SHOWING HIS METTLE
There was a calm air of self-possession about Dudley Compton as he
stood in front of the rancho building on the following morning, his
native saddle at his feet and his gun across his shoulder. For he
had every reason to be pleased with the way in which his fortunes
were progressing. He had worked hard, till every bone in his body
ached, and till his knees were chafed and raw. He had persevered
until even the exacting Mr. Blunt was favorably impressed with his
riding.
"Few would consider him to be a gringo now," reflected his employer,
as he watched his young friend out of the tail of his eye. "He is
well set up, carries his new clothes as if he had been born in them,
and can get about as if spurs had grown on his heels as a natural
appendage. He ought to do well. The gauchos view him with favor,
except that fellow Giono. I don't like the man, and never have.
There is something mysterious about him. However, there he is, and
Dudley must go through the trial they have arranged for him, for
trial there will be as sure as I stand here. A gringo must always be
tested."
A few minutes later a dozen of the gauchos employed on the estancia
came round the corner of the building, and strode up to our hero.
They were a rough but a good-looking and pleasant lot of men. All
were dressed in the same sort of costume as Dudley wore. They
carried revolvers at their hips, and hunting knives in their belts,
and some of them had a coil of rope, with the bolas attached, slung
over the shoulder. As they looked at the young Englishman, all save
one were bound to confess that he was a fine-looking fellow.
"He will be one of us, surely," said Pietro, their leader, beneath
his breath. "He may be a gringo, but he is not soft; that I will
swear. Now, Giono, you can take a better look at the señor. Does
the arrangement still hold?"
Giono, who was taller than his companions, was a raw-boned, dusky
individual, with deep-set eyes and a protruding lower jaw, which gave
him the appearance of being vindictive. He was a surly, silent
fellow, and was known by his comrades to be somewhat short-tempered.
This was an evil reputation to have amongst gauchos, a class of men
who were exceedingly polite to one another whenever possible, though
at other times they had violent and bitter quarrels. Dudley did not
know them yet, but those who worked with them could tell how these
fine horsemen of the pampas, with their strain of Spanish blood,
could be as tender as women to one another, and then would draw their
knives and engage in conflicts which too often resulted in the death
of more than one of the combatants. In short, they cultivated a
native politeness for the simple reason that ungainliness and a surly
manner led to trouble, and a man, however pugnacious, could not be
forever fighting, or hope always to be victorious.
"Pietro is thinking tenderly of his gun," was Giono's harsh rejoinder
as he scowled at Dudley. "He wishes to make excuses for this English
pup. Good! I am willing to accept a fine of some sort. Give me a
hunting knife, Pietro, and we will cry quits. But is it not a pity?
This señor stands as if he owned the ground on which his heels rest,
and lets all the world see his revolver. If he carries one, surely
he can shoot, or else why have the weapon?"
"_Bueno_! You will have the match," was the answer, given very
suavely, for Pietro knew the man with whom he had to deal, and he had
no wish to experience his rough temper. "Good, Giono, we will speak
to the señor. As to the rifle, it is yours if you can win it. I
have no fears of our gringo. Señor," he said, coming up to Dudley,
"Señor, we have had a little discussion amongst ourselves, and I, who
think I know a man when I see him, have boasted that you can shoot.
We hear that you have courage, for you have saved our master. Now we
wish to see whether you can use your revolver. Giono here declares
that you are a novice. He is even risking his rifle, to show that he
considers himself a better judge than I am."
"To show that he is sure of his statement," growled the gaucho,
striding up to the two, and towering over Dudley as if he would
impress him with his superior proportions. "I said that a gringo was
always a gringo; that because he could scramble on to a saddle he was
not therefore a horseman, nor without fear of horses. As to the
revolver, why, there are men, and boys too, to be found who carry
them to gain a fine appearance. You understand? A boy feels grand
when decked up in the clothes of a gaucho."
The man's words were uttered in a loud, coarse voice and there was
not the slightest doubt as to his unfriendly intentions. He was a
taciturn, surly fellow, governed by caprice, and apt to take sudden
and strong dislikes which often were simply the outcome of childish
jealousy. From his youngest days he had always made a point of
falling foul of men who were obviously his betters, or who were more
favored than he. Even Mr. Blunt was an eyesore to him, for was he
not a wealthy man? But his dislike there was cloaked to some extent,
for a gaucho must live, and an employer found the wages. Here,
however, there was a difference. Why should he, Giono, the biggest
and the most feared of the gauchos, knuckle down to this young
Englishman, with his smooth, beardless face, who had come undoubtedly
with the object of helping Mr. Blunt and becoming a second master?
No, there was nothing to fear in this case, and if he could terrorize
and upset the dignity of this gringo, why, all the better.
"You understand? The butt of a big revolver, and the bigger it is
the better, is a fine thing to have sticking from one's pocket. Fine
clothes make fine birds, they say, and so they do up to a point.
That's the point we've come to. Fine togs such as you have don't
help a gringo to shoot, no more than do big spurs help him to ride."
Dudley felt like replying to these boastful words, but he restrained
himself, and turning to Pietro said: "It is good of you to support
me, and I fear that you have been rather rash. But let me remind you
that, though you have told me what you two are to give to each other,
you have not yet let me know what you expect of me."
"When you hear you will be sure of his rashness," burst in Giono.
"The task is this, I say that you will not hit the pith ball of a
bolas placed on a fence thirty paces away. Here is a bolas, and here
the pith ball."
He turned to one of his companions and dragged the coil of rope from
his shoulders with rough lack of ceremony. Dudley had seen the
implement before, and did not need to look. This bolas is one of the
most useful possessions of the gauchos and of the Indians, for it is
to them what the lasso in more northern parts is to the cowboy. But
it differs somewhat in construction, for, whereas the lasso consists
of a long coil of rope with a slip noose at the end, the bolas has no
noose. One end has three tails of rope attached to it, and at the
ends of two of these is secured a heavy stone or a piece of lead or
iron. To the third is attached a lighter ball made of pith.
"See," cried Giono, "that is the mark, a mark which I could hit with
my left hand, or when standing on my head. I say that you will not
hit it under the most favorable circumstances."
Force of habit caused him to hang the coil over his left palm, while
he gripped the pith ball with his right hand and swung the leaden
balls about his head till they whizzed through the air. For this was
the way in which the gauchos wielded what was an instrument of great
value, and at times a dangerous weapon to their enemies. They would
gallop at headlong pace across the pampas, swing the bolas, and
launch it at a horse or cow they desired to capture, and with such
unerring aim that the balls would fly straight for the legs of the
animal, and in a moment the rope or the plaited thongs to which they
were made fast would be hopelessly twined round the limbs.
"Perhaps the English señor will tell us that he is able to cast the
bolas," sang out Giono, mistaking Dudley's silence for weakness, and
imagining that, now that he knew the task expected of him, he was
anxious to withdraw. "Perhaps he would prefer to have another wager
laid on the throwing of the bolas."
There was a sneer in the man's voice, and an insolent, browbeating
manner about him which made Pietro's eyes blaze, for he had taken a
fancy to Dudley, while the latter had some difficulty in restraining
his own warm temper.
"Thank you," he answered with composure, his common sense telling him
that it was this man's aim and object to rouse him, and therefore his
own to keep unusually cool. "I would rather shoot, for I confess
that I have never used the bolas. I think I may be able to use this
big revolver which has attracted your notice. And now the task. I
have to hit the pith ball, and so have you. There will be no
difficulty for you, for you tell us that you could strike it even if
standing on your head. Afterwards we will try a shot at the pith
ball as it flies in the air. Our friend Pietro shall take the bolas
over there and cast it at the trunk of the tree nearest the well.
You and I will take post twenty paces from the well, and fire as the
ball passes."
It was a daring thing to suggest, and the very mention of it made the
gauchos breathe deeply and mutter their astonishment. As for Giono,
he looked at Dudley as if he thought he were mad. The task was a
most difficult one, and, moreover, required a great deal of practice,
and this he had not had. Again, a man ought to be in the pink of
health and wonderfully steady to have even a chance of success; and
in his case a visit to the river port and a few days idleness had not
helped to smooth his nerves. He was a gambler, and the saloons had
seen not a little of this surly gaucho. However, the challenge was
issued by a gringo, and if he, Giono, failed, so surely would this
English boy. He could afford to be amused. He roared with laughter,
and tossed his hat into the air, while his eyes closely inspected
Dudley's gun.
"Now," interrupted Dudley, "let us carry out the tests. As Pietro is
interested in this matter, I suggest that one of his friends acts as
umpire for him, while one may care to do the same for me. That fence
round the corral ought to suit very well for our mark."
He had been carefully watching the faces of the men up till now, but
once the arrangements were made he turned from Giono, looked at the
corral, and, noticing the height of the rails, decided that it would
do. Then he led the way in that direction, and in a few minutes the
whole party were in position, one of the gauchos having detached a
pith ball meanwhile and placed it on the rail, while a comrade
carefully paced the distance from it. It was time for the contest to
begin, and Dudley nodded to his opponent very coolly.
A few minutes before he had been feeling somewhat ruffled and annoyed
by the obvious hostility of Giono; but now he had regained his
composure and felt steadied. More than that, he was confident, for
he knew what the gauchos were ignorant of. He had had abundant
practice with a revolver on the voyage out, and had won unstinted
praise from Mr. Blunt; for the lad had a quick eye and a happy knack
with his hand. He was not quick at drawing his weapon; that was a
thing requiring practice, and he had had but very little since he had
donned his leggings and had worn the revolver in his hip pocket. But
he could hit a small object with unerring accuracy, and he believed
that he could strike the ball of the bolas as it flew in the air. At
any rate he had done so more than once in the past week when away on
the pampas.
"Perhaps you would care for the first shot," he said politely. "Just
to encourage a gringo."
"I will shoot first for that reason," came the answer. "You shall
shoot at the flying target before I make the attempt, and--and----"
"Yes, I am listening."
"Perhaps the señor would care to have it that three shots are allowed
in each case. It will give him a better chance. I am satisfied."
The man's attitude was mending. He had even addressed Dudley as
señor. He was not so confident as before. He was weakening, and a
grin passed amongst the gauchos.
"If one shot suits you, it suits me also. If you desire three, let
there be three."
Dudley gave the gaucho no opening, and with a growl of disgust, and a
laugh which did not deceive the lookers-on, Giono decided that three
shots should be allowed at the flying target.
"Well and good. Then shoot," exclaimed Pietro, his eyes flashing,
with excitement.
"Come, Giono, there is the mark, and you shoot first," said the man
who had measured the distance. "Here is the line. Take your post."
They watched eagerly and almost breathlessly as the gaucho toed the
line scratched in the earth with the rowel of a spur. For there was
something out of the ordinary in this contest. Gringos had been
tried before many a time, and failed almost without exception. But
there was something different here, something which the gauchos could
not fathom. They knew little or nothing of this gringo, but his
self-assurance impressed them. It had already made Giono feel a
little uncertain, though he tried to think that there was no danger.
"Bah," he said, as he went to the line, "it is another of these
cocksure pups from Europe, only this one has a bigger head than the
rest! There is more swelling in it. The friendship of our employer
has puffed him out. We shall see."
He drew his revolver, lifted it, and fired, smashing the pith ball
into a number of pieces.
"Good! I could do that when a child," he boasted. "Shall I fire the
other shot for the señor?"
"Thanks, no! If you will kindly stand fast where you are I will
shoot from here. It is a little farther, and perhaps more difficult."
Another mark had been hastily placed in position, and, seeing that
all was clear, Dudley, who happened to be some ten paces behind and
to the left of Giono, drew his weapon, and in a flash the ball was
splintered, a feat which brought a shout of delight from the gauchos,
while Giono paled under his dusky mud-colored skin, and swore beneath
his breath.
"One to us, señor!" sang out Pietro. "The gun which Giono promised
is mine, or yours, if you wish to have it. Now for the other part.
Give me a bolas, and I will take up my station. Better still, let me
have six of the coils, then I can cast them without waiting. Let all
the rest stand behind the firers. Come, comrades, time is getting
along."
He took six of the bolas and went off with a swagger which he had not
possessed five minutes before. And a gallant fellow he looked as he
strode away, for an open kindly face was not Pietro's only
possession. He was some forty years of age, short and lithe, but for
all that powerfully built. It was said of him that where all were
experts with the bolas, and where all could ride from infancy and as
if part of the horse, this Pietro could excel them all. He knew the
life of the pampas, and he knew his fellow men. This foreman of the
hands employed on the rancho was a good friend to Mr. Blunt, the
partisan of the weaklings, and a man who loved fair play. He went to
his station with the thongs of the bolas trailing out behind him, and
with the fringes of his leggings fluttering in the breeze. Dudley
and the others sauntered over towards the well, the men looking
askance at Giono, while Dudley kept a cautious eye upon him.
"An ugly-looking beggar," he said to himself, "and boasts too much to
like being beaten. I'll wager he's considering whether he shall not
shoot me instead of the ball. Very well, my fine gentleman, I'll
take rather more than good care to keep you in full view and well in
front. Fellows have been shot in the back before now, and accidents
will happen."
He watched the man as he fingered his revolver, and slipped his own
into his pocket; but he was careful to keep the group of gauchos
between him and Giono.
"He is angry," one of them whispered cautiously. "Giono is never
beaten, or rather no man ever lives who defeats him. Better to let
him win, señor. He is a bad enemy. He has killed many men."
"But he won't hurt me if I can help it," answered Dudley doggedly.
"We'll see about this killing. But thanks, my friend, for your
warning."
By now Pietro was in position, and could be seen with the bundle of
bolas at his feet and one swishing in the air over his head. He was
an expert thrower, and knew that he could cast the long plaited thong
with such skill as to make certain of striking the tree beside the
well. The leaden balls swinging in the air would fly direct, while
the lighter one would drag behind. To attempt to strike it with a
single bullet seemed madness, and yet it was not an impossible feat
to a man with a quick eye and ready hand and one who knew his weapon.
The man who had knack and steadiness might succeed, for the cast was
a long one, and by the time the bolas reached a point opposite the
group it would have lost a considerable amount of its momentum. Then
it would pass by a little more than twenty feet away, making a
correct aim less difficult than at first seemed possible. Still,
when all was said in favor of the task, it was difficult enough, and
raised doubts in the minds of both competitors. However, a faint
heart would serve but badly, and Dudley entered upon this part of the
contest with the same coolness and calm self-possession which had
already roused the ire and jealousy of his opponent.
"My turn first, I think," he said easily. "Giono, will you have
Pietro cast as a trial, so that we may judge this distance, or will
you have me shoot at the first cast?"
"The latter. I had no trial before, let us have the same treatment
now. Hit the mark if you can, I will stand here and give you three
shots. When you have failed, I will show you how the thing is done."
Dudley nodded his thanks. "Now, Pietro," he shouted, "cast!"
He stood watching the gaucho closely as he swung the bolas over his
head, and slowly drawing his revolver, put it at full cock. It was
the weapon which the passengers aboard the ship on the outward voyage
had presented to him, and for the moment he nursed the barrel on his
left forearm. It was a handy little weapon, throwing a moderately
heavy bullet and using a very moderate charge, so that the "kick" was
not very pronounced. Thanks to the amount of practice which he had
had, Dudley had learnt to counteract what jar there was, and there
was not the slightest doubt that he had become a first-rate shot.
"Ready, señor?" shouted Pietro.
Dudley nodded as he watched the bolas. The leaden balls made a dark
and continuous circle about the head of the gaucho, while the hum
even could be heard. Then of a sudden the circle disappeared, and
the leaden balls, with their long serpent of hide, came shooting out
towards the well. The sun, standing moderately high in the heavens
behind, shone on the white pith ball, making it a splendid mark. In
two seconds it had covered half the distance between the thrower and
the tree, but still Dudley nursed the barrel of his weapon, while the
gauchos kept their eyes fixed on the pith ball. Another second and
the pith flew opposite Dudley, its pace already retarded. Giono, who
watched him like a cat, saw the young Englishman lift his weapon like
a flash, and, without pausing to look along the sights, pull the
trigger firmly. He gave a howl of delight, a howl which set the
echoes ringing and brought Mr. Blunt to the door of the house. For
it seemed that the shot had missed. They heard its scream as it
buzzed through the air, and they still saw the pith ball. But all
but Giono had noted a curious fact. A chip of white had started from
the ball, and for an instant only the course of the ball had been
deflected; then it flew on as before for some few yards, when it
burst asunder and dropped in small pieces to the ground, leaving its
own particular thong to go on without it.
It was Dudley's turn to shout, his and those who supported him, and
it might be truly said that all the gauchos present, save Giono
alone, were in his favor. He swept his hat from his head, pocketed
his weapon, and turned to his opponent, while the air rang with the
shouts of the gauchos.
"Your shot, señor," he said. "Three are allowed. I have made mine,
and have struck the object. Attempt the same yourself."
He was beaten. Giono knew well that the young Englishman had the
better of the argument, and at the thought his sallow face went red
with anger. He strode to the front, shouted to Pietro to make ready,
and swept his weapon from his pocket, where he had placed it while
Dudley fired. Then some idea seemed to strike him. He turned upon
the group with a snarl, a snarl which quieted their shouts, and
strode back towards Dudley with a lowering look on his face.
"You say one shot is enough for you," he growled. "It would be, if
you were honest. But we all know that Pietro is your firm friend.
What is easier than for him to have broken the ball? He crushed it
with his hand, and it was that which caused the pith to break
asunder. It is an arrangement between you. You are attempting to
rob me!"
The man was impossible. He was one of those pugnacious individuals
who must always quarrel. In addition, unknown to Dudley, he was one
of the browbeating kind, accustomed to have his own way whatever
happened. He was defeated hopelessly, he told himself, and there was
only one course to pursue. He must accuse his opponent of cheating
and turn his weapon on him, a common enough occurrence in those wild
and lawless parts.
"Yes, it was arranged," he shouted. "You and Pietro agreed to cheat."
The man's finger played with his trigger, he scowled round at the
gauchos, hesitated a moment, and then deliberately lifted his weapon;
but he never got it to Dudley's head.
"You will please to lower your arm," suddenly commanded a stern
voice, and, swinging round, Dudley found Mr. Blunt some five paces
away, his revolver covering the gaucho. "Drop it, man; drop it
instantly, if you don't desire to have a hole through your head.
Good! You are a scoundrel, and I have known it for some time. Why I
have allowed you to stay I cannot imagine. You are a ruffian, I
repeat, and if I shot you down all would thank me. Go, take your
horse and ride. If you are found within the bounds of the rancho
when the sun sets I will hang you without hesitation. And listen!
Let this little affair teach you a lesson. A lad is sometimes
smarter than a ruffian."