Adventure, August 1917 — page 103: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

A Little Song That He Knew Those who knew him best knew that some- thing was wrong—he didn’t play as though he wished to tear the very heart out of his fiddle when all was well with him. Soon every man of the other timber-jacks was standing or sitting here and there behind the troubled mountaineer. Hanson, know- ing nothing ot it, fiddled on with a sort of merry desperation. And nobody noticed a pale and slender and boyish-looking young man in cheap, rather loud attire that marked him as one from a different land, who stood in the door- way and listened with all his soul. Beside him set a dust-stained old traveling-bag stuffed almost to bursting with clothing and two pairs of worn but cherished, padded gloves. He had walked from Johnsville in the lowland that day, and now he frequently shifted his weight from one tired and aching foot to the other. At the last, Hanson, as though in apology to his beloved instrument, played the air of an old and sad song, which contrasted oddly with such rollicking airs as “‘Buffalo Gals” and “Dream of the Devil.”” When he threw down the fiddle and faced about, the stran- ger went toward him smiling as though he had known him always. “THAT last tune,” said _ the oe, stranger—and he seemed somehow out of breath—‘‘that’s a little song that I know. If I could sing like I used to sing, I’dsing it for you. Sing and fight, sing and fight, that was me in the good days. My name is Kid Minton, gentlemen. May- be you’ve read of me in the sporting pages, eh? I’m from Memphis, Nashville, Chat- tanooga, New Orleans and Atlanta.” He halted at a point near Hanson, and there he stood looking up mto Hanson’s sober eyes with something very like adula- tion in his gaze. The queer attraction was mutual. For the moment the timber-jack forgot his worriment, he put a kindly hand on Kid Minton’s shoulder. ‘“‘We’d like to hear you sing, buddy, if you felt like it,” he said. “Yes, that tune is mighty pretty, though the words, it always seemed to me, is a little sickish hike.” ‘ “‘Sickish?”’ questioned Minton, seriously. “Not when—you’ve been through with what I’ve been through. My mother used to sing that song—and it applied to her then the same as it applies to me now.” Io! With that he sank wearily to one of the beds, and made as if to lie down. It chanced to be Rush Gudridge’s bed that he had chosen, and Gudridge, after the fashion of men of his kind, flew instantly angry. “Here, you!” he snapped. “Out 0’ there!” He seized Kid Minton by the back of his coat and flung him brutally to the floor, face downward and Minton lay there still. That which was almost a moan of disapproval ran through the crowd of timber-jacks. Wardlaw Hanson stepped toward the bully, his eyes were flashing like powderfire, and every muscle in his fine young body was tense and quivering. Kid Minton raised himself to an elbow and looked hard toward Gudridge, and the loggers saw the bright red of blood at the corners of Kid Minton’s mouth. | “Beef! You're all—just plain meat— beef—your forehead—would split a .22 bullet!” came in a voice that was strong only in the spirit of it. “You’re a lowdown yellow dog, Gud- ridge!’ cried Wardlaw Hanson. ‘‘Couldn’t ye see the boy was sick. But what did you care. I know you're goin’ to lick me, Gud- ridge, and———your soul, you’ve got to do it!” He hurled himself upon that mountain of hard flesh and bone that the Crooked Creek country called champion. It was a high courage. Hanson, of the fiddling Hansons, dreamer and musician rather than fighter, was fighting for a principle and without even the faintest hope of winning. Of course, it was short. Hanson was quickly defeated, just as he had known beforehand. When he came to himself, he was lying in the center of the floor, and a ring of silent and half angry loggers stood around and over him, and Kid Minton was kneeling beside him. Minton’s voice was low and filled with anxiety: “Bo, can’t you hear me? Get up bo. Honest, I’m much obliged to you. I won’t forget it, ever. You remember what I say to you—-some day, somebody who carries in his pistol pocket the difference between his size and that big beef’s size, is going to kill the beef. Now if these fellows will clear out and give you some air . He rose and pushed the ring open. The timber-jacks gave away to him, and soon they had dispersed altogether. Hanson COmiclooks.COmM