We were in the midst of arithmetic when the clatter of a wagon pulled by a dappled horse drew the children to the window. The horse pranced into the schoolyard and halted with a shout from the negro driver. Two wool-clad gentlemen leaped from the wagon. As the driver leaned over and withdrew fishing gear from a wooden trunk, one of the gentlemen fastened the suspenders on his tall rubber boots. The second gentleman knocked on the schoolroom door, and when I opened it I recognized my benefactor, Deming Jarves.

“May we water and tether our horse behind the schoolhouse today?” he inquired. “We're hoping to snag some trout and shoot a few snipes.”

I consented to his request, bid him good luck, and shooed the children back to their seats.  Curious about Mr. Jarves’s companion, I glanced out the window. His ruddy face seemed carved of granite, his eyes deep black chasms under heavy black eyebrows.  He was smiling as he spoke to the negro and laid a hand on his shoulder as both erupted in laughter, clearly sharing a joke.  When their laughter died, he turned to Mr. Jarves and began another story. I not only heard but felt the deep, sonorous tone of his voice.  I laid my hand against the windowpane, fully expecting to feel vibrations there. Why, he’s a natural orator if ever there was one, I thought, and recognition struck me:  Senator Webster from Massachusetts!

Horace was standing by my side, the pencil in his hand ready for sharpening.  He glanced out the window, and then his shining eyes caught mine. “Black Dan,” he whispered.  He had recognized him, too.  We watched the men as they disappeared down the path to Peter's Pond.

The long, hard division on the children’s slates forced the visitors out of my mind, but when lessons ended, Ephraim and Horace rushed to the door.

“The visitors must be fishin’,” Ephraim said. “I haven’t heard any gunshots.”

“Too early for snipes,” Horace added.

The boys tossed their schoolbooks on the ground and traded them for their rifles.  Then they headed down the same path the hunters had chosen.

Much later, Horace recounted the events of that momentous afternoon. Side by side, step by step, skirting brambles and bushes, the boys trudged quietly toward Peter’s Pond. When a chattering squirrel scrambled up a tree trunk, both boys lifted their guns and aimed. Ephraim fired first, and his bullet struck the creature just above its waving tail. Horace heard Ephraim shoot so he held his fire.

The explosion woke a doe and two fawns hidden in a thick green glade of tall ferns. Startled, the deer crashed in breaking waves through the undergrowth. Horace heard the commotion and saw the animals’ bobbing white tails as they fled. Instead of shooting at the squirrel, Horace swung his gun to the side and fired.

Ephraim heard Horace’s shot but he assumed Horace had missed the squirrel. Ephraim raced to retrieved his prey, turned, and held the bushy-tailed creature high for Horace to inspect. But Horace wasn’t watching Ephraim. He had moved away.

Frowning, dead squirrel in one hand, gun in the other, Ephraim followed Horace as he made his way to the place where one of the fawns lay.

As Ephraim approached him from behind, Horace stood examining the prone animal and discovered a neat, round bullet hole in its flank.

Just then another squirrel ventured into view from behind a nearby tree trunk, scolding Horace for his violent deed. Always ready, Ephraim raised his rifle again, squinted, and aimed.

At the same moment, Horace, still with his back to Ephraim, stepped closer to the fawn, unknowingly inserting his leg into the path of Ephraim’s bullet. When Ephraim squeezed the trigger, the hot bullet ripped into Horace’s calf, imbedding itself behind and below his knee. The fawn cushioned his fall.

When Ephraim saw what he had done, he threw his gun to the ground as if it were a red-hot fireplace poker.

“Ephraim, you shot me!” Horace screamed.

Mr. Jarves and his companions were packing their fishing gear and stringing trout on Snake Pond’s sandy shore when they heard Horace scream.