The first contest was a shooting match known as “driving the nail.” It was as the name indicated, nothing less than shooting at the head of a nail. In the absence of a nail—for nails were scarce—one was usually fashioned from a knife blade, or an old file, or even a piece of silver. The nail was driven lightly into the stake, the contestants shot at it from a distance as great as the eyesight permitted. To drive the nail hard and fast into the wood at one hundred yards was a feat seldom accomplished. By many hunters it was deemed more difficult than “snuffing the candle,” another border pastime, which consisted of placing in the dark at any distance a lighted candle, and then putting out the flame with a single rifle ball. Many settlers, particularly those who handled the plow more than the rifle, sighted from a rest, and placed a piece of moss under the rifle barrel to prevent its spring at the discharge.
The match began. Of the first six shooters Jonathan Zane and Alfred Clarke scored the best shots. Each placed a bullet in the half-inch circle round the nail.
“Alfred, very good, indeed,” said Col. Zane. “You have made a decided improvement since the last shooting match.”
Six other settlers took their turns. All were unsuccessful in getting a shot inside the little circle. Thus a tie between Alfred and Jonathan had to be decided.
“Shoot close, Alfred,” yelled Isaac. “I hope you beat him. He always won from me and then crowed over it.”
Alfred’s second shot went wide of the mark, and as Jonathan placed another bullet in the circle, this time nearer the center, Alfred had to acknowledge defeat.
“Here comes Miller,” said Silas Zane. “Perhaps he will want a try.”
Col. Zane looked round. Miller had joined the party. He carried his rifle and accoutrements, and evidently had just returned to the settlement. He nodded pleasantly to all.
“Miller, will you take a shot for the first prize, which I was about to award to Jonathan?” said Col. Zane.
“No. I am a little late, and not entitled to a shot. I will take a try for the others,” answered Miller.
At the arrival of Miller on the scene Wetzel had changed his position to one nearer the crowd. The dog, Tige, trotted closely at his heels. No one heard Tige’s low growl or Wetzel’s stern word to silence him. Throwing his arm over Betty’s pony, Wetzel apparently watched the shooters. In reality he studied intently Miller’s every movement.
“I expect some good shooting for this prize,” said Col. Zane, waving a beautifully embroidered buckskin bullet pouch, which was one of Betty’s donations.
Jonathan having won his prize was out of the lists and could compete no more. This entitled Alfred to the first shot for second prize. He felt he would give anything he possessed to win the dainty trifle which the Colonel had waved aloft. Twice he raised his rifle in his exceeding earnestness to score a good shot and each time lowered the barrel. When finally he did shoot the bullet embedded itself in the second circle. It was a good shot, but he knew it would never win that prize.
“A little nervous, eh?” remarked Miller, with a half sneer on his swarthy face.
Several young settlers followed in succession, but their aims were poor. Then little Harry Bennet took his stand. Harry had won many prizes in former matches, and many of the pioneers considered him one of the best shots in the country.
“Only a few more after you, Harry,” said Col. Zane. “You have a good chance.”
“All right, Colonel. That’s Betty’s prize and somebody’ll have to do some mighty tall shootin’ to beat me,” said the lad, his blue eyes flashing as he toed the mark.
Shouts and cheers of approval greeted his attempt. The bullet had passed into the wood so close to the nail that a knife blade could not have been inserted between.
Miller’s turn came next. He was a fine marksman and he knew it. With the confidence born of long experience and knowledge of his weapon, he took a careful though quick aim and fired. He turned away satisfied that he would carry off the coveted prize. He had nicked the nail.
But Miller reckoned without his host. Betty had seen the result of his shot and the self-satisfied smile on his face. She watched several of the settlers make poor attempts at the nail, and then, convinced that not one of the other contestants could do so well as Miller, she slipped off the horse and ran around to where Wetzel was standing by her pony.
“Lew, I believe Miller will win my prize,” she whispered, placing her hand on the hunter’s arm. “He has scratched the nail, and I am sure no one except you can do better. I do not want Miller to have anything of mine.”
“And, little girl, you want me to shoot fer you,” said Lewis.
“Yes, Lew, please come and shoot for me.”
It was said of Wetzel that he never wasted powder. He never entered into the races and shooting matches of the settlers, yet it was well known that he was the fleetest runner and the most unerring shot on the frontier. Therefore, it was with surprise and pleasure that Col. Zane heard the hunter say he guessed he would like one shot anyway.
Miller looked on with a grim smile. He knew that, Wetzel or no Wetzel, it would take a remarkably clever shot to beat his.
“This shot’s for Betty,” said Wetzel as he stepped to the mark. He fastened his keen eyes on the stake. At that distance the head of the nail looked like a tiny black speck. Wetzel took one of the locks of hair that waved over his broad shoulders and held it up in front of his eyes a moment. He thus ascertained that there was not any perceptible breeze.
