The Boy Ranchers of Puget Sound

  CHAPTER IV

  TARGET PRACTICE

  The two boys spent most of the following week rolling logs and they werebusy among them one hot afternoon when Mr. Oliver walked out of the bushnearby. As they did not immediately see him, he stopped and stoodwatching them in the shadow for a few minutes. Frank was feeling morecheerful by this time, though his hands were still very sore and, as agood many of the logs were burned on the outside, he was more or lessblackened all over. He was getting used to the work, and Jake, who hadarrived with the sloop in the meanwhile, relieved him and his companionof the heaviest part of it. Turning around presently at a sound, Franksaw Mr. Oliver smiling at him.

  "If I were as grimy as you I think I'd go in for a swim," he said. "It'shot enough, and there's a nice beach not far away. I dare say Harry willgo along with you while Jake and I put up these logs."

  Harry lost no time in throwing down his handspike, and they set outtogether down a narrow trail through the woods, which led them out byand by upon a head above the cove in which the sloop lay moored.Standing on the edge of the crag, Frank looked down upon the clear,green water which lapped smooth as oil upon a belt of milk-white shingleand broke into little wisps of foam beneath the gray rocks at the mouthof the cove. Beyond this the sea flashed silver in the sunlight like agreat mirror, except where a faint, fitful breeze traced dark bluestreaks across it. Dim smudges of islands and headlands broke thegleaming surface here and there, and high above it all was a cold whitegleam of eternal snow.

  In a few minutes they had scrambled down a winding path, and Frank,stripping off his clothes, waded into the water abreast of the sloopwhich lay swinging gently about a dozen yards from the beach.

  "Can you swim off to her?" shouted Harry.

  Frank said that he thought he could, and set about it with a jerkybreast stroke, for he was not very proficient in the art. The water wasdecidedly cold and he was glad when he reached the sloop. Clutching herrail where it was lowest amidships he endeavored to pull himself out. Tohis disgust he found that his feet would shoot forward under the bottomof her, with the result that he sank back to the neck after each effort.When he had made two or three attempts he heard a shout:

  "Hold on! You'll never do it that way."

  Harry shot toward him, his limbs gleaming curiously white through theshining green water, though his face and neck showed a coffee-brown, asdid his lower arms, which he swung out above his head, rolling from sideto side at every stroke. He grasped Frank's shoulder and pushed himtoward the stern of the sloop.

  "Now," he said when he clutched it, "there are just two ways of gettingout of the water into a boat. If she has a flat stern you make for thereand get your hands on the top of it spread a little apart. Then youheave yourself up by a handspring--though that isn't very easy."

  Frank smiled at these instructions, but said nothing. It was easy forhim, because he had learned the trick in a gymnasium. Suddenly jerkingdown his elbows, which ever since he had grasped the stern were as highas his head, he shot his body up until his hands were down at his hips.Then, as his waist was level with the sloop's transom, he quietlycrawled on board. Harry, however, had to make two or three attemptsbefore he succeeded, and then he looked at his companion withundisguised astonishment.

  "I've never done it right away yet," he said admiringly. "Say, do youknow how to dive?"

  "No," replied Frank; "that is, I've scarcely tried."

  Harry led him forward where the boat's sheer was higher and he couldstand a couple of feet or so above the water.

  "You only get half the fun out of swimming unless you can dive," hesaid. "Let's see what kind of a show you make."

  Frank stiffened himself and jumped. At least, that was what he meant todo, but as it happened, he merely threw himself flat upon the water, andthe result was rather disconcerting. He felt as though all the breathhad been knocked out of him, and in addition to this all the front ofhis body was smarting. He was about to swim toward the stern again whenHarry stopped him.

  "Hold on!" he called. "You may as well learn the other way of gettingout, and if she's a sailing craft with a bowsprit it's much the easiestone. Swim forward to the bow."

  Frank did so and saw that a wire ran from the end of the bowsprit,dipping a little below the water where it was attached to the boat. Hehad no difficulty in getting his foot upon it, and after that it was asimple matter to crawl on board. His chest and limbs were still smartingand were very red when he joined Harry. The latter regarded him with alook of amusement.

  "You'll get hurt every time, if you dive like that," he said. "Lookhere," and he stood up on the boat's deck. "You want to get your weighton the fore part of your feet all ready to shove off before you go. Thenyou must shoot as far forward as you can--falling on it won't do--andhollow your back and stiffen yourself once you're under. That is, whenyou want to skim along just below the surface. Watch me."

  Leaning forward a little he sprang out from the boat, a lithe, tensefigure, with hands flung straight forward over his head. They struck thewater first, and he went in with an impetus which swept him alongscarcely a foot beneath the top. Then his speed slowly slackened and hehad stopped altogether about a length of the boat away when he raisedhis head and swam back to her.

  "You don't want to try that in less than four feet until you're sure youcan do it right," he said when he had climbed on board. "The other kindof diving's different." Then, taking up a galvanized pin, he threw itin. "See whether you can fetch it. There's about eight or nine feet ofwater here. You can open your eyes as soon as your head's in, and youwon't have any trouble in coming up again. Jump, and throw your legsstraight up as you go."

  Frank managed this time not to drop in a heap as he had done before. Healso opened his eyes under water for the first time and found itperfectly easy to see. It was like looking through green glass. He couldmake out the pin lying a long way down beneath him. It was, however,impossible to reach it. The water seemed determined on forcing him backto the top, and when he abandoned the struggle to get down he seemed toreach the surface with a bound.

  "How far did I go?" he gasped.

  "About six feet. It's quite as far as I expected."

  Harry plunged, and Frank, who had climbed out in the meanwhile, saw himstriking upward with his feet until he turned and came up with a rush,holding the pin in one hand. Flinging it on board he headed for thebeach and was standing on the shingle rubbing himself with his handswhen Frank joined him.

  "I guess you had two towels when you went swimming back East?" helaughed.

  Frank looked up inquiringly, acknowledging that he usually had takenone.

  "Well," said Harry, "we have them at the homestead, but there areranches in this country where you wouldn't get even one."

  "No towels!" exclaimed Frank in some astonishment. "What do they useinstead?"

  "Some of them cut a very little bit off of a cotton flour bag. Thosebags are valuable because they keep them to mend their shirts with. I'vea notion that the other fellows sit in the sun."

  Frank laughed and scrambled into his clothes after rubbing himself withhis hands. He was commencing to realize that whether Harry was jokingwith him or not it was unavoidable that they should have different waysin different parts of so big a country. Indeed, now that he was somefour thousand miles from Boston, he felt that instead of its beingcurious that the people were slightly different it was wonderful thatthey were so much the same. If one measured four thousand miles acrossEurope and Asia one would get Frenchmen at the one end and wild Cossacksor nomad Tartars at the other, with perhaps a score of wholly differentnations, speaking different languages, between.

  They had an excellent appetite for supper when they went back to theranch, and after the meal was over, Mr. Oliver took down a rifle fromthe wall.

  "You can bring yours along, Harry," he said, and then turned to Frank."In a general way, a rancher doesn't get much time for hunting, and heseldom goes out for the fun of the thing, but an odd deer or grousecomes in handy now
and then. Anyway, before you can hunt at all you mustlearn to shoot and you may as well begin."

  "Dad's a pot-hunter," chuckled Harry. "At least, that's what the twosmart sports we had round here last fall said he was."

  A gleam of amusement crept into his aunt's eyes, but Mr. Oliver's facecontracted into a slight frown.

  "Harry knows my views, but you had better hear them, too," he said toFrank. "I'm certainly what those fellows called a pot-hunter, thoughthey very foolishly seemed to think that one ought to be ashamed of it.Most of the ranchers in this district take down the rifle only when theywant something to eat, and that's the best excuse there is for shooting.Is it a desirable thing to destroy a dozen harmless beasts for the merepleasure of killing, and leave them in the bush for the wolves andeagles?"

  "Don't the game laws prevent that, sir?" Frank asked.

  "They limit a man to so many head of this and that, and in a general wayhe brings no more out with him, but it doesn't by any means follow thathe hasn't killed a bear or a deer that he doesn't mention in some lonelyravine. The sport who hasn't a conscience is as big a pest in a gamecountry as the horn and hide hunter used to be, and we have to thank himfor practically exterminating several of the finest beasts in NorthAmerica."

  "Wouldn't the clearing of virgin country and the way the farms andranches spring up account for it?"

  "Only to some extent. It's my opinion that there are more deer and bearsabout the smaller ranches than you could find anywhere else. All this isno reason why you shouldn't learn to shoot; that is, to hit your gamejust where you want to and kill it there and then."

  He walked out with his rifle and the boys followed him across theclearing. Here Harry fixed a piece of white paper about two feet squarewith a black dab in the middle of it on the trunk of a big fir, afterwhich he came back to where the others were standing.

  "How far do you make it?" his father asked.

  "About a hundred yards."

  Mr. Oliver now turned to Frank.

  "As I think you told me you couldn't shoot, I'll give you a shortlecture on the principles of the thing. When they're after birds mostmen use a scatter gun. It will spread an ounce of shot--several hundredpellets--over a six-foot circle at a distance of about forty yards; butthe rifle is the great weapon of western America. Take this one and openthe breach--now look up the barrel."

  "I can see little grooves twisting round it like a screw," said Frank.

  "That's the rifling. It serves two purposes. The bullet--you use onlyone--has to screw round and round to get out, and that gives theexplosion time to act upon it. It increases the muzzle velocity. Then itgives the bullet a rotary motion, and anything spinning on its axistravels very much straighter than it would do otherwise. It's thetwisting motion that keeps a top from falling over."

  Frank could readily understand this, and he remembered what he had readabout the gyroscope.

  "Now," continued Mr. Oliver, "we have to consider the pull of the earthupon the bullet, which would bring it down, and to counteract this youhave to direct it rather upward. The slight curve it makes before itreaches its mark is called the trajectory, and it naturally varies withthe distance. You arrange it by the sights. There are two of them, oneon the muzzle and one near the breach. The last one slides up and downlike this. The farther off the mark is the higher it must go. As youhave to get them both in line, it's evident that pushing the back one upwill raise the muzzle. You can understand that?"

  Frank said that he could, and Mr. Oliver pushed the rearsight down andsnapped a lever.

  "It's cocked, though it hasn't a shell in it. At a hundred yards or lessthe sight goes down about the limit." He handed Frank the rifle. "Standstraight, left foot a little to the left and forward--that will do. Nowbring the rifle to your shoulder--left hand under the barrel near therearsight, elbow well down, right hand round the small of the butt,thumb on the top. Try to hold it steady."

  Frank found it difficult. The rifle was heavy and the muzzle seemed towant to drop, but Mr. Oliver stopped him when he let his left elbow fallin toward his side.

  "Bring it down and wait a moment before you throw it up again," headvised.

  Frank did so once or twice, and at length his instructor seemedsatisfied.

  "Now we'll aim," he said. "Drop your left cheek on the stock--you'dbetter shut your left eye. Try to see the target through the hollow ofthe rearsight, with the front one right in the middle of it."

  It seemed singularly difficult. The square of paper now lookedexceedingly small and the sights would wobble across it. After severalattempts, however, Frank got them comparatively steady.

  "Put your forefinger on the trigger," Mr. Oliver directed. "Don't pull,but squeeze it slowly and steadily, holding your breath in themeanwhile."

  This was worst of all, for Frank found that he pulled the sight off thetarget when he tightened his forefinger. After he had made an attempt ortwo, Mr. Oliver told him to put the rifle down.

  "See what you can do, Harry," he said.

  "Standing?"

  "Yes," said Mr. Oliver, turning to Frank again. "Standing's hardest,kneeling easier, and lying down easiest of all, but when you're huntingin thick bush you generally have to stand."

  Harry slipped a shell into his rifle, and pitched it to his shoulder. Itwobbled for a moment and then grew still. After that there was aspitting of red sparks from the muzzle, which suddenly jerked, followedby a sharp detonation. A second or two later there was a thud, and Harrylaughed as he stood gazing at the mark while a little blue smoke curledout of the muzzle and the opened breach.

  "It's well up on the left top corner," he said.

  Frank was blankly astonished. He could certainly see the square ofpaper, but it seemed impossible that anybody could tell whether therewas a mark on it. As a matter of fact, very few people who had not beentaught how to use their eyes could have done so.

  Then Mr. Oliver took up his rifle, and Frank noticed that his whole bodyand limbs seemed to fall into the best position for holding it steadywithout any visible effort on the man's part. The blue barrel did notseem to move at all until at length it jerked, and Harry grinnedexultantly at Frank when a thin streak of smoke drifted past them.

  "That's the pot-hunter's way. He's about two inches off the center."

  Mr. Oliver gave Frank the rifle, and this time he slipped in a shell.

  "If you can't get the sights right bring it down," he directed. "Don'tdwell too long on your aim."

  Frank held his breath and stiffened his muscles, but the foresight wouldwobble and the target seemed to dance up and down in a most exasperatingmanner. At length he pressed the trigger. He felt a sharp jar upon hisshoulder, but to his astonishment he heard no report. After what seemedquite a long time there was a faint thud in the forest.

  "You've got something, but I guess it's the wrong tree," laughed Harry.

  After that Frank tried several shots, finally succeeding in hitting thetree a couple of feet above the mark. Mr. Oliver, who had taken out hispipe in the meanwhile, nodded at him encouragingly.

  "You only need to practice steadily," he said. "For the rest, anythingthat tends toward a healthy life will make you shoot well. Whisky andtobacco most certainly won't."

  Harry's eyes twinkled as he glanced at his father's pipe.

  "One of them hasn't much effect on him. I don't know whether I told youabout the bag the two sports who were round here last fall nearly made.I got the tale from Webster on the next ranch."

  Frank said that he would like to hear it, and Harry laughed.

  "Well," he began, "Webster was sitting on a log in the bush just outsidehis slashing, looking around kind of sorrowful at the trees. It seemedto him they looked so big and nice it would be a pity to spoil them.When I've been chopping until my hands are sore I sometimes feel likethat."

  "It doesn't lead to riches," interrupted his father dryly.

  "By and by," Harry continued, "Webster heard a smashing in theunderbrush. It kept coming nearer, but it wasn't in t
he least like thesound a bear makes or a jumping deer. You don't know they're aroundunless they're badly scared. Anyway, Webster sat still wondering what itcould be, until he saw a man crawling on the ground. He was coming alongvery cautiously, but you couldn't have heard him more than half a mileaway. By and by he disappeared behind a big tree, and as there hadn'tbeen a deer about for a week Webster wondered if the man was mad, untilthere was a blaze of repeater firing in the bush. Then Fremont, hislogging ox, came out of it like a locomotive and headed for the range sofast that Webster couldn't see how he went. He grabbed his logginghandspike, and found a sport abusing another for missing in the bush.

  "'What in the name of wonder are you after?' he asked.

  "'We've been trailing a deer two hours,' one of them declared. 'A mightybig deer. Must have been an elk.'

  "'An elk, sure. I saw it,' added the other.

  "'There isn't a blamed elk in the country,' said Webster.

  "'You'll see,' persisted the other. 'I tell you I pumped the cylinderfull into him.'

  "'Quite sure of that?' Webster asked.

  "The other man said that he was, and Webster waved his handspike.

  "'Then it's going to cost you sixty dollars, and I'll take a depositnow,' he said. 'It's my ox Fremont you've been after.'"

  "Did they give it to him?" Frank broke in.

  "Five dollars," Harry answered. "Webster looked big and savage, and theycompromised on that."

  "But had they hit the ox?"

  Harry chuckled. "Give a man who isn't a hunter a repeater and he'llnever hit anything--unless it's what he isn't shooting at."

  "Anyway, it's better to stick to the single shot at first," Mr. Oliverremarked. "Then you take time and care, and it's more likely that whenyou shoot you kill. No humane person has any use for the man who leavesbadly wounded beasts wandering about the woods."

  He rose, and shook out his pipe.

  "We'll be getting back," he added. "There's only one way of making iteasy to rise at sun-up."

  They walked toward the house together, and it seemed to Frank that therewas a good deal to be said for this rancher's views. He did not telltall stories and boast of what he had shot, but Frank had seen enoughto realize that it was most unlikely that he left any sorely woundedanimal to die in misery. It was not often that Mr. Oliver molested thebeautiful wild creatures of the woods, but when he fixed the sights onone of them he killed it clean.