Norton, Andre - Novel 15 Read Online Free PDF

furiously.
                   Here it was. He put out his hand for the
weapon he recognized as his own. Below it was his sabre. His sabre—!
                   Ritchie's eyes widened the least fraction, and
his lips parted in a soundless whistle. He remembered a story told at Jefferson . And it might just work here, too. It would
all depend upon whether Birke was really popular in the company.
                   "Jus' a minute,
sonny." The paw of a hairy arm fell on his shoulder and half jerked
him around. "We don't touch another man's tools 'les we ask furst!"
                   Ritchie met Birke's gap-toothed grin and
too-small eyes with an outward show of placid confidence.
                   "That's what I thought. And so I'm
wondering why you moved mine—"
                   Birke's grin grew tight around the edges. It
was plain that he had not expected this kind of answer. He slapped down at
Ritchie's reaching hand.
                   "Them thar's mine! Keep yore mitts offen
'em, sonny. Git back to yore own corner 'n stay thar. Babies wot do as they
ain't told git paddled! Yore pants fit tight, baby. What if I
heat 'em fur yo'—right now?"
                   Ritchie was out of range before that ham-sized
fist connected. He was holding his own scabbarded sabre on guard. Now it was
time to play his last card—and hope that Birke was not a popular man.
                   "If you want a fight, Birke, let's make
it a dragoon one. Meet me with scabbarded sabres, Jefferson style!"
                   Birke blinked. He had lost his grin entirely,
and the thick veins on his temples were swelling. His pleasant little game had
gotten out of hand, and he did not like that at all. He growled and lunged but
jumped back again as Ritchie swung the heavy sabre.
                   There was a ring of spectators about them now,
almost as close packed as the one which had gathered at the dog show. But, as
yet, Ritchie could not judge the temper of the men. It was with relief that he
heard the small, quiet man on the far side of that circle.
                   "Well, Birke, d'you fight him? He's right—that's a challenge, barracks style."
                   A murmur answered him, a murmur of agreement.
Ritchie waited. The small shred of tradition he remembered might yet save him
from a bad mauling—even if he couldn't escape a fight.
                   "Not in here." The small man was
taking command of the situation. "Out by the burying ground's best; more
room and we'll be off post limits. Well, Birke, we're waiting; d'you fight ?"
                   The big dragoon turned and grabbed at the
nearest racked sabre.
                  ''Sure I'm gonna fight! I'm gonna beat th ' brains outta this jumped-up fancy boy. Let me do
it!"
                   Escorted by all of the troop present, they moved across the parade ground to a level space below the
rise of a small hill. Ritchie shucked off his tight cavalry jacket and stood
shivering in his shirt sleeves, trying to make up his mind whether to discard
his boots also. That was settled for him by a newcomer.
                   The scout Tuttle suddenly materialized by his
side and held out a pair of moccasins.
                   “Off with them boots, son, if yo' want to keep
yore footin' here. These should be 'bout yore cut, I'm thinkin'."
                   In the moccasins his feet felt free as he
stepped up in answer to an authoritative wave from the small man. Birke loomed
up, sheathed sabre in hand, a black scowl pulling his thick eyebrows into one
bushy bar.
                   "You fight fair, and when a man is down,
you don't hammer him," warned the master of ceremonies. "When I say
go—you go!"
                   Were this a duel of
bare points, Ritchie would have had little doubt of the