Immediately all eyes were on the rifle, and its merits were discussed with animation.

And well did it deserve discussion, for such a piece had never before been seen on the western frontier.  It was shorter in the barrel and larger in the bore than the weapons chiefly in vogue at that time, and, besides being of beautiful workmanship, was silver-mounted.  But the grand peculiarity about it, and that which afterwards rendered it the mystery of mysteries to the savages, was that it had two sets of locks—­one percussion, the other flint—­so that, when caps failed, by taking off the one set of locks and affixing the others, it was converted into a flint rifle.  The major, however, took care never to run short of caps, so that the flint locks were merely held as a reserve in case of need.

“Now, lads,” cried Major Hope, stepping up to the point whence they were to shoot, “remember the terms.  He who first drives the nail obtains the rifle, Fan, and her pup, and accompanies me to the nearest settlement.  Each man shoots with his own gun, and draws lots for the chance.”

“Agreed,” cried the men.

“Well, then, wipe your guns and draw lots.  Henri will fix the nail.  Here it is.”

The individual who stepped, or rather plunged forward to receive the nail was a rare and remarkable specimen of mankind.  Like his comrades, he was half a farmer and half a hunter.  Like them, too, he was clad in deerskin, and was tall and strong—­nay, more, he was gigantic.  But, unlike them, he was clumsy, awkward, loose-jointed, and a bad shot.  Nevertheless Henri was an immense favourite in the settlement, for his good-humour knew no bounds.  No one ever saw him frown.  Even when fighting with the savages, as he was sometimes compelled to do in self-defence, he went at them with a sort of jovial rage that was almost laughable.  Inconsiderate recklessness was one of his chief characteristics, so that his comrades were rather afraid of him on the war-trail or in the hunt, where caution and frequently soundless motion were essential to success or safety.  But when Henri had a comrade at his side to check him he was safe enough, being humble-minded and obedient.  Men used to say he must have been born under a lucky star, for, notwithstanding his natural inaptitude for all sorts of backwoods life, he managed to scramble through everything with safety, often with success, and sometimes with credit.

To see Henri stalk a deer was worth a long day’s journey.  Joe Blunt used to say he was “all jints together, from the top of his head to the sole of his moccasin.”  He threw his immense form into the most inconceivable contortions, and slowly wound his way, sometimes on hands and knees, sometimes flat, through bush and brake, as if there was not a bone in his body, and without the slightest noise.  This sort of work was so much against his plunging nature that he took long to learn it; but when, through hard practice and the loss of many a fine deer, he came at length to break himself in to it, he gradually progressed to perfection, and ultimately became the best stalker in the valley.  This, and this alone, enabled him to procure game, for, being short-sighted, he could hit nothing beyond fifty yards, except a buffalo or a barn-door.