Norton, Andre - Novel 15 Read Online Free PDF Page B

outcome. He had spent
too many hours with a fencing foil not to believe that he was the superior of
most of the dragoons. But the added weight of the sheath would be a drag on the
wrist which had to be allowed for. Birke, he believed, however, was of the bull
type—striving to win through sheer weight and the beating down of his opponent.
And the rush with which the big man greeted the "go" proved his
point.
                   Ritchie twisted to the left, escaping the full
brunt of the charge, managing to get in one counter thrust which brought a
grunt out of Birke. The awkwardness of their weapons cut down Ritchie's
advantage of skill, while it gave full marks to Birke's greater muscle. When he
had a hard time staving off the second rush, Ritchie began to wonder if he had
been so clever after all. A pounding from a sheathed sabre might be even worse
to endure than one delivered by Birke's fists. No longer so confident, he began
to use his wits, attempting to adapt to this fight what he had learned with the
tricky foils. And on the second sally he was able to get home below Birke's
short ribs with a force which drove the air out of the big man's lungs and left
him gasping—but not before Ritchie had taken a slam across his shoulder which
made his left arm numb.
                   "What's going on? Stop this!"
Ritchie's sabre was swept out of his weakened grasp. Birke stood with his hands
pressed to his aching ribs.
                   Sergeant Herndon was between them, the stout
cane he had used against Ritchie's sabre held up like the master-of-arm's
governing foil at a match. Out of the tail of his eye Ritchie saw the audience
thinning away. But Tuttle not only stood his ground but came up, a quirk of a
smile touching his lips.
                   "Goin' t' be all official-like,
Scott?" he drawled. "Ain't nothin' much yo' can do with these
boys—they was careful t' git off limits 'fore they set 'bout tryin' t' carve
each other. 'N it looks like they ain't had much chance to do real damage t'
government property—meanin' themselves. Now yo've stopped it. Might as well fergit, eh?"
                   Ritchie stooped to grope for his jacket. His
left arm was beginning to ache. And he was foreseeing a gloomy stretch of time
to be spent in the guardhouse. But, to his surprise, Herndon was not ready to
march them back into the clutches of law and order. Instead the Sergeant spoke
to Birke who was still nursing his ribs.
                   "Second brawl this month you've been
mixed up in, Birke." Herndon's clipped words were hard. "This means a
noncom's court. As for you," he looked to Ritchie, "you seem totally
unable to keep out of trouble, Peters. You may report to my quarters after
retreat."
                   He went off as if neither of them mattered any
more. Ritchie was making a hard business of putting on his jacket when Tuttle
came to his aid. The young dragoon's sabre was under the scout's arm, and the
older man took him by the elbow and steered him up the hill to a low adobe
wall.
                   "At least I'm not yet in the
guardhouse." He spoke his first thought aloud.
                   Tuttle chuckled. "Not
likely, son. Herndon knows Birke 'n he's had an eye on yo'. Yo' ain't
the gamecock sort—goin' outta yore way t' pick a fight. Birke's bullied new men
before, 'n the Sergeant knows it. Only—mind yo' take yore wiggin'
respectful-like tonight. Scott ain't an impatient man, but he don't take any
sass from young 'uns neither. He ain't the sort as most likes—too keen on his
job 'n bein' mostly right. But he's got more guts than most,
'n he leans hisself over backwards bein' straight with the men. That's
why he's got some here as will follow him inter hell, should he take a leetle
notion of patrolling down that thar way. Should be an officer by rights, but
somehow he won't make the jump. Got somethin' back behind those gray eyes