Everybody Loves A Good Watermelon, Page 2

legs and stared at the ceiling. He had nothing more to say.

  It came to be that 1956 was a poor year for watermelons. Between Price Walker, our own patch, and two other farmers who donated, less than four hundred watermelons were available for the raffle. At best that would generate far less than the estimated eight hundred dollars they would need for materials, and that didn't include the pool table, which was another two hundred. As it turned out, only two hundred fifty-seven watermelons were sold, which after expenses, netted less than two hundred dollars to go toward buying materials for he hall.

  Ben, ever optimistic, decided additional funds could be gleaned from the effort. He had the name of every ticket buyer, and at the end of the day he contacted as many of them as he could by phone about a contest they could enter. The following Friday evening, he told them, bring a rifle, ammunition, and money for a target-shooting contest. Open sights only, he specified. No scopes. Ben kept the details of his planed close to his chest, but he said it was sure to attract the attention of the men, and the men held the pocketbooks. Though Dad didn't like the sound of this shooting contest idea, Ben convinced him it would be safe and on the up and up.

  Ben had not spelled out what the contest would be, or the prize, but a good turnout of men showed up, armed with a wide variety of firearms. There were old Enfield carbines in .303 caliber, several Winchester Model 94's in 30/30 caliber, a number of Springfield 30-06's and 7 mm. Mausers, and four .270's. Even Dad, though still wary, brought out his .308 Remington and joined the milling militia.

  After Mother had served cookies and lemonade, Ben got the group out to the west side of the house, away from the milking shed and chicken coop, and made sure everyone stood safely behind the fence. Then he pointed out a row of watermelons sitting on a raised board at the far end of the pasture. Everyone looked, then looked some more, and finally the melons were spotted, though they were hard to see against the green foliage. It didn't help that they were two hundred yards away.

  "What's the poop here, Shorty?" Clyde Jones asked Ben. Mr. Jones owned the largest spread on the Navasota River, but he didn't win any points calling Ben 'Shorty'. "You figure on knocking off them melons from here with open sights?"

  "Oh, those are just the targets to separate the men from the boys," Ben said straight-faced. "They get smaller." Then he unbuckled the straps on a soft case he was carrying and pulled out a heavy barreled Remington bolt-action rifle with target peep sights. That's when I put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

  There would be a shooting contest, all right, but it wouldn't be one contestant against another, and it wasn't going to be fair. Everyone would be competing against Ben Joules. Only my family and Billy Hobsome knew that Ben was an absolute crack shot. Didn't matter what with, either: high-powered rifle, .22 rim-fire, handgun or shotgun--he could knock the center out of any target you wanted to name. And the way he saw it, he had a whole batch of clay pigeons standing there with their money in their pockets.

  "You read, Billy? Ben yelled, cupping his hands toward the targets. Stepping from behind a large pin oak to the right of the targets, Bill Hobsome waved a red flag and hollered back, "Let 'er rip."

  "Here's how I figure it," Ben said, and he squinted and stared hard at the melons as Billy retreated behind the pin oak. "I've got a truckload of melons down there, all sorted into different sizes, and they're exactly two hundred yards away. I stepped it off myself. Anyone who wants to give it a try puts twenty dollars in the pot, and you can take a shot at a melon. Any melon you want, long as you call it. If you miss you have to put another five dollars in the pot to get another crack. We keep putting up smaller melons until there's only one shooter left, and he gets half the pot. The other half goes toward the meeting house." He paused for a moment while the others considered the game, then he said, "Only if I win, the whole pot goes to the meeting house."

  "Ben," Dad said softly as he joined him and stood close. "You sure you want to do this? You're gambling with your own money, you know."

  "Gambling?" Ben answered, and patted his rifle. "You kidding, Dad?" The gun was his pride and joy at that time, and of course he obtained it through a whole series of trades. Billy Hobsome owned a reloading press and dies for several calibers, and Ben had developed a phenomenally accurate load for the little .243 cartridge: forty-three grains of number 4831 powder and an eighty-five grain Sierra bullet. A real tack driver, and it rested in the hands of a marksman.

  Out of twenty-two men who brought guns, including Dad, twenty-one of them decided to plunk down their twenty dollars. Maleness is a peculiar condition, one that never ceases to confound me with its testosterone based logic. No way, it seemed, were they going to back down from a challenge by a freckle-faced kid. All except one, that is. I suspect more than a few of them might have thought twice had they known why Dan wanted no part of the action.

  "Think not, gentlemen," Dad said as he stood back to watch. "Wouldn't be right for the host to show up his guest, now would it?" Ben seemed a little disappointed, as he had at least hoped to collect Dad's twenty dollars. But Dad only walked away and chatted with Mr. Moore, who removed his gun from a blanket wrap.

  The first melons were big eighteen to twenty-five pounders, with room for no more than ten of them on the board. "How we going go know if we hit 'em or not?" Mr. Collier asked as he readied his gun. "I've got jacketed bullets and they might just pass right on through, clean as a knife."

  "I don't think so," Ben said, and he chambered a round and made ready, holding the Remington easily in his hands as he looked through the peep hole in the rear sight. "I'll show you. Far right melon," he said, and the gun went off. A second later the far right melon exploded into dozens of pieces, and a spray of water showered the other melons. "See? I hollowed them out some and filled them with water, then put the top back on. They'll go off like bombs if you hit one clean."

  Impressive. Of course the first contestants to drop out were those using the lever action 30/30's. Though a highly popular and reliable cartridge, it was meant for much closer range. Not enough gun, but their owners didn't seem to mind. The money would go to a good cause.

  Everyone had fired off one shot, except Mr. Moore, who had remained off to one side with Dad, away from the others, readying his gun. When he brought it over to the firing line, he drew a lot of interested looks from the others. Especially Ben.

  He carried what looked like an ancient, but lovingly cared for, rifle in his arms. He told us that it was an old Model 1859 Sharps black powder rifle, converted to the .50-70 center-fire cartridge, which also used black powder. All Greek to me, but the barrel seemed to be over four feet long, although I think it was really about thirty-six inches. He fitted a cartridge into the chamber and closed the breechblock, then raised the back sight and adjusted it. Finally he licked his thumb and wiped it across the front bead and took a stance. "Far left melon," he called out, and then in one easy fluid motion, he brought the gun to his shoulder, cocked the front set trigger and then touched the rear trigger. Flame shot out the end of the barrel and a cloud of sulfur smoke drifted through the air, transfixing everyone there. It seemed like several seconds passed, then the melon on the left of the board shot straight into the air in a cartwheel of water and red slush.

  Mr. Moore was in the game.

  Only twelve participants had hit their target. Five of those who missed wanted another try, which raised the pot to $465. The rest had smelled the acrid odor of burnt gunpowder and defeat, and declined. Ben sauntered over to Dad and heard him ask as he nodded toward Mr. Moore, "Did you know about him?" Dad only smiled.

  round two brought out melons about eight inches in diameter. Again Ben led off, with predictable results--one less melon. I did notice his concentration was a bit keener. After most of those who missed put up their five dollars for another try, the pot increased to $500. The event began to take on a festive atmosphere, as a few wages were placed on the side, and Mom br
ought out extra lemonade and cookies.

  After three more rounds the pot stood at $580, and there were only three contestants left on the firing line: Ben, Nate McBride, and Mr. Moore. The melons were down to small unripe cantaloupes, no more than four inches in diameter. Nate missed his target and bowed out, leaving the young and the old facing each other. Ben suggested they fire off five rounds and see who had the smallest grouping on a paper target, but Mr. Moore, down to his last two cartridges, had a counter proposal.

  He pulled a packet of party balloons out of his pocket and blew one up to a five-inch ball. Everyone but Ben laughed, for Mr. Moore had obviously come well prepared. "Run a rope between two of them trees down there and fasten these balloons in the middle with some thread. Then we'll let 'em dance and see if we can end this."

  A breeze had picked up, waving the grass in front of the watermelon bench. Though it would have little effect on Mr. Moore's heavy 450 grain bullet, it would certainly deflect Ben's little spitzer, and it would sure as heck make the balloons 'dance'. Given that Mr. Moore had accepted Ben's earlier challenge and stood toe to toe with him, Ben had little choice.

  It took a while to