by Morgan Scott
CHAPTER VII.
THE ENCOUNTER AT THE BROOK.
The head of the speaker, crowned by an old straw hat, rose above a clumpof alders on the opposite bank of the stream. His coatless shoulders,over one of which ran a single suspender, likewise could be seen. Hewore no collar, and his shirt was open at the throat, exposing a hairybit of chest. A “peeled” fishing pole, projecting upward beside him,betrayed the purpose of his visit to the brook at that early hour.
Somewhat less than twenty years of age, he was not a prepossessinglooking fellow as he glared angrily at the surprised fishermen, whoreturned his gaze in silence, seemingly stricken dumb for the moment byhis startling and unwelcome appearance.
“Say, you fellers,” again called the stranger in that challenging,threatening tone of anger, “what business you got fishing in this herebrook? You’ll git into trouble, trespassin’ on private property.”
“Jug-jug-jingoes!” breathed Springer. “He gave me a start.”
“Is this brook private property?” asked Grant coolly.
“Is it?” snapped the fellow on the opposite side. “Of course ’tis.Everything’s private property ’round here. S’pose this land ain’t ownedby nobody? You ought to know better’n that. Who be you, anyhow?”
“We’re camping near by on the lake,” explained Rod, maintaining hisunruffled manner, “and we were not told that the streams running intothis lake were closed by law.”
“They don’t haf to be closed by law, and I guess you know it, too,” wasthe retort. “Any man has got a right to keep trespassers off hisproperty.”
“Do you own this brook?”
“My old man owns it, and that’s the same thing. We don’t ’low nobody butourselves to fish it.”
“Have you posted signs, warning trespassers to keep off?” questionedRodney. “We didn’t see any.”
“Nun-nary one,” put in Phil.
“If you had,” flung back the angry fellow, “I don’t s’pose you’d paid no’tention to them, or else you’d ripped ’em down.”
“But you haven’t put up any such signs?” persisted Grant.
“That don’t make no difference at all,” declared the stranger, comingout from behind the alders and revealing a lean, muscular figure, withslightly stooped shoulders. “You hadn’t no right to fish here till youfound out.”
“We were told we could fish anywhere on the lake or around it.”
“Who told ye that?”
“Herman Duckelstein.”
“That thick-headed old Dutchman? He don’t know nothin’. I’ve had to nearpunch the head off his pie-faced boy to keep him in his place.”
With calm, keen eyes the Texan took the measure of the arrogantstranger, betraying no symptom of alarm, a fact which seemed to increasethe fellow’s irritation.
“So you near punched the head off Carl Duckelstein, did you?” saidGrant, with a touch of scorn. “And I opine you’re two or three yearsolder than he, while it’s right plain you’re much taller and stronger.You ought to be mighty proud of that performance. What’s your name?”
The eyes of the chap on the opposite bank glared still more fiercely,and his lips, drawn back a little, revealed some uneven snags in cryingneed of a toothbrush.
“That ain’t none of your business,” he retorted; “but I don’t mindtellin’ ye it’s Simpson—Jim Simpson. My father, Hank Simpson, owns thisstrip of land, sixty-three acres, running from the lake back to the mainroad, and we don’t propose to have no trespassers on it. Understandthat. What fish there is in this brook we want for ourselves.”
“Where does your land begin? Where is the boundary on this side towardPleasant Point?”
“That ain’t none of your business, either. Think I’m going to bother totell you where the bound’ries are? You’re on our property, and you wantto get off and stay off, I tell ye that. If ye don’t——” He lifted hisclenched fist in a threatening gesture.
“Regular sus-scrapper, isn’t he?” chuckled Springer, who, stimulated byhis companion’s example, had become outwardly cool and undisturbed.
As far as Rod was concerned, this calmness was all outward seeming, forbeneath the surface his naturally belligerent disposition had beenaroused by the threatening truculence and insolence of young Simpson.
“If you don’t tell us where your boundary line is,” said Rod, in thatquiet way which Simpson mistook for timidity, “how are we going to knowwhen we’re trespassing? We’re camping on Pleasant Point, and——”
“If you don’t come over this way you won’t do no trespassin’, and you’llbe likely to save yourselves a lot of trouble.”
“But what if we do come this way? What sort of trouble will we getinto?”
“You’ll get your heads everlastingly lammed off your shoulders, that’swhat,” snarled Jim Simpson.
“You seem to consider it your specialty to lam folks’ heads off theirshoulders. I’ve seen a heap of pugnacious parties like you before this,and I’ve always observed that if they were persevering enough theyeventually succeeded in getting a lamming themselves.”
“What’s that?” shouted the fellow, dropping his fishing pole andstarting forward into the brook until the water rose round the ankles ofthe long-legged boots into which his trousers were tucked. “What’re youdoin’, making fightin’ talk to me? If you be, by heck, I’ll come overthere and hand you one right on the kisser!”
“You’d better stay where you are, I reckon,” returned Rodney incontinued calmness. “I’m not looking for a scrap, having learned byobservation that the gent who prances round with a chip on his shouldersure gets it knocked off by a better chap some day.”
“Gee whiz!” hissed Springer. “He’s gug-going to come over! It looks likea mix-up.”
“If he picks up a fight, leave him to me,” said Rodney, in a low tone.“We’re not hunting for trouble, but I admit this gent’s deportment isright displeasing to me, and I don’t think it advisable to let himbrowbeat us or drive us away like frightened sheep.”
Picking the shallow places, Jim Simpson waded the brook, maintaining afierce and threatening manner, though possibly he was somewhat surprisedby the lack of alarm evinced in the bearing of the young campers.
“You’ll find there ain’t no fooling about this business,” he declared,as he emerged from the water and paused a few feet distant, beginning toroll up his shirt sleeves. “You better skedaddle before I pitch into ye.I don’t want to hurt ye, but——”
“That’s right kind of you,” scoffed Rod. “I opined by your remarks thatyou were yearning to hand us a sample lamming. If we had been properlywarned in advance, or had seen ‘No trespassing’ signs hereabouts, wemight not have fished in this brook.”
Simpson seemed to interpret this as a concession or symptom of backingdown, and it made him still more arrogant in his manner.
“I told ye you’d better skedaddle, to start with, but you was chumpsenough to stand and argue with me, and you even handed me some sass. Iwon’t take sass from nobody like you, by heck! Now you’ve got jest aboutten seconds to pick up and hiper. Dig, I tell ye—dig out!”
“We’re no diggers,” returned the Texan, whose eyes had swiftly takencognizance of the immediate footing, that he might not stumble over anyobstruction upon the ground in the encounter which seemed unavertiblesave by retreat. He had passed his rod to Springer, in order that hishands might be free.
“There’ll be some doings,” Phil whispered to himself, “when Mr. Simpsonattempts to put his bub-brand on this Texas maverick.”
Phil knew Rod’s nature—knew that he was a quiet, peaceful chap, whonever sought trouble and usually tried to avoid it when he could withoutpositive loss of self-respect. Furthermore, Phil was aware byobservation that, when aroused through physical violence, the boy fromTexas, having a fiery temper, was a most formidable and dangerousantagonist.
Well aware of his own volcanic nature when provoked or aroused, sincecoming to Oakd
ale, it had been Rodney Grant’s constant purpose to holdhimself in check and master the fighting strain in his blood. In this hehad succeeded at first only by avoiding violent clashes of any sort,which had, for the time being, given him among the Oakdale lads thereputation of being something of a coward. In the end, however,circumstances and events had conspired to reveal their mistake ofjudgment, and had led them to acknowledge Rodney as a thoroughbred inwhose veins there was not one craven drop.
Feeling certain he knew quite well what would happen to Simpson if thefellow attacked Rod, Phil believed it a duty to give him fair warning.
“Sus-say, look a’ here,” he cried, pointing a finger at the pugnaciousrustic, “if you don’t want to get the worst lul-licking you ever had,you better keep away from this fellow. He’ll pup-punch the packing outof you in just about two jabs.”
“Ho! ho! Is that so!” mocked Simpson. “Why, I can wallop the both ofyou, and not half try. I’ll learn ye to fish in our brook! So that’swhat ye ketched, is it?” he went on, his eye falling on the contents ofthe basket, at sight of which he became still more enraged. “Well, youwon’t take any of them to your old camp.” With a sudden swing of hisheavy boot, he kicked the basket over and sent the fish flying towardthe water, some of them falling into it.
A moment later, as Springer scrambled frantically to recover as many ofthose fish as possible, Grant, moving like lightning, seized Simpson bythe neck and a convenient part of his trousers and pitched him sprawlinginto the brook.
