Lieutenant Muir was now obliged to acquiesce, and every eye turned towards the Pathfinder, as he took the required station.  The air and attitude of this celebrated guide and hunter were extremely fine, as he raised his tall form and levelled the piece, showing perfect self-command, and a through knowledge of the power of the human frame as well as of the weapon.  Pathfinder was not what is usually termed a handsome man, though his appearance excited so much confidence and commanded respect.  Tall, and even muscular, his frame might have been esteemed nearly perfect, were it not for the total absence of everything like flesh.  Whipcord was scarcely more rigid than his arms and legs, or, at need, more pliable; but the outlines of his person were rather too angular for the proportion that the eye most approves.  Still, his motions, being natural, were graceful, and, being calm and regulated, they gave him an air and dignity that associated well with the idea, which was so prevalent, of his services and peculiar merits.  His honest, open features were burnt to a bright red, that comported well with the notion of exposure and hardships, while his sinewy hands denoted force, and a species of use removed from the stiffening and deforming effects of labor.  Although no one perceived any of those gentler or more insinuating qualities which are apt to win upon a woman’s affections, as he raised his rifle not a female eye was fastened on him without a silent approbation of the freedom of his movements and the manliness of his air.  Thought was scarcely quicker than his aim; and, as the smoke floated above his head, the butt-end of the rifle was seen on the ground, the hand of the Pathfinder was leaning on the barrel, and his honest countenance was illuminated by his usual silent, hearty laugh.

“If one dared to hint at such a thing,” cried Major Duncan, “I should say that the Pathfinder had also missed the target.”

“No, no, Major,” returned the guide confidently; “that would be a risky declaration.  I didn’t load the piece, and can’t say what was in it; but if it was lead, you will find the bullet driving down those of the Quartermaster and Jasper, else is not my name Pathfinder.”

A shout from the target announced the truth of this assertion.

“That’s not all, that’s not all, boys,” called out the guide, who was now slowly advancing towards the stage occupied by the females; “if you find the target touched at all, I’ll own to a miss.  The Quartermaster cut the wood, but you’ll find no wood cut by that last messenger.”

“Very true, Pathfinder, very true,” answered Muir, who was lingering near Mabel, though ashamed to address her particularly in the presence of the officers’ wives.  “The Quartermaster did cut the wood, and by that means he opened a passage for your bullet, which went through the hole he had made.”

“Well, Quartermaster, there goes the nail and we’ll see who can drive it closer, you or I; for, though I did not think of showing what a rifle can do to-day, now my hand is in, I’ll turn my back to no man that carries King George’s commission.  Chingachgook is outlying, or he might force me into some of the niceties of the art; but, as for you, Quartermaster, if the nail don’t stop you, the potato will.”