Silence fell on the crowd as the tall, slender young man stepped forth and stood with his left foot on a line cut in the grass exactly 100 yards from the tree against which the yellow board with its single eye leaned in the sunbeams. Not a whisper escaped the motionless assembly as the young man slowly brought his weapon into position. “Crack!” sounded the rifle out of a balloon-shaped cloud of blue smoke. “Missed centre, board, tree an' all!” cried out Bagley, in a tone of deep regret. “I seed yore lead plough up the dirt away out tother side; it's powerful hard to hold a steady han' when you are fust called on.” “Next is Taylor Banks!” announced the referee; and as a middle-aged man advanced and toed the mark, Lawson was heard to say, with a loud laugh; “Fust one missed the tree; you folks on the left out thar 'u'd better set back fur-der; no tellin' who Banks 'll hit, fur he's a-tremblin' like so much jelly.” “Hit about three inches due north o' the spot,” called out the referee, as the smoke rose from the peering marksman. “I'm afraid, Tayl', that somebody 'll come nigher than that when the pinch comes. Joe Burk is the next, an' I'll take occasion to say here that I know of no man in all this mountain country that is more prompt to pay his taxes.” “Crack!” A universal bending of necks to get the target in better view and a rolling billow of voices in the crowd. “A inch an' a half below the spot!” proclaimed the referee. “Why, friends, what ails you all? This ain't nigh such shootin' as we had last fall. Too many women present, I reckon. Ladies, if you'll cover up yore faces maybe the next two will do better. The straws say that Abraham Lawson has the next whack. Lawson, make yore bow.” The champion of the settlement stepped into view with a haughty strut, dragging his rifle butt on the ground and swinging his broad-brimmed hat carelessly in his hand. Turning to a negro behind him as he took his place, he said so that all could hear: “Tobe, git yore rope ready an' stan' over thar nigh the beef. When you git 'er home turn 'er in the pastur'. Ef this thing goes on year atter year I'll start a cattle ranch an' quit farmin'.” “Dang his hide!” exclaimed Bagley to Melissa, who was very pale and quite speechless. “Dang it, I'd lay this here right arm on any man's meat block an' give 'im leave to chop it off ef he'd jest git beat. He's that spiled flies is on 'im.”