THE RIFLE RANG OUT

IN TEXAS WITH
DAVY CROCKETT

By
JOHN T. McINTYRE

Author of
“In Kentucky with Daniel Boone,”
“In the Rockies with Kit Carson”

Illustrations by
JOHN A. HUYBERS

THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1914

COPYRIGHT
1914 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Contents

Illustrations

In Texas With Davy Crockett

CHAPTER I
DOWN THE MISSISSIPPI

The towering stacks of the steamboat “Mediterranean” sent their clouds of smoke, black and wind rent, across the sky; her sharp bow cut the yellow waters of the Mississippi and dashed the spray as high as her rails.

The cabins were thronged with passengers; the forward deck was tiered high with bales and barrels and boxes of merchandise.

Two boys sat by the rail upon the upper deck; their faces were earnest and they talked in low tones.

“Are you quite sure that Sam Davidge is on board, Walt?” asked one.

“I’d know him among a whole city-full, let alone a cabin-full,” answered Walter Jordan. “And I’ve seen him three times to-day.”

The other boy frowned and looked out over the wide river toward the Arkansas shore.

“It’s queer,” said he. “It’s very queer that he should just happen to be going down the river at the same time we are.”

Walter Jordan gave his friend a quick look.

“Ned,” said he, “chance has nothing to do with it—as I think you know.”

Ned Chandler nodded.

“He’s on board because we are; he’s trying to find out where we are going.” The boy ran his fingers through his short light hair, and his blue eyes snapped. “I never did think much of Davidge; and I think less of him now than I did before.”

Walter Jordan leaned back in his chair and clasped one knee with his hands. He was a tall, well-built young fellow of eighteen with a broad chest and shoulders, and a good-looking, resolute face.

“When we boarded the ‘General Greene’ at Louisville,” said he, “I thought I saw Davidge in the crowd. But you know what a miserable, wet night it was and how the lamps on the pier flickered. So I couldn’t be sure.”

“You never mentioned it to me,” said Ned, complainingly.

“I didn’t want to until I was sure. I thought there was no use getting up an excitement about a thing that might turn out to have nothing behind it.”

From somewhere around the high tiers of bales, a negro deck hand picked a tune out of a banjo; and the rhythmic shuffle and pit-pat-pit of feet told of another who danced to the music.

“All the way down the Ohio on the ‘Greene’ I noticed you were very quiet and watchful,” spoke young Chandler. “But to me it only meant that you were careful. I never thought of anything else.”

Walter Jordan looked at his friend, and there was a troubled look in his eyes.

“And Sam Davidge isn’t all we have to worry us,” said he, in a lower tone. “When we reached the Mississippi, and changed to this boat, I noticed something else.”

Ned caught the troubled look, and though he did not in the least suspect the cause of it, his own round face took on one just like it.

“What was it?” he asked.

“Have you seen a man on board whom they all call Colonel Huntley?”

Ned’s eyes went to the cabin door where he had noticed two persons a few moments before; the two were still there and intently examining them.

“Yes,” said Ned. “I know whom you mean.”

“I didn’t understand it, and I don’t like it,” said Walter, the troubled look growing deeper, “but there is never a time I look toward him that I don’t find his eyes upon me.”

“Humph!” said Ned. And then: “Well, Walt, he’s not changed his ways any. Don’t look around just yet, or he’ll see that we’ve been speaking of him. He’s over by the cabin door behind you, and he’s looking this way for all he’s worth.”

“Alone?” asked Walter.

“No. That fellow Barker is with him.”

“Barker’s like his shadow,” said Walter. “You never see one without the other.”

Colonel Huntley was a man of perhaps forty years, tall and powerfully built. He wore a long frock coat of gray cloth, doe-skin trousers, and long shining boots. Upon his head was a bell-crowned beaver hat with a curling brim. In the immaculately white stock about his neck was a large diamond set in rough gold.

The person beside him was a young fellow of perhaps twenty, with huge, thick shoulders and a round bullet head.

“Tell me,” said Ned, his eyes upon the two but his mind, apparently, upon a subject altogether foreign to them, “do you think Colonel Huntley has anything to do with Davidge?”

“I feel sure of it,” replied Walter. “When either of us is about, Sam keeps hidden. But when the coast’s clear, or they think it is, he is to be seen in out-of-the-way corners, earnestly discussing something with Colonel Huntley.”

“I can see that I’ve been missing a great deal,” said young Chandler. “But that’s past. In the future I’m going to keep both eyes wide open. Earnest conversation in out-of-the-way corners means only one thing. And that is: that something is under way which has a good bit to do with our trip to Texas.”

There was a silence for a space. Ned continued covertly to inspect the two at the cabin door. Walter gazed ahead along the broad stretch of the Mississippi; on the left was the thickly timbered shore of Tennessee; and that of Arkansas frowned at them from the right.

The “Mediterranean” was a large boat; she was deeply loaded with cargo and carried a great throng of passengers. But passengers were always plentiful in those early days of the year 1836; for the situation between Texas and Mexico had grown acute; war had spread its sombre wings for a terrible flight across that new land; the adventurers and soldiers of fortune of the States were swarming toward the southwest.

Those men who had fought in the many wars with the Indians, who had carried the line of the frontier forward step by step, who had leveled the wilderness and subdued the forces which spring up in the path of civilization, had long ago turned their eyes toward the vast empire north of the Rio Grande. They saw it loosely held by an inferior race; they saw a hardy, fearless band of Americans resisting oppression and preparing to repulse the advance of Santa Anna. And so each steamer down the Mississippi carried a horde of them, armed and ready to do their part.

Since boarding the boat the boys had heard little else but Texas. The name seemed to be on every tongue. And even now, as they sat thinking over the turn that seemed to have taken place in their own affairs, the loud voices that came to their ears from the cabin held to the subject.

“A pack of mongrels, that’s what they are,” said a voice above the clatter. “And not a good fight among them. The idea of their trying to dictate to a free people like the Texans what shall and what shall not be done.”

Another man seemed stunned by the immense area of the new land.

“Just think of the size of it!” cried he, in high admiration. “Eight hundred and twenty-five miles long, and seven hundred and forty miles wide. It’s twice as big as Great Britain and Ireland, and bigger than France, Holland, Belgium and Denmark put together.”

“Who says a country like that is not worth fighting for?” shouted another voice. “Who says it shouldn’t belong to these United States?”

“Let Santa Anna poke his nose across the Coahuila line, and he’ll get it cut off with a bowie knife,” said still another adventurer.

“It seems to me,” said Walter Jordan, “that we couldn’t have had a worse time to carry out our errand to Texas than just now. The closer we get to it, the more war-like things are.”

Ned Chandler looked at his friend in surprise.

“What, Walter,” said he, “you’re not holding back because things are not all quiet and orderly, are you?”

Walter smiled.

“I’m headed for Texas, and going as fast as this boat will take me,” said he. “And I mean to keep on going until I get there and do what we set out to do.”

Ned laughed in a pleased sort of way. There was a light of adventure in his eyes.

“Why do you object to the coming war with the Mexicans, then?” said he. “That will make only the more fun on our trip south.”

“But fun is not what we’ve come for,” said Walter. “We’ve got a purpose in view, and until that’s accomplished, we must think of nothing else.”

Ned grew more sober.

“Right you are,” said he. “Not a thing must enter our minds but the one thing, until it’s done. But after that,” and his eyes began to dance once more, “we can take time to look around us a bit, can’t we?”

“Why, I suppose that would do no harm. But mind you, Ned, not until then.”

“Not for a moment,” said Ned Chandler. “You can count on me, Walt.”

Again there was a silence between them, and once more the voices came from the cabin.

“I know the settlement of Texas from start to finish,” said the loud-voiced man. “First the French built a fort; then they left, and the Spanish came and built missions, and called the state the New Philippines, and began to fight the Comanche and Apache. When the United States bought the Louisiana territory from France, trouble began with Spain. We claimed everything north of the Rio Grande; but the Spaniards said the Sabine was the natural line.”

“I recall the things that followed that,” said another voice. “I was quite a youngster then, and was in New Orleans. Every little while expeditions were formed to invade Texas and fight the Spanish. One, I remember, was while the war with England was going on; and the Spanish were licked, losing a thousand men.”

“Then Steve Austin went into the territory and planted a colony,” went on the first speaker. “The new Mexican republic stuck Coahuila on to Texas and tried to make one state of them. But when the Americans in the country got a little stronger they rebelled against this, passed a resolution and sent it to Santa Anna, asking that Texas be admitted into the republic as a separate state.”

“They might have known that he wouldn’t listen to such a thing,” said the other man. “‘The Napoleon of the West’ he likes to be called, but a more detestable tyrant never oppressed an honest people.”

“Well, when he tried to go against the will of Texas, they gave him right smart whippings at Goliad and Concepcion, elected Smith governor, and Sam Houston commander of the army. Then they smashed into San Antonio and ran the Mexicans out of Texas.”

“Nothing will ever come of it until they cut away from Mexico for good and all,” said the second man. “I’m not for Texas as an independent state in the Mexican Republic. What I want to see, and what thousands of others want to see, is Texas, a republic itself, entirely free of Mexico, or else Texas, a state in our own Union.”

This saying met with much favor; the babble of voices arose, mingled with the clapping of hands.

“For,” went on the speaker, raising his voice that he might be heard, “as long as they stick to Mexico, just that long will they keep in hot water. Santa Anna may be, at this minute, marching against them with an army. And he will keep on marching against them until they make themselves altogether independent of him and his gang.”

Here Walter Jordan arose.

“Let’s go inside,” said he. “They all seem to be quite interested.”

Ned also got up.

“Do you think there will ever be such a thing as the Texas republic?” said he.

Walter shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s hard to say. But if the Texans are anything at all like what I hear they are, it wouldn’t surprise me if it came about some day.”

And so they turned toward the cabin door, and Walter found himself face to face with Colonel Huntley.

CHAPTER II
THE PLOT

Colonel Huntley had cold gray eyes which, when he chose, had an insult in their every glance. And now, as Walter Jordan’s eyes met his, he never stirred from the cabin door. Quietly the lad stood and looked at him; and the cold, valuing eyes were filled with mockery.

“Do you want anything?” he asked, sneeringly.

“I wish to go into the cabin,” replied the boy. “Will you kindly step out of the way?”

Colonel Huntley laughed in an unpleasant manner, but did not move.

“I think,” said he, “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

“Perhaps,” said the boy.

“You’re the son of Carroll Jordan, attorney, at Louisville?” said Colonel Huntley.

“I am,” said Walter.

“I knew your father,” sneered Huntley.

“If you did,” came the boy’s swift reply, “you knew one of the finest gentlemen in Kentucky.”

The mockery in Huntley’s eyes increased.

“That depends altogether on how one looks at it,” said he.

When Walter Jordan spoke there was a ring in his voice which Ned Chandler knew well.

“Looked at in the right way,” said the lad, “and by that I mean the way in which any fair and honest person would look at it, there can be only one opinion. And that is the one which I have given.”

The bullet-headed young man grinned widely, showing a row of strong teeth, with wide spaces between them. He nodded to Colonel Huntley.

“That’s talking,” said he. “Right to your face, too.”

Huntley had a satisfied look in his face; his cold eyes examined Walter from head to foot. Ned Chandler plucked at his friend’s sleeve, and breathed into his ear.

“Look out! He’s trying to get you into some kind of a muss.”

“So,” spoke Huntley, and his tones were as cold as his eyes, “you don’t consider me either fair or honest, then?”

Walter met the man’s look steadily.

“I have not mentioned you,” said he. “I referred to those persons who might, as you suggested, speak ill of my father. You have not said what you thought, sir.”

Again Huntley laughed his unpleasant laugh.

“You are something of a diplomat,” said he. “Or, had I better say, a dodger.”

“Why, if I cared to,” said Walter, quietly, “I might say almost the same thing of yourself. Put yourself on record—say openly what you mean, and I will give you an answer, plain enough for you or anybody else.”

There was a silence after the boy’s bold words. Ned Chandler’s eyes snapped with delight, for here was a chance for excitement. Colonel Huntley hesitated—not at all because he had not a ready word or act, but apparently because he feared to trust himself. It was his bullet-headed companion who spoke.

“I’ve heard of your father,” said he. “I’ve been told of the little game he’s up to; and I think he’s trying to feather his own nest.”

Apparently stung to the quick, young Jordan whirled upon the speaker, his hand drawn back for a blow. But he felt an iron clutch on his wrist, and saw the burly chief mate of the “Mediterranean” at his side.

“None of that,” said the mate, sternly. “No fighting here. There are women passengers, you know.”

The bullet-headed youth had stepped aside at Walter’s first swift motion; this left a space in the cabin doorway, and seizing the chance, Ned Chandler crowded his friend through and pushed him along the full length of the men’s cabin, in spite of his efforts to halt.

“Now,” said the light-haired boy, when they finally brought up in an unoccupied corner, “before you say anything, let me tell you what I think.” He shoved his hands down into his trousers pockets, and eyed his friend calmly.

“You were a little excited out there,” said he, “and maybe you didn’t see what I saw.”

“I saw that Colonel Huntley deliberately set out to insult me,” said Walter, his eyes glinting with anger, his fists clenched.

“That’s true,” said Ned, coolly. “So he did. And more than that.”

Walter looked at his friend, for in his tone he noted a something which attracted his attention.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The whole thing was arranged,” said Ned, nodding his head assuredly. “Those two planted themselves in the doorway to wait for you. Colonel Huntley was to provoke you, and that fellow Barker was to step in at the right moment and pick a fight with you.”

Walter threw up his hand and his angry eyes sought the length of the men’s cabin.

“Well,” said he, his hands tightly clenched, “it’s not too late, if he’s still of the same mind.”

But Ned Chandler shook his head; apparently he did not agree with his friend’s present humor.

“I know how you must feel,” said he, “to hear your father badly spoken of in a thing like this. He’s giving his money and his time and his learning to do a thing which will never bring him a penny of gain. He’s sending you on a mission to a distant place like Texas, just because he wants to see right done. And to hear people say things, like those Huntley and Barker have said, is hard to bear. But you must bear it.”

“I will not!” said Walter steadily, his eyes still searching the cabin for the two men.

As a rule, young Jordan was the cooler and more thoughtful of the two boys. Ned was the impulsive one, the plunger into adventure, a rollicking, harum-scarum youngster. But, so it seemed, what had been said against his father had stirred Walter deeply and made him throw his usual caution aside. And seeing this, Ned, who was observant enough when he was so inclined, had seized the helm and was now guiding the craft of their fortunes.

“Such people as those,” said Walter, “are of the sort who make a business of bullying. They try to browbeat every one they meet; and they are encouraged by people’s giving in to them. And I don’t mean to do that.”

“That Barker has a bad look,” said Ned, “and he’s a pretty strong-looking fellow. No, no,” hastily, as he caught sight of the expression that came into his friend’s face, “of course his strength wouldn’t make any difference to you. But take a look at it from the other side. These two haven’t planned this thing with just the idea of getting you into a fight. They are deeper than that.” He put his hand upon Walter’s arm. “Suppose,” said he, in a lower tone, “you were hurt. What then?”

Walter looked at young Chandler, and gradually the expression of his face changed.

“Our trip to Texas would be delayed,” said he.

“That’s it,” said Ned. “And they would get there ahead of you; and the thing your father is so set on doing for this girl in Texas would never be done.”

The anger had now altogether left Walter Jordan’s face; he laid his hand upon Ned’s shoulder.

“You are right,” said he. “I see it now. That’s just what they are after. And I see Sam Davidge’s hand in it. He’s planned it with them.”

The two sat down upon chairs in the corner to discuss this new aspect. The men’s cabin was crowded with all sorts of travelers; and the clatter and rumble of voices went on with the regularity of the engine’s throb. Almost every walk of life was represented among the passengers. Planters on the way down the river to Natchez or New Orleans; sharpers on the lookout for some easy means of gaining money; slave dealers, the sellers of plantation requirements, steamboat men, drovers, adventurers and desperadoes on their way to the new country—Texas.

These latter were easily known by their dress and manner. Some were elegantly attired in the fashion of the time, others wore flannel shirts and wide-rimmed hats, and had the legs of their trousers stuffed into long leather boots. Still another class possessed the hunting shirt, deerskin leggings and coonskin cap of the backwoodsman. All were armed with pistol, knife and rifle; and all had the free, loud, independent ways of their kind.

“Texas,” declared the man with the strong voice which the lads had heard while upon the deck, “was never made for Mexicans. It’s a great country, and none but white men are fit to own it. I, for one, am going down there with a rifle that can snuff out a candle at fifty yards, and I’m going to have a personal word for Santa Anna if I ever run across him.”

A shout went up from the adventurers, rifle butts rattled upon the cabin floor and brawny fists thumped tables and the arms of chairs.

“Now you’re shouting!” cried another man, a lank backwoodsman in a fringed buckskin shirt. “Let them stop palavering and get to work. Greasers’ll never do anything but talk if you talk with them. Lead’s my way of conversing with such folks—lead out of a rifle barrel, and with a good eye behind it.”

“What’s the committee that’s got charge of things doing down there?” asked a booted and burly man in a soiled flannel shirt and a huge Remington revolver sticking in his belt. “Why don’t they get to some kind of an agreement, and let Sam Houston loose to march against the Greasers. As my friend here says, talk’s no good, if it’s not backed up by rifles. What they need is to give Houston about five thousand men who know how to shoot, and in three months’ time you’ll never hear another word from Santa Anna and his gang.”

While they talked, the boys kept their eyes fixed upon the people in the cabin, watching for Huntley or his shadow. Just then the whistle of the steamboat shrieked and the engine slowed down in answer to the pilot’s bell.

“We’re about to make a landing,” said Ned, his gaze going to a window. “See how near the Tennessee shore is.”

“It’s a place called Randolph,” said a planter who sat near by.

“Going to take on some passengers, I suppose,” said Ned.

“And while the boat’s doing that,” said Walter, steadily watching two figures who were pushing their way through the crowded cabin toward them, “I think you and I’ll be entertaining Colonel Huntley and his friend Mr. Barker.”

CHAPTER III
THE QUARREL

Ned Chandler looked toward the place indicated by his friend and, sure enough, he saw Huntley and Barker approaching.

“Take care,” said Ned, warningly, but with his blue eyes snapping. “Don’t get yourself hurt. But if they crowd trouble on you, don’t step back. Give them all they want.”

If Walter Jordan expected Colonel Huntley to open hostilities when he approached, he merely showed that he did not know the methods of that gentleman. As a matter of fact, Huntley did not appear to notice either of the two young fellows; Barker, however, gave Walter a lowering sidelong look as he took a vacant chair near the one newly occupied by the colonel.

“Well, Huntley,” said one of those near by, “it’s rather a surprise to see you on board.”

“I didn’t expect to be, up to a very few days ago,” said the colonel. He placed his feet, with insolent deliberation, upon the small table upon which young Jordan was leaning, and began to slap at his boot leg with the light stick which he carried. “A thing came up which I had to attend to in a hurry.”

“I see,” said the other. “Going down to New Orleans, I suppose?”

“No,” replied Colonel Huntley, “I’m going to Texas.”

The cold eyes of the man, as he said this, fixed themselves upon Walter; the sneer was once more upon his lips. The young fellow regarded him with no trace of the hot anger of a short time before; nevertheless there was that in his manner which said as plainly as words that he was no more inclined to accept an affront then than he had been before.

“Go on,” said the steady, watchful eyes. “I’ll say nothing if I’m not pushed to it. But, you know, there’s a line which you must not cross.”

The man whom Huntley addressed looked amazed at his statement.

“Texas!” exclaimed he. “Why, I had no idea that you were interested in the liberation of that territory.”

Both Colonel Huntley and Barker laughed.

“I’m not,” said the colonel. “My mission is something else.” He looked at the other inquiringly. “You remember Tom Norton, who once ran a newspaper at Nashville?”

“Of course,” said the other. “Very well. And his wife and little daughter.”

“Tom went to Texas,” said Huntley.

“I understood he started another paper at Natchez,” said the man.

Huntley nodded.

“He did. But like the one at Nashville, it didn’t last long. He took his family to Texas, and settled at San Antonio. Both Tom and his wife are dead. The girl is grown up and is still at San Antonio.”

“I see,” said the other, and looked at Huntley with the expression of a man who knows that more is coming.

“Norton had some rich relations at Louisville; they’ve gone too, and have left a fortune to the girl, who knows nothing at all of it.”

“And so you are on your way to San Antonio to tell her?”

“Yes, to tell her; and also to keep her out of the clutches of a hawk of a Louisville lawyer who’s interested himself in the case.”

Ned Chandler looked at his friend; but Walter was still quiet and still had the steady look in his eyes.

“Good enough,” thought Ned. “He’ll not do anything unless they force him.”

“So,” said the planter, who was conversing with Colonel Huntley, “the birds of prey have smelled out the money, have they?”

“Yes,” replied the colonel, switching at his boot leg with the stick. “As soon as the news went abroad that there was a rich haul to be had, this particular shark began to stir himself. He claims to be the executor of the estate; he has a lot of useless papers, and has sent emissaries to Texas to get possession of the girl.”

The planter laughed.

“Well, he’s energetic, at all events,” said he. “But what’s his name?”

“Jordan,” answered Huntley.

An exclamation of surprise came from the planter.

“Not Carroll Jordan!” said he.

“The same,” said Huntley, nodding.

“You amaze me,” said the planter. “This is the first time I ever heard anything said against Counsellor Jordan. As far as I’ve ever been able to learn, he’s rated as high as justice itself.”

Huntley shook his head; from the corners of his cold eyes he watched the young man opposite him.

“That’s what the public thinks,” said he. “And the public seldom gets at the truth of things.”

The planter seemed puzzled.

“Maybe so,” said he, not at all convinced. “But somehow I can’t get it into my mind as a fact. If you were talking of a sharper such as Sam Davidge, that other Louisville attorney, I could understand it.”

Ned Chandler noted the expression that crossed the face of Colonel Huntley at this and he choked back a chuckle. Young Jordan leaned forward, quietly.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said he to the planter; “but it might interest you to know that, in the case you are discussing, Sam Davidge is on the other side.”

The planter seemed surprised both at the statement and at Walter’s interruption. His eyes went to Huntley. But the latter said nothing. It was Barker who spoke.

“Look here,” said the bullet-headed personage to young Jordan. “What do you mean by forcing yourself into a conversation which does not concern you?”

The young fellow looked at him, still quietly.

“I think you are mistaken,” said he. “The conversation does concern me intimately.” Then turning to the planter he added, “You’ll understand that, sir, when I tell you that I am the son of Carroll Jordan whom Colonel Huntley has seen fit to slander.”

Huntley’s cold eyes stared into those of the speaker; he lounged back in his chair, and when he spoke his voice was menacing.

“This is the second time in the last half hour,” said he, “that you’ve taken occasion to rub me the wrong way. If you were well acquainted with me you wouldn’t do it.”

“I think,” returned the young man, calmly, “that I am as well acquainted with you as I care to be. Your method of doing things, Colonel Huntley, is not to my taste. I dislike a man who sets out to insult some one whom he’s opposed to, and then steps aside so that some one in his pay may do the dirty work.”

“What’s that?” snarled Barker, rising to his feet.

“Your plan, Colonel Huntley,” went on Walter Jordan, disregarding the bullet-headed young man entirely, and addressing himself to his principal, “is rather a good one, as plans go. You would get the result you are after, and yet would not actively figure in the matter. I suppose Sam Davidge arranged that with you in the secret consultations you’ve been having in the last little while.”

Barker, an ugly expression upon his face, tapped young Jordan on the shoulder.

“Talk to me,” said he. “You’ve said I do some one’s dirty work; and so I’m going to give you a chance to prove it.”

But here Ned Chandler pushed himself between the two.

“In a few minutes,” said he to Barker, and there was no mistaking his meaning, “you’ll have everything proved to your satisfaction, and in any way you care to have it done. So step back and don’t worry.”

“The whole thing,” proceeded Jordan to Colonel Huntley, and still in the coolest possible manner, “looks like one of Davidge’s shrewd tricks. He knew, somehow, where I was going. He followed, skulking in the background. In some way he must prevent my getting to Texas. He took you into his council. You had a way. You’d provoke me into a quarrel and then set this hound on me,” pointing to the snarling Barker, “in the hope that he’d injure me.”

Slowly Colonel Huntley took his booted feet from off the table; with equal slowness he arose to his feet. His cold, light eyes had the deadly look that comes into those of the cat tribe when about to spring.

“I’ve listened to what you’ve had to say,” said he, evenly. “And now you will listen to me. You’ve openly and deliberately insulted me.”

The palm of young Jordan’s hand came down with a smack upon the table.

“I am the insulted one,” said he. “You put yourself in my way a while ago to insult me. You followed me here to renew your slander when I tried to avoid you. But what I have said concerning you is the truth. You are associated with Davidge in his plot to get possession of Ethel Norton’s estate. I charge you with that to your teeth; and here I am to back it up.”

The cold look in Huntley’s face was now one of triumph.

“If you were old enough and worth my attention in a practical way,” said he, calmly, “I’d take you ashore and shoot you after the accepted code. But as I can’t bother myself with you, I’ll turn you over to my friend here; for you have affronted him as much as you have myself. And perhaps he’ll care to pay some attention to you.”

Ned Chandler grinned at this.

“Still sticking to your little arrangement, eh, colonel?” said he. “Ah, well, there’s nothing in the world like being steadfast.”

“Colonel Huntley can suit himself in this thing,” said Barker, his heavy face fixed in a scowl. “But I’ll do the same. If it’s his notion to pass this matter by, all very well. But I will not. You’ve said something to me, and about me, that was meant to be offensive; and you’ve got to give me satisfaction.”

During the progress of this altercation, all other conversation in the cabin of the “Mediterranean” had gradually ceased. All eyes were now upon Water Jordan and the threatening figure of Barker; for it looked as though the bullet-headed one would spring at the young fellow’s throat at any instant. And the idea of an impending fight was pleasing to the wild spirits which crowded the boat; for conflict was the breath of their nostrils.

“Who’s the fellow who’s looking so tarnation mad?” asked a lank backwoodsman who nursed a long rifle across his knees. “He puts his head down like a wild buffalo.”

“His name’s Barker,” said a traveler. “I’ve been up and down the river for the last five years, and in that time he’s gained a wide reputation as a rough-and-tumble fighter.”

“I’ve heard of him,” spoke a flannel-shirted adventurer, hitching at the belt which supported a pair of huge revolvers. “Almost killed a man at Nashville not long ago.”

“The other one don’t look to be the same kind of a critter,” said the backwoodsman. “Kind of better bred and not so rugged in the shoulders.”

“He looks as though he could give a good account of himself, though,” put in the commercial drummer. “I’d give a nice sum to see Barker beaten soundly. He’s got the reputation of being the most troublesome bruiser on the river.”

Nearer and nearer the “Mediterranean” swung toward the Tennessee shore; the negro roustabouts upon the wharf stood ready to carry and trundle aboard the miscellaneous articles of cargo which awaited the craft. A thin array of passengers was also waiting. Upon the decks of the steamboat stood the captain and his mates; their orders were given curtly and the deck hands sprang alertly to obey them.

Noting the boat’s proximity to the shore, Colonel Huntley said something to Barker in a low voice. Barker’s eyes went to a cabin window as though in reply to some suggestion and an evil look came into his dull face.

“Let us see,” said he to Walter, “if you are as ready with your fists as you are with your tongue. The officers of the boat don’t care to have any trouble aboard, so, as we’ll tie up to a wharf in a few minutes, let’s take our affairs ashore, and have it out without any interference.”

“Good!” cried Ned Chandler. “That suits us down to the ground. Let it be ashore, by all means.”

Acting upon one impulse the passengers streamed out upon the deck; there was a hurrying of deck hands, a sharp calling of orders and the jingling of the pilot’s bell. Then with a great splashing of her wheels and a straining of hawsers, the “Mediterranean” lay quietly at the wharf.

Instantly the gangplank was run out and the singing negroes began to roll on the cargo. Walter Jordan and Ned vaulted over the rail; a horde of passengers followed, among them being Colonel Huntley and Barker.

CHAPTER IV
THE FIGHT

At the head of the wharf was an open space, and when they reached this Barker halted, and stripped off his coat.

“No use going any farther, gentlemen,” said he with a wicked grin. “I’d just as lief smash him here as anywhere else.”

Walter promptly pulled off his own coat and waistcoat; then he turned up his cuffs. Ned Chandler, his hand upon Walter’s arm, whispered advice, his blue eyes all the time fixed upon Barker.

“Watch him,” cautioned Ned. “Don’t let him get hold of you, or throw you, if you can help it. Stand off, and hit him back as he comes into you.”

Both of the young fellows were fully aware of the lawless nature of the combat into which Walter was about entering. Those were rough days; and the river-men, the pioneers, adventurers and planters who used the great stream were rough men; and so their ways of settling disputes were apt to be primitive. Force was what usually told; the man who fought the most savage and relentless battle was almost invariably the victor. Skill was little considered, as is usually the case in the outposts of the world; the man with the bulging muscles and the flail-like arms was the man figured on to conquer; and now as young Jordan and Barker prepared for the fight there were few who considered that the former had a chance to escape being maimed.

“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.

“You all seem to set a sight of store on Barker,” said this person, after he’d listened to the admiring remarks, and eager encouragement given the bruiser.

“Why not?” demanded a burly steamboat man, turning to the speaker. “He’s beaten every man along the river.”

The man in the hunting shirt laughed good-naturedly.

“Oh, come now,” said he. “His record’s not quite so good as that. What you mean is that he’s beaten all he’s fought; but that doesn’t say much. For fellows like Barker seldom pick a man they’re not sure of.”

“I take it,” said the steamboat man, “that you’ve seen him fight.”

“Lots of times,” said the other, smiling. “In fact, anybody in the habit of seeing young Barker at all must have seen him fight. For it’s the thing he’s usually doing.”

The planter with the wide-rimmed hat surveyed the man in the hunting shirt.

“I think,” said he, “Barker’s going to come out on top.”

The backwoodsman fixed his keen eyes on Walter, who stood with his arms folded across his chest listening to Ned’s last words. And then he smiled.

“Maybe,” said he. “But if that youngster meets him right, he’ll have no easy time of it.”

And with this he worked his way through the throng until he stood at Walter’s side.

“Youngster,” said he in a low voice, “here’s a word of advice. Use your feet. Step around. And don’t hit him around the face or head. You’ll only hurt your hands, and do him no harm. Go for his body when you get the chance. He can’t stand such blows, and anybody who can keep hitting him there can beat him.”

Except for Ned’s caution, “Don’t let him cripple you,” the words of the backwoodsman were the last that young Jordan heard before the battle opened.

“DON’T LET HIM CRIPPLE YOU”

He saw Barker advancing toward him, and stepped out to meet him. The bruiser held his arms awkwardly, his small round head was lowered, and coming within distance he leaped at his opponent without any ceremony. Swish! swish! went his short, powerful arms. Young Jordan allowed the first to swing by him and “ducked” under the other. Then his left went out, catching Barker flush in the mouth, and the right hand followed like a flash, landing on the bruiser’s jaw.

However, though both had been strong blows, sufficient to have staggered most persons, Barker did not seem to regard them at all, but pressed on, his arms lunging and swinging wickedly. But both Jordan’s hands felt the impact against the fellow’s bony front, and as he stepped actively here and there avoiding the other’s rushes and watching him narrowly, this thought formed itself in his mind:

“Whoever it was that just spoke to me seems to know what he was talking about as far as Barker’s head and face go. They’re like iron. And, so, if he was right in that, maybe he was right in the other thing. I’ll give it a trial.”

A dozen times he had opportunities to land blows upon Barker’s face, but he refused to strike. The ring of onlookers seized upon his disinclination and began to jeer.

“He’s afraid!” cried one.

“Barker’s got him scared, so’s he dasn’t lift a hand.”

But the backwoodsman who had spoken to Walter smiled approvingly as he watched him.

“Not too quick with your judgments, gentlemen,” said he. “You’ll see something before long. Barker’s got some one at last who fights him in the right way.”

Like a bull, the bullet-headed bruiser lurched after his nimbly stepping opponent. His arms swung wildly and savagely. Suddenly grasping an opportunity, Walter stepped in and drove his right fist into the other’s short ribs. Barker’s heavy face twitched with pain, and he wavered for an instant. Then young Jordan’s left hand shot out and found a landing place in the pit of the bully’s stomach.

That these two blows had a serious effect was instantly evident. Barker’s face turned a sort of sickly gray and he shook his round head in a fury. But he had courage; and so once more he came on, thrashing out with his fists more awkwardly than before.

Ned Chandler, never missing a move of the two contestants, had seen the landing of Walter’s blows with delight. But he also saw the tremendous power in the bully’s awkward swings, and his pleasure was mingled with a fear that by some chance one of them would find a mark.

“Watch yourself, Walt,” he kept repeating. “Don’t let him get one of those in on you.”

But Walter was careful, and he stepped about actively and with a purpose in every movement. Getting the bruiser into the right position he feinted him into a mad whirling of fists—then, one—two—the powerful body blows were driven home once more.

“That’s it!” cried the tall backwoodsman, much pleased, and wearing a wide smile. “That’s it! Keep it up, youngster. You’ll bring him down like a coon out of a gum tree.”

Barker flinched more under this second pair of blows than he had under the first. And his attack grew slacker.

“Now!” cried Ned Chandler. “Now, Walt, go in. This is your time.”

“But keep up your guard!” cautioned the tall backwoodsman.

Walter dashed at his opponent. The fists of Barker whirled with ponderous inaccuracy; some of the blows struck Walter, some of them were glancing, others landed as he was stepping away, and so lost their power. None of them did any damage. But the blows which he was sending in, in return, were most effective. Sharp, straight and all directed at the body, few of them failed of their work. The gray of Barker’s face increased; his knees began to tremble.

“Come on, Barker, do something,” cried Colonel Huntley, furiously. “Are you going to let a fellow like that beat you?”

“Get your grapplers on him, Bark,” suggested a river-man. “Get your grapplers on him, and let’s see you twist him up like a pipe lighter.”

Apparently Barker had been turning some such idea over in his own mind, for he at once set about putting it into play. Evidently he saw that, for all his power and reputation as a bully, he was no match for young Jordan in a stand-up fight. And so now he’d put his huge strength of body and arm to the test.

“That’s right, Bark,” encouraged the river-man. “That’s it! Work in close!”

“Don’t let him clinch you!” cried Ned Chandler, to his friend. “Hit him off!”

Such was Walter’s intention. He had no desire to come to a grapple with a fighter of Barker’s note; for in such a struggle, no matter who gained the victory, there would be a strong chance of severe injury. And that above everything else was what he wished to avoid. So, as Barker moved in, he was met with a shower of blows. But the bully had learned craft; he did not attempt to strike back, but guarded with his arms crossed before him and with his head held low.

His small eyes were glaring between his arms and watching Walter with savage purpose. He made a move as though to the left; young Jordan stepped aside to avoid him. But the thing had only been a feint, and as Walter moved, Barker shifted suddenly and the next instant his exultant clutch was upon his active foe.

“Now!” cried Colonel Huntley. “Now you’ve got him. Go to work!”

“Fight him off, Walt!” shouted Ned, his face paling a little at his friend’s danger. “Fight him off.”

The ring of spectators was in a tumult. A turning point of the battle had been reached. Almost to a man they felt that the ruffianism of Barker would carry him through.

Once he felt the band-like arms of the bruiser close about him, Walter Jordan’s plan of battle changed. He heard Ned’s cry to fight the other off. But this was impossible. He felt Barker bracing himself for an effort, and he knew what it meant. Once the bully had thrown him to the ground he’d have him at his mercy; he would not be allowed to rise until he was helpless.

It required only a second or two for all this to pass through his mind; then he caught sight of the tall backwoodsman over Barker’s shoulder. And that personage made a swift and suggestive motion with his arms.

“The elbow!” cried he. “Don’t forget the elbow!”

Instantly the young fellow understood. With a powerful wriggle he freed his right arm, and drove the elbow under the chin of Barker, pressing with all his might against the bruiser’s throat.

“You fool!” shouted Huntley, to Barker. “Don’t let him do that!”

But it was too late. The more strongly Barker heaved and strained to throw young Jordan, the more deadly became the thrust of the elbow into his throat. And it was his own efforts that were doing it. Panting, purple of face, he realized this; to relieve the deadly pressure he would have to slip the grip he’d fought so hard to obtain, and trust to luck to secure another as good.

His arms unlocked; breathless, he attempted to step back for a moment’s rest before plunging at his opponent once more. But here he received the surprise of his career as a Mississippi river bully. Instead of young Jordan’s remaining upon the defensive as he had done almost from the start, he now leaped forward. His strong young arms pinned the breathless and momentarily helpless bruiser, and with a dexterous twist lifted him from his feet. Then the fellow was hurled to the ground, where he lay breathless, almost unconscious, and absolutely defeated.

CHAPTER V
DAVY CROCKETT

As the ring of river-men, adventurers, planters and border characters closed in about the prostrate form of Barker, Walter Jordan felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning, he saw the tall backwoodsman at his side.

“They’ve got all the cargo on board the boat,” said the man, “and in a moment they’ll blow the whistle for every one to get back on board. There’ll be a rush; and I reckon you’d better not be in it.”

Ned Chandler, who caught the words, understood their meaning instantly.

“That’s so,” said he, helping Walter on with his coat. “Barker seemed to have quite a number of friends in that crowd. And maybe one of them would try to get some sort of a sneaking revenge, Walt, if he saw a chance.”

So, together with the stranger, they walked toward the end of the wharf. And as they stepped upon the deck of the “Mediterranean,” her whistle shrieked a shrill warning. There was an instant rush of passengers; and from the upper deck the three saw Barker helped on board by a couple of negroes.

“Colonel Huntley doesn’t look any too well pleased,” said Ned with a grin, as he caught sight of the sombre face of that gentleman. “His little plot was rather mussed up.”

The tall backwoodsman looked interested.

“What’s this?” said he. “Plot? Colonel Huntley?”

“The colonel,” spoke Walter, “for an hour or two before the boat landed at Randolph spent his time in laying the foundation for a quarrel with me.”