FIRED ON.
Bohunkus Johnson was never so angry in his life and the resentment of
Harvey Hamilton was equally intense. That a man should deliberately
shoot at their machine without provocation more than a bit of harmless
mischief, was beyond bearing. The colored youth stood up and shouted to
his friend:
“I’m gwine to jump! I’ll teach him sumfin!”
“Wait one moment,” replied Harvey, as he shut off power and hastily
dropped to earth. His momentum carried him several rods beyond the young
man, who was still busy reloading his gun. Fortunately for our friends
it was of the old-fashioned muzzle pattern, and required more time than
the modern weapon. He roared with an oath:
“I’ll larn you better than to go skyugling over the country and trying
to scare folks to death. Jes’ wait till I git my gun loaded agin!”
But neither Harvey nor Bohunkus had any intention of waiting. Before the
machine came to a rest, the colored youth leaped to the ground and broke
into a run for the man, who held his position.
“Yo’s gwine to larn me something, am yo’? Wal, dis am de time to begin!”
“Sail into him, Bunk!” shouted Harvey, “and if you need any help, I’ll
give it!”
“All yo’ got to do am to keep out ob dis bus’ness; I’m running dis
funeral,” replied the African, without shifting his gaze from the young
farmer, who could not have been much older than Bohunkus. Not once did
the latter check his pace, but dashed at full speed at the man. The
instant he was within reach, he landed a blow that sent the other
spinning backward, with his feet pointing upward and the weapon hurled
from his grasp.
It was not a knockout, however, and the fellow was game. He bounded up
again as if made of rubber, and charged in turn upon his assailant.
Bohunkus had little “science,” but he had been in many bouts, and was as
strong as a bull. He braced himself to receive the attack, which came
the next instant. A clenched fist landed on his jaw with a force that
nearly carried him off his feet, and then the two went at it hammer and
tongs, with no apparent advantage at first on either side.
Harvey, seeing that his machine was unharmed, watched the fight. Nothing
would have suited him better than to take Bunk’s place, for he had been
taught boxing by a professional and he knew, though he might not have
been so big or strong as his comrade, that he could readily vanquish the
awkward but powerful fighter. Coolness, straight hitting and skilful
parrying would do the business. He did not mean to stand idly by and see
Bunk maltreated, but it would not be sportsmanlike to break in unless to
stop the struggle.
The countryman was tough and wiry, and it is doubtful how the fight
would have ended had it depended upon fists alone, but in one respect
Bunk was much the other’s superior. He was known as the best wrestler in
the neighborhood of his home. When nearly a score of blows had been
exchanged, the negro rushed in, grasped his antagonist about the waist,
lifted him clear of the ground, and flung him on his back with a
violence that it seemed must have jarred his teeth. Before he could
spring to his feet again, Bunk was across his chest and evening up
things in the most impressive style that can be imagined.
Suddenly the victim shouted at the top of his voice:
“Bill! Sam! Dick! Tom! Hurry up and part us afore we kill each other!”
This was a strange appeal and puzzled Harvey, who was disposed to think
it was simply a bluff. The victim was too proud to beg for mercy, and
tried to scare off his assailant. Harvey stepped forward, picked up the
partially loaded gun from the ground, and with several quick stamps of
his shoe so broke the two hammers that the weapon became useless for the
time.
“That will prevent his using it against us,” was the thought of our
young friend, who again turned his attention to the combatants on the
ground.
“Don’t be too hard on him, Bunk; I guess he’s had enough.”
“Why doan’ he holler ‘_’nough_!’ den? dat’s what I’m waitin’ fur.”
The victim had ceased his outcries, and was desperately trying to writhe
free and roll off the burden, but his master couldn’t be shaken from his
perch.
“Why doan’ yo’ holler like a gemman oughter do when he’s had ’nough?
Holloa!”
When Harvey Hamilton thought the fellow was merely bluffing by his calls
for help, he made a mistake. From out of the wood came running a man
larger and older than any one of the three, and he was followed by a
second, third and fourth,—all full grown, massive, muscular and each
with fire in his eye. They had heard the cry of their comrade in
extremity and made haste to come to his help.
Their arrival caused a change of program. Much as I like Bohunkus
Johnson (and I trust that you, too, share the feeling), I am obliged to
confess that like many of his race he had a tinge of yellow in his
composition. So long as he held the upper hand, or so long as the fight
was in doubt, he displayed courage, but the arrival of reinforcements
threw him into a panic. He whisked off the prostrate figure, leaped to
his feet and dashed at his highest speed into the woods. He ran like a
person whose life was in danger, and the young man who had suffered at
his hands sped after him, breathing threatenings and slaughter.
The new arrivals, who had been referred to as Bill, Sam, Dick and Tom,
were evidently young farmers, none more than twenty-five years old. They
had sturdy frames and could have given a good account of themselves in a
physical struggle. They must have been mystified by what they saw, for
the one who had dashed off in pursuit of Bohunkus had not paused to make
explanation.
One fact was a vast relief to Harvey Hamilton: none of them carried a
weapon, though it may be thought the quartet did not need anything of
the kind in order to work their will with the slim active youth. The
latter, with a quickness of resource which would have done credit to one
older than himself, picked up the discarded shotgun at his feet,
covering the lock as he did so with one hand in order to hide the harm
it had suffered. So long as the others believed it sound and loaded, he
could command the situation.
“Say, you,” said the tallest of the quartette in a loud voice, “what’s
the meaning of this row? We don’t exactly git the hang of things.”
Facing the group and with his back toward the biplane, Harvey answered:
“Your friend had a misunderstanding with my friend, and it doesn’t seem
to be settled yet, though it looks as if yours had the advantage.”
“What was the quarrel about?”
“Your friend—”
“That’s Herb,” interrupted the other speaker.
“Herb fired his gun at us without any cause.”
“Yes; we heerd it; if he didn’t have any cause, what was the reason he
took a shot at you?”
“Pure cussedness is all I can think of.”
“Didn’t he hit either of you?”
“He grazed my face; we came down to ask an explanation, and my colored
companion was giving him a good pummeling, when you came up and scared
him away.”
“I take it, stranger, that that contraption over there is one of them
infarnal flying machines.”
“It is a flying machine, but there’s nothing infernal about it.”
“Folks hain’t no bus’ness to cavort round the country in them.”
“I don’t see why they haven’t; we are not injuring you or any one else.”
“Boys,” said the speaker, turning to his companions who were standing
near and listening to the conversation; “the best thing we can do is to
rip the blamed thing to slathers. What do you say?”
“Them’s our sentiments,” replied one while the three nodded.
“Come on then; it won’t take us long to make kindling wood of it.”
He took a step forward, and then stopped. Harvey had leveled the gun.
“The first one that lays a hand on my aeroplane must be prepared to have
daylight let through him.”
It was a staggering threat, but in the trying moment, Harvey Hamilton
could not help reflecting that the weapon was not only injured, but
unloaded. He would be in a sorry situation should they learn the truth.
The strained situation could not last, and he slowly backed toward the
machine, holding the weapon in front, ready to be raised again to a
level should it become necessary.
“Four of you are rather too much for me,” he said with a grim smile.
“Hooh! One of us could lay you out as easy as rolling off a log.”
“I am willing to take you one at a time, but I know that as soon as I
get the best of him the rest of you will pitch in and do me up.”
It was “Bill” who was talking for the four. He grinned and with a snort
replied:
“I’d ax nothing better than one crack at you, but there ain’t no show
with that loaded gun in your hands; nobody but a coward would use that.”
“Then you may consider me a coward, for I am on to your tricks.”
By this time Harvey had reached his machine, but the problem remained as
to how he could seat himself and start the motor without inviting an
attack that must overwhelm him and wreck his property. He stood for a
minute undecided, while his enemies, less than a dozen paces away, were
on the alert for a chance to seize any advantage that offered.
Suddenly the young aviator stepped into his seat, but, standing upright,
faced about and confronted them still with gun in hand. They showed an
ugly disposition at the prospect of his eluding them, but seemingly
there was no way to prevent it.
“If you would like a closer view,” Harvey said, “I have no objection,
but you must come one at a time. You may do so first.”
He indicated Bill, who hesitated:
“No shenanigan!”
“Nothing of the kind, I promise you.”
After a moment’s pause, he gingerly approached, but showed he was not
wholly free from misgiving.
“What do you think of that big wheel?” asked Harvey.
“Hooh! seems to be made of black walnut,” replied the other, laying a
hand on one of the propeller blades.
“So it is; have you enough muscle to turn it round?”
“That’s dead easy,” replied Bill, grasping one of the arms and whirling
it about with double the force that was necessary.