AN ENCOUNTER IN THE WOODS.
The one in advance from whose lips that angry question had been flung,
was Berlin Barker. Phil Springer was following. Barker’s face was
almost snow-white, made thus by the rage that was consuming him.
Springer looked greatly disturbed, and he muttered to himself:
“Now there’s sure to be tut-trouble.”
“What do you mean by it?” again demanded Berlin, as he faced Rod a
short distance away, his gun gripped tightly in his glove-protected
hands.
“I didn’t know it was your dog.” Slowly and awkwardly he shifted his
position, in order to face Berlin.
“You lie!” retorted Barker; and every nerve in Grant’s body went taut
as a bowstring.
With excited yelps, old Rouser came bursting forth from the woods.
“There’s the dog I reckoned was running this rabbit,” explained the
young Texan, his voice a trifle husky, yet remarkably steady.
“That old has-been!” sneered Barker. “Why, he isn’t worth a charge of
shot to put him out of the way; and he’s been bothering Silver Tongue.
Of course you heard both dogs running.”
“Yes, but——”
“If you know anything at all, you certainly knew old Sawyer’s cripple
wasn’t leading.”
“I saw Rouser take up a track. It’s your dog that mixed in and
interfered—if that is your dog.”
“You bet he’s mine! Just bought him for a fancy price, too, and I don’t
propose to have him spoiled by Sawyer’s worthless brute. I’ll settle
it. Come here, Silver Tongue—come away and give me a chance.”
His gun half lifted and ready for use, Barker attempted to call his own
dog away from the other. Divining the fellow’s purpose, Rod Grant took
three hasty strides, placing himself between Rouser and Barker.
“Get out of the way!” snarled Barker. “If you don’t you’ll have a
chance to pick some shot out of your legs.”
The brown eyes of the boy from Texas glowed strangely, and he also held
his shotgun ready for use.
“If I were in your place, my friend,” he said, “I wouldn’t try to shoot
old Rouser; for just as sure as you do you’ll have a chance to bury
your own dog.”
He meant it, too; there could be no doubt about that. Nor was he in the
slightest degree intimidated by the menacing weapon in Barker’s hands.
Shivering, Springer held his breath and watched those two lads gazing
steadily into each other’s eyes. At length Phil managed to speak.
“Quit it, bub-both of you!” he spluttered. “Be careful with those guns!”
“Which is right good advice for your friend,” said Rod, without
permitting his glance to waver for an instant from Barker. “If he
should shoot up old Rouser, it sure would be a shame to retaliate on
his innocent dog. I admit I’d feel much more like letting him have it
himself.”
“You hear that, do you, Phil?” cried Berlin.
“Yes,” answered Springer, “and bub-by jingoes, he looks like he might
dud-do it, too!”
In spite of himself and his intense rage, Barker wavered. For once, at
least, he had found no symptom of faltering or timidity in the fellow
he bitterly detested.
“Hey, what’s the matter over there?” cried a hoarse voice, and Hunk
Rollins, breaking forth from a thicket, came shuffling toward them on
snowshoes, carrying a gun. They were now three to one against Grant,
but still Rod stood his ground unmoved.
“He shot a rabbit in front of Berlin’s dud-dog,” hastily explained
Springer, “and Berlin’s blazing mad about it, too.”
“What’s he doing here, anyhow?” questioned Rollins contemptuously.
“I allow,” said Rodney, something like a faint smile flitting across
his face, “that I have as much right to hunt rabbits hereabouts as you
fellows.”
“Take his gun away from him!” roared Hunk. “Knock the packing out of
him!”
But he stopped short with his first step toward the boy from Texas, for
the muzzle of Grant’s gun swung toward him, and Springer shouted a
warning.
“Look out! He’ll shoot!”
“Gee!” gasped Rollins. “He don’t dast!”
“Don’t make any mistake about that,” advised Rodney. “It would be a
clean case of self-defense, and only a fool would let you take his gun
away from him and beat him up.”
“Ginger!” gurgled Hunk. “I believe he means it!”
At this juncture Lander and Davis put in an appearance and came
forward, wondering at the tableau they beheld. Grant laughed aloud as
he saw them.
“Now we’re even as far as numbers are concerned,” he observed, suddenly
at his ease.
“What’s the row?” questioned Bunk, glaring at Barker. “We heard you
fellers chewin’ the rag half a mile away, I guess.”
“Oh, there isn’t any row to speak of,” said Rodney. “Both of these dogs
were running the rabbit yonder, which I happened to shoot. It chanced
that Barker’s dog was ahead of Rouser, and so Mr. Barker foolishly got
a trifle warm under the collar. He made some silly talk about shooting
old Rouser, but I don’t reckon he really meant it.”
“Oh, he did, hey?” shouted Lander, getting purple in the face.
“Threatened to shoot Rouser, did he? Well, say! I’d like to see him try
it!”
“He won’t try it,” assured the boy from Texas. “He got all over that
inclination some time before you arrived, Bunk; but I had to tell him
what would happen to his own dog if he didn’t hold up.”
“What a set of cheap skates!” sneered Berlin.
“Cheap skates, hey?” rasped Lander. “Well, if there’s anybody around
these parts cheaper than you are, he can be bought for less than a
cent. I know you pretty well of old, Barker. It was you who helped turn
the fellers against me, and you was mighty rejoiced when I got into
that little scrape two years ago. I don’t forget them things. Now you
and your friends better chase yourselves and take your dog along with
you, if you care anything about him. We’re hunting here in this swamp,
and we don’t propose to be bothered by you. Git!”
“We don’t cuc-care about hunting around here,” said Springer hastily.
“Come on, Berlin.”
Although reluctant to be driven away, Barker, having cooled down
somewhat, began to entertain apprehensions for the safety of Silver
Tongue should he remain in that vicinity.
“Mr. Grant is very courageous—when he has a gun in his hands,” he
sneered. “At any other time he’s a——”
“You’ve said that before,” interrupted Rod in a tone that made Berlin
start a bit in spite of himself. “Be careful that you don’t say it once
too often.”
Barker shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “I don’t have to say it;
every fellow in Oakdale knows what you are. Come, Silver Tongue—come,
sir. Come on, fellows; there are plenty of other places to run rabbits.”
“And, counting yourself and your friends, you make a fine bunch of dogs
for the purpose,” Lander flung after them.
In a few moments Barker and his companions disappeared into the woods,
and soon the muttering of their voices died out in the distance.
“How’d you get here, anyhow, Roddy?” questioned Bunk, with a grin. “We
left you ’way back yonder.”
“Yes,” nodded Grant; “but I reckoned there wouldn’t be much shooting
over there, so I pulled my picket pin and moved. Here’s another rabbit
for that stew.”
“By jinks! Bunk,” said Spotty, “we ain’t shot one yet. We took him out
to show him how ’twas done, and he’s showed us.”
“He showed Barker, too, I guess,” chuckled Lander. “Say, it done me
good making that bunch turn tail and dig out. ’Tain’t more’n a mile to
my camp, if it’s that fur; let’s strike over that way, for I’ll have an
appetite by the time we can dress the rabbits and the partridge and get
the stew cooked.”
“I’ve an appetite now,” declared Rod. “I’ve enjoyed the sport this
morning very much indeed.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------