These preliminaries having been accomplished, the contestants made ready to proceed. According to custom, the Comte de Languedoc, as the party who had received the challenge, was entitled to the initial shot.

“Here you go, Count,” said Crockett, presenting his rifle to the Frenchman with an exaggerated flourish. “Now, don’t forget. The bullet comes out the end with the hole in it.”

This sally elicited a paroxysm of mirth from the crowd of costumed spectators and a glare of icy indignation from the Count.

Assuming his attitude with a good deal of studied elegance, the Frenchman slowly raised the rifle to his shoulder—took careful aim—lowered the muzzle—raised it again—repeated the maneuvers—and fired!

The thunderous report of the fabled weapon was followed by a moment of hushed anticipation from the crowd, who fixed its collective gaze upon the elderly manservant as he held the flambeau close to the tree-trunk and peered at the card. A moment later, Toby straightened up, turned towards his mistress (who was standing directly to the right of the two contestants), and—cupping one hand to his mouth—cried: “It’s a bull’s-eye, sho as preachin’! I’ll be dingbusted if that card ain’t been drilled clean through the middle!”

This pronouncement drew a sustained round of applause from the spectactors, to which the Frenchman responded with a gracious bow of acknowledgment. Then, turning towards Crockett, he thrust the rifle into the latter’s hands. “Now, mon cher Colonel,” he said with a contemptuous sneer, “let us see if you can do better than that!”

“Oh, I don’t reckon that’ll be none too troublesome,” Crockett said casually as he unplugged the stoppered tip of his powderhorn with his teeth and proceeded to reload “ol’ Betsy.” This operation was achieved in short order—whereupon, with barely a glance at the target, he swiftly raised the muzzle and retracted the trigger with an unhesitating squeeze of the forefinger. Thought was scarcely quicker than his aim, and—as the smoke floated above his head—he lowered the breech to the ground, leaned his hand upon the barrel, and peered at the target with an expression of supreme assurance.

Once again, the crowd retained its breath as the elderly manservant held his torch close to the tree. An inordinately protracted period elapsed while he conducted this inspection. At length, his grizzled head shaking with incredulity, he looked up and declared: “I can’t hardly believe my own eyes, but Marster Davy has clean missed the target.” Then—after making a second examination of the trunk, as if to assure himself that his ocular sense had not deceived him—he turned to us again and exclaimed: “Danged if he ain’t missed the whole tree!”

An audible gasp of shocked bewilderment arose from the crowd, while the Frenchman threw back his head and emitted a loud, gloating “Haw!”