“He’s a good ’un on the go, tho’;” and at this bland remark of a friendly farmer, Bill begins to revive.
“Is thet so!” thunders a heavy-set fellow, following his utterance by clasping Bill around the waist and hauling him off the steed, which proves to be old enough to stand still without demurring.
“I reckon I’ll try him myself, Bill,” he says, as he thrusts one foot into the stirrup, and throws a long leg over the saddle, “and ef he’s got a fa’r gait I mought gin ye a swap. Look at yan mule, while I ride him sorter peert for a few rod.”
An examination on the part of both swappers always results in a trade, boot being frequently given. A chance to make a change in horseflesh is never let slip by a natural-born trader. The life of his business consists in quick and frequent bargains; and at the end of a busy month he is either mounted on a good saddle horse, or is reduced to an old rack, blind and lame. The result will be due to the shrewdness or dullness of the men he dealt with, or the unexpected sickness on his hands of what was considered a sound animal.
One or more of the numerous candidates (Democratic, Republican, Independent, or otherwise) for county or state honors will likely descend on the green before the sport is over. He will shake hands with every full-fledged voter present,--shaking with his own peculiar grip, which one, with some plausibility, might be misled into believing meant “God bless you,” instead of “Be at the November polls for me--and liberty.” Most of the men understand the soft solder of the fawning politician, and exchange winks with one another, as in succession each one is button-holed by the aspirant.
It is generally an orderly crowd, and arrangements are soon made for the first shot. At sixty yards from the white piece of black-centered paper, the shooter lays himself flat on the ground; and, with his rifle (covered with a long tin shade to keep out the glaring sunlight) resting over a rail, he takes deliberate aim and pulls the trigger. A center shot meets with applause. Thus the day goes by, until every share has been blazed away, the beef is butchered and divided, and the lucky marksmen stagger homeward, each with his quarter in a sack on one shoulder and his rifle on the other. If daylight still remains, some of the crowd often engage in a squirrel hunt. It is no trouble to kill gray squirrels in any of the woods. The crack marksman with a rifle generally barks his squirrel. Barking a squirrel is one of the fine arts. The hunter takes aim and fires at the upper edge of the limb on which the squirrel sits, instantly killing him from concussion created by the splintered bark.