“Barker’s like a bull,” said an interested river-man. “There’s no one between here and New Orleans that’s got a chance with him. He’ll eat this young fellow up.”
And the fact that the bullet-headed young man was considered the sure winner made him popular with a great number of the onlookers. That he was a noted bruiser had been passed about, and the crowd desired a specimen of his quality.
“Hurry up about it, Barker,” suggested a planter in a huge rimmed soft hat. “Don’t forget that the boat will be here only a quarter of an hour.”
“A quarter of an hour!” cried another. “Why, Barker’ll lick a half dozen like this fellow in that time.”
A loud laugh went up, and the rough throng gathered into a circle tighter than before.
“Sail into him, Bark,” advised one.
“Show him your mettle,” encouraged another.
“He’ll know better next time,” said a third.
“Barker’ll break his bones like match-sticks,” maintained a fourth.
One of those who stood gazing at the preparation for battle was a tall, raw-boned man of almost fifty, with a good-natured face, and a manner which was upon the verge of the eccentric. He wore a coonskin cap, a long fringed hunting shirt of buckskin, leggings and tanned moccasins. In the hollow of his arm he carried a handsome rifle. He had been one of those who stood upon the wharf awaiting the tying of the “Mediterranean,” apparently for the purpose of taking passage. But the crowd streaming over the rail had attracted his attention and he had followed.