Allen Chapman - Bart Keene's Hunting Days - or, The Darewell Chums in a Winter Camp

“And a Christmas tree in the woods!” cried Alice. “That would be lovely! Jennie Smith and I would come out and see you – if it wasn’t too far.”

“Yes, Jennie’d recite poetry, and you’d insist on making us drink hot ginger tea, so as not to catch cold,” observed Bart.

Alice looked a little hurt, until Ned added:

“Well, I’m sure ginger tea would be all right in a snow storm, such as we had the last time we camped in the winter.”

“Of course,” agreed Alice, gratefully.

“It would be a good thing to get away from school and the town of Darewell for a while, at least,” was Bart’s opinion. “People are beginning to think we really stole that bracelet.”

“Oh, Bart!” remonstrated Alice, reproachfully.

“Well, it’s the truth,” he went on doggedly. “I’d as soon have ’em say it as look it. I’d like to get away for that reason, and, of course, it would be sport to have a winter camp again.”

“Then let’s do it,” proposed Ned. “At the same time we can look for mud turtles.”

“You won’t see many, unless there’s a thaw,” was Fenn’s opinion. “But you can count on me going.”

“And me,” added Frank and Ned.

“Hasn’t anything been learned of the missing bracelet yet?” asked Mrs. Keene, coming into the room, in time to hear some of the conversation.

“No,” answered her son, “and it’s my opinion that it never will be found, until – ” He paused in some confusion.

“Until when?” asked his mother.

“Until we locate it,” finished Bart. “Well, fellows, let’s talk of a winter camp. Maybe we can manage it around the holidays. We don’t get much of a vacation, but I guess we could afford to take an extra week.”

“Is your gun in shape again, since you broke it?” asked Ned.

“Sure. I fixed that spring,” replied Bart. “I’ll show you. Come on up to my den. I’m not allowed to have firearms in the dining-room,” and he led the way, his chums following. From then on, until the three left, the talk was a conglomeration of powder, shot, shells, guns, game and camp-life.

The weeks passed. Little mention was made of the bracelet now, but Mr. Long showed by his manner that he had not forgotten the loss of it. He was not exactly distrustful of the boys, but his bearing was, to say the least, a bit suspicious.

One evening, following an examination in school, Bart remarked to his chums, as they gathered at his house:

“Come on down to the shooting gallery. They’ve got some new guns there, and I want to try them. It’s good practice if we’re going camping. Besides, I’m full of Latin verbs and Greek roots, and I want to clear my mind.”

“You don’t need any practice,” remarked Ned. “You can beat us all to pieces shooting.”

“I have to keep in practice, though,” asserted Bart, who, to give him credit, was quite expert with the rifle.

A little later the four were in the gallery, trying their skill with the new rifles which the proprietor had purchased.

“Here’s one that ought to suit you, Bart,” remarked the man in charge, who was well known to the boys. “It’s well balanced. Try that small target.”

“No, I want something moving, Clayton,” replied Bart. “Start off the birds and beasts.”

These were small images of birds and squirrels that moved around on a sort of endless chain arrangement. Clayton, the man in charge of the gallery, set the machinery in motion, and the painted effigies began to go around. Bart raised the rifle – a repeater – to his shoulder, took quick aim, and fired. A bird was knocked over, then a squirrel went down, and, in rapid succession he repeated this until he had fifteen hits to his credit, out of a possible sixteen.

“Fine!” cried Ned, enviously.

“I should have had ’em all,” announced Bart with a shake of his head. “Here, some of you fellows try.”

They did, but could not do nearly as good as had Bart. Then Bart contented himself with making bullseyes at a stationary target, though Frank and Ned made another effort to equal Bart’s record with the moving objects. Frank came the nearest with ten.

“Now I’ll try for sixteen out of sixteen,” announced Bart, as Clayton reloaded the weapon for him.

By this time a crowd had gathered in the gallery, which, being a new amusement resort in town, was quite an attraction. Bart paid no attention to the spectators grouped back of him, but, with the coolness a veteran shot might envy, he began.

Report after report rang out, and at each burst of flame and puff of smoke a bird or a squirrel toppled over, until fifteen straight had gone down.

“That’s the stuff!” cried one man, enthusiastically, as Bart was about to make his last shot.

“Hush!” cautioned Clayton, but Bart did not mind. He fired his last bullet, and knocked over his sixteenth target, only he did not hit it as squarely as he had the others.

“That’s very good shooting, my lad,” remarked a man who had stood near Bart’s elbow. “Very good indeed. Would you like to try your skill with me; on a little wager?”

“I never bet,” answered Bart, coolly, as he tried to get a glimpse of the man’s face. But the latter wore a slouch hat, which was pulled well down over his eyes, shading his features.

“Oh, I don’t mean a bet,” was the quick answer. “I only meant that the loser would pay the bill for cartridges,” and he laughed, not unpleasantly. As Bart had often done this with his chums, and other lads in town, he had no objection to it, and the arrangement was made.

“What shall it be, sixteen straight?” asked the stranger, as he carefully selected a gun.

“Double it if you like,” replied Bart, who was just warming up to his work.

“Ah, you’re game, I see,” was the laughing comment. “Well, I’m willing. Will you go first?”

“I’ll shoot sixteen shots, then you can do the same, then I’ll take sixteen more, and you can finish,” answered Bart, and this arrangement was made.

By this time word had gotten around that some remarkable shooting was going on in the gallery, and it was packed almost to the doors. Bart and the stranger had difficulty in getting room to aim properly.

Bart started off, and in rapid succession made sixteen straight targets of the moving objects. There was a cheer, and it was repeated when his rival duplicated the lad’s performance. Bart was not exactly annoyed, but he felt that his reputation was at stake. He was easily accounted the best shot in Darewell, but now it seemed likely that he would have to share the honors with this stranger. Bart felt himself wishing that the man would show his face, but the soft hat remained pulled down well over the fellow’s eyes.

Bart began on his second round, and all went well until the last shot. Then, in some unaccountable manner, he missed it clean. Still, his performance was a fine one.

The stranger said nothing as he took his place. Slowly and confidently he pulled the trigger, and worked the lever that ejected the discharged shell, and pumped a new bullet into place. For fourteen shots he never made a miss. Then, on the fifteenth of the second round he made a blank by a narrow margin. A start of annoyance betrayed itself. At best he could but tie Bart. Once more the gun sent out flame and smoke.

“Missed!” called out Clayton, quickly, as he looked at the target.

Bart had won. The stranger paused a moment, as if to make sure that he had lost, and then, throwing down on the counter the price for his shots and Bart’s, he turned to leave the place. Several stared at him, for it seemed as if he should have said something, or congratulated his rival, but he did not. He pushed his way through the press of men and boys, and reached the outer door.