HERE was a sound of merriment on Farmer Bagley's place. It was “corn shucking” night, and the young people from all sides had met to partake of mirth and hospitality. After all had taken seats in the large sitting room and parlor, the men were invited with a mysterious wink and grin from the countenance of jovial Bagley to taste the contents of a large brown jug which smiled on a shelf beside the water bucket out in the entry. Its saturated corn-cob stopper, lying whiskey colored in the moonlight by the side of the jug, gave a most tempting aroma to the crisp, invigorating November air and rendered Bagley's signs and hints all the more comprehensible.

They were mostly young men who, with clattering boots, filed out to the shelf and turned, with smacking lips wiped on their hands, back to the clusters of shy, tittering maidens round the blazing log fires. They wore new jean trousers neatly folded round muscular calves and stowed away, without a visible wrinkle, into high, colored-topped boots with sharp, brightly-polished heels, upon which were strapped clanking spurs. Their sack coats, worn without vests over low-necked woolen shirts, fitted their strong bodies admirably.

Dick Martin, a tall, well-built young man with marked timidity in his voice, considerably augmented by the brightness of Melissa Bagley's eyes, drew near that young lady and said:

“Yore pap has certainly got some o' the best corn licker in this county, Melissa; it liter'ly sets a feller on fire.”

“Be ashamed, Dick Martin!” she answered, with a cautious glance around her as if she feared that someone would observe the flush that had risen into her pretty face as he approached. “Be ashamed o' yorese'f fur techin' licker; last log-rollin' you 'lowed you'd tuk yore last dram. Paw ort to be churched fur settin' temptation 'fore so many young men. Ef I had my way the' wouldn't be a still, wild cat nur licensed, in the Co-hutta Mountains nowhar.”

“Shucks, Melissa!” exclaimed Dick. “Don't git yore dander up 'bout nothin'. I'm that anxious to git yore pap on my side I'd drink slop, mighty high, ef he 'uz to ax me. He don't like me, an' blame me ef I know why, nuther. I ain't been here in the last three Sunday nights 'thout him a-callin' you to bed most 'fore dark. He didn't raise no objections to Bill Miller a-stayin' tell 'leven o'clock last Tuesday night. Oh, I ain't blind to hurt! Bill owns his own land and I havn't a shovelful; thar's the difference. He's a-comin' now, but mind you I'm agwine to set by you at shuckin'.”

The bright flush which had added such beauty to the girl's face vanished as Bill Miller swaggered up and said with a loud voice, as he roughly shook her hand:

“Meliss', kin I wait on you at shuckin'?”

“Dick's jest this minute axed me,” she stammered, beginning to blush anew.

“Well, he ain't axed to set on both sides uv you, I reckon. You'd be a uncommon quar pusson ef the' wuz jest one side to you. What's to keep me frum settin' on tother side frum Dick?”

To this the farmer's daughter made no reply, and as the guests were now starting to the barnyard she was escorted between the two rivals to the great coneshaped heap of unhusked corn gleaming in the pale moonlight.

“All keep yore feet an' form a ring round the pile!” called out Bagley, so as to be overheard above the sound of their voices. “The' ain't no r'al fun 'thout everything is conducted fa'r and squar'. Now” (as all the merrymakers stood hand in hand round the corn heap, Dick with one of Melissa's hands in his tight clasp and his rival with the other)—“now, all march round an' somebody start 'King William Wuz King James' Son,' an' when I tell you to halt set down right whar' you are. I'm a-doin' this 'kase at Wade's last week some fellers hid red yeers o' corn nigh the'r places an' wuz etarnally a-kissin' o' the gals, which ain't fa'r nur decent. The rule on this occasion shall be as common, in regard to the fust feller that finds a red yeer o'corn bein' 'lowed to kiss any gal he likes, but atter that one time—understand everybody—atter that no bussin' kin take place, red yeer ur no red yeer. I advocate moderation in all things, especially whar' a man an' woman's mouth is con-sarned.”

While the musical tones of the familiar song were rising, and the straw beneath the feet of the human chain was rustling, Bagley called aloud the word: “Halt!” and all sat down immediately and went to work with a will. Song after song was sung. The hard, pearly silk-tipped ears of corn flew through the air and rained into the crib near at hand, and billows of husks rolled up behind the eager workers and were raked away by negroes who were not permitted to take part in the sport.

“Here's a red un, by hunky!” yelled out a sunburnt, downy-faced youth, standing up and holding aloft a small ear of blood-red corn.

“Hold on thar!” shouted Bagley in commanding tones. “The rules must be enforced to the letter. Jim Lash, ef yore yeer measures full six inches ye're the lucky man, but ef it falls short o' that size its a nubbin an' don't count.”

An eager group encircled the young man, but soon a loud laugh rose and they all fell back into their places, for the ear had proved to be only five inches in length.

“Not yit, Jimmy Lash; not yit,” grunted Dick Martin, as he raked an armful of unhusked corn into his and Melissa's laps. Then to Melissa in an undertone: “Ef wishin' 'u'd do any good, I'd be the fust to run acrost one, fur, by jingo! the' ain't a livin' man, Melissa, that could want it as bad as I do with you a-settin' so handy. By glory! [aloud] here she is, as red as sumac an' as long as a rollin' pin. The Lord be praised!” He had risen to his feet and stood holding up the trophy for Bagley's inspection, fairly aglow with triumph and exercise.

The rustling in the corn husks ceased. All eyes were directed upon the erect forms of Dick Martin and Farmer Bagley. The clear moonlight revealed an unpleasant expression on the older man's face in vivid contrast to the cast of the younger's. Bagley seemed rather slow to form a decision; all present suspected the cause of his hesitation.

“Fair's fair, Bagley!” called out an old farmer outside of the circle. “Don't belittle yorese'f by 'lowin' anything o' a personal natur' to come in an' influence you ag'in right. Dick Martin's the fust an' is entitled to the prize.”

“Yore right, Wilson,” admitted Bagley, with his eyes downcast. “Dick Martin is the winner an' kin proceed; howsomever, thar's some things that——”

Salute yore bride an' kiss her sweet,

Now you may rise upon yore feet!

sang the leader of the singers, completely drowning the remainder of Bagley's sentence. As quick as a flash of lightning Dick had thrown his arm round struggling Melissa and imprinted a warm kiss on her lips. Then the workers applauded vociferously, and Melissa sat, suffused with crimson, between sullen Bill Miller and beaming Dick Martin. Bagley showed plainly that Dick's action and the applause of all had roused his dislike for Dick even deeper than ever.

“I'm knowed to be a man o' my word,” he fumed, white in the face and glancing round the ring of upturned faces. “I'm firm as firm kin be, I mought say as the rock o' Bralty, when I take a notion. I've heerd a leetle o' the talk in this settlement 'mongst some o' the meddlin' sort, an' fur fear this leetle accident mought add to the'r tattle I'd jest like to remark that ef thar's a man on the top side o' the earth that knows what's to be done with his own flesh an' blood it ort to be me. What's been the talk ain't so, not a speck of it. I've got somethin' to say to——”

“Paw!” expostulated Melissa, almost crying.

“Mr. Bagley—I say, Abrum Bagley, don't make a born fool o' yorese'f,” broke in Mrs. Bagley, as she waddled into the circle and laid her hand heavily upon her husband's arm. “Now, folks, it's about time you wuz gittin' somethin' warm into you. You kin finish the pile atter you've eat. Come on, all hands, to the house!”

A shadow of mortification fell athwart Dick's honest face as soon as Bagley had spoken. His sensitive being was wounded to the core. As he and Melissa walked back to the farm house together, Bill Miller having dropped behind to gossip with someone over Bagley's remarks, he was silent, and timid Melissa was too shy to break the silence, although it was very painful to her.

Reaching the entrance to the farm house, Dick held back and refused to enter with the others.

“Ain't you gwine to come in an' have some supper?” Melissa asked, pleadingly.

“I ain't a-goin' narry nuther step. Anything cooked in this house would stick in my throat atter what's been said. He struck me a underhanded lick. I won't force myse'f on 'im nur to his table.”

“I think you mought, bein' as I axed you,” said she tremblingly, as she shrank into the honeysuckle vines that clung to the latticework of the entry.

“No, blame me ef I do!” he answered firmly. “I'm of as good stock as anybody in this county; nobody cayn't run no bull yearlin' dry shod over me.”

All Melissa could do could not induce him to join the others in the dining room, and when he walked angrily away she ran into her own room, and sitting down in the darkness alone she burst into a flood of tears. After supper the guests repaired again to the corn heap, but Melissa was not among them, and the spirits of all seemed somewhat dampened.

After that night Dick Martin and Melissa Bagley did not meet each other for several days. However, on the Sunday following the corn shucking, as Melissa was returning from meeting through the woods alone, the very one who was uppermost in her troubled mind joined her. He emerged from the thick-growing bushes which skirted her path, with a very pale face and unhappy mien.

“I jest couldn't wait another minute, Melissa,” he said, standing awkwardly before her, “not ef I had to be shot fur it.”

“Paw's mighty stubborn an' contrary when he takes a notion,” she said, with hanging head and an embarrassed kick of her foot at a tuft of grass. “I think he mought let me alone. You ain't the only one he hates. Thar's ol' man Lawson; law, he hates him wuss'n canker! I heerd 'im say tother day ef somebody 'u'd jest beat Lawson shootin' next match he'd be his friend till death. He ain't never got over his lawsuit with Lawson over the sheep our dog killed. Paw fit it in court through three terms, an' then had to give in an' settle the claim an' all the costs besides. It mighty nigh broke im. Fur the last five years Lawson has driv home the prize beef from the fall match, an' every time paw jest fairly shakes with madness over it.”

When Dick left Melissa at the bars in sight of her house and turned toward his home a warm idea was tingling in his brain, and by the time he had reached his father's cottage he was fairly afire with it. The shooting match was to take place in a month—what was to prevent him from taking part in it? He had an excellent rifle, and had done some good shooting at squirrels. Perhaps if he would practice a good deal he might win. Lawson was deemed the best marksman in all the Cohutta valleys, and frequently it had been hard to get anyone to enter a match against him. Dick at last decided to enter the forthcoming match at all events. He went into his cottage and took down his rifle from its deer-horn rack over the door. While he was eyeing the long, rusty barrel critically his old mother entered.

“Fixin' fur a hunt, Dick? Thar's a power o' pa'tridges in the sage field down the hollar. A rifle ain't as good fur that sort o' game as a shotgun; suppose you step over an' ax Hanson to loan you his'n?”

“I jest 'lowed I'd shine this un up a bit bein' as it's Sunday an' I hate to be idle,” he answered, evasively, as he seated himself at the wide fireplace with a pan of grease and a piece of cloth and rubbed his gun barrel until it fairly shone in the firelight. The next morning he threw it over his shoulder and, taking an axe in his hand, he started toward the woods.

“Didn't know but I mought find a bee tree somers,” he said sheepishly, as he saw his mother looking wonderingly at the axe. “Not likely, but I mought, thar's no tellin', though the darn little varmints do keep powerful close hid this time o' year.”

He went over the hills and through the tangled woods until he came to a secluded old field. He singled out a walnut tree near its centre, and going to it he cut a square white spot in the bark with his axe. It is needless to detail all that took place there that day, or on other days following it. For the first week the earnest fellow would return from this spot each afternoon with a very despondent look upon him. As time passed, however, and his visits to the riddled tree grew more frequent his face began to grow brighter.

Once his mother came suddenly upon him as he stood in the cottage before the open door with his rifle placed in position for firing. He lowered his gun with a deep blush.

“I 'us jest a tryin' to see how long I could keep the sight on that shiny spot out thar in the field without flinchin'. Blame me, ef you hadn't come in I believe I could a helt her thar tell it thundered.”

“Dick,” said the old woman, with a deep breath, “what on earth has got in you here lately? Are you gwine plump stark crazy 'bout that old gun? You never tuk on that way before.”

“I've jest found out I'm purty good on a shot, that's all,” he replied, evasively.

“Well,” said she, “as fur as that's concerned, in old times our stock was reckoned to be the best marksmen in our section. You ort to be; yore narrer 'twixt the eyes, an' that's a shore sign.”

Dick caught a glimpse of Melissa now and then, and managed to exchange a few words with her occasionally, the nature of which we will not disclose. It may be said, however, that she was always in good spirits, which puzzled her father considerably, for he was at a loss to see why she should be so when Dick had not visited her since the night of the corn shucking. Moreover, she continually roused her father's anger by speaking frequently of the great honor that belonged to Farmer Lawson for so often Winning the prizes in the shooting matches.

“Dang it, Melissa, dry up!” he exclaimed, boiling with anger, “you know I hate that daddrated man. I'd fling my hat as high as the moon ef some o' these young bucks 'u'd beat him this fall; he's as full o' brag as a lazy calf is with fleas.”

“No use a hopin' fur anything o' that sort, paw; Lawson's too old a han'. He ain't got his equal at shootin' ur lawin.' The whole country couldn't rake up a better one.” After speaking in this manner she would stifle a giggle by holding her hand over her mouth until she was livid in the face, and escape from her mystified parent, leaving him to vent his spleen on the empty air.

The day of the annual shooting match drew near. It was not known who were to be the participants aside from Lawson, for the others usually waited till the time arrived to announce their intentions. No better day could have been chosen. The sky was blue and sprinkled with frothy clouds, and the weather was not unpleasantly cold. Women and men, boys, girls and children from all directions were assembled to witness the sport and were seated in chairs and wagons all over the wide, open space.

Melissa was there in a cluster of girls, and her father was near by in a group of men, all of whom—like himself—disliked the blustering, boasting Lawson and fondly hoped that someone would beat him on this occasion. Lawson stood by himself, with a confident smile on his face. His rifle butt rested on the grass and his hands were folded across each other on the end of his gun barrel.

“Wilks,” said he to the clerk of the county court, who had been chosen as referee for the occasion, “git up yore list o' fellers that are bold enough to shoot agin the champion. I reckon my nerves are 'bout as they wuz six yeer ago when I fust took my stan' here to larn this settlement how to shoot.”

Just before the list of aspirants was read aloud Dick managed to reach Melissa's side unobserved by her father.

“Did you keep yore promise 'bout cut-tin' my patchin' fur me?” he asked in a whisper.

With trembling fingers she drew from her pocket several little pieces of white cotton cloth about the size of a silver quarter of a dollar and gave them to him.

“They're jest right to a gnat's heel,” he said, warmly. “A ball packed in one o' them'll go straight ur I'm no judge.”

“Dick,” whispered she, looking him directly in the eyes, “you ain't a bit flustered. I believe you'll win.”

With a smile Dick turned away and joined the crowd round the referee's chair, and when his name was called a moment later among the names of four others he brought his rifle from a wagon and stood in view of the crowd. The first applause given that day was accorded him, for in addition to its being his first appearance in a shooting match he was universally popular.

“Bully fur you, Dick; here's my han' wishing you luck!” said a cheery-voiced farmer, shaking Dick's hand.

“It's the way with all these young strips,” said Lawson in a loud, boastful tone. “Gwine to conquer the whole round world. He'll grin on tother side o' his mouth when Bettie, the lead queen, barks and spits in the very centre o' that spot out yander.”

A feeble murmur of admiration greeted this vaunting remark, but it quickly subsided as the crowd noted that Dick Martin did not reply even by so much as to raise his eyes from the inspection of his gun. The referee called for order.

“Jim Baker,” said he, “be so kind as to drive round yore stall-fed heifer. Ladies an' gentlemen [as a man emerged from a group of wagons and drove a fine-looking young cow into the open space], here's a heifer in fine enough order to make any man's eyes sore to look. Fifteen round dollars has been paid in, by the five men who are to burn powder to-day, $3 apiece, an' the man whose shootin' iron can fling lead the straightest on this occasion is entitled to the beef and the championship o' this valley till next fall. Now, Mr. Baker, lead out yore cow, an' the shooters will please form in a line.”

When the aspirants stood in front of him the referee continued:

“Here is five pieces o' straw, all different lengths. The man who gets the shortest one shoots fust, the next longest next, an' so on till you've all had yore crack.”

Passing the straws to the riflemen, and af ter they had drawn one each from his tightly closed hands, he ordered a man to set up the target—a planed plank, about one foot in width and six in length, with a round marked spot about three inches in diameter, near the top.

“I'd willin'ly give my chance o' oats to have some o' them boys knock the stuffin' clean out'n Lawson; he's that stuck up he cayn't hardly walk,” said Bagley, his anger intensified by observing the sneering smile on Lawson's face.

“I'm mighty afeard,” said the man to whom Bagley was speaking, “that Dick Martin 'll lose his $3. I never heerd o' him bein' any han' with a gun.”

To this Bagley offered no reply. In his hatred for Lawson, and at such a time he had no thought to give to Dick.

“All ready!” rang out the voice of the referee. “Bob Ransom gits the first pull at trigger to-day.”

Silence fell on the crowd as the tall, slender young man stepped forth and stood with his left foot on a line cut in the grass exactly 100 yards from the tree against which the yellow board with its single eye leaned in the sunbeams. Not a whisper escaped the motionless assembly as the young man slowly brought his weapon into position. “Crack!” sounded the rifle out of a balloon-shaped cloud of blue smoke.

“Missed centre, board, tree an' all!” cried out Bagley, in a tone of deep regret.

“I seed yore lead plough up the dirt away out tother side; it's powerful hard to hold a steady han' when you are fust called on.”

“Next is Taylor Banks!” announced the referee; and as a middle-aged man advanced and toed the mark, Lawson was heard to say, with a loud laugh; “Fust one missed the tree; you folks on the left out thar 'u'd better set back fur-der; no tellin' who Banks 'll hit, fur he's a-tremblin' like so much jelly.”

“Hit about three inches due north o' the spot,” called out the referee, as the smoke rose from the peering marksman. “I'm afraid, Tayl', that somebody 'll come nigher than that when the pinch comes. Joe Burk is the next, an' I'll take occasion to say here that I know of no man in all this mountain country that is more prompt to pay his taxes.”

“Crack!” A universal bending of necks to get the target in better view and a rolling billow of voices in the crowd.

“A inch an' a half below the spot!” proclaimed the referee. “Why, friends, what ails you all? This ain't nigh such shootin' as we had last fall. Too many women present, I reckon. Ladies, if you'll cover up yore faces maybe the next two will do better. The straws say that Abraham Lawson has the next whack. Lawson, make yore bow.”

The champion of the settlement stepped into view with a haughty strut, dragging his rifle butt on the ground and swinging his broad-brimmed hat carelessly in his hand. Turning to a negro behind him as he took his place, he said so that all could hear:

“Tobe, git yore rope ready an' stan' over thar nigh the beef. When you git 'er home turn 'er in the pastur'. Ef this thing goes on year atter year I'll start a cattle ranch an' quit farmin'.”

“Dang his hide!” exclaimed Bagley to Melissa, who was very pale and quite speechless. “Dang it, I'd lay this here right arm on any man's meat block an' give 'im leave to chop it off ef he'd jest git beat. He's that spiled flies is on 'im.”

Lawson's hat was now on the grass at his feet and he had deliberately raised his brightly-polished weapon to his broad shoulder. The sun glittered on the long steel tube. The silence for an instant was so profound that the birds could be heard singing in the woods and the cawing of the crows in the corn fields near by sounded harsh to the ear. For an instant the sturdy champion stood as if molded in metal, his long hair falling over his gun stock, against which his tanned cheek was closely pressed. Not a sound passed the lips of the assembly, and when the rifle report came it sent a twinge to many a heart.

“Dang it!” ejaculated Lawson, as he lowered his gun and peered through the rising smoke toward the target. “I felt a unsteady quiver tech me jest as I pulled the trigger.”

“About half an inch from the very centre o' the mark. Yore ahead. Nobody is likely to come up to you, Lawson,” said the referee. “The' ain't but one more.”

“I don't keer,” replied Lawson. “I know the cow's mine; but I did want to come up to my record. I walked too fast over here an' it made me unsteady.”

“The next an' last candidate for glory,” said the referee, “is Dick Martin. No cheerin', friends, it ain't been give to the others and you oughtn't to show partiality. Besides, it might excite him, an' he needs all the nerve he's got.”

Bagley was still at Melissa's side. He had his eyes too intently fixed on the stalwart form of Dick Martin and the young man's pale, determined visage to note that his daughter had covered her pale face with her cold, trembling hands and bowed her head.

“By Jinks! he's the coolest cucumber that's lifted shootin' iron to-day,” said Bagley under his breath. “Ef he beats Lawson dagg me if I don't give him a dance in my barn an' invite every man, woman an' child in the whole valley.” With his left foot on the mark and his right thrown back easily, as if he were taking a step forward, and his well-formed body bent slightly toward the target, Dick stood motionless, sighting along his gun barrel at the target. Then, to the surprise of all, he raised his gun until it pointed to the top of the tree against which the target leaned. Here a gentle sigh, born from the union of half surprise and half disappointment, swept over the crowd as low as the whisper of a breeze through a dry foliaged tree. The sigh died away and intense silence claimed the moment, for the gun's point was sweeping rapidly downward. Hardly a second did it pause in a line with the target's centre before the report came, putting every breast in sudden motion. The marker's eyes saw a clean splinter fly from the very centre of the round.

“The beef is won by Dick Martin!” loudly proclaimed the referee.

“Whoopee! Glory! Glory!” The shout was from the lips of Bagley, and in an instant he had stridden across to Dick with outstretched hand. “Glory, Glory! Dick!” he exclaimed; “le'me have a hold o' yore fist. Tell judgment day I'm yore friend. I've said some sneakin' underhand things about you that's hurt yore feelin's an' I want to ax yore pardon. Dang it! I cayn't harbor no ill will agin a feller that's beat Abrum Lawson a-shootin'. Thank goodness you've fetched his kingdom to a end!”

When down-fallen Lawson had slunk away unnoticed from the enthusiastic crowd who were eager to congratulate Dick, Bagley came up to him and said:

“Dick, le'me have the honor o' drivin' the prize home fur you. Fur some reason ur other you didn't stay to supper with us corn-shuckin' night; Melissa's a waitin' fur you out thar in the bresh to ax you to come home with us to-night. By glory, Tobe,” turning to Lawson's negro, “this yer's the same identical beef Lawson ordered you to drive home an' put in his pastur', ain't it? Well, you jest tell 'im his friend Bagley tuk the job off'n yore han's.”