Henri, for
he was as good-hearted a fellow as ever lived, and deserves special
notice.

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 that," 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. Little time was lost in firing, for these men did not
"hang" on their aim. The point of the rifle was slowly raised to the
object, and the instant the sight covered it the ball sped to its
mark. 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," sai