The  Marksman

           Uncle Bud was a hunter---as a matter of fact, a very famous one. The reason for that fame was because when after game-meat for the table he toted neither rifle, shotgun nor bow and arrow.

           What did he use? Rocks. Yeah, stones---rocks. He simply gathered a pocketful of smooth round stones and lit out for field and stream.

           They were all he needed. Few were the rabbits, squirrels, or even birds on the wing that escaped his unerring and dead-eye accuracy. Uncle Bud’s mastery in the art of “rock throwin’” is still very much talked about, even in this age of modern and sophisticated weaponry.

           From his time unto this day no person has showed on the local scene who could even vaguely begin to challenge his supremacy. Sad indeed to contemplate, but the fact must be squarely faced---“rock throwers” have gone the way as so many other breeds---vanished.

           It was said that any target up to 100 yards Uncle Bud was throwin’ at was a sitting duck. Also a dead one! Because the velocity of those stone  projectiles was said to be equal in “knockdown power” to the largest calibre elephant gun.

           It was also said of Bud---and I heard this many times---that on numerous occasions he didn’t even have to throw. Merely stepping to the back porch of his home, he needed only to look in the direction of those fields. A few minutes later he’d walk out there and pick up a dozen cotton-tails. The bunnies realized what was running thru his mind, and decided that, for them, the jig was up. Right there on the spot those bunnies keeled over from heart-failure.

           Since his fame was so wide-spread, would-be challengers from all over made their way to Narrows  to see if all that was being said about the old man with drooping moustache was true. They felt compelled to “check him out”, wouldn’t ya’ know.

           Didn’t take long for the strangers to determine the veracity of Bud’s reputation. In those “rock throwin’” contests his sense of fair play came shining thru. Bud set the rules, and he certainly couldn’t be accused of taking advantage of the inexperienced young upstarts who mistakenly thought themselves “marksmen” and had the audacity to challenge Bud at his game.

           From exactly the same range his challengers were allowed to throw at one-gallon vinegar jugs. Bud, on the other hand, always used tiny six-ounce bottles as targets.

           Often as not his challengers were missing those huge glass containers that had formerly dispensed apple by-products. They’d miss about four out of five attempts, and Uncle Bud, hardly able to conceal his glee, would physically shove them aside, saying: “ Git yerself over hyonder outta’ the way, boy. You can’t hit the side uv a barn door”.

           The would-be rock throwers then became spectators, watching in amazement as Uncle Bud blasted 12 six-ounce bottles into small bits and glass slivers. He hadn’t missed “nary a single time”. Twelve blurring motions with his fabulous arm---a dozen broken bottles!

           Those dejected challengers went back home--- and Bud’s fame spread wider still.

           Uncle Bud was proud of this talent he possessed. Nearly always without exception it took only one throw and another rabbit had bit the dust. Or one more bushy-tail came tumbling down from the limbs of a hickory tree. Generally, they’d been conked smack-dab twixt the eyes.

           But every once in a great while---not too often mind you,but every now and then---he’d show a particular bunny or squirrel and tell a little tale about it. As bud related it there almost seemed to be tears welling in his eyes, and the sadness of the moment made one want to cry along with him. Many people ( mostly womenfolk ) would look into his misty misty eyes and exclaim: “Bud, if it’s hurtin’ all this much, maybe you should stop bouncin’ rocks off the heads of these little creatures”.

           “Oh no, neighbor!” he’d say. “Hit’s just I had to throw twice at this un’. And he couldn’t been more’n 200 feet away”

           He took that as a personal affront to his marksmanship with those deadly stone missiles . The varmints with the audacity to make him waste a rock---well, he gave those to some needy family, or just anyone who looked as if they hadn’t eaten wild game in a spell. They certainly wouldn’t be served on his table. Uncle Bud just didn’t think he could stomach them.

           Ya’ know, I’ve often wondered why Bud didn’t go into baseball. Man!---ain’t no way he could’ve missed a no-hitter every time he trudged out to the old mound. That old man, already advanced in years, would've won the Cy Young Award (for being the best pitcher in baseball ) every season for as long as he remained active. Accolades from all over the sporting world would’ve been heaped on him for the unheard of feat of winning 4 world series games every season for 50 consecutive years!

           Lotsa’ other people were thinking exactly the same thing, and often asked Bud about it. His reply was quick and simple: “I thought about it lotsa’ times. Put nigh done it one time too. But I jist didn’t want to leave Narz”. And he never did.

           When Bud crossed that mysterious river into the Great Beyond, he carried with him that most coveted of all titles, “the Undisputed World Champion Rock Thrower”….

                                                               M.L.Wilkinson

                                                               April, 1980