“I wish father would send some word,” answered Dave. “I am beginning to grow anxious.” October slipped into November, and winter was now on them in earnest. It snowed a great deal, and Fort Pitt was cut off from communication in all directions. The soldiers scarcely knew what to do with themselves, and the settlers who had gone to the stronghold for protection were also weary of the confinement. To pass the time some of the men one day got up a shooting contest, and asked Dave and Henry to join. The youths were willing, and paid the admission fee, two shillings. The first prize was a silver mug, the second prize a fancy bullet-mold, and the third a new hunting knife. Among the soldiers to participate in the contest were two named Gasway and Pelton. Both were beefy Englishmen, from London, who had come over the year before. Each was given to boasting, and each felt certain of winning either the first or the second prize. “What! you boys going to compete!” cried Gasway, to Dave, disdainfully. “Sure, ’twill be good money thrown away.” “Perhaps we’ll not do so badly,” said Dave, nettled by Gasway’s superior manner. “The first prize will go to me and the second to my friend Pelton,” went on the English soldier. “I take it you chits will be at the end of the list.” Left to himself, Dave sought out his cousin and told him what Gasway had said. Henry smiled grimly. “He had better do his crowing after the shooting, not before, Dave.” “I wish we could beat him, and beat Pelton, too.” “Well, we can try.” The contest was to come off on the following afternoon. The day proved clear, and a goodly number of those stationed at the fort gathered to witness the shooting. The target, a large affair of wood, with several rings and a bull’s-eye, was nailed to a tree, and a stump marked the spot where each contestant must stand while shooting. Each contestant was to have three shots, and the highest possible score was eighteen points. The first soldier to shoot, a man named Pepperley, made two points with his first shot. Another made three, and another five. Then came Gasway, who made five also, and Pelton, who made six. “Now, Dave,” said Henry, and Dave stepped to the front, took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. “Four!” announced the officer who was keeping the tally. Dave was a trifle disappointed, as he had hoped to make at least five. Yet he managed to smile as he turned to Henry. “You can do better than that, I know,” he said. Two other marksmen now came to the front, making four each. Then it was Henry’s turn. The youth took his time about shooting, and when the smoke cleared away a shout went up: “A bull’s-eye for Henry Morris!” “Good—that counts six for you, Henry!” exclaimed Dave. [Illustration: “A bull’s-eye for Henry Morris!”—_Page 176._]