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Furious Fists
A NARROW shaft of yellow lamplight shone from the wide-open door of the Mud Turtle, as Tom and Ben Gordon approached the unsavory gambling den and grog-shop at the edge of the swamp; and a wild medley of songs, shouts, oaths, threats and cat-calls assailed their ears.
“Big crowd at the Turtle tonight,” spoke up Tom, just a tinge of uneasiness in his tone.
“Sure is,” agreed Ben. “Listen to that hullabaloo, will you! They’re fairly lifting the roof.”
“S’pose that blackguard of a Fagan is in there, Ben, as Bill warned us?”
“Hard to tell. We’ll just slide by, quiet like, and minding our own business. Those crazy galoots are making such an uproar that they couldn’t hear a crack of thunder outside.”
“Let’s hope so. I don’t crave to fall in the hands of big Pat and his gang of hoodlums.”
Gazing ahead, in the brilliant moonlight, they were relieved to see that there was not a solitary soul outside the noisy tavern; and it appeared, much to their satisfaction, that they would be able to get by the dangerous dive without being molested.
“Looks like old Lady Luck is with us,” said Ben happily, as they drew up within a few yards of the open door.
When they had come almost opposite the door, however, a runty, wizen-faced fellow, dressed in deerskin breeches and a cotton shirt open at the throat, shot out of the place as if propelled from a catapult. As he reached the outside, he suddenly tripped and pitched forward. And lucky he was; for just as he did so, a glass bottle sailed over his head and plopped into the shallow swamp with a kerplunk that sounded like a diving frog.
The runty fellow was up in a flash.
“Watcha trip me fer?” he demanded of Tom Gordon, who had been very nearly bowled over.
“I didn’t trip you,” answered the boy quietly.
“Skeered to ’fess up, eh?” he leered, doubling up his fists ominously.
“Listen lunkhead,” repeated Tom, somewhat nettled by the chap’s manner, “I say that I didn’t trip you.”
“Of course, he didn’t trip you,” Ben asserted firmly. “So run along and peddle your papers.”
An ugly look came over the fellow’s face.
“Threatenin’ me, be yuh?” he bawled. “I’m bad Pete Higgins! Guess yer didn’t know that.”
“I don’t care whether your name is Higgins, Wiggins or Spriggins,” replied Tom, snapping his fingers in the chap’s face.
“Say, do yer want ter go back ter the village in chunks, ’stead of all in one piece?”
“If you don’t stand aside, you’ll land on your neck in that mud-puddle.”
“And quick!” rasped Ben.
The sottish fellow gave a snarl, for all the world like a mad dog, raised his fists, and started forward. But then he stopped abruptly, froze in his tracks, and stared long and hard into Tom Gordon’s face.
“Tarnation,” he said finally, evil intent in his very tone, “I know yer now! Yer the young squirt what Pat Fagan’s lookin fer!”
“Out of the way, fellow!” ordered Ben, who was now becoming thoroughly alarmed. “Come on, Tom! Let’s get going.”
At these words, their stubby opponent wheeled about with surprising ginger and once more dashed into the Turtle. Before the somewhat astounded boys could take more than a step or two, he was out again. And worse still, far worse, back of him loomed the hulking figure of the dreaded Pat Fagan! The big border ruffian rushed forward, seized Tom’s shoulder in a powerful grasp and began to laugh.
“Good fer you, Pete Higgins!” he exclaimed. “It’s sure ’nuff the young varmint what shoved me in the swamp.”
“I figgered so, Pat.”
“Yep, an’ I aim ter tan his hide in good shape. What luck!”
What bad luck, indeed, for Tom Gordon! Fagan showed his jagged, tobacco-stained teeth in an evil grin, while he still held a firm grip upon the boy’s shoulder. A gleam of triumph shone in his eyes.
“Come, boy,” he threatened, as the lad kept a tight-lipped silence, “what have yer got ter say fer yerself?”
The burly soldier’s awful grip tightened on Tom’s shoulder. His five fingers seemed to sink like daggers into the boy’s flesh. Pain shot all through Tom, and a sudden passion of rage filled his every vein. The anger and the pain together gave him a fierce impulse, backed by double his usual strength. Fagan held him by the left shoulder, but quickly clenching his right fist, he rammed it into the soldier’s stomach with great violence.
Powerful as he was, Fagan’s grip was torn loose; and, despite himself, he staggered back, with the wind half knocked out of him.
“I’ll skin yer alive!” he wheezed, holding his midriff and frantically trying to regain his wind.
By this time, word had spread within the Turtle that some sort of a fight was shaping up outside. A mixed crowd of soldiers, trappers, traders and half-breeds—about a dozen in all—came tumbling out the door, eager for the expected excitement.
“What goes on here?” asked a chunky, heavily-bearded trapper, dressed in a fringed buckskin suit.
“Fagan’s ketched the young sprout what heaved him in the swamp,” explained the man Pete. “He’s goin’ ter give him a goin’ over.”
“Aw shucks, Pat,” protested the trapper, “he’s only a kid. Don’t use him up!”
“Now jest keep yer big beak outen this, Sandy!” retorted the vengeful Pat, who had by this time recovered his breath.
“Sandy’s right,” broke in another of the crowd. “He’s jest a young gaffer. Tain’t sportin’ to smash him up.”
“Be fair, Pat!” yelled someone else.
“Keep yer blabs shut, every last man of yuh!” bellowed Fagan, doubly enraged by this interference.
“Well, if ye must play the bully,” went on the trapper known as Sandy, “go over yonder an’ fight, aside the shanty, where there’s a good bit more room.”
Fagan turned and stripped off his flannel shirt. His huge, hairy arms and his big, knotted hands looked dangerous.
“I kin give him all the fight he kin swaller right har,” he snarled. “’Fraid if I give him more room, he’ll turn tail an’ run.”
Fagan had a deeper reason, in truth, for wanting to fight in the narrow space between the door of the Turtle and the swamp. He was banking on a quick, rough-and-tumble scuffle, and he knew, full well, that his extra weight, in close quarters, would give him a better chance. He was smart enough to realize that his wind wouldn’t be nearly as good as the younger, leaner, clean-muscled Tom’s; and the narrow, cramped space would tend to give him added advantage.
But the watching crowd overruled big Pat on that score.
“Ye may as well give in, Pat,” urged his crony, Pete.
Now the whole crowd moved over. Tom, stripped down the way Fagan was, had a determined fire in his blue eyes.
“Don’t fret, Ben,” he said to his brother, whose face was white and drawn, “I think I can take his measure.”
“Keep the big cuss runnin’ aroun’, lad,” put in the trapper, Sandy, giving Tom a friendly tap on the shoulder. “He’s soft from wild livin’, and in the long run ye’ll have his tongue a hangin’ out.”
In the bright moonlight, in the big open space beside the shanty, the two fighters squared off. Tom, slim and straight, but sinewy, was outweighed by at least thirty pounds. Pat Fagan’s sloping shoulders and hairy chest and long arms gave him an ominous, bear-like appearance.
The onlookers knew right off what kind of a fight each contestant would try to make it. Fagan would be for rushing in close, grabbing, wrestling, hugging; mauling Tom after he had him on the ground. Tom’s tactics would be to keep off the burly soldier by quick footwork, sidestepping, dancing away, darting in cunningly with sharp, swift jabs; blows that would sting big Pat, tantalize him, make him mad, keep him charging in like a wild bull, until his wind was gone. Then would come Tom’s big chance, smashing straight in with hard punches that carried the whole weight of his body behind them.
The watching crowd stood in a wide circle, bodies tense, fists clenched, heads poked forward, eying every move of big Pat and Tom, as they warily circled and edged in. Ben Gordon’s heart was pumping fiercely. Would Tom be able to fight his kind of fight? Or would the ponderous Pat succeed in overpowering him with his sheer, brute strength? If Pat could do it, then it would be a speedy fracas, and soon over with. If Tom, then it would probably drag along for half an hour. Ben’s pulses beat savagely when Fagan suddenly lunged.
As Pat rushed forward, he worked his brawny arms like a windmill. His wide swings, though clumsy, were heavy and they drove Tom back. One of them caught the lad a glancing blow on the cheek, leaving a red, raw streak. But Tom was the better boxer. While he was forced to yield ground, his fists, at the same time, were working straight and true, like pistons. One hefty punch cut Pat’s lip and made the blood run.
Pat fumed; then dove forward again, attempting to encircle Tom’s waist with his gorilla-like arms.
“Watch out, Tom!” screamed Ben, torn with alarm.
But the agile Tom was smart enough to escape the trap. Quick as a rabbit he whirled sidewise, at the same time plunging his elbow hard into Pat’s stomach. Then he dodged low, underneath Pat’s hairy arms, and threw himself to one side, out of danger. In a trice he was up, alertly facing his opponent again.
Fagan stood stock-still, glowering sullenly at his nimble adversary. He panted heavily for a few seconds, then charged once more. This time he got a partial clutch on Tom’s arm, and yanked him toward him. The boy wrenched loose, but the same time unluckily lost his balance and went sprawling backwards.
“Pat’s got him now!” gloated the wizened Pete; and Ben gave another yell of alarm, as he saw his brother go down, flat as a pancake.
Pat leaped eagerly toward the prostrate boy, expecting to pin him to the ground and beat him half senseless. But Tom was quick as a cat. He turned over with lightning speed and rolled swiftly to one side. Pat came down clawing nothing but the air, mud and grass. Hot with thwarted fury, he scrambled to his feet and faced Tom again.
Now Pat rushed anew; but it was noticeable that his rush was shorter and more feeble. This time he stumbled and went down on his hands and knees, as Tom slipped easily away.
“C’mon!” snarled the infuriated soldier. “Stand up an’ fight like a man, yuh slinkin’ ’fraidy-cat!”
It was clear that Fagan was trying to get Tom mad, so that he would wade in and mix it hammer and tongs. But Tom, though young in years, had an old head on his shoulders. He was too cagy to be caught in Pat’s snare. He merely danced about with fists ready, and on his face a cool and exasperating smile.
Fagan made another bull-like rush; but to no avail. Tom dodged away like a shadow. Now Pat stood stock-still again. The look of surprise was growing on his puffed, bloody face; for he had taken several, straight, heavy punches. Furthermore, he was now blowing and puffing like a heavey horse. On the other hand, Tom was still breathing pretty evenly, but his arms and shoulders were getting sore and bruised from warding off Pat’s desperate swings.
And thus it went for some time more,—with the ponderous soldier ever charging and the agile lad always cleverly evading his rushes. Then, all at once, Tom changed his strategy. His keen eye detected that the mountainous Fagan was half groggy and badly blown. Quick as a bounding deer, the boy sprang forward, catching the surprised soldier with his guard partly down. Tom bounced first his right fist, and then his left, off Pat’s face. But the heavy-set fellow wasn’t knocked over. His head rocked, he was stung hard, but he lunged blindly forward, notwithstanding. One big hand caught Tom by the arm, while the other crept halfway about the boy’s waist.
The next moment or so was a whirlwind of excitement. The crowd was all jumping up and down and yelling like wild Indians. Tom, agile as he was, couldn’t break free, and he couldn’t get enough force in his blows, cramped as he was, to put Fagan down for good. It was a desperate tussle, now, to see which fighter could throw the other and come down on top. It was just the kind of fight that Tom had tried to avoid. But he was still strong and quick, while the hulking Pat was muscle-weary and spent; so the match now looked pretty even, in spite of the soldier’s greater bulk.
Suddenly, the wily Tom got his heel back of Pat’s and tripped him handily. Pat fell hard, so hard that his savage clutch loosened. With a quick twist of his body Tom wrenched himself free and bounced to his feet again, alert for whatever might come.
Fagan lay flat on his back for a half-minute, panting heavily and looking at Tom with an evil gleam in his eye. Finally, he got to a sitting posture. Then, as he put one hand back of him to help him rise to his feet, he felt in the grass a broken axe-handle that had been thrown aside there. Pat’s fingers closed tightly over the hardwood handle. With a murderous look on his face he lurched swiftly to his feet.
“Watch sharp, Tom!” yelped Ben frantically. “He’s got a club!”
Fagan swung back his brawny arm. “I’ll cave in yur skull, yuh young polecat!” he snarled at Tom.
Before the big ruffian could strike, however, Sandy the trapper, Ben and three or four others of the onlookers threw themselves upon him. With great effort they dragged him cursing and fuming to the earth.
“Thur’ll be none of yer foul play, Pat Fagan!” rasped Sandy.
“He didn’t fit fair!” glowered the enraged soldier. “I’l have his blasted hide some day, that I will!”
“Oh, shet yer big mouth,” ordered the trapper sternly, as he and the others struggled to hold down the half-crazed man. “It was a whale of a fight, an’ he licked yuh fair an’ square.”
“Sure he did,” added Ben heatedly.
“You ain’t got no kick comin’, Pat,” put in another man. “You had your chance, but the lad was too much for you. He can fight like a bulldog.”
Sandy turned to Tom, who was standing by, his fists still clenched.
“An’ now, Tom lad,” he advised, “you’d better move on to the village with your brother. If Pat was any kind of a man, he’d shake hands an’ call it quits fer good. But he’s a blackhearted villain, an’ I’m warnin’ yuh to watch him well as long as yur in these parts.”