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.