The next was Moses Firmby. He was a tall, slim man, of rather sallow complexion: and it is a very singular fact, that though probably no part of the world is more healthy than the mountainous regions of Georgia, the mountaineers have not generally robust forms or fine complexions: they are, however, almost inexhaustible by toil. Moses kept us not long in suspense. His rifle was already charged, and he fixed it upon the target with a steadiness of nerve and aim that was astonishing to me and alarming to all the rest. A few seconds, and the report of his rifle broke the death-like silence which prevailed. “No great harm done yet,” said Spivey, manifestly relieved from anxiety by an event which seemed to me better calculated to produce despair. Firmby’s ball had cut the lower angle of the diamond, directly on a right line with the cross. Three or four followed him without bettering his shot; all of whom, however, with one exception, “eat the paper.” It now came to Spivey’s turn. There was nothing remarkable in his person or manner. He took his place, lowered his rifle slowly from a perpendicular, until it came on a line with the mark—held it there like a vise for a moment, and fired. “Pretty _seoigrous_, but nothing killing yet,” said Billy Curlew, as he learned the place of Spivey’s ball. Spivey’s ball had just broken the upper angle of the diamond, beating Firmby about half its width. A few more shots, in which there was nothing remarkable, brought us to Billy Curlew. Billy stept out with much confidence, and brought the soap-stick to an order, while he deliberately rolled up his shirt sleeves. Had I judged Billy’s chance by the looks of his gun, I should have said it was hopeless. The stock of soap-stick seemed to have been made with a case-knife, and had it been, the tool would have been but a poor apology for its clumsy appearance. An augur hole in the breech served for a grease-box, a cotton string assisted a single screw in holding on the lock, and the thimbles were made, one of brass, one of iron, and one of tin. “Where’s Lark Spivey’s bullet?” called out Billy to the judges, as he finished rolling up his sleeves. “About three quarters of an inch from the cross,” was the reply. “Well, clear the way! the soap-stick’s a coming, and she’ll be along in there among ’em presently.” Billy now planted himself a-straddle, like an inverted V, shot forward his left hip, drew his body back to an angle of about forty-five degrees with the plane of the horizon, brought his cheek down close to the breech of old soap-stick, and fixed her upon the mark with an untrembling hand. His sight was long, and the swelling muscles of his left arm led me to believe that he was lessening his chance of success with every half second that he kept it burdened with his ponderous rifle; but it neither flagged nor wavered until soap-stick made her report. “Where am I?” said Billy, as the smoke rose from before his eye.