A Canadian Bad Man
"You jest put the hosses into the rig and make along to Hurley's," said
Peter, Joe's employer, one early morning when the land was already
ploughed, harrowed, and sown, and there was little to do but tend the
animals and await the growth of the wheat crop, upon which Peter
anticipated so much. "And don't stop longer than you need, lad. He's
a bad man is Hurley, one of England's ne'er-do-weels, who came out
years ago, and has now taken to farming. I've lent him a seeder this
two seasons, and he hasn't returned it. Jest hitch it on to the back
of the rig and bring it along."
"And you can take something from me along to Mrs. Hurley," said Peter's
wife, who was one of those kind-hearted colonists one so often meets.
"She's a poor, down-trodden thing, and most like she doesn't have too
many of the good things. Here's butter for her, and eggs, and a leg of
pork."
Joe was by now quite an adept at the management of the rig, and soon
had his horses harnessed in, an operation of which he had been
supremely ignorant before his arrival. He mounted into the cart,
having placed Mrs. Strike's basket there already, cracked the whip, and
went off across the prairie track between the ploughed acres already
sprouting into greenness.
Hurley's quarter section was a matter of four miles away, and Joe had
met the man only once before. But already something of his reputation
had reached his ears, and Joe had gathered that amongst a farming class
of industrious fellows this Hurley was looked at askance.
"He's a bully, and a sullen bully with it all," Peter had said once
before. "He don't keep a hand more'n a month, as a general rule, while
I reckon the boy as he has apprenticed to him has none too good a time.
Hurley's a man I don't take to."
Bearing all this in mind, Joe whipped up his horses and took them at a
smart pace across the fields. On every hand lay wooded country, with
clearings to right and left, where the industry of the settlers had
felled the trees, paying toll to the Government of Canada for them, and
had then rooted the land, broken it, and placed therein the seed which
was to spring into such bounteous growth. In every case a log hut was
erected somewhere on the quarter section, consisting of one hundred and
sixty acres; and these log huts often enough disclosed from their
outward lines something of the character of the inmates, for in one
case the shack was barely twelve feet by twelve.
"Jim Canning's," Joe told himself, for he had met Jim and liked him.
"A confirmed old bachelor; been in Canada for ten years and more, and
seems to like living by himself. He's a jovial fellow. Hallo, Jim!"
he shouted, seeing that worthy crossing his section towards him.
"How'dy."
Observe the expression, and gather the fact that even his own short
residence in the Dominion had already caused Joe to copy those who
lived about him. He was becoming quite a Canadian in his speech.
Already one could detect something of that pleasant drawl that marks
the sturdy colonial.
"Hallo, Joe!" shouted the stranger, beaming at our hero and disclosing
handsome features, sunburned to a degree, while even his chest was of a
deep brown; for Jim wore no collar, and had discarded the customary
neckcloth. He was, in fact, a tattered-looking object--a huge patch in
the seat of his trousers, a shirt which might have been blue or green
or red in its palmy days, but which was now of a curious brown,
evidently from much exposure to the sun. "How'dy," he cried. "Where
away?"
"Hurley's, fetching a seeder."
"Huh! Then you look lively back agin," came the answer. "There's
ructions down there. Hurley's been fighting with his hands, and though
I believe they've settled the quarrel for the time bein', you never
know when it won't break out again; he ain't no use ain't Hurley."
They waved to one another and then parted, Joe jogging along the rough
track, now with the wheels on one side deep in an old rut, which
threatened to upset the rig, and then bumping over boulders and tree
stumps, which made riding anything but comfortable. But what cared
Joe? He whistled shrilly; his face was rosy and tanned, his eyes
clear, his broad-brimmed hat thrust back on his head, till a lock of
hair showed to the front. Nor could his own clothing be very
favourably contrasted with Jim's; for Joe's shirt had a large rent in
it, made that very morning. A portion of the brim of his hat was
missing, while the ends of his trousers were threadbare, to say the
least of them.
"Clothing don't make the man, anyhow," Peter had said many a time.
"You ain't any the wuss fer a rent in yer breeks."
"Hallo, Joe!" came a hail across from another quarter section. "How's
the Strikes?"
Joe shouted back a greeting, and was soon exchanging others with
farmers farther on. Indeed, he called at one of the shacks, a
magnificent affair, showing the pluck and ability of its owner. It
belonged to a city clerk from the city of London, one who had been
ignorant of farming conditions, and when Joe was last in this direction
it was not entirely finished.
"I thought I'd just drop in and see the house," he said, as he pulled
up at the door. "It wouldn't have been neighbourly to have passed
without a call."
"That it wouldn't," laughed a small but active lady, who emerged and
shook hands with him. "Hi, Jack, here's Mr. Joe come to see us! Isn't
the shack a beauty, just?"
She stood away from the shack, regarding it with a proud eye. And Joe
eagerly extolled its magnificence; for this city clerk had built a
house which none need be ashamed of.
"Not bad by half, eh?" he grinned, as he came up to Joe. "My cousin,
who's farming with me, gave a hand. There's four rooms inside, and a
covered way to the stables and the piggeries. It's cost us a heap of
labour, but it's done now, and mighty pleased we are. How's the
Strikes? Crops showing well, eh? We're doing fine; and the wife is
making money with her fowls and eggs and such things. My boy, I
wouldn't be back on an office stool for double the pay. I'm free
here--free, my boy! I can breathe out in this country. And look at
the kids--they're as healthy as we could wish."
Joe took in his surroundings with an observant eye, and heartily
congratulated his friends. Here he saw before him an example of what a
man from a city can do in the Dominion, if only he have the pluck and
the tenacity to face the difficulties and disappointments which are
sure to come along at first, and have the perseverance to work.
"How did you manage?" he asked Jack, the owner of the place.
"Manage! Well, now, like this. I was ill back in the Old Country, and
I'll say this for the people who employed me--they treated me
handsomely. They paid my salary for a whole year; then the doctor
recommended Canada, and out we came, drawing all our savings. Tom, my
cousin, had been here four years working on the farms, and we went into
partnership right away. Of course I knew nothing. I trusted to him,
and I've learned steadily. It's been uphill work, my boy. But there
you are."
He held out an open palm towards the house, eyeing it with supreme
satisfaction. And no wonder. Here was a man who through ill-health
had failed, more or less, in England. Canada had given him a new lease
of life and new opportunities. But let us remember that the Dominion
gives nothing without effort on the side of immigrants. Jack had
worked--his elaborate shack showed that distinctly--while he had been
aided and abetted by a clever wife who fell in at once with the ways of
the country, who did not grumble because she was far outside a town,
but set to work to master the intricacies of chicken rearing, or butter
making, and a thousand and one things, hidden arts to her till that
moment. And the result was success--success and happiness.
Joe shouted a farewell, promised to call in for a meal on his way back,
and again whipped up his horses. In half an hour the rough track and
his rig brought him to the door of the Hurleys, a tumble-down shack,
showing obvious slackness on the part of the owner; and as he climbed
out of the rig he heard cries and shouts coming from the interior of
the shack.
"A ruction," he told himself. "Perhaps I'd better wait; other people's
quarrels have nothing to do with me."
He paused half in and half out of the rig for a little while, till, of
a sudden, the door of the shack flew open, and a lad some fifteen years
of age dashed out. After him came a burly, bearded fellow, whose
knitted brows and scowling face showed that he was in a temper. There
was a whip in his hand, and no sooner was he out of the door than he
sent the lash curling about the flanks of the lad who had preceded him,
causing the latter to give vent to a cry of pain and to take cover by
the rig. Then Hurley--for he it was--swung round on our hero.
"Huh!" he growled, drawing in the slack of his lash. "What do you
want? You ain't been asked here. Clear off!"
Joe dropped from the rig and stepped a pace nearer. "I've come for
Peter Strike's seeder," he said.
"Strike! Eh? You get off!" came the furious answer, for it seemed as
if Joe's arrival had increased the anger of the individual. "You get
right off, or I'll give yer strike jest as I'm a-going to do with this
little rascal. Come you here, Tom; I'll learn you to leave the door of
the stable open of a night and have all the cattle treading over the
corn. You ain't coming? Then I'll have to fetch you."
The huge bully bore down upon the trembling lad he had addressed, and
who seemed too scared to move. He cowered by the side of the rig till
Hurley was upon him, and was then dragged towards the door of the shack.
"What! You ain't gone?" growled Hurley, seeing that Joe had made no
movement, but stood beside the rig regarding him, and gripping the butt
of his whip. "Ef you ain't away in a jiffy, I'll give you summat of
the same too."
"You'll give me the seeder first," said Joe, keeping his temper, and
showing an unflinching front, "and then you'll take your hands off Tom.
Even if he did leave the stable door open, he's sorry, no doubt, and
there's no excuse for treating him so badly. I'd be ashamed if I was a
big fellow the same as you."
Hurley let his lower jaw drop with amazement, showing a set of
irregular teeth which were all discoloured. He almost foamed at the
mouth, while his eyes narrowed with anger and seemed to disappear
within their sockets. Joe could see the fingers of his one free hand
crushed into the palm, while the man's muscles hardened and stood out
prominently under the skin of his arm. He bellowed when he answered.
"So you'd like to concern yourself with things that ain't got nothing
to do with you," he shouted. "You're one of the green chaps from over
the water that thinks things out here should be run as if the boys was
dressed in silk, and every one of them mammy's darlings. I'm going to
lick this kid, and when I'm done, if you ain't gone, I'll give you a
hiding jest the same."
Joe began to gather the fact that he was in for trouble, and debated
what he ought to do. There may be some who, under similar
circumstances, would have clambered into the rig and driven off; but
few, very few we imagine. Joe, at any rate, was not to be numbered
with them; he clenched the hand not gripping his whip and watched to
see what happened. And Hurley did not keep him long waiting. He took
the boy Tom by the scruff of his neck, forced him against the doorpost
of the shack, and proceeded to bind him to it with a length of cord.
"That'll do," said Joe curtly, walking towards him. "Let that lad go!"
"Eh? Why, ef I don't think you're mad!" declared the bully, opening
his mouth in amazement. Indeed, he never once thought seriously that
our hero would interpose between him and his victim. For Hurley stood
six feet in his socks, and was burly and heavy. Joe perhaps topped the
measure at five feet nine, and wanted to fill out a great deal yet
before he could compare with this fellow. If he had any advantage over
such a man, and that was an extremely doubtful point, it lay in his
activity. Joe was light and "nippy" on his feet. In the boxing ring
he could dodge round his opponent till the latter was exhausted almost
in his efforts to force the battle. Hurley, however, was heavy and fat
and unwieldy; besides, the bully's face bore abundant evidence of
indulgence. There were heavy lines beneath the eyes; the healthy tan
and colour of the average colonist who works in the open was
conspicuous by its absence, and instead his face was deadly pale. His
deep and rapid breathing, too, told of his soft condition.
"He'd smash me like an egg," Joe told himself. "This is going to be a
nasty business. But I can't, I really can't back out of it. Look
here, Hurley," he said, attempting to reason with the angry man, "leave
Tom alone. You know better than I do that your neighbours would never
stand seeing you knocking him about. Bullying don't go down out in
these parts."
There came a roar from Hurley. Reason was thrown away on the maddened
ruffian, and if only the truth had been known, he had imbibed a
sufficiency of liquor that morning to account for a great deal of
violence. Indeed, this was a habit which had grown with him, and which
spelled ruin to his farming and to the happiness of his home. The
veins in his bull-like neck swelled out prominently, then he launched
himself at Joe, and, swinging the whip overhead, sent the lash coiling
about his face. Our hero answered with a rapidity that must have been
startling. He dashed in with the quickness of lightning and brought
the butt end of his whip handle down with a crash on the middle of
Hurley's head. A minute later they were locked in one another's arms
and engaged in a desperate struggle. Hurley gripped Joe round the
shoulders, compressing his chest and arms. Then Joe managed to wrench
his right fist free, and without a particle of hesitation sent it again
and again into the bully's face, till blood streamed down upon him,
while Hurley shouted and foamed with rage, and strained as if he would
crush the life out of his youthful antagonist. His breath came in
gasps, so great were his exertions. His eyes were bloodshot, and
altogether he wore anything but a taking appearance.
"Now, let me go, and end the matter," said Joe, keeping his wits, and
pressing the man away from him as far as possible.
"Not till I've half-killed you," came the grunting answer. "I'll learn
you to interfere; I'll break yer back, young feller."
And thereupon he proceeded to attempt to put that plan into execution.
He lifted Joe as if he were a feather, swung him round and hurled him
against the shack, jarring the breath out of his body. It was only
with a great effort that our hero kept his senses and struggled to hold
an upright position, then, just as he had got his breath again, the man
was on him. Joe let out with his right and left fists in quick
succession, getting home on the bully's face on each occasion. Then,
stooping quickly, he picked up his whip, and, gripping the handle
again, brought the butt heavily across Hurley's head, sending the man
staggering backward. Indeed, the fellow seemed to be incapable of
further exertion, for he rested his back against the shack and stood
there panting.
Joe went to the boy at once, cut the rope which bound him, and pointed
to the shack.
"Get your traps at once," he said, "then climb into the rig. I'll take
you along with me."
He turned once more to see what was happening to Hurley, and was only
just in time to spring aside, and thereby escape a sweeping blow from a
heavy fork handle with which the ruffian had armed himself.
"I'll show you who's master," shouted the fellow, his beard bristling
with rage, his hat fallen from his head, and his clothing all awry.
"I'll show you who's winner here, I will. I'll brain you before I've
done with you."
Up went his formidable stick again, to be swung over his head; then
with a rush he advanced on Joe. But the latter dodged behind the rig,
and for a while attacker and attacked were separated. Joe, in fact,
could have retired. But there was the lad Tom to be considered, for at
this moment he emerged from the shack, a huge bundle under his arm.
"Go back, right in," bellowed Hurley. "I'll finish you too if you're
not careful. Go right in; I'll give you what you've earned when I've
done with this cub. Eh? You ain't going to?"
The smallest hesitation on the part of Tom was sufficient to send the
blood again rushing to the face of the bully. He looked a terrible
object as he sprang at the boy, and there is little doubt that he would
have done him a serious injury, had not Joe again pluckily come to the
rescue. Darting out from behind the rig, he was just in time to catch
the end of the stout handle which Hurley wielded as it swung back over
his shoulder. Then, with a howl of rage, the brute turned on him.
"You again!" he shouted. "Then that for you! That, and that, and
that!"
He rained blows on our hero, one catching him across the shoulder and
almost felling him. The remaining two he was lucky enough to escape by
leaping aside. But he realized that such an attack could not last for
ever, nor was he likely to escape another time. It was with a quick
movement, therefore, that he closed with Hurley. His fists went crash
into the man's face, and then they were once more locked together. But
here the bully had all the advantage, and his strength was increased by
the rage he felt. It mattered little to him that Tom, with a pluck
that did him credit, seized Joe's whip and struck his tormentor over
the head time and again. Hurley did not seem to feel the blows; all
his frantic rage was concentrated on Joe.
"I'm a-going to kill you right out," he grunted. "I'll larn you to
come interfering with me and mine."
He swung Joe upward clear of the ground and then hurled him downward,
once again driving the breath out of Joe's body. But he was not
defeated. The lad had more pluck than strength, to give him his due,
as, gasping for breath, he rose swiftly and once more tackled his
opponent. Reaching forward, he planted a heavy blow in Hurley's face,
and contrived to spring away before the man could seize him.
"Go in again! Punch him for all you can!" shouted Tom, taking an
active interest now in the proceedings, and dodging round the
combatants, as if he were seeking another opportunity to strike his
tormentor. "Watch him, though; he's got that stick again. If I'd a
gun I'd shoot him."
"You would, would you?" growled Hurley, his head down, his neck sunk
into his shoulders, and a demoniacal expression on his face. "You'd
shoot me, young feller? But I'll deal with you in a while. Maybe I'll
kill you. This fool here I will, sure as eggs."
He spat into his hands and gripped his stake again. As for Joe, had he
been armed with a revolver, there is little doubt but that he would
have made good use of the weapon; for if ever a man looked murderous it
was Hurley. More than that, had Joe but known what the interior of the
shack disclosed, and been armed, he would have fired at this ruffian
without a second's hesitation; for Hurley's attack on Tom was not his
only act of brutality on this eventful morning. He had begun to bully
the boy an hour ago, in spite of his unhappy wife's appeal, and when
she had at length endeavoured to intervene, he had struck her
insensible. That was the class of ruffian our hero had to deal with.
A glance at his face, at his gaping lips, his firm-clenched teeth, and
his bristling beard showed that his mental condition approached
madness. And now, having regained his breath in some measure, he fixed
his eye on Joe and rushed at him as a bull would at one who had roused
his anger.
"Watch him!" shouted Tom again, as if the warning were actually needed.
"Here, let's run for it."
But it was too late to think of that. Besides, Joe had his master's
property to consider. He stood his ground, therefore, and held up a
warning hand.
"I warn you to desist," he shouted. "I have done you no wrong, but
have prevented you from ill-treating this boy. You are much older than
I am, and should know what the end of this will be. Then, stand off."
"Stand off, and know that you've interfered? Not me!" came the
growling answer. "Besides, I know how the thing's going to end. I'm
going to kill you sure for being fool enough to interfere with other
people."
Hurley waited for no more. He had paused as Joe held up a hand and
spoke; but now he hurled himself forward, and struck out blindly with
his stake. As for Joe, he stepped aside and dealt the man a swinging
blow behind the ear as he passed him; but it was his last effort. The
fight was too unequal, for here was a man armed with a long stake and
able to reach him with it. Up went the formidable weapon again, and
when it fell Joe's head was beneath it. He fell with a crash and lay
quite motionless. As for Tom, he dropped his bundle and went off at a
run towards the nearest quarter section, shouting for help at the top
of his voice.
"That's what I call justice," growled Hurley, looking at the result of
his violence. "I promised I'd knock him out, and I've done it. Now
for the next business. This row'll put the North-west Police on me,
and the neighbours'll be only too ready to join in. I'll hook it."
He went to Joe and bent deliberately over his unconscious figure, and
then, with the hand of one who had obviously had experience, he ran
through his pockets. When he rose again he was tucking away within his
coat the roll of bills which represented all our hero's savings, added
to the small fund he had kept out of the bank, and in addition the
precious envelope which Joe's father had left to him.
"Sixty-five dollars free," growled Hurley. "That's a windfall, seeing
that there's scarce a cent in the shack. It'll do for the time being.
Here's an envelope--valuables, perhaps. I'll look into it later. Now,
I'll cut this farming and be off."
Hurley was a cool ruffian, even if at times he was violent. He entered
the shack, and emerged after some five minutes carrying a bundle of
clothes and a rifle. Then he mounted the rig, having previously picked
up the whip which Joe had used, cracked it, and set off down the track
in the direction of the railway. He left the figure of Joe Bradley
lying motionless and forlorn on the very ground, where he had made such
a brave fight to protect a lad little younger than himself against the
attack of a hulking bully.