678 
FOREST AND STREAM 
Nov. 29, 1913. 
That! For a long time it had been my 
ambition just to touch that gun as it hung 
over the. dining room fireplace, to hold it in 
my hands just once; and what romance a boy’s 
mind wove around that old flintlock. After read- 
in Mayne Reid’s “Rifle Rangers,” it was 
guerillas by the score the gun had potted; 
then, when he told about the “Boy Hunters,” 
it changed, and white buffaloes and Indians 
were the game; and now I was to be allowed 
to take it! It was to be trusted with me! 
Alone with it, I was to penetrate the wilds of 
Brunswick. Who could tell what adventures 
there were in store? 
“Well,” said grandfather, as I stood star¬ 
ing, too surprised to talk. “Why don’t you 
say something? Do you care to go or not? 
I thought you would be pleased.” 
Pleased! I was so overjoyed I didn’t know 
if I was awake or sleeping. Aroused by what 
he said, I gasped in reply, “Of course I want 
to go. Who wouldn’t be pleased with such a 
trip? Only—only I haven’t any powder and 
shot, and I—I don’t know how many fingers 
to load her with.” 
In those days it wasn’t drams and ounces 
loads were measured by. It was fingers. 
That is, the number of finger widths the ram¬ 
rod extended beyond the gun’s muzzle after 
the load was rammed home. Three fingers 
was a boy’s size load—four a man’s. In meas¬ 
uring. too, fingers were fingers, wide or nar¬ 
row, fat or lean, it was the same, and three 
fingers, boy’s fingers—my own, was the load 
I was told I must use. 
After this had been explained, grandfather 
said, “In the lower part of my desk you will 
find a sack of shot and some flints. Help 
yourself. There is powder in the horn hang¬ 
ing from the gun hooks. If not enough, Col. 
Howard will give you more. Come to my 
office at 1 o’clock, and we will find the Colonel’s 
carriage. He starts for the plantation as soon 
after 1 as he can get ready. Mind this, too. 
If I ever know of your pointing that, or any 
other gun, loaded or unloaded, at a human 
being, you will have an account to settle with 
me. Do not forget what I say.” 
Then he took the old flintlock from where 
it had hung ever since I could remember, 
tested it with the ramrod, to be sure it was 
unloaded, and passed it to a very happy boy, 
saying, “You can go into the back garden 
and practice aiming. It will help you get used 
to handling a gun, only you must not load it 
until you reach the plantation.” 
It was a queer old-fashioned piece, made 
many years before, and had neither swing nor 
balance. The barrel must have been close to 
live feet long, which made the gun so muzzle 
heavy I could not hold it out to aim. 
“I’ll tell you what,” said Joe, the house ser¬ 
vant, who had followed me, and with a broad 
grin was watching the show, “There’s lots of 
fences down to Colonel Bill’s. Hunt ’long 
them, and you’ll have something handy to 
rest on all the time. Besides, there’s plenty 
of game ’long them; rabbits and partridges 
and larks and blackbirds. You sure can shoot 
that way, can’t yon?” 
“Reckon so,” I answered, and hunted up a 
fence to see. The fence when found proved 
too high. I couldn’t look over it. No chance 
to use it for a rest. 
“Down on the plantation they’s- all rail 
fences,” said Joe, encouragingly. “If the top 
rails is too high, you can use the next; but 
if you’re sneaking and want to shoot laying 
down, the bottom one’s the thing.” 
Great idea! One could shoot so much bet¬ 
ter resting on a rail fence, it seemed a wonder 
how persons who didn’t have fences could 
ever kill any game. 
Colonel Howard was a punctual man. At 
2 o’clock his carriage was on a flat boat which 
was being rowed across the Cape Fear River 
by two strong negroes. At dusk we reached 
his house. 
“Got many rail fences on the plantation?” 
I asked, soon after starting. 
“Fences-—rail fences?” he questioned in a 
puzzled manner. “No. The only fence on the 
place is the one around the pasture, and that 
isn’t made of rsils. On a rice plantation we 
use ditches.” 
A long drawn sigh was my response. How 
was I going to kill game with no rail fence 
to rest the gun on? I was sorry I had come. 
The Colonel waited a bit, then turned, and 
for the first time noticed the heavy, long- 
barreled gun. He smiled, and asked, ‘What 
do you want fences for, son?” 
“Well,” I answered, “looks to me they are 
mighty handy to rest a gun on, especially if 
it’s a heavy gun, and it’s a boy what’s shoot¬ 
ing.” 
“Might be so,” he said, good-naturedly. 
“Reckon if we can’t fix it any other way, we’ll 
have to build a few.” 
“See that tall cottonwood,” said the Colonel 
next morning after an early breakfast. “Well, 
just beyond it is a pond that is always full of 
ducks—mallard, teal and summer ducks—and 
there is partridge (quail) and snipe and doves 
and rabbits all over the place.” Then, laugh¬ 
ing, ‘You’ll need some one to carry the game, 
and I’ll send a boy with you. Here, Prince, 
come here, you rascal,” and in response an 
imp of a boy, with dancing black eyes and 
white teeth showing in perpetual grin, came 
a running. 
“Now, boy,” the Colonel told him, “you go 
with Master Ed, and carry his game, and show 
him where he can find some birds, and if you 
cut up any capers, mind, now, I’ll skin you 
alive.” 
“Yars, sir; yars, Marsa Bill,” the boy 
grinned. “I’ll ’have all right. I isn’t gwing 
ter lose my skin, you bet I isn’t.” 
“How much powder makes a finger?” I 
asked Prince as soon as we were out of hear¬ 
ing of the Colonel, for of course the gun must 
be loaded. 
“Golly, Mars Ed,” the boy replied, rolling 
his eyes and showing his teeth, “I dunno. 
’Spects ’bout er> half er han’ful. Reckon not 
quite dat much,” as “half a handful” was 
poured out of the horn. A little was put 
back, the rest loaded into the gun. Wadding? 
No one had thought of wadding, so a new 
handkerchief was taken, a section cut off and 
rammed home on top of the powder; then 
came shot, several ounces must have been the 
quantity used. Some more handkerchief to 
hold it in place, and the gun was loaded. 
“How many fingurs she got?” asked Prince. 
I hadn’t dared to measure until he spoke; but 
upon hearing his question, drew the ramrod 
and let it rattle down the gun barrel. It 
looked as if quarter of the rod stuck out. 
“Golly, I bet she kills something,” the boy 
said, only the whites of his eyes showing. 
“Pshaw!” I answered. “She hasn't got so 
very much of a load; only a little over six fin¬ 
gers. Want to carry her a while?” 
“Reckon so,” he answered doubtfully. “But 
how’s yer gwing 'ter shoot ef yer don’t prime 
her?” 
Another oversight. So the pan was un¬ 
covered, a liberal supply of priming applied, 
the edge of the flint wiped and scraped clean, 
and the hunt was on. 
We came back to the house at noon with¬ 
out having fired a shot. When there was 
game there was no fence, and when we fol¬ 
lowed the pasture fence, the neighborhood 
was very shy of anything to shoot at. Once 
we treed a squirrel, and I offered Prince ten 
cents if he would shoot that six-finger load at 
it. He shook his head, and in a half sulky 
manner, answered, “I may be a nigger, but I 
PRAIRIE CHICKEN SHOOTING-POINTING AND BACKING 
