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.
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.
[Illustration: “DON’T LET HIM CRIPPLE YOU”]
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.