Chapter XII: The Perils of Pigeon-Shooting

I do not purpose to give a description of pigeon-shooting, as practiced in the backwoods of the West; though the sport has its peculiarities, some of which may be worth mentioning. It is not such a slaughter as has been represented, and the vast flocks--or "clouds," as the negro had called them--would lead one to conclude. This is true enough of the breeding-roosts, where the birds, inspired by the passion of love, or acting under the instincts of generation, appear to lose all sense of fear or self-preservation.

Elsewhere, and at other times, they become sufficiently shy; and though the gunner may always get within range of a single bird, or two or three, seated upon a branch, it requires both cover and careful stalking to obtain one of those wholesale shots poured into the thick of the flock and counting its score of victims. Almost invariably, when you are just upon the edge of shot-range, some old bird, wary from the last year's experience, gives the cue to the flock, that with a loud clapping of wings flits off to some other resting-place, a hundred yards further on through the woods.

The whole "gang," however, does not obey this signal of safety. Solitary birds here and there, in twos, threes, or half-a-dozen, remain irresolute upon the branches; and if you are contented to take aim at these, you may keep loading and firing, almost continuously.

For this reason they are not always pursued by shot-guns, some sportsmen preferring the rifle, these often showing the largest bag when the sport is over. They are sure of a bird to each shot, and as there are always some within range, there is no time wasted in idly following the flock.

It was so with a party whom we found on the ridge, young planters and others, who had preceded us there, having got word sooner than we, of the arrival of the pigeons. Some carried shot-guns, others were provided with the rifle. Among those provided with the latter, was Nat Bradley; who, as is usual with planters in riding about, had brought his gun along with him. I myself was armed with the same kind of weapon.

As in all cover-shooting, there is some danger in this sport, especially when the party is a large one; and at a season before the leaves have fallen from the trees. Each sportsman pursues his own course, without thinking of others; and, as the birds may be either upon the ground, the wing, or perched upon the lowermost branches, guns are not always pointed to the sky. With shot flying about, and now and then the bullet of a rifle, one might be excused for feeling a little nervous.

The sport was new to me, and I did not think of this danger, until the "z-zip" of a bullet passing close to my ear, admonished me that pigeon-shooting might prove any thing but a safe pastime.

So close had the thing come, that I felt the current of air sweeping across my cheek, and turning suddenly to the tree behind me, saw the fresh score where the ball had buried itself in the bark. At the same instant I heard the "spang" of the piece that had discharged it.

My first impulse was to proceed toward the incautious sportsman, and reproach him for his carelessness. I could not tell who it was. Some low pawpaws lay between, upon one of which I supposed the pigeon had perched, which had tempted the incautious shot.

The bullet seemed to have brought down its bird, for I had turned suddenly and saw that nothing flew away. All I could see was a blue puff of smoke, soaring up over the pawpaws.

In no very amiable humor, I proceeded toward the spot, but on reaching it I found no one upon whom to discharge my spleen. Guns were cracking in other parts of the wood, and I could see men moving about at the ends of long vistas, but not the man who had come so near shooting me!

It was altogether an odd circumstance, and I stopped to reflect upon it.

Was it carelessness on the part of one of my fellow-sportsmen; who, seeing what he had done, and ashamed of it, preferred sneaking away?

I might have thought so; but then, where was the pigeon? I had turned so quickly, that I must have seen it fall, or fly off.

I saw neither!

I now reached the pawpaw thicket. I could find no bird, either dead or wounded; but, while traversing about, I picked up the "patching" of the bullet. It was a piece of dressed doeskin.

There was nothing in this to guide me to the sportsman who had used it.

I now felt a growing desire to identify him; for the longer I reflected, the more I became convinced that the shot had not been accidental.

"The bullet!" thought I; "that may serve my purpose."

I returned to the tree in which it had buried itself; and, with my knife, carefully scooped it out of the bark.

It was of an unusual size for a hunting-rifle, about twenty to the pound. This would no doubt guide me to the gun from which it had been discharged.

Though the sportsmen were scattered through the woods, I took occasion to place myself in contact first with one, then the other, until I had got a glance at the caliber of their respective guns. There were five of them exclusive of Mr. Bradley.

Of these only two had rifles, both small bores, not larger than fifty to the pound.

From Bradley's rifle then had issued the bullet I had extracted from the tree; and, I now felt convinced that my own person was the "pigeon" at which it had been fired.

Without making known the circumstance, or stating my suspicions to any one, I reflected what would be best for me to do.

To charge the man with an attempt at murdering me, would seem so absurd. What motive could he have for such an atrocious act? We were perfect strangers to one another, with no quarrel between us, no circumstance to have given color to so serious an accusation. Supposing it proved to be Bradley's bullet, he would simply have to say that he fired it at a pigeon, and had not seen me. He might be reproached with negligence, but not accused of a crime, so monstrous as to appear improbable.

On the whole I thought it more prudent to keep my suspicions to myself, or communicate them only to my host on returning home.

Meanwhile I determined to make myself better acquainted with the bore of Mr. Bradley's rifle, and watch the direction in which it should be aimed. To do this it would be necessary to keep my eye upon him.

I now discovered that he was missing from among the sportsmen, nor was his gun any longer heard cracking through the woods.

Some one remarked this, and some one else added that it was not strange, as Nat Bradley cared nothing about shooting, and had likely gone home.