Doubtless, since my very palms to be about that employment, I would have had my hands on others of the crew, but I was granted no chance. Rivera poured himself against the scoundrels like a . Quick, catlike, springing in and out, he upon two of them as with a poleaxe, and they went to the grass like folk of wood. The sound of the blows came to my ears as clearly as the click of balls in a billiard game. the thunderbolt work of Rivera, the others, losing courage, and with a concert of curses and cries, turned tail and ran.
There was one, however, of those who were yet upon their feet, to save himself this disgrace. When the rest ran off crying among the trees, this man would tarry; he was that wide-shouldered fighting man who was thought to match Rivera. For reasons of his own, and perhaps they were in a rude sort and to his credit, this fellow had not rushed upon us with the others, but stood at some distance looking on, arms folded across his chest. Now, when all were down or vanished in the dark, he, with arms still folded, came slowly towards Rivera.
“Volks tells me, lad,” said the fighting man as, arms still at peace, he paused within a few yards of Rivera, who would be coolly waiting for him, “volks tells me as 'ow you be summat of a ; and vor a certainty, you does make beef of them in a vorkmanlike vay—you does, upon my davy! But now, d'ye see, you settles vith me—me, Jim Burns of W'itechapel.”
“Assuredly!” returned Rivera, and his deep tones, like the roll of an organ, would carry the impression of one in good humor, “I shall be most pleased to settle with you. See, you may take your time; there is no hurry.”
The other, who seemed to have faith in the mood of Rivera, softly coat and waistcoat, and stood in his shirt of gray cloth, trousers and shoes. Rivera similarly prepared himself; he would meet his enemy in the same light costume.
“Best to turn up your trowsers, lad,” advised the fighting man, “as I does. They may 'inder your veet, else, in steppin'.”
When these improvements had been , the fighting man's thought would double a new corner.
“And yet,” he remarked, complainingly, “w'at's the bloomin' use? 'Ere's them coves all run away”—pointing to the last of the trio whom Rivera had beaten down, as that unworthy staggered to his feet and lurched off into the darkness—“an' no purse nor nothink to vight for. I sees no use, lad, in our puttin' hup our 'ands.” This last in a grieved tone.
“But you must fight,” Rivera, in a sharp, eager fashion. “You came to this town to beat me. Will you now let yourself be stopped and never a blow? Are you afraid?”
“Me, afeerd?” retorted the fighting man, fiercely, his little eyes like sparks. “W'y, lad! th' doant stan' in leather as I'm afeerd on. Me, a fourteen stoner, leery? An' of only one? Well, I likes that!” The disgust of the fighting man was unmistakable.
It was a queer position, this waiting to be spectator of a fist between these game-some ones, but I did not feel free to leave until the thing should end. When the fighting man, arms crossed, came pacifically up, I would have been for going forward to lay hold on him, but Rivera, with a manner like a prayer and as he who seeks a favor for his soul, me to withstay my hand.
“Don't,” pleaded Rivera, but never taking his gaze from the man, “don't; he is mine.”
With that, giving over whatever of right I may have owned to the fellow, I went to where she stood on a little among the deeper shadows of the woods.
“I should take you to safety at once,” said I, in explanation of my loitering lack of expedition, “but I would see Rivera through this.”
“I do not want to go,” replied Peg, gazing the while as with a kind of .
Peg's face wore a flush of excitement; this I could tell even in the shadows, and her words had a great ring of interest. I did not remark on the strangeness of it, nor frame a for that she should love to look on while gladiators fought. I, myself,—for I confess to a of strife,—was hot to see what might follow, and it came to me as quite the thing that Peg should share my feeling. It was the in her blood, as the General would have said; but, a trifle strung of the and with the wolf in me at full stretch, I felt no , but only sympathy for Peg's sentiment.
As Peg and I stood considering the others in their words and motions, Rivera to a level, glady spot where no trees grew and the moonlight came down in a white flood.
“That should be a fine place,” said Rivera to the fighting man, “for us to try each other?”
“It does look a tidy bit of grass,” the fighting man.
As the two walked forward to this turfy spot of fairness it brought them nearer to Peg and myself, and squarely under our eyes. It was as though they set a stage, and would produce their drama of blows for us and in such wise that we should not lose the least of it.
As the pair moved to the selected place, that moaning one whose arm I had broken, and who, when the rest had fled, still lay in a fit of fainting, so far recovered as to sit weakly up. But he could not yet walk, being shaken and dizzy mayhap, and so he, too, would be a looker on, I do not think he was to see much, being taken with his own and over them.
“W'at a come-down is this!” exclaimed the fighting man, as he moved into the center of the ground, “me, who should be champion, vighting by moonlight in a vorest vith a mad Yankee! W'at a tale to tell in W'itechapel!”
“I'm not a Yankee,” said Rivera, as if for the other's , I thought, “I'm an Irish-Jew.”
“An Irish-Jew!” returned the other, with a note of . “Now that's better, lad; Irish on Jew makes a bitter cross for the ring. But all the same, it's a shame vor me to be 'ere millin' by moonlight in voreign parts, an' never no purse nor ropes nor nothink, an' no 'igh toby blokes to or even 'old a vatch. An' me, mind you, as should be champion.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Rivera, in a hunger of boyish curiosity to know how honorable the conquest was he went about. “Of what should you be champion?”
“Hengland, lad, w'at else!” said the other. “It's all on account of an accident that I beant. I vights vith Big Tom Brown of Bridgenorth, I does; an' Tom, 'e naps it on the so 'ard 'e's all vor bleedin' to death. An' vith that, the is vor puttin' me on a transport to go to New South Wales, when I moseys down to Bristol an' goes aboard ship an' comes over 'ere. If I could 'ave stayed at 'ome, I'd a-beat Bendigo by now, an' been the champion 'stead of 'e. 'Owever, volks must do the best vith w'at they has, so hup vith your mauleys, lad. Time!”
More than once I had seen our rough keel-boatmen of the Cumberland indulge, when soaked of rum, in what they termed a “rough and tumble,” but this, when Rivera and the fighting man of Whitechapel stood up to one another, was the first time I was to observe how ones trained to fisticuffs the game. My keel-boatmen fought in a biting, clawing, , wildcat way that was a of and blood. This would not be the story of Rivera and his , for their were as cleanly accurate as a cameo, while yet the blows they dealt would have shaken an oak to its core.
As the fighting man of Whitechapel exclaimed “Time!” Rivera and he drew cautiously over to one another. I could see how each kept his left hand well forward and his left foot advanced to bear it company, while the right foot was planted with firm squareness, and no spring nor give to the knee, but the leg stiff to against a blow. The right arm would be used, too, more as a guard to save the body, but with hand in reserve like iron to deal a finishing blow whenever the vanguard or left hand had opened the way with the enemy.
Rivera and the fighting man sparred carefully and as folk who would test each other. And yet, while there with each a wealth of care and a saving determination to be sure of guards and parries, there was no slowness. They paced about and before one another like two fighting panthers, each as ready as leven-flash to have advantage of a weakness in the other's defence.
To me it was like a picture of motion, and a sense of delight coursed in my . I was so held, too, I did not once cast my eyes on Peg, who with her hand on my arm was crowded to my side and—as I remembered later, when I would learn the reason of pain for it—leaning upon me with all her slight weight. No, so rapt was my gaze for the moment that I never once looked nor thought on Peg; and that, let me tell you, is a deal to say, since such was our witch-child's sweet hold on me I could number you few moments which did not find her in the fond foreground of my fancy.
Of the suddenest, the fighting man fell upon Rivera like a storm. But it would be of no avail. The blows he dealt, Rivera caught upon his forearm; and that with so careless a confidence it would appear to sting the other. In the last of the the fighting man, stepping swiftly near, struck a , swinging blow that should have cracked a had one gotten in the way. Rivera leaped back, light as a goat and as sure. As the big fist swept harmlessly on its journey, Rivera laughed as at a jest.
Our fighting man, however, would own to no turn for humor. The laugh hurt him like the of a . Without pause or space, and with a sharpness that stood a in one so bulky, he repeated the smashing swing, but with the other hand. Rivera did not spring backward; indeed, he had no time, even had he carried the . But it would be all one with Noah's protege, for he ducked his head like a wild who dives from the flash of a gun. Again the blow passed without ; only, this time, over Rivera's cunning head. The force of the swing half turned the fighting man; with that, and not striking him, but, as though in a spirit of derision, pushing with open hand, and at the same moment locking, as wrestlers would say, the enemy's ankle at the back with his foot, Rivera tumbled our huge gentleman over on the grass. He fell a-sprawl, but with no hurt to himself, and all as easy as delivering a bale of goods at one's door.
The fighting man got slowly to his feet. Then he looked on Rivera with an eye of puzzled discontent.
“Be you playin' vith me, lad?” said he at last. This in a manner of injury.
Rivera made no retort other than his quiet laugh that told rather of pleasure than amusement. Clearly, Rivera was in enjoyment's very heart and his cup would come to him crowned of high delight.
The fighting man went now and leaned against a tree to breathe himself. Presently he again; I could tell by the way of it how his regard for Rivera had been .
“'Ow 'eavy be you, lad?” he asked, his breath still coming in short, deep .
“One hundred and eighty-two,” said Rivera.
“An' w'at would that be in stone?”
“Thirteen.”
“D'ye see now!” exclaimed the fighting man, dejectedly, “an' that should be my veight. Only I'm a stone above; but it's fat an' does me 'arm. You bees a 'ard un, young master, an' I doant know as 'ow I can do vor you, an' me not trained. 'Owever, I shall try all I knows. Time!”
For the second occasion the two stood against one another in the middle of the moonlighted ; and again the fighting man was the aggressor. It would be still the same old tale; Rivera foiled him and beat him back upon himself at every angle of his effort. It was like, a to simply see Rivera for his eye and hand and foot worked all together in a fashion of harmony like the notes in music.
But the end was on its way, and it fell upon the victim like the bursting of a bomb. The fighting man had stepped a pace backward following a rally in which he won nothing save . As he retreated, Rivera would seem to on him. It was a feint—an ; it had for result, however, the drawing of the fighting man again upon Rivera. Straight from his shoulder, and by way of retort or counter to the feint, the fighting man sent his left hand for Rivera's face. It would be the situation wrought for. Rivera, with feet firm set, moved his head aside so that the blow met nothing, but whistled across his left shoulder. Then his left hand, arm as stiff as a bar of iron, met the oncoming foe, carried forward with the of his own wasted blow, flush in the mouth. I heard the sound of it, and saw it the other's head back as though he had run against the pole of a baggage . The vicious emphasis of it shook his senses in their source; before he could rally, Rivera dealt him a smashing blow above the heart with his right hand; it was a like the kick of a and one that would have splintered a rock!
The fighting man fell forward senseless on the grass; the moonlight played across his face and tiny streams of blood were running thinly from his nose and ears. He lay without motion or quiver, and, after considering him a bit with all the warmth an artist might upon a masterpiece, Rivera turned loungingly to Peg and myself where we were viewing from our knoll. There was a dancing light in Rivera's eyes such as comes to a child pleased of a new toy. As he stood before us, a smile about his mouth, he stretched upward on his toes, and raised his hands above his head, his vast chest arching and the while like a drum, and the muscles of his neck until they fairly burst the collar of his gray shirt and sent a button buzzing into the darkness.
“He wasn't fit,” said Rivera, recovering himself from the muscle-stretching, and beaming ; “the fellow was not in condition.” Here he indicated with a nod the fighting man, still and bleeding where he fell.
“Have you killed him?” said Peg, with a deep breath. The girl was as tense as harpstrings. “I hope he will not die.”
“Oh, no,” declared Rivera; “he will not die. In two minutes, or at the most in ten, he will be well again. If he do not come to his wits in ten minutes, I shall help him with water on his face.”
“We have to thank you,” said I; “you are a brave fellow to match yourself against a .”
“I was told always to follow them,” said Rivera. “I have been at their heels for weeks. But they would do nothing until to-night.” Rivera's manner when he related the long-drawn indolence of his and those weeks wherein they would “do nothing,” tasted of disappointment. “However,”—this as though a wrong had been repaired,—“they got to work at last, so after all it ends right.”
Now I walked across to my moaning one of the broken arm, who still sat nursing his injuries.
“Why would you rob us?” I asked.
“Rob you?” he repeated between moans, and with a startled air. “No one wanted to rob you.”
“You and your gang,” said I—for this was the story I meant to tell, if made to tell one of the night's turmoil—“you and your gang are footpads. You would have robbed us. Should you be in the town to-morrow, I will find you a place of bars and bolts.”
Certainly, these creatures were not highwaymen, but only ruffians whom that Catron had hired for I know not what particular purpose of revenge. But the wretch's , “Here is our big lover and his light o' love!” alarmed me for Peg. I would not have that tale told to thus bring forth her name. It were better to drive these fellows off and have an end of it. That was my thought in calling them footpads and talking of attempts to take a purse.
The argument of robbery put a measure of life into the moaning one; he got upon his feet and made ready to betake himself to scenes of better safety.
“My arm is broken,” said he, , and as hoping I might feel a sympathy.
“It should have been your neck, instead,” said I, in no wise sympathetic. “And so it would, had I owned the forethought to have had you by the throat rather than your arm. You might better depart, sirrah; else I may yet round your head, for my spirit is hard laid siege to by some such twisting impulse.”
That was enough; our moaning one made shift to get himself away through the trees and with not a trifle of expedition.
“And now, what will you do?” I asked Rivera.
“Oh, I shall remain here,” replied Rivera, simply, “and wait for him to return to his wits,” Here he pointed to his enemy. “He is a very bold, strong man, and perhaps when he has recovered and rested he may want to fight again.” This last sentence was of a dim hope.
Turning from me, Rivera brought a little snow-water in his hat from a hollow where it had collected during the and began to sprinkle the face of his fighting friend from Whitechapel. Leaving him upon these labors of grace and philanthropy—albeit I believe the thought uppermost in his innocent heart was that the one, when duly revived, might declare for another battle—I again sought Peg. I went to her something stricken of my conscience and uneasy with the fear of having neglected my duties as her cavalier. I found her sitting upon the little knoll, her foot drawn under her, and she nursing her right ankle in a marked way.
“Was not Rivera grand!” exclaimed Peg, as I came up. “And you, too, watch-dog: I shall never forget the picture of you”—Peg spoke in a bubbling way and as though she of ecstasy—“as you flung that crying creature in the faces of the others. It was a moment of nobility; I shall never miss it from my memory.”
“And what has gone wrong with your foot?” said I, for from her position and the manner in which she would her ankle I was struck with the fear of some disaster; nor was I wrong.
“It is my ankle,” said Peg, and I could notice how her brow was with the pain of it. “As I climbed upon this knoll in the first of it, my foot turned under me. I did not observe until just now how sharp was the injury.”
That was the story; Peg's ankle, for all her strong high boots, had won to a grievous .
“Now that I've nothing else to think on,” said Peg, biting her lips to a cry, “it gives me torture like a knife.”
“Your ankle,” said I, “is becoming ; and that in tho............