The heavy and brisk blows that he struck were soon succeeded by the thundering report of the tree, as it came, first cracking and threatening with the separation of its own last ligaments, then threshing and tearing with its branches the tops of its surrounding brethren, and finally meeting the ground with a shock but little inferior to an earthquake.
From that moment the sounds of the axe were ceaseless, while the failing of the trees was like a distant cannonading; and the daylight broke into the depths of the woods with the suddenness of a winter morning.
For days, weeks, nay months, Billy Kirby would toil with an ardor that evinced his native spirit, and with an effect that seemed magical, until, his chopping being ended, his stentorian lungs could be heard emitting sounds, as he called to his patient oxen, which rang through the hills like the cries of an alarm.
He had been often heard, on a mild summer’ evening, a long mile across the vale of Templeton; when the echoes from the mountains would take up his cries, until they died away in the feeble sounds from the distant rocks that overhung the lake.
His piles, or, to use the language of the country, his logging ended, with a dispatch that could only accompany his dexterity and herculean strength, the jobber would collect together his implements of labor, light the heaps of timber, and march away under the blaze of the prostrate forest, like the conqueror of some city who, having first prevailed over his adversary, applies the torch as the finishing blow to his conquest.
For a long time Billy Kirby would then be seen sauntering around the taverns, the rider of scrub races, the bully of cock-fights, and not infrequently the hero of such sports as the one in hand.
Between him and the Leather-Stocking there had long existed a jealous rivalry on the point of skill with the rifle.
Notwithstanding the long practice of Natty, it was commonly supposed that the steady nerves and the quick eye of the wood-chopper rendered him his equal.
The competition had, however, been confined hitherto to boasting, and comparisons made from their success in various hunting excursions; but this was the first time they had ever come in open collision.
A good deal of higgling about the price of the choicest bird had taken place between Billy Kirby and its owner before Natty and his companions rejoined the sportsmen It had, however, been settled at one shilling a shot, which was the highest sum ever exacted, the black taking care to protect himself from losses, as much as possible, by the conditions of the sport.
The turkey was already fastened at the “mark,” hut its body was entirely hid by the surrounding snow, nothing being visible but its red swelling head and its long neck.
If the bird was injured by any bullet that struck below the snow, it was to continue the property of its present owner; but if a feather was touched in a visible part, the animal became the prize of the successful adventurer.
These terms were loudly proclaimed by the negro, who was seated in the snow, in a somewhat hazardous vicinity to his favorite bird, when Elizabeth and her cousin approached the noisy sportsmen.
The sounds of mirth and contention sensibly lowered at this unexpected visit; but, after a moment’s pause, the curious interest exhibited in the face of the young lady, together with her smiling air, restored the freedom of the morning; though it was somewhat chastened, both in language and vehemence, by the presence of such a spectator.
“Stand out of the way there, boys!” cried the wood-chopper, who was placing himself at the shooting-point—stand out of the way, you little rascals, or I will shoot through you.
Now, Brom, take leave of your turkey.
“Stop!” cried the young hunter;
“I am a candidate for a chance.
Here is my shilling, Brom; I wish a shot too.”
“You may wish it in welcome,” cried Kirby, “but if I ruffle the gobbler’s feathers, how are you to get it?
Is money so plenty in your deer-skin pocket, that you pay for a chance that you may never have?”
“How know you, sir, how plenty money is in my pocket?” said the youth fiercely.
“Here is my shilling, Brom, and I claim a right to shoot.”
“Don’t be crabbed, my boy,” said the other, who was very coolly fixing his flint.
“They say you have a hole in your left shoulder yourself, so I think Brom may give you a fire for half-price.
It will take a keen one to hit that bird, I can tell you, my lad, even if I give you a chance, which is what I have no mind to do.”
“Don’t be boasting, Billy Kirby,” said Natty, throwing the breech of his rifle into the snow, and leaning on its barrel; “you’ll get but one shot at the creatur’, for if the lad misses his aim, which wouldn’t be a wonder if he did, with his arm so stiff and sore, you’ll find a good piece and an old eye coming a’ter you.
Maybe it’s true that I can’t shoot as I used to could, but a hundred yards is a short distance for a long rifle.”
“What, old Leather-Stocking, are you out this morning?” cried his reckless opponent.
“Well, fair play’s a jewel.
I’ve the lead of you, old fellow; so here goes for a dry throat or a good dinner.”
The countenance of the negro evinced not only all the interest which his pecuniary adventure might occasion, but also the keen excitement that the sport produced in the others, though with a very different wish as to the result.
While the wood-chopper was slowly and steadily raising his rifle, he bawled;
“Fair play, Billy Kirby—stand back—make ‘em stand back, boys—gib a nigger fair play—poss-up,—gobbler; shake a head, fool; don’t you see ‘em taking aim?”
These cries, which were intended as much to distract the attention of the marksman as for anything else, were fruitless.
The nerves of the wood-chopper were not so easily shaken, and he took his aim with the utmost deliberation.
Stillness prevailed for a moment, and he fired.
The head of the turkey was seen to dash on one side, and its wings were spread in momentary fluttering; but it settled itself down calmly into its bed of snow, and glanced its eyes uneasily around.
For a time long enough to draw a deep breath, not a sound was heard.
The silence was then broken by the noise of the negro, who laughed, and shook his body with all kinds of antics, rolling over in the snow in the excess of delight.
“Well done, a gobbler,” he cried, jumping up and affecting to embrace his bird;
“I tell ‘em to poss-up, and you see ‘em dodge.
Gib anoder shillin’, Billy, and halb anoder shot.”
“No—the shot is mine,” said the young hunter; “you have my money already.
Leave the mark, and let me try my luck.”
“Ah! it’s but money thrown away, lad,” said Leather-Stocking.
“A turkey’s head and neck is but a small mark for a new hand and a lame shoulder.
You’d best let me take the fire, and maybe we can make some settlement with the lady about the bird.”
“The chance is mine,” said the young hunter.
“Clear the ground, that I may take it.”