A MISSOURI TERROR.
“Stop!”
“What?”
“That!”
Frank Merriwell shot out the first and last words; a local sceneshifter
and stage hand of the Wilcoxson Opera House asked the question.
Several days had elapsed and Merriwell’s company had reached Carrolton,
Missouri, and Frank was watching the men who were bringing the special
scenery for “True Blue” onto the stage.
The local stage hands were assisting in this work, and one of them, a
rather fresh young chap, began to tear off some of the cleats that held
the sets together. To do this, he used a hammer, and he began knocking
them apart in a reckless manner.
Then came Frank’s command.
The young fellow seemed astounded.
“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “We can’t take care of this
stuff in this shape.”
“Let it alone,” ordered Merry. “I’ll have somebody look out for that who
knows how to do it without staving it to pieces.”
“What do ye suppose I’m hired for?”
“You are not hired to smash my scenery. If you are, I’ll not allow it.”
“Your scenery!” sneered the fellow, who did not know Merry, and fancied
he might be the property man of the company, as he was a beardless
youth. “Why, you talk as if you owned the old show! You make me tired!
Some chaps like to show off when they get a little authority, and I
reckon you’re one of that kind.”
Frank made no retort to these insolent words, but his jaws squared a bit
and there came to his eyes a look which the fellow would have known was
dangerous had he been better acquainted with Merry.
The local stage hand fancied he had settled the matter by giving the
presumptuous “property man” a call down, and he now went at the scenery
again, smashing at the cleats with the hammer.
He did not strike more than a single blow, for, with a spring, Frank had
him by the collar.
In a moment, Merry took the hammer from the surprised chap’s hand, and
flung it far away.
“Here! what the——”
The fellow whirled about and struck at Frank, but he was sent spinning
to one side, to fall sprawling over some properties.
“Don’t try it again,” calmly advised Merry.
The astounded stage hand scrambled up, snarling with anger.
“I’m Joe Hooker!” he cried. “And I can do up anything in this town. I’ll
have to smash ye for that!”
“If you know what is real healthy for you, Joe Hooker,” said Frank, with
a grim smile, “you’ll keep your distance and let this scenery alone.
You’re too fresh.”
“You’re the one that’s fresh, you two-cent property man!” howled the
wrathy fellow. “You think you own the whole show, but I’ll knock some of
the conceit outer your head!”
He made a furious rush at Merry.
Apparently Frank had no thought of getting out of the way, but, at the
moment when Hooker struck out with his open hand, thinking to give Merry
a slap that would set his head ringing, if it did not upset him, the
young actor leaped aside, ducking the swinging blow, caught his
assailant by the collar and a handy portion of his trousers, and ran him
off the stage, shooting him down a flight of stairs, at the bottom of
which he fell sprawling.
Ephraim Gallup came round just in time to witness this, and he stood
laughing heartily, his hands on his hips.
“Gol-darn ef I don’t believe he kainder thinks he struck somethin’
all-fired decepshus, Frank!” chuckled the Vermont youth.
Billy Wynne, the property man, had also seen the finish of the
encounter, and he was highly amused.
There was a scrambling sound on the stairs, and, a moment later, Joe
Hooker, his face flaming red, came scrambling and panting to the top,
revenge gleaming in his eyes.
“Drat ye!” he snarled. “Ye didn’t do that fair! You don’t ’mount ter
shucks, and I can paralyze ye in a fair fight!”
“I am not here to fight,” Merry laughed. “I am minding my own business,
and, if you know when you are well off, you will do the same. If you
don’t, you may get hurt.”
Frank’s laughter irritated the chap more than anything else. Again he
made a rush, but this time it was with the intention of smashing Frank
without delay.
Now Frank wished to avoid a fight, if possible, and he easily dodged in
time to avoid the fellow’s rush.
Gallup shouted:
“Yeou darn fool! Yeou don’t know who yeou’re gittin’ up ag’inst! You’ll
be etarnally chawed up fust thing yeou know!”
But the furious stage hand did not heed, if he heard. He wheeled and
came at Merry again.
Frank was beginning to get tired of this. He did not wish to strike the
fellow, and yet he could not keep up the dodging.
The curtain had been raised to let light in onto the stage while the
scenery was being brought in and arranged.
Once more Merry managed to avoid the rush of the angry chap, although he
was barely able to do so, as now the fellow was watching for him to
dodge.
This dodging made Hooker all the more confident, for he thought Frank
did not dare stand up and meet him.
This time, however, Frank stepped back as the belligerent stage hand
plunged past him, unable to stop his rush when Frank had dodged, and
quickly grabbing him, flung him clean out over the proscenium and
footlights, so he struck sprawling between the front row of seats and
the stage.
This handling astounded Hooker, who could not understand it at all. He
jumped up and started to leap back onto the stage.
The local stage manager had appeared in time to witness the manner in
which Frank handled Hooker, and now he shouted:
“Here, Joe, what’s up?”
“That dratted property man’s meddlin’ with me!” snarled Hooker. “I’ll
eat him if he’ll stop dodging!”
“Property man!” cried the stage manager. “Why, you’re daffy! That’s
Frank Merriwell, the owner of the show!”
Hooker was astounded. He had reached the stage again, and he stopped in
a half-stooping posture, staring at Merry, his under jaw drooping.
“Him the owner of the show?” he ejaculated, in evident doubt. “Ye’re
kidding, Sawyer.”
“No, I am not,” assured the local stage manager. “What’s all this about,
anyhow? What’s he been doing, Mr. Merriwell?”
“He started to tear apart some of the scenery here, and I told him to
let it alone, but he was not inclined to do so. When I stopped him he
attacked me.”
“An’ he faound himself up ag’inst a feller that kin eat Hookers ez fast
ez they kin walk up,” laughed Ephraim Gallup. “There ain’t enough
Hookers in Mizzury to bother Frank Merriwell.”
“Is that so?” sneered the stage hand. “My brother Sam can clean out this
whole show. He’s just home from New Mexico, and there ain’t anybody in
this town wants to tackle him.”
“Yeour brother Sam would be pie for Frank Merriwell,” asserted Ephraim.
“Ef he knows when he’s well off, he’ll mind his own business.”
“By hocus, we’ll see,” shouted Hooker. “He don’t ’low anybody to meddle
with me, and I’ll just bring him round here. He’ll make things sizzle!”
The fellow started for the door.
“Where are you going?” demanded Frank, sharply.
“After Sam, by thunder!”
“Don’t do it!”
“I will!”
“I shall not handle your brother in the same gentle manner that I
handled you, in case he comes here and attempts to make trouble. You
know you were wrong, so you had better drop it.”
“That’s right, Joe,” said the local stage manager, anxiously. “What’s
the use to kick up a fuss over it?”
“Think I’m going to stand this kind of treatment?” snarled Joe. “I’m no
fool! I’ll be back pretty soon.”
Then he ran off the stage and down the stairs.
The stage manager looked frightened.
“You had better leave right away, Mr. Merriwell,” he said.
“Why?” asked Frank.
“Joe’ll do it.”
“What if he does?”
“His brother’s a pirate! He’s a big fellow, and a regular ruffian. He’s
been in half a dozen fights since he got home, a week ago. He killed a
man in a fight before he left for New Mexico, two years ago, and that
was why he got out of here. They ain’t dared try to arrest him sense he
come back.”
“Well, that’s pretty interesting!” commented Frank, with a slight show
of scorn. “So the law-abiding citizens of Carrolton permit the ruffian
to run things just as he pleases?”
“Yes.”
“That’s strange.”
“He’s armed. He carries two pistols all the time.”
“What of that?”
“And he can shoot.”
“Well?”
“He went into a saloon the night he got home and shot the necks off all
the bottles in sight, ending by shooting out the lights.”
“And nobody arrested him for that trick? Well, this fellow must be
regarded as a bad man from Bitter Creek.”
“That’s what he calls himself.”
“I think he needs to be curried down.”
“There ain’t nobody here dares tackle the job. He gets drunk and shoots
out windows in houses, and has a great time.”
“I should think they’d bind him over to keep the peace.”
“They don’t want to try it. He’s going back to New Mexico pretty soon,
and as long as he don’t do any great damage they’ll keep still while
he’s here and pray for him to go. He’ll be furious when he hears Joe’s
story. There’ll be the dickens to pay!”
“Well, I don’t like to have trouble with anybody,” admitted Frank, with
a slight show of regret; “but I couldn’t let that young fellow smash up
my scenery. Why do you have him round the theater?”
“He’s a good worker, and the managers are the ones who hire him. I don’t
have anything to do with that. You had better go away, Mr. Merriwell.”
“Go away?”
“Yes, before he comes back with Sam.”
“Why?”
“So they will not find you.”
“What? Do you want me to run away? Is that it?”
“It will be a discreet thing for you to do.”
“And cowardly.”
“Nobody is regarded as a coward for trying to avoid trouble with Sam
Hooker. People say anybody who won’t get out of the way and let him
alone is a fool.”
“I shall not run away from Mr. Hooker.”
“Remember he carries pistols.”
“It doesn’t make any difference if he carries cannons. Go ahead with the
work of putting in my scenery. I shall stay here till the last piece is
in.”
“That’s all right, Frank,” said Ephraim; “but there ain’t no need of
yeou gittin’ chawed up by this pirut. I an’ Wynne’ll stay here ter look
aout fer the stuff, an’ yeou better go to the hotel.”
Frank regarded Gallup with astonishment.
“Well, by Jove!” he exclaimed. “That beats! I didn’t think I’d hear
anything like that from you!”
The Vermonter reddened a little.
“Darn it!” he cried. “There ain’t no reason why yeou shouldn’t be
keerful. That ain’t bein’ a coward.”
“Of course not,” hastily put in Sawyer, the local stage manager. “Didn’t
I tell you nobody is regarded as cowardly for attempting to avoid
trouble with Sam Hooker.”
“Still, I should feel that I was running away.”
“That’s better than having your head broken. If you stay here and wait
for Sam Hooker, you won’t play to-night.”
“Think not?”
“I know it. He’ll put you out of shape. They say he knocked down old
Dorman’s bull with one blow of his fist.”
“I have heard of such things being done,” said Frank, still without
showing alarm; “but I’ve never happened to see anybody do it yet.”
“I know he broke one of Mose Herrick’s ribs with a blow.”
“Well, I shall do my best not to let Mr. Sam Hooker hit me in that
manner. That is all.”
“If you do your best, you will get out and go to the hotel. If he comes
there you’ll have somebody tell him you have gone somewhere else.”
Frank laughed.
“Just keep that stage door wide open,” he directed. “I threw Joe Hooker
down those stairs, and it may happen that his brother will take the same
sort of tumble. Go on putting the stuff in, and don’t worry about me.”
So the work continued, although everybody but Frank seemed anxious and
nervous. Merry was perfectly cool, and seemed to have forgotten all that
had occurred and that Joe Hooker had departed to look for his terrible
brother.
It was not much more than thirty minutes before there was the sound of
heavy feet on the stairs, and, after taking a look down, Ephraim ran to
Frank, exclaiming:
“They’re comin’, by gosh!”
Not a word did Merry say, but he advanced to meet the Hookers, buttoning
his coat tightly around him.
Joe Hooker came in first, his face shining with triumph. He was followed
by a large man, who was dressed in the rough garments of a cowboy and
wore a wide-brimmed hat, with a cartridge band round it. This fellow had
a flushed face and reddish eyes. He did look decidedly savage.
“Wherever is this yar kay-o-te?” he demanded.
“Right there!” cried Joe, pointing at Frank Merriwell. “That is the
chap! He’s the one, Sam!”
The cowboy stopped, placed his hands on his hips, and glared at Frank in
great amazement.
“Hey?” he shouted. “Is that him?”
“It is,” assured Joe.
“An’ he slammed yer round?”
“Yep.”
“This yar dood did?”
“Yep,” sheepishly admitted the younger brother.
“Yer must bin dreamin’!”
“No; he done it, Sam.”
“An’ he allows he kin fight?”
“He does.”
“Why, he wouldn’t be a bite fer me. Look hyar, ef you can’t handle that
yar lily-faced chap, yer ain’t no brother o’ mine. I reckoned yer was
goin’ ter put me up ag’in somethin’ what wuz wuth tacklin’.”
Sam Hooker seemed to be on the point of turning about and leaving, much
to the relief of Ephraim and the local stage manager.
But Joe had no thought of letting the affair end like that.
“If you don’t thrash him, Sam,” he said, “he’ll blow all over town that
he walloped a Hooker.”
“Hey?”
“He’ll do it, sure.”
The cowboy turned and looked Frank over again.
“Did yer slam my brother around somewhat?” he asked.
“Your brother did not obey me when I asked him to stop hammering at some
of my scenery, and I was compelled to handle him roughly,” admitted
Frank, quietly.
“Did yer throw him off the stage?”
“Yes.”
“Down ther stairs?”
“Yes.”
“An’ yer said ye’d handle me rougher than that ef I come round?”
“I believe I made some such remark.”
“There!” shouted the younger brother, in delight. “I told ye!”
“Whoop!” roared the elder. “Is this yar possible? Is it possible a
hand-fed cosset calf will blat at this untamed old maverick in this yar
manner? I reckon I’m dreamin’!”
“It’s jest what he done, Sam,” declared the younger brother, eagerly.
“He thinks he can do you.”
“Waal, I reckon I’ll hev ter wipe up ther floor with him, jest ter teach
ther blame fool a lesson.”
Whereupon the cowboy spat on his hands and prepared to attack Merriwell,
at whom he glared in a manner that expressed his contempt for such an
insignificant person.
Ephraim Gallup stood near, his mouth wide open and his knees seeming to
shake beneath him. The aspect of the cowboy was so terrible that the
Vermonter actually seemed frightened.
Sawyer, the local stage manager, was also frightened, but he did not
dare interfere, for he stood in great fear of Sam Hooker.
“It’s too bad!” he said, in an aside to Billy Wynne. “There won’t be any
show to-night, unless Mr. Merriwell has an understudy. Sam Hooker will
stave him all up.”
“Perhaps so,” said Wynne. “But Frank Merriwell is quite a scrapper when
he is forced to fight.”
“He’ll be a baby in Sam Hooker’s hands.”
“I hope not.”
“It’s no use hoping. He’s done for! Too bad!”
“Are ye reddy, tenderfoot dood?” shouted the cowboy.
“I warn you again to keep away and let me alone,” said Frank, grimly. “I
do not wish to fight with you.”
“To be course ye don’t! Haw! haw! Ye’d be a fool ef ye did! But ye’ve
made some loose talk, so that I’ve gotter chaw ye up. Be ye reddy?”
Frank stood with his hands at his sides, his eyes watching every motion
of the ruffian. He seemed perfectly careless and unprepared, but, in
fact, he was quite ready for anything.
Sam Hooker took a step forward, but paused in astonishment when Frank
did not cower or attempt to run away.
“Give it to him!” urged Joe, who seemed anxious to “get even” with the
youth who had handled him so easily. “He’s a dodger! Look out for him!”
“He won’t be able to do no dodgin’ when I’m done with him,” declared the
vicious cowboy.
“Mr. Sawyer,” said Frank, speaking in a cool manner to the local stage
manager, “please hold the door wide open, so I can throw this ruffian
downstairs without trouble.”
Sam Hooker gasped.
“Do my ears hear straight?” he gasped. “Throw me downstairs! What—that?
Waal, may I be jiggered!”
Then, with a roar, he made a leap at Frank.