arrange the target, which consisted of four balloons--two for each person. Ben went first and sat down for greater stability. All of the balloons were swaying and bobbing in the light breeze, and Ben tried to wait them out. After what seemed like a whole minutes the little gun barked and the first balloon popped. Mr. Moore stood with the Sharps at his waist, and studied the trees and grass to the north of the balloons. When they began to settle he lifted the heavy rifle, aimed for a couple of seconds and fired. Another balloon gone.
The crowd murmured and then began to cheer Ben on as he readied his rifle. Again he took his time, waiting out the vagrant breeze. It seemed impossible to predict wherre the balloon would be next, and I think he eventually just got tired of the effort. The gun barked and Ben's shoulder jerked back, but when everyone focused on the target area, two balloons still danced in the breeze. Ben's first miss.
The crowd groaned and all eyes shifted to Mr. Moore and his one remaining cartridge. He solemnly chambered his last round and closed the breechblock, then raised the rifle, set the front trigger, and stood there as still as a fence post as the breeze freshened. The balloons danced faster and higher than ever, and even threatened to intertwine themselves around their separate threads. It seemed like an impossible shot, but just when everybody thought Mr. Moore would have to lower his gun and wait it out, he touched it off, catching everyone off guard. The little crown seemed to surge forward as everyone took a step toward the fence and gazed out over the pasture. To our shock, both balloons had vanished.
"Whoa," Ben said, shaking his head, and a cheer went up from the crowd. He strode over to Mr. Moore who was putting the spent casing in his pocket, and offered his hand in congratulations. "That was some shooting, Mr. Moore. I might have had second thoughts if I'd known what I was up against." He cast a sideways glance at Dad, walked over to the paper sack where the money had been stuffed and took out $290. "This is yours," he said, handing Mr. Moore the wad of bills. "Fair and square."
Mr. Moore took the money, his face hidden behind the stained brim of his hat, and peeled off a single twenty-dollar bill. He stuffed it into his shirt pocket, then handed Ben the remainder.
Ben took the money and looked at Dad, but Dad stared at the ground, smiling as he worried a clod with his boot.
"Was a good contest," Mr. Moore said, and a thin smile creased his moth. "Now build us a fine home for that billiard table. Everyone loves a good game of pool."
Everybody Loves A Good Watermelon Page 3
