THE REASON WHY.
“That matter never worried me a whole lot, anyhow,” said Rod, after a
few moments of silence. “I turned the laugh on the bunch that started
in to have a howling, gay old time with me, and I was satisfied. I knew
I hadn’t squealed, and I knew the professor knew it. I will admit,
however, that this dog-shooting business has stirred me up some, for it
sure was a contemptible thing to do, and I hate to have anybody really
think it of me. Have you heard that Spotty Davis has left town?”
“No,” cried Ben, surprised. “Has he?”
“Yes; gone to Belford. He went this morning, and his father says he may
not come back. Between us, Stone, I’ll admit confidential that I’m
regretful because he made his getaway before I could put the screws on
him.”
“Oh!” said Ben, sitting up straight on his chair. “Then you think that
Spotty—that Spotty——”
“I have reasons,” nodded Rod, “to be right suspicious of him. I went to
see him yesterday morning and tried to lead him into owning up to me,
but he was in bed, pretending to be sick, and refused to talk. I was
mightily tempted to put hands on him and choke him into telling the
truth, but with my particular failing in mind, which is the one
unfortunate failing of all Grants belonging to my family; I kept a
tight hold on myself. I didn’t dare even to make a bluff at violence,
for fear my anger would get the best of me and I would lose my head.”
“Didn’t dare!” muttered Ben.
“No, Stone, I didn’t dare. We had a confidential talk once before this,
and I told you something about the Grants, but a sort of shame kept me
from owning up to this special weakness I have just mentioned. It’s
characteristic of us all that great excitement or acts of contention or
physical violence in which we take part should arouse us to a sort of
disgraceful frenzy. This was well known of my father, and in the old
fighting days they used to say it was safer to stir up a man-killing
lion than to provoke Hugh Grant of the Star D. I’ve told you how he
fought his enemies to a standstill and won out, even though maimed for
life. The Grants are all fighters, Ben.”
“I guess some fellows around here are beginning to believe that one
Grant, at least, is a fighter.”
“My mother is a gentle, peaceful woman, who has suffered indescribably
through anxiety and worriment produced by this fighting strain in the
Grant blood. She has told me that more than a score of times she’s seen
my father leave the ranch fully expecting that he would be brought back
dead. In my own case, I have learned by experience that violent
physical action on my part, coupled with opposition of the same sort,
turns me into a raging creature, wholly lacking in restraint or any
thought of consequences. You know what happened to the son of my
father’s enemy at school in Houston. I nearly killed Jennings. When I
came here to school I made a resolve to avoid anything that would be
liable to stir me up and lead me into such folly. That’s why I refused
to play football.”
“But football isn’t fighting.”
“Isn’t it?” laughed Rod. “Well, it’s fighting for a Grant, as the case
of my unfortunate brother, Oscar, proved beyond the shadow of a doubt.
I reckon I may as well tell you about him, for then you’ll understand
things some better. Oscar is several years older than I, and two years
ago he obtained an appointment to West Point.”
“Oh!” cried the visitor. “Is he—is he the Grant I’ve heard about who
was hazed?”
“I reckon he’s the one, for the newspapers printed some stuff about it,
although, unlike another certain famous hazing case at West Point, this
affair never got into the courts. My brother was a husky fellow, and,
urged to do so, he came out for football with the plebe team. He should
have known better. It was impossible for him to engage in any sort of a
scrimmage without slugging, and he became mighty unpopular in
double-quick time. I judge that’s why he was singled out especially for
a course of sprouts, and there’s no question but he was given some
mighty rough treatment by the hazers. We never knew the full
particulars of what happened. However, we do know he was practically
stripped naked on a bitter November night and nearly drowned by having
ice-cold water turned on him from a hose or a hydrant or something.
When they thought him pretty nearly finished, by his appearance, he was
taken under cover somewhere and efforts were made to restore him.
“He came round somewhat more sudden than those men expected, for he
broke away, seized a chair and lay about him with it like a madman. One
of the hazers was knocked stiff before Oscar drove the others out of
the room. Oscar made his getaway, leaving that man, who had received a
terrible crack on the head, to be picked up and cared for by his
companions. His name was Demarest, and he was taken to the hospital.
Next morning Oscar was ill and still half crazed. To cap it all, some
one brought him word that Demarest was dead, which was a lie concocted,
doubtless, for the purpose of frightening him. A run of brain fever
followed, and, though my brother is still alive, he never recovered his
normal condition; he’s on the Star D now, hopelessly deranged, though
harmless.
“Now, Ben, I opine you can understand why I’ve tried right hard to
avoid excitement or violence of any sort that might stir me up and make
me temporarily forgetful or reckless of consequences. Barker forced a
fight upon me, but it sure was a good thing for him that he couldn’t
fight much, so that it was all over in a jiffy.”
“If the boys knew this,” began Ben—“if they had known it in the first
place——”
“If I had told them, they’d have thought it more of my bragging,”
laughed Rod shortly.
“I’ll tell them now.”
“Please don’t do it. I reckon I’ve satisfied them that I will fight
when driven into a corner, and that’s enough. I’m still going to keep a
tight hand on myself, for I must learn somehow to control my temper.
I’ll own up it has hurt me some to know that the fellows should think
me low down enough to shoot a harmless dog by way of getting revenge on
an enemy. One thing I will claim, and that is that all Grants fight
open and square and there never was a sneak among them. Sometime I’m
sure the truth will come out concerning that dog shooting.”
It came out far sooner than Rod expected. On the following day Joshua
Haskell, who owned the northern side of Turkey Hill, making certain
purchases at Stickney’s store, heard some loungers discussing the
shooting of Silver Tongue, and he suddenly developed a great deal of
interest in what they were saying.
“What’s that?” he asked. “When did this ere dorg shootin’ happen?”
“Satterday, sometime before the storm begun,” answered Uncle Bill Cole.
“The hound was killed in one of the clearin’s near the Pond Hole over
on Waller’s land. Barker’s boy and two other young fellers follered the
blood drops to that place, and then they tracked the whelp who did the
shootin’ almost into the Turkey Hill swamp; but the storm come on, and
they couldn’t foller him no further.”
“Huh!” grunted Haskell. “I guess I know who shot that dorg.”
“You do!” cried several voices.
“Yep,” nodded the man, “I cal’late I do. You see, I was cuttin’ wood on
Turkey Hill Satterday mornin’. Just before the storm begun I happened
to stop and look down, and I saw a boy come out of the woods on Dodd’s
land, which j’ines mine. He had a gun, and he was travelin’ on
snowshoes. A little while before that I’d heared somebody fire a shot
over in the direction of the Pond Hole, and he was comin’ from that
way. Seemed to be in a mighty big hurry, too; but all of a sudden he
stopped a minute, and I see him hang something red on a bush. Then he
hipered along again, as if he was afeared the Old Nick was chasin’ him.”
“Well, well!” cried Stickney, thumping the cheese box on the counter
with his knuckles. “That must have been the feller. They found a red
silk handkerchief that belonged to this yere Grant boy, who’s stopping
with old Priscilla Kent.”
“’Twan’t the Grant boy I see,” declared Haskell. “I knowed the young
rascal, fur off as he was, and he’s been up to his shindigs ’round here
before. ’Twas old Lem Davis’ sneakin’ cub, as I’ll swear to; and you
can bate your last dollar he shot that dorg.”
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