by Morgan Scott
CHAPTER XXX.
THE REASON WHY.
“That matter never worried me a whole lot, anyhow,” said Rod, after afew moments of silence. “I turned the laugh on the bunch that startedin to have a howling, gay old time with me, and I was satisfied. I knewI 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 itsure was a contemptible thing to do, and I hate to have anybody reallythink 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 maynot come back. Between us, Stone, I’ll admit confidential that I’mregretful because he made his getaway before I could put the screws onhim.”
“Oh!” said Ben, sitting up straight on his chair. “Then you think thatSpotty—that Spotty——”
“I have reasons,” nodded Rod, “to be right suspicious of him. I went tosee 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 wasmightily tempted to put hands on him and choke him into telling thetruth, but with my particular failing in mind, which is the oneunfortunate failing of all Grants belonging to my family; I kept atight 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 mefrom owning up to this special weakness I have just mentioned. It’scharacteristic of us all that great excitement or acts of contention orphysical violence in which we take part should arouse us to a sort ofdisgraceful frenzy. This was well known of my father, and in the oldfighting days they used to say it was safer to stir up a man-killinglion than to provoke Hugh Grant of the Star D. I’ve told you how hefought his enemies to a standstill and won out, even though maimed forlife. The Grants are all fighters, Ben.”
“I guess some fellows around here are beginning to believe that oneGrant, at least, is a fighter.”
“My mother is a gentle, peaceful woman, who has suffered indescribablythrough anxiety and worriment produced by this fighting strain in theGrant blood. She has told me that more than a score of times she’s seenmy father leave the ranch fully expecting that he would be brought backdead. In my own case, I have learned by experience that violentphysical action on my part, coupled with opposition of the same sort,turns me into a raging creature, wholly lacking in restraint or anythought of consequences. You know what happened to the son of myfather’s enemy at school in Houston. I nearly killed Jennings. When Icame here to school I made a resolve to avoid anything that would beliable to stir me up and lead me into such folly. That’s why I refusedto play football.”
“But football isn’t fighting.”
“Isn’t it?” laughed Rod. “Well, it’s fighting for a Grant, as the caseof 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 understandthings some better. Oscar is several years older than I, and two yearsago he obtained an appointment to West Point.”
“Oh!” cried the visitor. “Is he—is he the Grant I’ve heard about whowas 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, thisaffair 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 shouldhave known better. It was impossible for him to engage in any sort of ascrimmage without slugging, and he became mighty unpopular indouble-quick time. I judge that’s why he was singled out especially fora course of sprouts, and there’s no question but he was given somemighty rough treatment by the hazers. We never knew the fullparticulars of what happened. However, we do know he was practicallystripped naked on a bitter November night and nearly drowned by havingice-cold water turned on him from a hose or a hydrant or something.When they thought him pretty nearly finished, by his appearance, he wastaken under cover somewhere and efforts were made to restore him.
“He came round somewhat more sudden than those men expected, for hebroke away, seized a chair and lay about him with it like a madman. Oneof the hazers was knocked stiff before Oscar drove the others out ofthe room. Oscar made his getaway, leaving that man, who had received aterrible crack on the head, to be picked up and cared for by hiscompanions. His name was Demarest, and he was taken to the hospital.Next morning Oscar was ill and still half crazed. To cap it all, someone brought him word that Demarest was dead, which was a lie concocted,doubtless, for the purpose of frightening him. A run of brain feverfollowed, and, though my brother is still alive, he never recovered hisnormal condition; he’s on the Star D now, hopelessly deranged, thoughharmless.
“Now, Ben, I opine you can understand why I’ve tried right hard toavoid excitement or violence of any sort that might stir me up and makeme temporarily forgetful or reckless of consequences. Barker forced afight upon me, but it sure was a good thing for him that he couldn’tfight much, so that it was all over in a jiffy.”
“If the boys knew this,” began Ben—“if they had known it in the firstplace——”
“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 fightwhen driven into a corner, and that’s enough. I’m still going to keep atight 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 thinkme low down enough to shoot a harmless dog by way of getting revenge onan enemy. One thing I will claim, and that is that all Grants fightopen and square and there never was a sneak among them. Sometime I’msure the truth will come out concerning that dog shooting.”
It came out far sooner than Rod expected. On the following day JoshuaHaskell, who owned the northern side of Turkey Hill, making certainpurchases at Stickney’s store, heard some loungers discussing theshooting of Silver Tongue, and he suddenly developed a great deal ofinterest 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 overon Waller’s land. Barker’s boy and two other young fellers follered theblood drops to that place, and then they tracked the whelp who did theshootin’ almost into the Turkey Hill swamp; but the storm come on, andthey 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 onTurkey Hill Satterday mornin’. Just before the storm begun I happenedto stop and look down, and I saw a boy come out of the woods on Dodd’sland, which j’ines mine. He had a gun, and he was travelin’ onsnowshoes. A little while before that I’d heared somebody fire a shotover in the direction of the Pond Hole, and he was comin’ from thatway. Seemed to be in a mighty big hurry, too; but all of a sudden hestopped a minute, and I see him hang something red on a bush. Then hehipered along again, as if he was afeared the Old Nick was chasin’ him.”
“Well, well!” cried Stickney, thumping the cheese box on the counterwith his knuckles. “That must have been the feller. They found a redsilk handkerchief that belonged to this yere Grant boy, who’s stoppingwith old Priscilla Kent.”
“’Twan’t the Grant boy I see,” declared Haskell. “I knowed the youngrascal, fur off as he was, and he’s been up to his shindigs ’round herebefore. ’Twas old Lem Davis’ sneakin’ cub, as I’ll swear to; and youcan bate your last dollar he shot that dorg
.”
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