Part 14

William York, in his simple philosophy of life, disciplined himself, and later his boys, to the theory that contentment was to be found in the square deal and honest labor. He was so fair and just in all relations with his neighbors that the people of the valley called him "Judge" York; and his honesty was so rugged and impartial that not infrequently was he left as sole arbiter even when his own interests were involved. In talks by the roadside, at the gate of his humble home, seated on the rocks that surround the spring, many a neighborhood dispute has been settled that prejudice could have fanned into a lawsuit.

Yet William York never prospered, as prosperity is measured by the accumulation of property, and it has been said of him that he "just about succeeded in making a hard living."

He was farmer, blacksmith, hunter--a man of the mountains who found pleasure in his skill with his rifle. But the memories of him that linger in the valley, or those that are revived at the mention of his name, are of him in the role of husband, father and friend.

The Civil War had scattered much of the wealth that Old Coonrod Pile had accumulated and Elijah Pile had conserved. The number of heirs brought long division to the realty and most of those who had benefited by the inheritance were all left "land poor."

To Nancy Brooks, as her part, came the home the old "Long Hunter" had built with such thoroughness and care, together with seventy-five acres of land. This she left to her boy who had been named after his ill-- fated father--and he lives there to-day. To Mrs. York had been given seventy-five acres, "part level and part hilly," that was the share of her aunt, Polly Pile.

In the cave above the spring, which was Coonrod Pile's first home, William York built a blacksmith's shop, where he mended log-wagons and did the work in wood and metal the neighborhood required. He farmed, and worked in the shop--but in his heart, always, was the call of the forests that surrounded him, and it was his one great weakness. A blast from his horn would bring his hounds yelping around him; and often, unexpectedly, he would go on a hunt that at times stretched into weeks of absence.

His hounds were the master pack of those hills. On his hunts when he built his campfire at night he gathered the dogs around him and singled out for especial favors those whose achievements had merited distinction during the day. Following a custom that in those days prevailed among owners of hunting-hounds, the dog that proved himself the leader of the pack while on a hunt was decorated with a ribbon or some emblem upon the collar. Small game was abundant in the mountains that made the "Valley of the Three Forks o' the Wolf," but the deer and bear had withdrawn to the less frequented hills. The hunts were for sport; there was no real recompense in the value of the pelts.

Alvin was born in the one-room cabin on December 13, 1887. There were two older children--Henry and Joe. Alvin's early life was different in no way from that of other children of the mountains. He lived in touch with nature, and without ever knowing when or how the information came to him, he could call the birds by their names and knew the nests and eggs of each of them, knew the trees by their leaves and their bark, and was familiar with the haunts of the rabbit and the squirrel, the land- and the water-turtle. While still too small for the rough run of the mountains, he has stood, red-eyed, by the gate of his home and watched his father and the hounds go off to the hunt. And as he grew, his hair took on that color that trace of him while at play could be lost in the red-brush that grew upon the mountainside.

There was one part of the routine of the week at Pall Mall that has interested Alvin York from early boyhood. It was the shooting-matches, held on Saturday, on the mountainside, above the spring, just where a swell of the slope made a "table-land," and where a space had been cleared for these tests of skill. The clearing was long and slender, such a glade through the trees as the alley of the mountain bowlers which Rip Van Winkle found in the Catskills--only the shooting-range was longer. A hundred and fifty yards were needed for one of the contests.

This aisle had been cut through a forest of gray beech and brown oaks. At the points where the targets were to be set the clearing widened so that the sunlight, filtering through the leaves and flickering upon the slender carpet of green, could fall full and clear.

Each Saturday the mountaineers were there--and William York and Alvin were among the "regulars." Often there were fifty or more men, and they came bringing their long rifles, horns of powder, pouches made of skin in which were lead and bullet molds, cups of caps, cotton gun-wadding, carrying turkeys, driving beeves and sheep, which were to be the prizes. And when the prizes gave out, some of the men remained and shot for money--"pony purses," they were called.

The turkey-shoots were over two ranges--some forty yards and one a hundred and fifty yards. At the latter range the turkey was tied to a stake driven in the center of the opening at the further end of the glade. A cord, about two feet in length, was fastened to the stake and to one leg of the gobbling, moving target. It was ten cents a shot, tossed to the man who offered the prize.

Often the bird fell at the first trial, and a hit was any strike above the turkey's knee. But the long-distance turkey-shoots were the opening events, and the marksman had his gun to warm up, his eye to test and his shooting nerve to be brought to calmness. So frequently it would happen that the entrance money ran into a sum that gave a prize value to the turkey, as prices ran for turkeys in those days. There was the element of chance for the man offering the prize that was always alluring.

The second turkey-shoot was held at the forty-yard range. But the bird was now tethered behind a log, so that only his head and red wattles could appear. Here, too, the turkey was given freedom of motion and granted self-determination as to how he should turn his head in wonder at the assemblage of men before him; or, if he should elect, he could disappear entirely behind the log if he found something that interested him upon the ground nearby, and the marksman must wait for the untimed appearance of the bobbing head. It took prompt action and a quick bead to score a hit.

And it was years afterward, after Alvin York had become the most expert rifle-shot that those mountains had ever held, that he sat in the brush on the slope of a hill in the Forest of Argonne and watched for German helmets and German heads to bob above their pits and around trees--just forty yards away.

The event in which centered the interest of all gathered at those Saturday matches, was the shooting for the beef.

Each man prepared his own target--a small board, which was charred over a fire built of twigs and leaves. On this black surface was tacked a piece of white paper, about two by three inches in size, and in the center of the bottom margin of the white paper was cut a notch-an inverted "V," not over a half-inch in height. This permitted the marksman to raise the silver foresight of his rifle over a black, charred surface until the hairline of the sight fit into the tip of the triangle cut into white paper. It was a pinpoint target that left to the ability of the marksman the exactness of his bead.

The tip of the triangle in the paper was not the bull's-eye. It was simply the most delicate point that could be devised upon which to draw a bead.

The bull's-eye was a point at which two knife-blade marks crossed. When the target was in position this delicately marked bull's-eye could not be seen by the shooter.

With practice shots they established how the gun was carrying and the direction in which the nerves of the marksman's eye were at the time deflecting the ball. Finally the marksman drew his bead on the tip of the triangle and where the shot punctured the white paper the bull's-eye would be located.

This was done by moving the white paper until the knife-blade cross showed through the center of the hole the bullet had made in it. The paper in this position was retacked upon the board, and underneath was slipped a second piece of paper making the paper target appear as if no hole had been torn through it. The bull's-eye so located was usually within a half-inch radius of the triangle tip.

So exact was the marksmanship of these men that they recognized that neither gun nor man shot the same, day after day. They knew a man's physical condition changed as these contests progressed, and that the gun varied in its register when it was hot and when cool.

The range for the beef-shoot was forty yards "ef ye shot from a chunk." Twenty-seven yards, or about two-thirds the distance, if the shot was offhand. "A chunk" was any rest for the rifle--a bowed limb cut from a tree, the fork of a limb driven firmly into the ground, a part of a log--anything that was the height to give the needed low level to the rifle-barrel when the shooter lay sprawled behind the gun. The permission to shoot from the rest was a concession to poorer marksmanship. Shooting offhand required nerve, and steadiness of nerve, to "put it there, and hold it."

The science of marksmanship they learned through experience. The rifle-ball, forced down through the muzzle, was firmly packed and the cap carefully primed to prevent a "long fire." In taking aim in the offhand shots the gun's barrel was brought upward so the target was always in full view, and as the bead was drawn the body was tilted backward until an easy balance for the long barrel was found. The elbow of the arm against which the butt of the rifle rested was lifted high, awkwardly high, but this position prevented any nervous backward jerk or muscular movement of the arm that might sway the barrel. Only the weight of the forefinger was needed to spring the hair-trigger. When the gun-sights were nearing the tip of the black triangle, the marksman ceased breathing until the shot was fired.

So accurate were they, that when the bullet tore out the point where the two knife-blade marks crossed, it was simply considered a good shot. It was called "cutting center." But to decide the winning shot from among those who cut center it was necessary to ascertain how much of the ball lay across center.

Each contestant who claimed a chance to win brought his board to the judges for award. For each one of them a bullet was cut in half, and the half, with the flat side up, was forced into the bullet hole in the target until level with the board's surface. With a compass the exact center of the face of the half bullet was marked--a dent, as if made by a pin-point. Then across the surface of the bright, newly-cut lead, the knife-blade marks of the original bull's-eye, partly torn away by the shot, were retraced. The distance between the pin-dent center and the point where the knife-marks crossed could then be exactly measured.

When the cross passed directly over the dented center, the shot was perfect and the mountaineers called it "laying the seam of the ball on center."

In the beef-shoots it was a dollar a shot. Each man could purchase any number of shots. When the pot contained the number of dollars asked for the beef the contest began. The prize was divided into five parts. The two best shots got, each, a hindquarter of the beef. The third and fourth, the forequarters; the fifth of the winners, the hide and tallow. The beef was slain at the scene of the shoot, each winner carrying home his part.