bird was protected by a barricade of logs so that 
the small mark of the bird's head, at twenty rods, was all 
that could be injured, and a winner must "draw blood or 
kill." In the South and West they reckon distance for 
shooting in rods, which my training requires to be reduced to 
yards in order to understand, and with a pencd I found out 
how far twenty rods was. "The men all paid the entry fee, 
entitling them to one shot. If the first man got the bird 
another was put up, until each had a shot. 
Jo Bostock led off after the whistle had warned Pete to 
get into his bomb-proof. The turkey dodged. "He's hit," 
said Abe Peters, but Pete's flag said "No," and Sam Still- 
man stood up and took long and careful aim. 1 was never a 
good rifleman, but Sam dwelt so long and his muzzle went 
off and on the target so many times that when Pete signaled 
a miss I was not surprised. "I'll bet five dolla's I touched 
him," said Sam. 
"I'll take yo' fo' the drinks when the shootin's done," said 
Sile; and we all went across to inspect the head of the 
turkey, which was as clean and free from blood as when 
placed in the box. On the way back Sam confided to me 
■the fact that he was the best shot in the whole State of 
Arkansaw, and that his old Kentucky rifle was the best gun 
that a man ever put to shoulder, and how it came about that 
the turkey still lived he did not know. "These niggahs," 
said Sani, "yo' can't trust. A half dollah, an' less, will 
make 'em signal that a tuckey is not hit when his bill has 
been shot off an' he's a-bleedin' like a bull. I have nevah 
missed befo',, an' so I lost my bet because 1 did not trust that 
darky boy." 
Wes Slartin got the first turkey with his Springfield rifle, 
which they said was an extra good one, and there was a 
great difference in their shooting qualities, 1 went out 
and lay in the ditch with Pete to watch the turkeys. Pete 
protested that it was "dauge'ous," but I kept watch of him 
and his signal flag. The sing or the wind of a close bullet 
would make them dodge with a ducking motion, as if 
avoiding a bee. but one that Sile Johnson's bullet cut on top 
of the head seemed dazed until taken from the coop, while 
one struck in the bone of the neck flopped about as if its 
head was cut off. 
That morning when all was over I got the record, which 
was: 
Name. Rifle. 
SilP .TohDSon ,, , . .Sharps 
Bill Turley ............. Sharps 
Wes Martin i . m .. . Sprinefleld . 
Jo Bostock, .Kentucky., 
Ben Johnson .Kentucky , , 
Abe Peters....,,., Kentucky.. 
Jo Bevins m.* Kentucky,, 
Sam Stillman.,,,., Kentucky,. 
No. of Shots. 
22 
23 
31 
H 
31 
33 
35 
Turkeys. 
8 
The modern rifles were winners, although the landlord, 
John Brewster, said: "I tell ye the guns has got little to do 
with it, it's the men behind 'em. Sile, Bill Turley an' Wes 
Martin kin shoot the rags off the whole crowd if they swap 
rifles, that's all there is about it, it's the men." It is pos- 
sible that there was some truth in what the landlord said, 
for I had studied the poses and style of shooting. Sile and 
Turley both stood erect and did not extend the left arm to 
its full length, slowly raised the muzzle and fired when the 
sights touched the target. Martin moved the muzzle from 
left to right and fired when he caught the target. The 
others extended the arm, leaned back to counteract the 
heavy muzzle, and most of them pottered about, especially 
Stillman, who dwelt on his sights as if shooting at a rest, and 
he wa« unsteady. 
A luncheon was set out and cold ham, hot corn dodgers 
and coffee appeared in profusion, and after we had had our 
fill the darky boys found a feast. A turkey at that time and 
place was worth about half a dollar, and-the landlord cer- 
tainly had made no money at a dime a shot, with luncheon 
thrown in; for the bar had been neglected, every one there 
knew that drinking and rifle shooting were not good com- 
pany; but the shooting for the bull was to come, and after 
that the landlord's harvest. There was to be an intermission 
of a couple of hours, and as I had heard enough rifle talk I 
got our boy Sim to go with me to a stream a few miles 
away, and we mounted and rode away from the smell of 
gunpowder. 
Sim might have been forty years old with a leeway of 
ten years on each side of that figure. The song: "All Coons 
look alike to me," had not then been written, nor was a 
darky called a "coon" in those days; but I never could judge 
of the age of a colored man, but he was a "boy" in the 
South until gray- headed and "de misery pains" laid him up. 
Sim was much to my liking because he was an observer of 
the small life about him and had a fund of information on 
their ways and habits. After a gallop of a mile or two to 
get where the fusilhide had not disturbed life, we slowed 
down to a walk, and Sim, knowing that I liked to hear him 
talk on his favorite subjects, began: 
"Jes lissen to dat ah jaybird in de bresh; he gittin' ready 
fo' Friday, w'en he got to take sticks to de debbel fo' to 
make de flah bu'n fo' a week. Ef he miss a week de debbel 
singe hees tail, an' so he calls out dat he's a comin'. De jay- 
bird he's de slickest one dat's gotfedders; slicker 'an a crow, 
um um ! He can tap a mockin'bird's eggs froo de bottom ob 
de nes', an' suck 'em so slick she nevah know it w'ile she's 
a-settin' awn 'em, an' a crow nebber so slick like dat. No, 
no, a crow am slick an' can smell gunpowdah in a powdah- 
hawn, an' knows ef a man's got a gun, fo' ef yo' ain' got no 
gun yo' can walk o' ride close by de crow; but de jaybird's 
got de bes' edication, 'cause de debbel is his massa. " 
"It must take many bluejays to keep up the fires down 
below, Sim, if all the fuel they get is the few twigs the jay- 
birds can bring." 
"'Yo' ain' got it jess right. Dey's a heap mo' fiah down 
dah. It's all red hot, an' in some places it biles obah on de 
tops ob mountains; but w'en Noah let de jaybird outen de 
ahk de jaybird he up an' sass ole Noah, an' tole him dat de 
dove dun pick up de olive branch fioatin' on de watah, an' 
he could get mo' twigs in ten minutes dan a dove could pick 
in all day, an' so Noah he tu'n de jaybird ober to de debbel, 
an' dat's his punishment." 
We saw many interesting things on this ride, and Sim 
stored my mind with much animal lore which can't be re- 
lated now. On our return we found the bull out for in- 
spection, and a fine dark-red short-horn he was. After all 
had seen him he was led back to the stable, and, lest some 
kind-hearted persons should think that the bull was to be 
the target, like a turkey's head, 1 hasten to explain the 
scheme. The shooting was to be at a target placed three 
times as far as for the turkeys and the rifles were to be shot 
at a rest. Eight men more had come to shoot and their 
rifles were all of the old style, but they had as many calibers 
and shapes of bullets as there were men. There were five 
quarters to the bull and therefore five prizes. The two first 
took the hindquarters, the two second the forequarters and 
the fifth was to take the hide. There was a table with a 
notched rest for the muzzle and a stool for the shooter. The 
score was the old-fashioned "best three in five"; not the 
best test of skill, but they chose it, Sile Johnson shot first 
and then adjourned to the bar. What the Governor of 
North Carolina is reported to have said was on his mind. 
Pete put up a fresh, target for each man and two hours 
passed while I watched the contest. Pete had the targets 
marked for each man by his number and no shooter knew 
how he stood. 
Sile Johnson and his brother Ben, my host, had been at 
the bar and were feeling very numerous. They came over 
and Ben said; "See heah, Yank, we want to see you shoot. 
Some Yanks can shoot an' some can't; one hit me in that 
hand, see?" 
Bill Turley came over and remarked, sotto Boce: "These 
Johnson boys have done their shooting, and are now doing 
their drinking, You have not taken a hand in either; you 
held back at the gander puUin', but I want you to take this 
Yankee rifle and shoot in a friendly match with us." 
I took the "Billinghurst" rifle and made five shots, and 
waited for Pete to come in with the targets. The judges 
gave the hindquarters to Sile and Turley, the forequarters 
to Martin and Bostock, and the hide to me. That was three 
prizes for the "Billinghurot," one for the "Springfield," and 
one for the "Kentucky" rifle, and by this term I mean all 
those full-stocked, ill-balanced American rifles which were 
not only popular with our hunters of a century ago, but 
which won our independence from foreign rule over a cen- 
tury ago. There was an old song entitled "The Hunters of 
Kentucky," which some reader of Foeest and Stream: will 
be sm-e to send to refresh the memories of all who read it. 
After the prizes were awarded the fun began. Bill Tur- 
ley and 1 did not care for the bar and we got Pete, the bar- 
ber, to get his banjo down and matched Sim and Mat, a 
waiter boy, to dance for our prizes. Pete started off in a f 
time and Mat started in. That is clog or hornpipe time, and 
Sim appealed to me. Pete declared that it was "straight 
jig" and the only time he knew. The crowd gathered and 
Sim was sulky. I took him outside and when we returned 
he scattered a little dry sand on the floor; I took the banjo 
and played him a rattling straight jig in 2-4 time, while his 
doubles and trebles tickled the ears of all present. I could 
hardly follow him in my ecstasy, for to me a straight jig on 
a sanded floor is the highest form of music. I say "music" 
advisedly, for you need not see the dancer; you may close 
your eyes and listen to him, as you may do to any soloist; 
he is to be heard and not seen, like "the little man in the tin 
shop," as .James Whitcomb ROey describes the man on the 
right of the theater orchestra. 
The sun had gone down and the landlord, .John Brewster, 
asked all hands in to supper, and there was roast turkey, 
boiled ham and roast possum. On our way home Sim 
said: "Golly, we boys was 'fraid you uns eat all de possum, 
but two was lef an' dey was good, um— ah! Miss Brew- 
ster she kin jes' cook possum; she hang him out in de frost 
fo' free nights an' den she roas' him wid sweet 'taters an', 
golly, it's great." Feed Mather. 
WE FOUND THE WORLD AGAIN. 
There were strange noises in the air; dim, distant whis- 
perings, mutterings and wails from the wind moved pines 
and firs. 
Fog was everywhere, until the world was only a lonely 
bit of rock that faded into nothing, and the black lake 
that nestled among the cliffs of the crater might have been 
a sea of limitless expanse, for no man could see the 
further shore. 
Everywhere the fog wreathes twisted and moved, wound 
up from below through the crevices, and skurried across 
the rocks, leaving tiny globes of water on the moss tips. 
Sometimes a darker loom of gray appeared for a mo- 
ment at some point, and we knew that it was the cliff that 
stood there— yesterday a painted wall of smooth-worn 
rock, to-day a vanishing bulk in the mists. 
The poor old wind-racked balsams tossed their arms 
once more, and chanted a doleful tune as the wind eddied 
around the point of the cliff. Noises of the woods, faint 
and far off, welled up to us with the rise and fall of the 
wild wind, chanting a low-toned weird wail like the 
Klookwallie song of the Quinaults, only this was a song of 
nature, that rose and fell in the gusts that reached the 
crater. 
By the echo that came back when we called, we knew 
that the cliffs still reared up into the sky straight above 
the black lake, just as they had done on me yesterday 
when the fog was in the valley and sunshine dwelt on the 
cra.ter peak; but, for all the eye could distinguish, the 
peaks, the world, all, everything was gone, save a bit of 
rock and glacier on one side and a fragment of black lake 
on the other, and our meager camp between. 
Our grub was gone— just one more scant meal left— and 
we must perforce pick our trail back to the lower country, 
for you must know that in the country of the silence there 
is no game, no fish, no love, no pity. One may not live 
for long in that land of beauty and solitude. 
When I had gazed on the world from the topmost rock 
there was a valley to the east of the crater I remembered, 
and it had seemed a good place for traveling through' 
though rough, and so I said: ''It will be worth the while 
to cross the pass and pick our way down to the world by 
way of the valley bowl there to the east, for we cannot 
attempt to go back the way we came up; you know that 
would be a hard thing to do if we had a day of sunlight. 
Now this way that is to the east is a bowl valley, with the 
upper end at the glaciers and the lower end half way down 
the mountain, and the rocks have fallen from both sides 
down into the bowl, as though mighty hands had shaken 
the cliffs to bits. The way is rough, but safer than swing- 
ing down from si cliff by a thread of rope. That could be 
done in the sunshine, but not now while the fog hangs 
thick, for the bottom of the cliff would be lost to sight." 
There was not much parley that morning, for men do 
not wish to talk when the world is gray and they are like 
blind men. 
Soon the packs were slung on, and we began to climb 
across the little wall of rock that kept the lake-from rush- 
ing down into the valley. We reached the summit, and 
then by a mental process of dead reckoning, which l' can- 
not explain, I knew that the way led downward and in a 
circling way to the east and north. I was the only one of 
the party who had seen this valley, so it remained for me 
to become "Indian" and guide. 
Do you know what it is to "feel" that the direction is 
this way or that, regardless of landmarks or compass? 
Have you ever known that you were going in the right 
direction, though you wound around until you almost 
doubled on your trail? 
That was the only guide I had to go by as I clambered 
over those broken cliffs there in the fog, coming back to 
the world again. 
It was an uncanny place, that valley, and seemed to be 
the dwelling-place of silence and of mystery as we 
traveled along, always downward, always over theheaped- 
up fragments of shattered mountains, so old that the moss 
was thick on them, so jumbled together that at every turn 
black openings yawned— caves that ended somewhere 
down deep in the great mass of broken rocks. 
It is weary work to climb even though you climb down- 
ward, and we rested and waited for breath at every 200 or 
300yds. At these times we could hear the rush of wind 
high above us, right in the air seemingly, and still in the 
valley there was no wind— only the dim and ghost-like 
shadows that we knew were trees and great boulders- and 
once as we rested the fog cleared from the top of a cliff 
not far away, and there, by a fi-eak of the broken outline, 
appeared a giant face— a witch head with hooked nose and 
chin, high cheek-boned and receding forehead, deep-set 
eye and fanged jaw— so real that it might have been 
carved by the hand of man, but for its size, 500ft. or so 
from crown to chin, a fiendish face set in a frame of* swirl- 
ing fog that drifted slowly athwart it and thickened until 
the old witch face vanished. Bluie saw it first, and point- 
ing said: "Look! the witch's head of Rider Haggard'" 
And it did fit his description too, from its weirdness and 
the way it came and vanished there in the foe of' that 
grim valley. >. s> ai 
Of course we did not pass all these broken ror,kdw.^out 
> 
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