Adventure, August 1917 — page 107: 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 “Follow quick! Rush—kill him!’ bel- lowed Bill Gudridge. The bully sprang forward with a blow that might have broken bones, if it had but landed. Hanson dodged it nicely and at the same time struck Gudridge heavily on the point of the jaw. With this the fight became such a whirlwind affair that no two of the onlookers saw it alike. Hanson found himself more and more out- matched in strength, and he noted, as the battle went on, that the other was even taking up some of his tricks. He landed fre- quently enough, but his blows, although most of them were placed on those spots that are considered vulnerable, seemed to gain little or nothing for him. He was as quick as a panther, and Gudridge landed seldom, but Gudridge’s blows were damag- ing no matter where they fell. Minton’s spirits began to go down. This was the last battle that he would ever wit- ness, and he felt that it was his own—that he himself was fighting Rush Gudridge through Ward Hanson. For him, to see Ward Hanson lose would be more bitter than to die. But Gudridge also was showing signs of weakening. If Hanson could only stay with the bully long enough. .. . “Bust his head open, Rush,” bawled Bill Gudridge to his brother. ‘‘Bust his head n!”’ “Spar,” cried Kid Minton to his man. Hanson heard, understood, and obeyed. For five minutes he did nothing more than to carefully avoid being struck, or being caught in the terrible arms of the champion, while Gudridge worked hard and breathed almost in gasps. It was a fair rest for Han- son. He found his strength and his breath- ing good once more. Then he went at it in earnest again, and his blows began to tell. Gudridge’s face was bruised and bleeding, he fought the fight of a madman now, using not even the simplest tactics. Hanson, his own face so smeared with blood that it was ghastly, began to hope more and more as he coolly chose the places for his blows and drove them home. Ten minutes of this, and Gudridge was plainly groggy. Hanson began to hammer away regularly at the giant’s solar plexus. Gudridge tried in vain to defend the tender spot. Then, with an oath that gurgled its 105 way through blood, he sank to the ground from a heavy punch just under the bottom of his breastbone—whipped! As a cheer went up from the throats of the majority of the onlookers, Hanson himself sank to the ground. He felt weak and dizzy and helpless, now that it was over, now that he had paid his score and Kid Minton’s score, and saved both his life and his prop- erty, and become the champion-fighting man of all the Crooked Creek country’s logging-camps. Kid Minton, his pitifully thin cheeks flushed with gladness, went to his knees before the victor, took up one of the battered hands and stroked it gently and reverently. “Lord, what a middleweight you’d make, Hansy,” he almost sobbed. A gaunt, bearded hill-man bent over the new champion. It was old Johnse Flowers. “T reckon I beg your pardon for what I said about the catnip-tea,’”’ he mumbled awkwardly. Hanson looked up slowly. ‘“‘Can I have Sadie?” But Old Johnse shook his head. “No I reckon ye cain’t have my Sadie.” “Your judgment, Mr. Flowers,” said Min- ton, ‘‘is rotten bad.” Wardlaw Hanson accepted the defeated man’s money wager and forced it upon Kid Minton, but he wouldn’t have the other things. Rush Gudridge, in the greatest disgrace that may befall a Southern moun- | tains timber-jack, started away with his brother, and his brother carried along the clothing, the watch, and the pocket-knife that Hanson had refused. “Hold on there, you piker,”’ called Kid Minton, before the two had reached the edge of the clearing. ‘You ain’t shot your- self yet, Gud, you know. Come back and pay your bet—TI’ll lend you a gun!” The Gudridges did not pause, did not even turn their heads. Wardlaw Hanson whispered: “Let ’em go, buddy. As it is, it’s a glori- ous riddance.” ke DAYS passed without event, and Ss ee the first Sunday in October came. “" Ward Hanson hastened through with the noonday meal, put a few bits of the choicest of the boarding-house food on a cracked plate and covered it all with an old newspaper, and went off toward the little cabin up the creek. cCoOmiclsoo CO 5}