The Incredible William Bowles. Joseph J. Millard

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      “I told you this would be our lucky day, Garf,” Alvin snickered. “We go out to hunt varmints, and what do we stumble on but the worst of ’em all—a yellow Tory skunk.”

      Chapter 3

      For a moment all Will could feel was a sickening sense of loss at having his private sanctuary desecrated by these two of all possible intruders. It was ruined for him forever now. He knew that never again could he bring himself to come up here.

      He stood up slowly, facing them, his fists clenched and jaw set. “Get out of here! Get out and leave me alone.”

      “Now, that ain’t a polite way to talk when visitors drop in, Chief,” Garf said, his small eyes glittering with malice. “But then, Injuns never did know manners until they was taught them by their betters.”

      “Hold on, Garf,” Alvin said suddenly. He pointed to the beech tree where Will had proudly carved his claim. “It looks like this here is private proppity so mebbe he’s got the right to order folks off. We wouldn’t want to stay if’n it wasn’t right and proper.”

      Garf tramped over to face the sign, cocking his head to study it through narrowed eyes. Presently he worked a protruding bulge from one cheek to the other, pursed his lips and spat. A stream of brown tobacco juice struck and spattered out, filling and fouling the neatly carved letters.

      “It looks like we got a bigger job cut out for us than I figured, Al. I thought all we had to do was to learn this here Tory skunk about loyalty and patriotism. Now I can see we got to learn him about manners, and on top o’ that, we got to learn him it ain’t right to go carvin’ his name on trees, claimin’ property that don’t belong to him. It’s liable to take us all afternoon to do the job proper.”

      Moving with deliberate slowness he leaned his musket beside the beech and slid the game bag and powder horn from his big shoulder. Grinning with anticipation, Alvin Tomes did the same.

      Will stood rigid and unmoving, trembling with an anger so hot that it burned away any shred of fear. He knew what was coming, knew what the outcome must inevitably be against two adversaries, but he would not have run if an escape route had suddenly opened to him.

      Garf spat out his cud of tobacco and grinned at Will. He held up his right hand, spread wide to show the stump of the third finger, severed at the joint in some childhood accident. “Do you know how I lost that piece of finger, Chief? I hit a feller so hard it busted right spang off.”

      “He must’ve been mighty puny,” Will said through clenched teeth, “and most likely fresh out of the crib or you’d never have had the guts to tackle him.”

      A wave of hot blood darkened Garf’s face. With a bellow of rage he charged with big fists swinging. At the last moment Will darted aside, feeling the wind of a sizzling blow that missed his face by a hair. The momentum carried Garf off his balance and before he could recover, Will struck.

      His right fist came around in a short, chopping arc and landed flush on Garf Roebaum’s nose. All the weight of Will’s lean, hard body was behind it. He felt cartilage give way and flatten under his knuckles. Garf roared in rage and pain and staggered clear, one hand to his face, blood pouring out between his fingers.

      “My nose!” he yelled, his voice thick and muffled. “You broke my nose. I’ll kill you for that.”

      He charged again, cursing and swinging wildly. Again Will tried to dodge and stepped on a thick tree limb. It rolled under his foot, staggering him, and before he could catch his balance the bigger boy was on him.

      A hard fist slammed into Will’s cheekbone, stunning him, filling his vision with bursting lights. Then blows seemed to be raining on him from every direction, driving him back. He could hear Garf’s panting curses and, from somewhere close by, the shrill voice of Alvin yelling, “Give it to him, Garf! Give it to him good!”

      Will ducked his head down behind lifted fists and suddenly lunged forward. A blow brushed his shoulder and then he was ramming hard against his opponent, burying his face against Garf’s big chest. One big fist was pounding Will’s back, the other clawing at his hair.

      His right was pinned by the encircling arm but for a moment his left was free. Will pulled it back, then drove it forward with all his strength. His fist went deep into belly muscle that had not had time to set itself. Garf’s breath went out in a gusty, whistling grunt. He stumbled back, his blood-smeared mouth gaping wide, his big chest heaving convulsively. His arms were flung wide apart, his body momentarily undefended. Will cocked his right fist and sprang.

      He had forgotten Alvin Tomes until a musket barrel was suddenly thrust between his pumping legs. He tripped and went crashing down on his face at Garf’s feet with a force that knocked his own breath out.

      Instantly they were both on him, kicking him savagely with their heavy boots, bending down to hit and slap and jab at his face. Between blows he could hear Garf panting, “Bust my nose, will you, damn you? Bust my nose, will you?” A vicious kick seemed to cave in his whole side and a wave of fresh pain came to wash over his senses.

      Dimly, from far off, he heard Garf’s voice panting, “Leave off, Al. That’s enough for now. I don’t want to kill the dirty skunk yet. I want him up and around so I can have another go at him before I finish the job proper.” Then a merciful blackness closed in, blotting out the voice and the agony.

      * * * *

      His body, from head to foot, was one great, throbbing mass of pain. He braced his hands against the ground to roll himself over and fresh agony lanced through his chest, forcing a whimpering moan through his mashed lips. Locking his teeth against the pain he finally managed to lever himself to a sitting position and take stock.

      The little glen was a shambles. His unfinished painting, the frame smashed and the canvas cut to ribbons, was floating in the pool, surrounded by the broken remnants of his palette and brushes. His musket had been slammed against a tree until the stock was shattered and the barrel bent beyond repair. The trunk of the beech where he had carved his proud claim had been hacked and slashed with senseless fury. His doeskin pack lay in chunks and strips.

      Then he looked down at himself and saw the climax of Garf’s vengeful rage. They had taken his precious oil paints and squeezed them over his prone figure, covering him with wormlike ribbons of bright color. Afterward they had tossed the flattened tubes into the pool where they lay on the bed of bright green watercress, tinting the surface with oily patches.

      It seemed an hour at least before Will got to his feet. Time and again he had to pause to let the waves of agony subside. He leaned against the beech until a spasm of dizziness and nausea passed. At last, bent almost double and using a stout club for support, he began the long and painful journey home.

      It was long past nightfall when he stumbled at last up to the front door. He fumbled with the latch, got it open, and fell across the threshold, making thick, meaningless animal noises in his throat. He heard his mother’s scream, his father’s startled cry, and then the blackness closed down again.

      When he came to he was lying on his own bed. His mother, her face streaked with tears, was dipping a cloth into a basin of cool water and dabbing gently at the dirt and paint and dry blood that had caked on his body. Downstairs he could hear his father bellowing into the night.

      “You tell Dr. Ellefson that William’s bad hurt and to get here as fast as he can. And you get right back, Enos, in case we need medicines from town.”

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