“I reckon he must have given the farmer a jolt, for while we were a good way from the Indian country, still there were plenty of ‘hostiles’ about, and any day there might be a raid. This was about the time of the Little Big Horn Massacre.”
“You mean Custer’s last stand?”
“Yes. So, you see, the farmer had reason enough to be startled. As soon as he had a good look at the boy, though, he saw that the youngster was only frightened. He cut the nettle string from the lad’s head, washed off in the nearest brook as much of the red ink and corn syrup as he could, and started for town.
“I thought we were in for real trouble, but to do that boy’s father plain justice, I’ll admit he was a good sport. Though he was as mad as a hornet, he was fair. He gave me a good tongue-lashing, and told me—which was true—that I ought to have had more sense, as the boy might have been killed with fright. He repeated to me the old story of the man who was ordered to be beheaded, and who died when a cup of cold water was dashed on his neck in joke. Still, he said it was a boys’ row, he remembered when he was a boy himself, and it wasn’t his business to interfere. He added that he hoped I would get my medicine from the other gang, twice as hot as I had given it.”
“That was fair enough, Father.”
“Indeed it was. But even he was satisfied with what I got in return.”
“What was it?”
The old merchant rolled up his sleeve to the shoulder, and showed his son a white scar running down almost the whole length of the upper arm. The wound had evidently been a deep one.
“I got that from the dragon,” he said.
“You’d a real fight, then?” ejaculated Perry, surprised at this evidence of an actual encounter.