If Joel Braxton hadn't drawed a knife whilst I was beating his
head agen a spruce log, I reckon I wouldn't of had that quarrel with
Glory McGraw, and things might of turned out different to what they
did. Pap's always said the Braxtons was no-account folks, and I allow
he's right. First thing I knowed Jim Garfield hollered: "Look out, Breck, the yaller hound's got a knife!" Then I felt a kind of sting and looked down and seen Joel had cut a big gash in my buckskin shirt and scratched my hide trying to get at my innards.
I let go of his ears and taken the knife away from him and throwed
it into a blackjack thicket, and throwed him after it. They warn't no
use in him belly-aching like he done just because they happened to be
a tree in his way. I dunno how he expects to get throwed into a
blackjack thicket without getting some hide knocked off.
But I am a good-natured man, and I was a easy-going youngster, even then. I paid no heed to Joel's bloodthirsty threats whilst his brother and Jim Garfield and the others was pulling him out of the bresh and dousing him in the creek to wash the blood off. I got on to my mule Alexander and headed for Old Man McGraw's cabin where I was started to when I let myself be beguiled into stopping with them idjits.
The McGraws is the only folks on Bear Creek besides the Reynoldses
and the Braxtons which ain't no kin to me one way or another, and I'd
been sweet on Glory McGraw ever since I was big enough to wear
britches. She was the tallest, finest, purtiest gal in the Humbolt
Mountains, which is covering considerable territory. They warn't a gal
on Bear Creek, not even my own sisters, which could swing a axe like
her, or fry a b'ar steak as tasty, or make hominy as good, and they
warn't nobody, man nor woman, which could outrun her, less'n it was
me.
As I come up the trail that led up to the McGraw cabin, I seen
her, just scooping a pail of water out of the creek. The cabin was
just out of sight on the other side of a clump of alders. She turned
around and seen me, and stood there with the pail dripping in her
hand, and her sleeves rolled up, and her arms and throat and bare feet
was as white as anything you ever seen, and her eyes was the same
color as the sky, and her hair looked like gold dust when the sun hit
it.
I taken off my coonskin cap, and said: "Good mornin', Glory, how're you-all this mornin'?"
"Joe got kicked right severe by pap's sorrel mare yesterday," she
says. "Just knocked some hide off, though. Outside of that we're all
doin' fine. Air you glued to that mule?"
"No'm," I says, and clumb down, and says: "Lemme tote yore pail, Glory."
She started to hand it to me, and then she frowned and p'inted at
my shirt, and says: "You been fightin' agen."
"Nobody but Joel Braxton," I said. "'Twarn't nothin'. He said
moskeeters in the Injun Territory was bigger'n what they be in Texas."
"What you know about it?" says she. "You ain't never been to
Texas."
"Well, he ain't never been to the Injun Territory neither," I
said. "'Taint the moskeeters. It's the principle of the thing. My
folks all come from Texas, and no Braxton can slander the State around
me."
"You fight too much," she said. "Who licked?"
"Why, me, of course," I said. "I always do, don't I?"
This harmless statement seemed to irritate her.
"I reckon you think nobody on Bear Creek can lick you," she
sneered.
"Well," I says truthfully, "nobody ain't, up to now--outside of
pap."
"You ain't never fit none of my brothers," she snapped.
"That's why," I said. "I've took quite a lot of sass offa them
ganglin' mavericks jest because they was yore brothers and I didn't
want to hurt 'em."
Gals is funny about some things. She got mad and jerked the pail
out of my hand, and says: "Oh, is that so? Well, lemme tell you right
now, Breckinridge Elkins, the littlest one of my brothers can lick you
like a balky hoss, and if you ever lay a finger on one of 'em, I'll
fix you! And furthermore and besides, they's a gent up to the cabin
right now which could pull his shootin' iron and decorate yore whole
carcass with lead polka-dots whilst you was fumblin' for yore old cap-
and-ball pistol!"
"I don't claim to be no gunfighter," I says mildly. "But I bet he
cain't sling iron fast as my cousin Jack Gordon."