Of course such an occasion could not pass without a shooting-match.
Rifles were brought out after the feast was over, just before the sun
went down into its bed on the western prairies, and "the nail" was
soon surrounded by bullets, tipped by Joe Blunt and Jim Scraggs, and
of course driven home by Dick Varley, whose "silver rifle" had now
become in its owner's hand a never-failing weapon. Races, too, were
started, and here again Dick stood pre-eminent; and when night
spread her dark mantle over the scene, the two best fiddlers in the
settlement were placed on empty beer-casks, and some danced by the
light of the monster fires, while others listened to Joe Blunt as
he recounted their adventures on the prairies and among the Rocky
Mountains.
There were sweethearts, and wives, and lovers at the feast, but we
question if any heart there was so full of love, and admiration, and
gratitude, as that of the Widow Varley as she watched her son Dick
throughout that merry evening.
* * * * *
Years rolled by, and the Mustang Valley prospered.
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