The loud laughs of the musket-men were silenced by the more
authoritative voice of Richard, who called for attention and obedience
to his signals.

Some millions of pigeons were supposed to have already passed, that
morning, over the valley of Templeton; but nothing like the flock that
was now approaching had been seen before. It extended from mountain
to mountain in one solid blue mass, and the eye looked in vain, over
the southern hills, to find its termination. The front of this living
column was distinctly marked by a line but very slightly indented, so
regular and even was the flight. Even Marmaduke forgot the morality
of Leather-Stocking as it approached, and, in common with the rest,
brought his musket to a poise.

“Fire!” cried the sheriff, clapping a coal to the priming of the
cannon. As half of Benjamin’s charge escaped through the touch-hole,
the whole volley of the musketry preceded the report of the swivel.
On receiving this united discharge of small-arms, the front of the
flock darted upward, while, at the same instant, myriads of those in
the rear rushed with amazing rapidity into their places, so that, when
the column of white smoke gushed from the mouth of the little cannon,
an accumulated mass of objects was gliding over its point of
direction. The roar of the gun echoed along the mountains, and died
away to the north, like distant thunder, while the whole flock of
alarmed birds seemed, for a moment, thrown into one disorderly and
agitated mass. The air was filled with their irregular flight, layer
rising above layer, far above the tops of the highest pines, none
daring to advance beyond the dangerous pass; when, suddenly, some of
the headers of the feathered tribes shot across the valley, taking