None pretended to collect the game, which lay scattered over the fields in such profusion as to cover the very ground with fluttering victims.
Leather-Stocking was a silent but uneasy spectator of all these proceedings, but was able to keep his sentiments to himself until he saw the introduction of the swivel into the sports.
“This comes of settling a country!” he said.
“Here have I known the pigeon to fly for forty long years, and, till you made your clearings, there was nobody to skeart or to hurt them, I loved to see them come into the woods, for they were company to a body, hurting nothing—being, as it was, as harmless as a garter-snake.
But now it gives me sore thoughts when I hear the frighty things whizzing through the air, for I know it’s only a motion to bring out all the brats of the village.
Well, the Lord won’t see the waste of his creatures for nothing, and right will be done to the pigeons, as well as others, by and by.
There’s Mr. Oliver as bad as the rest of them, firing into the flocks as if he was shooting down nothing but Mingo warriors.”
Among the sportsmen was Billy Kirby, who, armed with an old musket, was loading, and, without even looking into the air, was firing and shouting as his victims fell even on his own person.
He heard the speech of Natty, and took upon himself to reply:
“What! old Leather-Stocking,” he cried, “grumbling at the loss of a few pigeons!
If you had to sow your wheat twice, and three times, as I have done, you wouldn’t be so massyfully feeling toward the divils.
Hurrah, boys! scatter the feathers!
This is better than shooting at a turkey’s head and neck, old fellow.”
“It’s better for you, maybe, Billy Kirby,” replied the indignant old hunter, “and all them that don’t know how to put a ball down a rifle-barrel, or how to bring it up again with a true aim; but it’s wicked to be shooting into flocks in this wasty manner, and none to do it who know how to knock over a single bird.
If a body has a craving for pigeon’s flesh, why, it’s made the same as all other creatures, for man’s eating; but not to kill twenty and eat one.
When I want such a thing I go into the woods till I find one to my liking, and then I shoot him off the branches, without touching the feather of another, though there might be a hundred on the same tree.
You couldn’t do such a thing, Billy Kirby—you couldn’t do it if you tried.”
“What’s that, old corn-stalk! you sapless stub!” cried the wood-chopper.
“You have grown wordy, since the affair of the turkey; but if you are for a single shot, here goes at that bird which comes on by himself.”
The fire from the distant part of the field had driven a single pigeon below the flock to which it belonged, and, frightened with the constant reports of the muskets, it was approaching the spot where the disputants stood, darting first from One side and then to the other, cutting the air with the swiftness of lightning, and making a noise with its wings not unlike the rushing of a bullet.
Unfortunately for the wood-chopper, notwithstanding his vaunt, he did not see this bird until it was too late to fire as it approached, and he pulled the trigger at the unlucky moment when it was darting immediately over his head.
The bird continued its course with the usual velocity.
Natty lowered his rifle from his arm when the challenge was made, and waiting a moment, until the terrified victim had got in a line with his eye, and had dropped near the bank of the lake, he raised it again with uncommon rapidity, and fired.
It might have been chance, or it might have been skill, that produced the result; it was probably a union of both; but the pigeon whirled over in the air, and fell into the lake with a broken wing At the sound of his rifle, both his dogs started from his feet, and in a few minutes the “slut” brought out the bird, still alive.
The wonderful exploit of Leather-Stocking was noised through the field with great rapidity, and the sportsmen gathered in, to learn the truth of the report.
“What” said young Edwards, “have you really killed a pigeon on the wing, Natty, with a single ball?”
“Haven’t I killed loons before now, lad, that dive at the flash?” returned the hunter.
“It’s much better to kill only such as you want, without wasting your powder and lead, than to be firing into God’s creatures in this wicked manner.
But I came out for a bird, and you know the reason why I like small game, Mr. Oliver, and now I have got one Twill go home, for I don’t relish to see these wasty ways that you are all practysing, as if the least thing wasn’t made for use, and not to destroy.”
“Thou sayest well, Leather-Stocking,” cried Marmaduke, “and I begin to think it time to put an end to this work of destruction.”
“Put an ind, Judge, to your clearings.
Ain’t the woods His work as well as the pigeons?
Use, but don’t waste.
Wasn’t the woods made for the beasts and birds to harbor in? and when man wanted their flesh, their skins, or their feathers, there’s the place to seek them.
But I’ll go to the hut with my own game, for I wouldn’t touch one of the harmless things that cover the ground here, looking up with their eyes on me, as if they only wanted tongues to say their thoughts.”
With this sentiment in his month, Leather-Stocking threw his rifle over his arm, and, followed by his dogs, stepped across the clearing with great caution, taking care not to tread on one of the wounded birds in his path.
He soon entered the bushes on the margin of the lake and was hid from view.
Whatever impression the morality of Natty made on the Judge, it was utterly lost on Richard.
He availed himself of the gathering of the sportsmen, to lay a plan for one “fell swoop” of destruction.
The musket-men were drawn up in battle array, in a line extending on each side of his artillery, with orders to await the signal of firing from himself.
“Stand by, my lads,” said Benjamin, who acted as an aid de-camp on this occasion, “stand by, my hearties, and when Squire Dickens heaves out the signal to begin firing, d’ye see, you may open upon them in a broadside.
Take care and fire low, boys, and you’ll be sure to hull the flock.”
“Fire low!” shouted Kirby; “hear the old fool!
If we fire low, we may hit the stumps, but not ruffle a pigeon.”
“How should you know, you lubber?” cried Benjamin, with a very unbecoming heat for an officer on the eve of battle—“how should you know, you grampus?
Haven’t I sailed aboard of the Boadishy for five years? and wasn’t it a standing order to fire low, and to hull your enemy!
Keep silence at your guns, boys and mind the order that is passed.”
The loud laughs of the musket-men were silenced by the more authoritative voice of Richard, who called for attention and obedience to his signals.
Some millions of pigeons were supposed to have already passed, that morning, over the valley of Templeton; but nothing like the flock that was now approaching had been seen before.
It extended from mountain to mountain in one solid blue mass, and the eye looked in vain, over the southern hills, to find its termination.