A canvass of the crowd was made for judges, but as nearly every one claimed to be interested in the result, having made wagers, or was incompetent to sit in judgment on a musical contest, there was some little delay.  Finally, Joe Stallings went to Nat Straw and told him that I was a fiddler, whereupon he instantly appointed me as judge, and the other side selected a redheaded fellow belonging to one of Dillard Fant’s herds.  Between the two of us we selected as the third judge a bartender whom I had met the night before.  The conditions governing the contest were given us, and two chuck wagons were drawn up alongside each other, in one of which were seated the contestants and in the other the judges.  The gravity of the crowd was only broken as some enthusiast cheered his favorite or defiantly offered to wager on the man of his choice.  Numerous sham bets were being made, when the redheaded judge arose and announced the conditions, and urged the crowd to remain quiet, that the contestants might have equal justice.  Each fiddler selected his own piece.  The first number was a waltz, on the conclusion of which partisanship ran high, each faction cheering its favorite to the echo.  The second number was a jig, and as the darky drew his bow several times across the strings tentatively, his foreman, who stood six inches taller than any man in a crowd of tall men, tapped himself on the breast with one forefinger, and with the other pointed at his dusky champion, saying, “Keep your eye on me, Price.  We’re going home together, remember.  You black rascal, you can make a mocking bird ashamed of itself if you try.  You know I’ve swore by you through thick and thin; now win this money.  Pay no attention to any one else.  Keep your eye on me.”

Straw, not to be outdone in encouragement, cheered his man with promises of reward, and his faction of supporters raised such a din that Fant’s man arose, and demanded quiet so the contest could proceed.  Though boisterous, the crowd was good-tempered, and after the second number was disposed of, the final test was announced, which was to be in sacred music.  On this announcement, the tall foreman waded through the crowd, and drawing the darky to him, whispered something in his ear, and then fell back to his former position.  The dusky artist’s countenance brightened, and with a few preliminaries he struck into “The Arkansaw Traveler,” throwing so many contortions into its execution that it seemed as if life and liberty depended on his exertions.  The usual applause greeted him on its conclusion, when Nat Straw climbed up on the wagon wheel, and likewise whispered something to his champion.  The little, old, weazened mendicant took his cue, and cut into “The Irish Washerwoman” with a great flourish, and in the refrain chanted an unintelligible gibberish like the yelping of a coyote, which the audience so cheered that he repeated it several times.  The crowd now gathered around the wagons and clamored for the decision, and after consulting among ourselves some little time, and knowing that a neutral or indefinite verdict was desired, we delegated the bartender to announce our conclusions.  Taking off his hat, he arose, and after requesting quietness, pretended to read our decision.