Fighting Byng: A Novel of Mystery, Intrigue and Adventure

by A. Stone

  FIGHTING BYNG

  Howard carried her in his arms, talking to her as hewould to a child.]

  FIGHTING BYNG

  A Novel of Mystery Intrigue and Adventure

  by

  A. STONE

  Illustrations by L. Pern Bird

  New YorkBritton Publishing Co.

  Copyright, 1919, byBritton Publishing Company

  Made in U. S. A.All rights reserved

  _To my daughter_, MARGUERITE-MAUD

  FIGHTING BYNG

  CHAPTER I

  At first sight Howard Byng impressed me as being a cross between aWild Man of Borneo and a pirate.

  He came bounding through the otherwise silent turpentine forestdragged along by a little gray mule, hitched to a sledlike affair,shouting Georgia Cracker profanity easily heard a mile away. Hatless,long-haired, and virgin fuzz-covered face; hickory shirt, flappingpatched pants belted with hempen rope threatening to drop at eachkangaroo leap of his ample bare feet, describes the picture. The soundwas not unlike a hurricane, the careening mule charging toward ourcamp with his head down, the sled drawn by chain traces often sailinghigher than his humped and angry back.

  In Georgia nothing equals a scared runaway mule as anexcitement-producer. So at least it impressed my surveying gang justabout to breakfast under a big mess tent pitched across a faded carttrack along the bank of a winding creek. Needless to say we were allamazed at the sulphurous anathemas heaped upon the offending beast. Imust confess that some of my men, highly accomplished in the use ofverbal explosives, listened with envy.

  From amused interest, however, we soon changed to grave concern. Themule seemed to think that he had the right of way over the old carttrack and headed directly for our tent. In three seconds the damagewas done. He plunged directly into the outfit, knocked down the centerpole and landed on his back. There he lay with feet in the air,kicking and struggling until the wreck of our breakfast, cookingoutfit, beds and clothing of eight men, was complete.

  Of course, when Howard Byng came flying into us the sentiment was allagainst him and his gray mule, notwithstanding the new brand ofprofanity he introduced, for my men were recruited in the North. Wehad just completed a survey of the Dismal Swamp and had arrived inGeorgia full of quinine, malaria and peevishness. But it was our jobto give the Forestry Division accurate knowledge of the longleaf pineleft in Georgia.

  Things looked squally as I scrambled away from the kicking mule and Ieyed his master somewhat ruefully. It was then that I noticed a signof mental bigness in the youngster. I also noted that he was muchlarger physically, and more husky than I had first thought him to be.Even after his long run he wasn't winded, his ample chest accountingfor that. He wasn't mad, either, but very much excited. Experience hadtaught me that a man with his kind of nose seldom gets mad--justfierce. With a litheness and strength surprising he threw up the edgeof the tent, dived into the wreck and literally dragged "Jeff Davis"out, continuing meanwhile his complimentary remarks about theperverseness of all mules and "Jeff" in particular.

  On four feet again the maddened mule, still feeling himself to be theinjured party, kicked viciously with both hind feet at his owner, thenstarted straight across our wrecked home at break-neck speed down thefaded cart track.

  "Did you-all ever see such a damn mule?" This question was addressedparticularly to me. Even in the excitement the youngster shrewdlydiscerned that I was in charge. "Let him go; he'll stop. A mule won'tgo far after you doan want him," he added. Then, for the first time,he noticed how unpopular he was with my husky, malarious eight.

  The fellow interested me not a little. I smiled encouragingly, but mymain thought was to get the tent in place and a new breakfast cookedso we could get to work.

  "I ain't 'sponsible for that there mule, suh, but I reckon I'm goin'to help you-all put the tent back," he said to me in kindly tone ofvoice. But getting the side remarks of the disgusted men, andespecially our big "axe-man," and the cook, who saw more than doublework ahead, Byng's eyes opened wide.

  "You kaint help a mule running away. It's bawn in 'em. Anyhow, itwon't take long to git the tent up again." He eyed me expectantly andmy sympathy went out to him. "I'll do it myself," he added affably.

  "Of course it isn't your fault," I replied. "A mule is a mule; that iswhy he is called by that name."

  For a moment I thought the matter would get by amicably, but anotherflood of profanity from big Jake and aimed directly at the GeorgiaCracker brought the tension to the breaking point.

  In the code of the turpentine woods it is perfectly proper to swear ata mule no matter who owns it, and a mule expects to be "cussed." Butto include the owner, or driver, is an insult that calls for trouble.

  Instantly the young stranger stopped his work and stepped back a fewpaces. There he listened carefully to all that was said, and as longas he could stand it, his steel gray eyes taking on a fire that Iwell understood. But my men from the North did not grasp thesituation. In a voice not so very loud, but plain enough to be heardby all, the Cracker, in a wonderful Southern drawl, began to saysomething.

  "I reckon I kain't fight you-all all at once, but I'll take you-allone at a time and whup the whole bunch of yer." He then glanced overtoward me as though expecting a square deal. I gave him a kindlytwinkle of encouragement, but his challenge had the effect of quietingmatters for a brief period. Then big Jake, who seemed to be in aparticularly bad humor, began to snort and swear again.

  Jake had long since elected himself boss bruiser of the party, andwithout contest. We had been in the Dismal Swamp so long and eaten somuch quinine that if he had said he was the devil himself, or anyother bandit, all hands would have assented. Now they looked to Jaketo prove his claims as a bad man.

  Jake, thoroughly confident, quit work and swaggered over toward theCracker. He still gave vent to most insulting tirades. I felt somehowthat Jake was recklessly going against an unknown quantity, but I saidnothing. If he was well licked once it might make him a better campfellow.

  Jake rushed at Byng bellowing like the king bull of a herd, but theCracker boy stood his ground with chin slightly elevated, his jaws setuntil a knob showed on the lower angle.

  "Yer crazy mule breaks up our camp and spoils our breakfast and nowyer want to fight--is dat it?" Jake sneered, his words in purest"hobo."

  The Cracker boy glanced at me and seemingly understood how I felt.Nevertheless, he watched Jake with eyes strangely fierce.

  "Why don't you say something, yer damn Cracker. They ain't no fight inye," sneered Jake insultingly. Then reaching out he tore open Byng'shickory shirt, and spat tobacco juice upon his bare skin.

  The youngster hadn't raised his hand as yet; he seemed to be waitingfor something. His restraint seemed ominous to me.

  Jake emboldened, grabbed him by the shoulder, partly turned and gavehim a hunch with his knee which had the effect of unleashing the boy'stremendous energy. As quick as a flash his great brown fist flew out,landing on Jake's jaw. It was a wallop with an echo that reboundedfrom the opposite bank of the creek, and Jake hit the ground with athud.

  "Now git up and I'll do it agin," the Cracker boy said confidently.

  Jake gained his feet unsteadily, and started forward like a maddenedbull. It seemed as though he would surely carry everything before him.But the youngster waited calmly. Perhaps six seconds elapsed beforehis long reach shot out again. This put the axeman on his hands andknees, with face as white as chalk. As he partly raised, Byng grabbedhim by the waist, and, as if lifting a dead dog, tossed him into thecreek.

  For the first time in months my fever-and-ague crew laughed outright.
To see Jake get his quietus from so unexpected a quarter was a tonicin itself. The big bully had been put out by a kid, so to speak, andevery one of his mates laughed when the victim waded out of the creekspitting out teeth.

  "Now is they any more of you-all ut wants to fight?" challenged thevictor, addressing himself to all present, but they only grinned andlooked at Jake sprawling on the grass. I walked over to the Crackerboy.

  "What is your name?" I asked, reassuringly.

  "My name, suh, is Howard Byng."

  "That's a good name. You ought to be called 'Fighting' Byng. Better goand find that mule or you may lose him. We will soon be straightenedout here," I added, smiling, also taking closer inventory of the boy.Without further words he started down the old road to recover JeffDavis and put him back to work.

  Jake, having been thoroughly disabled, quit his job and left meshort-handed. The next morning I saw Howard Byng in the adjoiningwood, with the gray mule drawing the sled. There was a barrel on it.He had been gathering turpentine sap, and sledding it to a "still." Hewas glad to see me, and at once offered me a chew of dog-legnatural-leaf tobacco.

  "How do you like this kind of work?" I asked, casually.

  "Waal--only tolerable, suh," he drawled, taking a liberal chew of theleaf. "But I'm doggoned tired of dis heah country."

  "This country is all right--isn't it?"

  "Yes, suh," he replied slowly, leaning back against the sap barrel, "Ireckon de country's all right, but here lately it seems just lak Godmade it de las' thing he done and used up what poor stuff he hadleft."

  "I thought Georgia was a pretty good state," I suggested.

  "Oh, yes, suh, Georgia is a good enough state, an' I reckon Atlanter,Augusta, an' Savannah are big cities with mighty fine, rich people,but dis heah pa't ain't no good 'tall--do you-all know just what disyellah land an' swamp heah is good fur?" he asked solemnly, ruefullycontemplating his great toe wrapped in a cotton rag.

  "What do you think it is best for?" I asked, standing a few pacesaway, amused.

  "Well, suh, I'll tell yer what it's good for, an' the only thing it isgood for, and that is to hold the earth together, that's all," he saidwith finality. I laughed and asked how he would like to leave, and goto work in the surveying party.

  "I'd lak it mighty well, but I reckon you-all ain't got no place forme," he replied, rising eagerly and coming up to where I stood.

  "Yes--maybe I can arrange it. That fellow you smashed yesterday hasgot to leave. The doctor says his jaw is fractured and he must eatsoft food. He is not fit to work--he wants to go." Byng's eyes grewlarge.

  "Well, suh, I'm pow'ful sorry. I'm glad I hit him only a little tap,or it might'a killed him. I held back all I could--jest a little tap.An' now you say I can have his job?" he asked, coming closer, hiseyes glittering.

  "Yes, if you want it."

  "An' you say that fellah has his jaw broke, and the saw-bones says hemus' live on spoon vittles?" he asked, moving away, his head hanging.

  "Yes, that's about it--but you were not----"

  "So help me Gawd, Mistah----" He paused and then continued, "Waal,you-all know I didn't lif' my han' till he sput on me, and--I am notto blame for de mule. I'm downright sorry I put him on spoon vittles,and I needn't t've doused him in the crick." Byng evidently did notrealize how strong he was.

  "But what I want to know is how soon you can come to work?" said I,bringing him back to my offer. I needed him, and wasn't half sorrythat he possessed a terrific punch.

  "If you mean, Mistah 'er----" He hesitated a moment. "Did you say yername was Wood? If you mean it, I can go to work jus' as soon as Itaik dis heah mule ovah to the still an' tell de boss."

  That was how young Byng came to go with me, and promptly the boysnick-named him "Fighting Byng."