And he scowled in anger at the aggressor. But the aggressor merely
renewed the twitchings with: "Giddap hossey. Giddap."
"Let go that hair," once more said Cyrus.
The Budding Outlaw, for answer, twitched the golden hair again, and
harder than before. As Ruth in helpless agony was still raising her
hands to her head, Cyrus aimed a blow at the Budding Outlaw and hit
him in the face. But the Budding Outlaw was one year older and one
year bigger than Cyrus, and twenty years cooler, more cynical and more
blasé. So, without even loosening his hold on the bride's hair, he
struck out with his free hand and landed full on Cyrus's mouth. The
blow was so well directed that the recipient staggered back and stood
for a second or two as if dazed. On the Budding Outlaw's face was a
smile of easy victory--and contempt. Cyrus saw it. In Ruth's face he
saw torture and helpless anger. Then he threw himself again at the
enemy. And again the enemy without loosening his left-hand clutch on
the golden hair, sent his fist against the approaching face, landing
full on its nose and followed it by a sudden push. Cyrus staggered back
across the aisle and leaned against the nearest pew. He blinked, and
drew a hand across his bleeding mouth. His nose seemed--to him--about
twice its usual size and rapidly growing bigger. Then Ruth, forgetting
her own pain, cried out:
"Oh, Luther, Luther! Help Cyrus!"
But, either from wisdom or some other reason, Luther refrained from
interfering. He looked at Ruth, then down at the floor, then up again
at the Budding Outlaw, now terrible in his easy triumph. Ruth called
again to him, yet more urgent--a passionate appeal for help. It was the
cry of one old playmate to another, for the rescue of a bosom friend.
But the organ above was pouring forth its music and Luther turned away,
pretending not to hear the cry.
Cyrus, during this moment's lull, did some rapid thinking. He saw the
folly of his previous attacks. So, as Ruth was uttering her second
appeal to his lukewarm friend, he advanced again, but more slowly than
before, ducked his head and dodged a blow, then jumped, and closed with
the enemy. And to the Budding Outlaw it seemed as if a dozen boys were
on him. Blows rained upon his face. Copper toed shoes were hammering,
with the rage of demons, against his sensitive shins. He let go the
maiden's hair, as all his hands were none too many for this peaceable
boy now suddenly transformed into a reckless and bloodthirsty athlete.
He could not reach Cyrus's face, as that face, for protection, was
pressed close against the Outlaw's own chest. And when, at last, he got
both hands against Cyrus's face and body to push him off he felt ten
fingers tighten about his throat with a grip that scared him. For now,
as the two iron thumbs were pressing his windpipe with murderous power,
he realized that this boy was fighting with the fury and the strength
of those who fight for victory or for death. He gurgled, gasped, pulled
Cyrus's hair and beat wildly at his head. But when a man is fighting
for the woman of his choice--or for any other holy cause--he has the
strength of many. So with Cyrus. The tearing of his hair, the blows
upon his head and face and body were as summer zephyrs. For him, at
the moment, death could have no terrors. He was in this struggle for
victory or annihilation.
No boy can live without breathing, and the Budding Outlaw's strength
was going. Cyrus forced him to the floor. Then, knowing nothing of the
Rules of the Ring, he hammered him in the face and jammed his knees
into his stomach, as if to kill.
At last, after a final blow and jab and kick, he climbed to his feet,
stepped back and looked down at him. Ruth seized him by an arm and
tried to drag him from the church.
"Come! Come quick, before he gets up!"
But a change had come over the once peaceful groom. The lust of battle
was in him. He paid no attention to her words. Breathing hard, with
bruises on his face, his lips bleeding, he beckoned to the figure on
the floor as if angry at delay:
"Come along. Get up."
But the Dare-devil of the West, the killer of Indians, the Pirates'
Terror, had no intention of rising. Enough was sufficient for this
Despiser of Peace, this Tormentor of Brides. To fight in orderly
fashion with a boy you know you can lick--that's one thing. But to
struggle with wild animals, cyclones and supernatural forces that
ignore the rules of war and really mean to kill you, and will,--unless
you can get away,--that's very different. Moreover, something was
telling him now that a big will in a little body can demolish giants.
He knew he was stronger than Cyrus, but the thing with which he had so
suddenly become acquainted was the spirit within this smaller boy--the
same old spirit that stirred the Greeks at Marathon, and the handful
of Lexington farmers. And now, before him, with the swelling nose and
bleeding lips, glowered the embodiment of that immortal spirit. The
Tormentor of Brides suspected, and his suspicions were correct, that
if he hurled this boy a dozen times against the opposite pews he would
still come at him, and each assault would be more deadly than its
predecessor.
Cyrus, again ignoring the Rules of the Ring, stepped forward and kicked
him. "Come, get up! Get up. Finish it!"
Slowly the New Boy shook his head, with a gesture of defeat. He
muttered something too low to hear--words drowned in the notes of the
organ. He refused to rise.
Then Cyrus turned and held out his hand to Ruth. In drawing the back
of a fist across his mouth during the conflict his cheeks had become
smeared with blood. As Ruth stared in a kind of terror at this gory
visage with riotous hair, swelling nose and still bleeding lips, she
saw in the erstwhile drowsy eyes a look that was unfamiliar; a look
of determination, as if no arguments from God or man or devil would
be considered. Weak and all atremble, her one desire was for hurrying
home. But she obeyed the unspoken mandate and laid her hand in his.
Then Luther, also in obedience to an unspoken command, this time a
peremptory gesture toward the pulpit, again started up the aisle.
And it so happened as the little assemblage resumed its interrupted
progress the great organ in the gallery burst forth with Wagner's
"Wedding March"; and it filled the church.
The marriage ceremony passed off well;--that is, of course,--making
allowance for the officiating person who had no knowledge of what he
ought to say, or of what he was saying. With constant promptings and
corrections from the bride--who although somewhat hysterical at the
moment, had a remarkable memory for the sound of words--Luther managed
to get along. To misunderstand certain promptings was excusable, for
the music was confusing. Horace Phillips, in the gallery, ignorant
of what was happening below, had started off with the full force of
the organ, and he continued with enthusiasm until the swelling notes
resounded through the empty building.
Ruth supplied all the language.
_Luther._ Will you take this wedded girl for your wife?
_Cyrus._ I will.
_Luther._ Will you take this wedded boy for your husband?
_Ruth._ I will.
_Luther._ Do you promise to endure with all your worldly goods?
_Cyrus._ I do.
_Luther._ Will you hold on for better than worse?
_Ruth._ I will.
_Luther._ You promise to obey?
_Cyrus._ I do.
_Luther._ Until death departs, richer or poorer and cherish.
_Ruth._ I do.
_Cyrus._ It is.
_Luther._ I denounce you as man and wife.
_Cyrus._ I do.
_Ruth._ No, Cyrus, you say nothing.
_Cyrus._ Nothing.
_Ruth._ No, no! You don't say anything--just keep still.
_Luther._ With this ring I you wed.
_Cyrus._ No. _I_ say that!
He said it, and with heroic self-control bade a silent farewell to his
silver treasure as he slipped it on a finger of the bride. Then, to the
rejoicing music, they marched down the aisle.
Outside the church the bride, who feared a renewal of the conflict,
looked about with anxious eyes for the Budding Outlaw. But she had no
cause for alarm. The Budding Outlaw was visible, far down the street,
beyond the common, marching with humble mien, reflecting sadly on the
uncertainties of human life.
[Illustration]
V