CHAPTER XIX
SCIENCE VERSUS STRENGTH
Even Gerald felt rather alarmed when he saw the two contestants facing each other. Ben, who reached a height of six feet one, towered above his small antagonist as the spire of Trinity Church towers above surrounding buildings. A difference of six inches makes the difference between a tall man and a short one. Why is it that a man of six feet looks double the size of a man of five, though in reality only one fifth larger? It is an ocular deception which affects every one, but is not readily explained.
“If you want to back out, you kin do so,” said Ben good-naturedly.
“What, an’ spoil our fun?” demanded the old man. “No, stranger, it won’t do to back out now.”
“I have no intention of backing out, Mr. Peters,” said Noel Brooke firmly.
“That’s right! I like your pluck,” said the old man in a tone of relief, for he feared he would lose a spectacle which he expected to enjoy. He would have felt as badly disappointed, as the visitors to Jerome Park if the races should be postponed.
Noel Brooke had taken stock of his long-limbed adversary, and the result was that he felt encouraged. Ben had long arms, very long arms, but his figure, though muscular, was loose-jointed, and his motion indicated that he was slow. Now rapidity of movement is a very important thing in a contest such as was to take place between these two.
“Mr. Peters,” said the Englishman, “may I trouble you to give the signal by saying ‘Ready.’”
“Ready!” shouted the old man eagerly.
Ben began to move his arms in a flail-like way common to those who are untrained in the art of fighting, and advanced with the utmost confidence to the fray. If he had hit straight out his blows would have gone above the head of his antagonist, which was rather a disadvantage, though not so great perhaps as that under which Noel Brooke labored in being so short. It seemed to Ben, therefore, that he had better throw his long arms around his puny opponent, and, fairly lifting him off the ground, hold him helpless at his mercy.
“I won’t hurt him!” thought Ben magnanimously.
But somehow his plan miscarried. Noel Brooke skilfully evaded the close embrace which would have settled the fight then and there in favor of Ben, and skipping, first to one side, then to the other, rained in a shower of blows upon Ben, one of which took effect in his jaw, and drove him staggering back discomfited.
It may safely be said that never were three men more amazed than Mr. Peters and his two sons.
There stood Ben, actually staggering as if on the point of falling, while the Englishman, calm and unruffled, stood in an easy position watching for the next move.
Old Mr. Peters rose from the ground in his excitement.
“Pitch into him, Ben!” he shouted. “Ain’t you ashamed of bein’ beaten back by a little chap like that! Where’s your pluck? Are you goin’ to let a little undersized Britisher do you up afore your own father and brother?”
“No, dad, I’ll be eternally walloped if I will. Look out, there! I’m goin’ to smash yer. Look out I say! Here I come.”
“All right! I’ll look out,” said Noel Brooke calmly.
Ben stood a poorer chance now than before, for his unexpected defeat, and the raillery of his father, made him angry and reckless of consequences. He rushed at Brooke in an impetuous pell-mell manner which was utterly reckless and exposed him to attack, and which would have given his opponent a great advantage even if he had been less skilful.
Ben was excited, and Noel Brooke was not. Moreover, the tourist now thoroughly understood his advantage, and awaited the onslaught in calm confidence. Again he succeeded in avoiding the close hug by which Ben intended to paralyze and render him powerless, and took the opportunity to get in a couple of sledge-hammer blows, one of which took effect on Ben’s chin.
It was too much for him.
Like a tall poplar he swayed for a moment, and then, falling backward, measured his length upon the ground.
“Why, Ben!” exclaimed his father in angry amazement, “what’s got into yer? Hev you been drinkin’? Why, you can’t fight more’n an old cow! To be floored by a little chap like that!”
Ben rose from the ground slowly, looking dazed and bewildered.
“He knows how to fight, he does!” he said.
“Why, he ain’t half as big as you, Ben! Ain’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“No, I ain’t,” said Ben in a sulky tone. “If you think it’s so easy to tackle him do it yourself. He’s a reg’lar steam ingine, he is!”
“Will you try it again, Ben?” asked Brooke in a friendly tone.
“No, I won’t. I’ve had enough.”
His father was carried away by his angry excitement.
“I didn’t think one of my boys would disgrace me,” he said bitterly. “You’ve told me to tackle him myself, and I’ll be whipped if I don’t do it.”
“You’ll be whipped if you do, dad,” said Ben. “If I can’t lick him you can’t.”
“We’ll see,” said the old man, gritting his teeth. “Stranger, I’m goin’ for yer!”
“Wait a minute, sir,” said Brooke quietly. “I don’t mean to fight you.”
“You’re afraid, be you?” sneered the old man.
“You may put it that way if you like, but I’m not going to raise my hand against a man old enough to be my father.”
“I don’t ask no odds on account of my age. You’ll find me young enough for you.”
“Perhaps you are right, for I couldn’t fight with any spirit against you.”
“You’ve only licked Ben. Now you want to crawl off.”
“No; if your other son cares to meet me I’ll have a set-to with him.”
“Come, Abe, there’s your chance,” said the old man, addressing his eldest son. “Just stand up to the Britisher, and let him see that he can’t lick the whole Peters family.”
“All right, dad!” said Abe, rising and standing up a full inch taller than his younger brother. “The stranger’s a good fighter, but I reckon he can’t down me.”
He was tall, muscular, and with no superfluous flesh. It looked to Gerald as if his friend would find it a hard job to vanquish this backwoods giant.
“Wal, stranger, how do you feel about it?” asked Abe, as he saw Brooke apparently taking stock of his thews and sinews.
“I don’t know,” answered the tourist. “I had a hard job with your brother, but I think I’ll find it harder to tackle you.”
“Ho, ho! I think so too. Wal, dad, give the signal.”
Ben and his father seated themselves as spectators of the coming encounter. It may seem strange, but Ben’s good wishes were in favor of the stranger. He had been defeated, and if Abe were victorious he knew that he would never hear the last of it. But if Abe, too, were worsted he would have a very good excuse for his own failure. The father, however, felt eager to have the presumptuous Briton bite the dust under the triumphant blows of his eldest son.
Abe was not as impetuous or reckless as Ben. Indeed, had he been so naturally, Ben’s defeat would have made him careful.
He approached cautiously, and at the proper time he tried to overwhelm Brooke with what he called a “sockdolager.” But Noel Brooke had a quick eye, and drawing back evaded the onslaught which fell on the empty air. Before Abe could recover from the recoil the tourist dealt him a heavy blow beneath his left ear which nearly staggered him.
Ben laughed gleefully, and rubbed his hands.
“Now you see how ’tis yourself, Abe!” he cried.
“Shut up!” growled his father. “Don’t you go to crowin’ over your brother. He’s all right. Just wait!”
Abe’s rather sluggish temperament was angered by his brother’s derisive laugh, and he too lost his head. From this time he fought after Ben’s reckless fashion, of course laying himself open to attack – an opportunity of which the tourist availed himself.
When five minutes later Abe measured his length on the turf, Ben got up and bending over his prostrate brother said with a grin: “How did it happen, Abe? An accident, wasn’t it!”
“No,” answered Abe manfully. “I reckon the stranger’s too much for either of us.”
“Try it again, Abe!” said the old man in excitement.
“No, I’ve had enough, dad. I shan’t laugh at Ben any more. I can’t best the Englishman. I might try the boy.”
“No, thank you,” said Gerald laughing. “You could fight me with one hand.”
This modest confession helped to restore Abe’s good humor, and he shook hands with his adversary.
“You’re a smart ’un!” he said. “I didn’t think you had it in you, I didn’t by gum. But there’s one thing I can beat you in – and that’s shootin’.”
CHAPTER XX
HITTING THE BULL’S-EYE
“I have no doubt of it – you can beat me at shooting,” said the Englishman. “I can aim pretty fairly, but I don’t believe I can equal you.”
“Let us try!” proposed Ben eagerly.
“Very well,” rejoined Brooke, “if you’ll lend me a rifle. Mine is not a good one.”
“All right; I’ll lend you mine,” said Ben.
A board was placed in position, and with a piece of chalk a circular disc was roughly outlined with a bull’s-eye in the center.
“Now,” said Ben, handing his weapon to Noel Brooke, “lemme see what you can do!”
Brooke fired, striking the disc about two inches from the bull’s-eye.
“That’s good!” cried Ben. “Now I’ll show what I can do.”
He raised the rifle carelessly and struck the disc an inch nearer the bull’s-eye than the tourist.
“I’ve beat you,” he said gleefully.
“And I’ll beat you, Ben,” added Abe.
He raised the rifle, took careful aim, and struck the bull’s-eye.
“That’s the way Americans shoot,” said he. “We don’t give in to anybody in shootin’.”
“You’ve both beaten me,” said Brooke good-naturedly, “and I expected you would.”
“You shoot pretty well for an Englishman,” said Abe magnanimously. “I reckon you’d be called a crack shot in England?”
“Well, I have a pretty fair reputation there.”
“Don’t you want to shoot, kid?” asked Ben, turning to Gerald.
“I wouldn’t mind,” said Gerald with alacrity.
“Kin he shoot?” asked Abe, turning to the tourist.
“I don’t know. I never saw him try it,” answered Brooke.
Indeed, Noel Brooke awaited the result with considerable curiosity. He had never heard Gerald speak of his rifle practise, and had no idea whether he was skilful or not. The fact is, however, that in the three years Gerald had lived with his father in Colorado he had had large experience in hunting, for it was upon this that the two depended largely for their supplies of food. Gerald had a quick eye, and steady hand, and he had practised a good deal by himself, being ambitious to gain skill with the rifle. He had succeeded so well that as soon as the second contest was proposed he was anxious to enter, but felt rather bashful about suggesting it himself. When, however, Ben mentioned it he accepted at once.
“You kin use the rifle, kid, can you?” asked Abe a little doubtfully.
“Yes, a little.”
“We can’t expect too much of a boy like you, but you’ll learn after a while.”
Gerald smiled inwardly, and determined to give the brothers a little surprise.
He raised the rifle to his shoulder, and when quite ready he let fly.
The bullet struck the bull’s-eye, a little more exactly, if possible, than Abe’s.
There was a shout of surprise.
“Why, he’s hit the bull’s-eye!” exclaimed Ben, running forward to examine the target.
“So he has!” cried Noel Brooke joyfully, for he was delighted by his young companion’s unexpected success.
“It’s an accident!” said Abe jealously. “He couldn’t do it again?”
“Can you?” asked Brooke, turning to Gerald.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“Then have a second trial.”
The board was reversed, a second disc was drawn, and the three marksmen prepared to repeat their shots.
“Shoot first, kid!” said Ben.
“No, I’m the youngest, I would rather follow.”
“I won’t shoot this time,” said the tourist. “It’s no use. You can all beat me.”
The shooting took place in the same order. Ben did about as well as before, but Abe, though coming nearer, failed this time to hit the bull’s-eye.
“Now it’s your turn, boy!” he said.
A minute after there was another shout of surprise.
A second time Gerald had hit the bull’s-eye, thus making the best record.
“You ain’t a Britisher, be you?” asked Abe, mortified.
“No, I am a native-born American, and proud of it,” returned Gerald.
“You’ll do, then! Hurrah for the stars and stripes!” shouted Abe. “The Amerikins kin shoot, you must admit, stranger.”
“Yes, I am willing to admit it,” said Noel Brooke with a smile, “especially as it is my friend Gerald who has come out first.”
Later on Mrs. Peters and Bess, who had completed their housework, came out and joined them.
Mrs. Peters was astonished when she heard that the Englishman, who was two inches shorter than herself, had defeated both her tall sons.
“Why,” she said, “I didn’t think you could handle me.”
“I don’t believe I can, Mrs. Peters,” said Noel Brooke modestly.
“I’m with you there!” put in her husband. “There ain’t many men that’s as tough and gritty as Sal Peters.”
Mrs. Peters listened to this high encomium with complacency.
“And the boy there beat Abe and Ben in shooting,” continued Mr. Peters.
“I reckon he couldn’t beat me!” said Mrs. Peters.
“The fact is the old woman is the best marksman in the lot of us,” explained Mr. Peters. “She’s got a sharp, keen eye, even if she is forty-nine years old.”
“Does Miss Peters take after her mother?” inquired the tourist.
“Miss Peters? Oh, you mean Bess. No, she’ll never make the woman her mother is.”
“I should hope not if I were going to marry her,” thought Brooke.
Before ten o’clock all the inmates of the cabin were asleep. It may readily be supposed that first-class accommodations were not provided. Gerald and his friend were shown to a bed in one corner, where they threw themselves down without undressing. But neither of them were inclined to be fastidious. They were thoroughly fatigued, and were soon oblivious to all that passed around them.
Noel Brooke, though a sound sleeper, was easily aroused. About midnight he started suddenly, and lifted his head as a noise was heard outside. It was a whinny from one of the horses, that were tethered to a tree at the rear part of the cabin. The horse was evidently frightened.
“Gerald!” exclaimed Brooke, shaking his companion energetically.
Gerald opened his eyes and asked drowsily, “What’s the matter?”
“The horses! Some one is meddling with them. Get up at once!”
Gerald comprehended instantly, and sprang to his feet. Both he and the tourist were out of doors like a flash, and ran to the rear of the cabin.
Two cowboys wearing large flapping sombreros, had untied the horses, and were leading them away.
“Hold on there!” exclaimed the Englishman. “Leave that horse alone!”
The cowboy who had sprung upon the horse turned and greeted him with derisive laughter.
“Mind your business, stranger, and get back to your bed!” he answered. “I’ve got use for this horse.”
The other, who had Gerald’s horse by the bridle, also sprang upon his back.
“That’s my horse!” called out Gerald angrily.
“It’s mine now!”
“I wish I had my rifle!” said Brooke in excitement, “I would soon stop these thieves!”
This incautious speech betrayed the fact that he was unarmed, and made the two thieves feel secure.
“Good-by, strangers!” said the first cowboy. “Your horses will be taken care of. You ain’t no cause to worry.”
They turned the horses’ heads and prepared to gallop away, though the poor animals, recognizing the voices of their real masters, seemed reluctant to go.
“If Mr. Peters and the boys were only awake,”
said the tourist, “they would manage these fellow.”
But help was near at hand after all.
“You just get off them animals, or I’ll shoot!” cried a stern voice.
The two cowboys turned quickly, expecting to encounter a man, but instead saw only a tall, gaunt woman in a white night-dress, with her long, disheveled hair hanging down her back.
“Go back to bed, you old witch!” shouted the thief contemptuously.
If he had known Mrs. Peters better he would have hesitated before speaking in this strain, and above all he would have felt it prudent to get out of the way.
She took no time to parley, but raising a rifle which she carried at her side, aimed at the foremost ruffian, and an instant later a sharp pain in his shoulder told him he had been hit. With an imprecation he dropped to the ground, and his companion, striking Gerald’s horse sharply, prepared to seek safety in flight, leaving his companion to his fate. But Mrs. Peters was ready for him, too. A second shot struck him in the leg, and he slid off the horse.
By this time Peters and his two boys showed themselves, roused by the sound of firing.
“What’s up?” asked the old man.
“Two hoss thieves are down!” answered Mrs. Peters.
“Hoss thieves?”
“Yes; they was makin’ off with the strangers’ hosses. I’ve given ’em a hint not to come round here agin.”
The groans uttered by the two fallen men confirmed her statement.
CHAPTER XXI
ON THE STEAMER ROCK ISLAND
The horse thieves struggled to their feet, and stood apprehensively, but defiant, facing the old man who eyed them with stern and threatening glances. They were too much disabled to think of escaping.
“Why, you poor contemptible hoss thieves!” ejaculated Peters, “what have you got to say for yourselves?”
The two men looked at each other, but the right words did not seem to occur to them, for they remained silent.
“Serves you right to be tripped up by a woman! You ain’t men, you’re sneaks!”
The thieves turned their eyes toward Mrs. Peters, who, tall and gaunt, stood looking on with her thin gray hair floating down her back.
“She ain’t a woman! She’s a witch!” said one of them bitterly.
“You’ll have to answer for that to me!” cried Ben, and with a stride he struck the man with his huge fist, and prostrated him.
“Dad, shall we string ’em up?” he asked, turning to his father. “He’s insulted mother.”
What Mr. Peters would have said is problematical, but Noel Brooke interposed earnestly, “No, no, Mr. Peters, let them go! They’re both wounded, and that will be punishment sufficient.”
“Just as you say, stranger! It’s your hosses they tried to steal.”
“But they insulted mother,” insisted Ben.
“Let ’em go!” said Mrs. Peters contemptuously. “They’ll remember the old witch for some time, I reckon!”
The men looked as if they would like to strangle her, but they were prudent enough to keep their mouths shut.
“Now scoot!” exclaimed Peters, in a threatening tone. “If I ever catch either of you within a mile of my cabin, I’ll shoot you down like dogs.”
The two thieves waited for no further hint, but, helping each other as best they could, struck into the woods.
“Mrs. Peters,” said the tourist, turning to his hostess, “I feel very much indebted to you for your prompt action. But for you Gerald and I would be forced to walk till we could secure fresh horses.”
“You’re welcome, strangers,” responded Mrs. Peters, coolly reloading her rifle. “I ain’t enjoyed myself so much for six months.”
And indeed the old woman appeared to be in high spirits. The adventure, which would have terrified most women, only exhilarated her.
“I reckon we’d better be gettin’ back to bed!” said Peters. “Gettin’ up at midnight is too early risin’ for me.”
His feeling was shared not only by members of his family, but by his guests, and all betook themselves to bed again, and in half an hour were sleeping peacefully. The rest of the night passed without adventure, and at seven o’clock the next morning they sat down to breakfast.
As they were about to start on their journey Noel Brooke tendered a ten-dollar bill to his hostess.
“Mrs. Peters,” he said, “allow me to offer you a slight gift in acknowledgment of your kindness and of the signal service you did us last night.”
“I don’t understand all your high words, stranger,” said the old lady, as with a look of satisfaction she pocketed the money, “but I’ll be glad to see you again any time. You’re one of the right sort.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Peters.”
So amid farewell greetings the two rode away.
Two months later Gerald and his English friend found themselves on a river steamer floating down the Mississippi from Davenport to St. Louis. They had kept on their way west as far as Salt Lake City, then struck up to the northwest, without any particular plan of proceeding till they reached the Mississippi. They had once been in danger of capture by the Indians, and once by highwaymen, but had on both occasions been fortunate enough to escape.
Noel Brooke had become more and more attached to his young secretary, whom he not only found an agreeable companion, but intelligent and an eager learner. He had voluntarily given him oral lessons in French and German, so that Gerald was able to make use of both languages to a limited extent.
At Davenport Mr. Brooke learned that the steamer Rock Island would start at ten o’clock the next morning on her way down the river to St. Louis and New Orleans, and on the impulse of the moment he decided to take passage.
“I have heard so much of the Mississippi,” he said to Gerald, “that I should like to see something of its shores. How will that please you?”
“I should like nothing better,” said Gerald eagerly.
“The boats are running pretty full,” said the landlord of the hotel. “You may not be able to secure a stateroom.”
“We will try at any rate,” rejoined the tourist. “If we don’t succeed we can wait till the next boat. Our time is not of great value.”
“Ah,” said the landlord, “that is where you have the advantage of me. You rich Englishmen are not obliged to turn time into money like us poor landlords.”
Noel Brooke laughed.
“I sometimes wish I had to work for a living,” he said. “I am inclined to think that I should enjoy life more.”
“In that case,” remarked Gerald with a smile, “suppose you exchange places with me.”
“Would you give me a place as private secretary?” asked the tourist.
“Yes.”
“My dear Gerald, envy no man the possession of money. You are young and healthy, and with an excellent prospect before you. You will be happier than if there were no necessity for your working.”
“I believe you, Mr. Brooke. I was only joking.”
While the landlord was bantering Mr. Brooke upon being a rich Englishman, a dark-whiskered man, with a sallow face and shifty eyes, listened with apparent interest. He watched Noel Brooke with a scrutinizing glance, and listened attentively to what he said.
When Brooke decided to board the steamer this man settled his bill and followed him to the boat. At the office the tourist found that a single stateroom was vacant, No. 37, and he secured it.
It contained two berths, an upper and lower.
“You may take the upper berth, Gerald,” he said. “I shall avail myself of my privilege as an older man to occupy the lower.”
“All right, Mr. Brooke. It makes no difference to me.”
The man who had shown such a suspicious interest in Mr. Brooke managed to jostle him a little in going on board the steamer.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Are you going down the river?”
“Yes,” answered Brooke coldly, for he did not like the man’s appearance.
“How far shall you go? To St. Louis?”
“I presume so.”
“I shall probably get off at St. Louis myself. Ever been there before?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s a nice city. I may be able to show you around.”
“Thank you, but I should not like to give you the trouble.”
“No trouble, I assure you. Is that your brother with you?”
“No, it is a young friend.”
Later on, while Mr. Brooke had gone off to smoke a cigar, the stranger sought out Gerald.
“Are you English, like your friend?” he asked.
“No, sir. I am an American.”
“I didn’t quite catch the gentleman’s name.”
“Mr. Brooke.”
“Oh, I’ve heard the name before. I presume he is a rich man.”
“I never asked him,” answered Gerald, displeased with his companion’s curiosity which he considered ill-bred.
“Well, at any rate, you must have money to travel around with him.”
“I am his private secretary.”
“You don’t say so? Is it a soft snap?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean is it an easy job?”
“I do not complain of its duties.”
“Where have you been traveling?”
“In Colorado and Utah.”
“All expenses paid, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then it is a soft snap. I am a business man, a traveler for a Chicago house.”
“Indeed!” said Gerald, who felt no interest in his companion or his business.
“My name is Samuel Standish. How long are you going to travel with Mr. Brooke?”
“I can’t tell, sir.”
“When you get out of a job, call on me, at No. 114 North Clark Street, Chicago.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You look like a smart fellow. I will recommend you to my firm.”
“You are very kind, sir.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Mr. Samuel Standish walked away, and directly afterwards a stout gentleman walked by.
Gerald started in surprise, for in the newcomer he recognized Mr. Bradley Wentworth.