His big rugged hand seemed to swallow up the little gun-stock. His long knobbed finger fitted around the lock in a strange but familiar way. Caleb was a bent-arm shot, and the short barrel looked like his own forefinger pointing at the target as he pumped away six times in quick succession. All went into the blaze and two into the charcoal spot that marked the centre.
"By George! Look at that for shooting!" and the boys were loud in their praise.
"Well, twenty year ago I used to be a pretty good shot," Caleb proceeded to explain with an air of unnecessary humility and a very genial expression on his face. "But that's dead easy. I'll show you some real tricks."
Twenty-five feet away he set up three cartridges in a row, their caps toward him, and exploded them in succession with three rapid shots. Then he put the revolver in the side pocket of his coat, and recklessly firing it without drawing, much less sighting or even showing it, he peppered a white blaze at twenty yards. Finally he looked around for an old fruit tin. Then he cocked the revolver, laid it across his right hand next the thumb and the tin across the fingers. He then threw them both in the air with a jerk that sent the revolver up ten feet and the tin twenty. As the revolver came down he seized it and shot a hole through the tin before it could reach the ground.
The boys were simply dumbfounded. They had used up all their exclamations on the first simple target trial.
Caleb stepped into the shanty to get a cleaning-rag for his darling, and Sam burst out:
"Well, now I know he never shot at Da, for if he did he'd 'a' got him sure."
It was not meant for Caleb's ears, but it reached him, and the old Trapper came to the door at once with a long, expressive "H-m-m-mrr."
Thus was broken the dam of silent scorn, for it was the first time Caleb had addressed himself to Sam. The flood had forced the barrier, but it still left plenty of stuff in the channel to be washed away by time and wear, and it was long before he talked to Sam as freely as to the others, but still in time he learned.
There was an air of geniality on all now, and Yan took advantage of this to ask for something he had long kept in mind.
"Mr. Clark, will you take us out for a Coon hunt? We know where there are lots of Coons that feed in a corn patch up the creek."
If Yan had asked this a month ago he would have got a contemptuous refusal. Before the visit to Carney's grave it might have been, "Oh, I dunno—I ain't got time," but he was on the right side of Caleb now, and the answer was:
"Well, yes! Don't mind if I do, first night it's coolish, so the Dog kin run."
XXI
The Triumph Of Guy
The boys had hunted the Woodchuck quite regularly since first meeting it. Their programme 
was much the same—each morning about nine or ten they would sneak out to the clover field. It was usually Guy who first discovered the old Grizzly, then all would fire a harmless shot, the Woodchuck would scramble into his den and the incident be closed for the day. This became as much a part of the day's routine as getting breakfast, and much more so than the washing of the dishes. Once or twice the old Grizzly had narrow escapes, but so far he was none the worse, rather the better, being wiser. The boys, on the other hand, gained nothing, with the possible exception of Guy. Always quick-sighted, his little washed-out optics developed a marvellous keenness. At first it was as often Yan or Sam who saw the old Grizzly, but later it was always Guy.
One morning Sam approached the game from one point, Guy and Yan from another some yards away. "No Woodchuck!" was the first opinion, but suddenly Guy called "I see him." There in a little hollow 
fully sixty yards from his den, and nearly a hundred from the boys, concealed in a bunch of clover, Guy saw a patch of gray fur hardly two inches square. "That's him, sure."
Yan could not see it at all. Sam saw but doubted. An instant later the Woodchuck (for it was he) stood up on his hind legs, raised his chestnut breast above the clover, and settled all doubt.
"By George!" exclaimed Yan in admiration. "That is great. You have the most wonderful eyes I ever did see. Your name ought to be 'Hawkeye'—that should be your name."
"All right," shrilled out Guy enthusiastically. "Will you—will you, Sam, will you call me Hawkeye? I think you ought to," he added pleadingly.
"I think so, Sam," said the Second Chief. "He's turned out great stuff, an' it's regular Injun."
"We'll have to call a Council and settle that. Now let's to business."
"Say, Sapwood, you're so smart, couldn't you go round through the woods to your side and crawl through the clover so as get between the old Grizzly and his den?" suggested the Head Chief.
"I bet I can, an' I'll bet a dollar—"
"Here, now," said Yan, "Injuns don't have dollars."
"Well, I'll bet my scalp—my black scalp, I mean—against Sam's that I kill the old Grizzly first."
"Oh, let me do it first—you do it second," said Sam imploringly.
"Errr—yer scared of yer scalp."
"I'll go you," said Sam.
Each of the boys had a piece of black horsehair that he called his scalp. It was tied with a string to the top of his head—and this was what Guy wished to wager.
Yan now interfered: "Quit your squabbling, you Great War Chiefs, an' 'tend to business. If Woodpecker kills old Grizzly he takes Sapwood's scalp; if Sappy kills him he takes the Woodpecker's scalp, an' the winner gets a grand feather, too."
Sam and Yan waited impatiently in the woods while Guy sneaked around. The Woodchuck seemed unusually bold this day. He wandered far from his den and got out of sight in hollows at times. The boys saw Guy crawl through the fence, though the Woodchuck did not. The fact was, that he had always had the enemy approach him from the other side, and was not watching eastward.
Guy, flat on his breast, worked his way through the clover. He crawled about thirty yards and now was between the Woodchuck and his den. Still old Grizzly kept on stuffing himself with clover and watching toward the Raften woods. The boys became intensely excited. Guy could see them, but not the Woodchuck. They pointed and gesticulated. Guy thought that meant "Now shoot." He got up cautiously. The Woodchuck saw him and bounded straight for its den—that is, toward Guy. Guy fired wildly. The arrow went ten feet over the Grizzly's head, and, that "huge, shaking mass of fur" bounding straight at him, struck terror to his soul. He backed up hastily, not knowing where to run. He was close to the den.
The Woodchuck chattered his teeth and plunged to get by the boy, each as scared as could be. Guy gave a leap of terror and fell heavily just as the Woodchuck would have passed under him and home. But the boy weighed nearly 100 pounds, and all that weight came with crushing force on old Grizzly, knocking the breath out of his body. Guy scrambled to his feet to run for his life, but he saw the Woodchuck lying squirming, and plucked up courage enough to give him a couple of kicks on the nose that settled him. A loud yell from the other two boys 
was the first thing that assured Guy of his victory. They came running over and found him standing like the hunter in an amateur photograph, holding his bow in one hand and the big Woodchuck by the tail in the other.
"Now, I guess you fellers will come to me to larn you how to kill Woodchucks. Ain't he an old socker? I bet he weighs fifty pounds—yes, near sixty." (It weighed about ten pounds.)
"Good boy! Bully boy! Hooray for the Third War Chief! Hooray for Chief Sapwood!" and Guy had no cause to complain of lack of appreciation on the part of the others.