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.