As Soon As He
Had Spoken, A Feeble Voice Was Heard From The Open Door Of A Dark Room
Near The Gate, Calling, "That's A Hudson That Spoke!
Father or son -
who is it?"
My brother turned back and groped his way into the dark room, and
replied: "Yes, I'm a Hudson - Edwin's my name. Who are you?"
"Oh, I'm glad you're here! I'm your old friend Jack," returned the
other, and it was a happy meeting between the boy in his sixteenth
year and the grey-headed old battered vagabond and fighter, known far
and wide in our part of the country as Jack the Killer, and by other
dreadful nicknames, both English and Spanish. Now he was lying there
alone, friendless, penniless, ill, on a rough bed the stableman had
given him in his room. My brother came home full of the subject, sad
at poor old Jack's broken-down condition and rejoicing that he had by
chance found him there and had been able to give him help.
Jack the Killer was one of those strange Englishmen frequently to be
met with in those days, who had taken to the gaucho's manner of life,
when the gaucho had more liberty and was a more lawless being than he
is now or can ever be again, unless that vast level area of the pampas
should at some future time become dispeopled and go back to what it
was down to half a century ago. He had drifted into that outlandish
place when young, and finding the native system of life congenial had
made himself as much of a native as he could, and dressed like them
and talked their language, and was horse-breaker, cattle-drover, and
many other things by turn, and like any other gaucho he could make his
own bridle and whip and horse-gear and lasso and bolas out of raw
hide. And when not working he could gamble and drink like any gaucho
to the manner born - and fight too. But here there was a difference.
Jack could affiliate with the natives, yet could never be just like
them. The stamp of the foreigner, of the Englishman, was never wholly
eradicated. He retained a certain dignity, a reserve, almost a
stiffness, in his manner which made him a marked man among them, and
would have made him a butt to the wits and bullies among his comrades
but for his pride and deadly power. To be mocked as a foreigner, a
gringo, an inferior being, was what he could not stand, and the result
was that he had to fight, and it then came as a disagreeable
revelation that when Jack fought he fought to kill. This was
considered bad form; for though men were often killed when fighting,
the gaucho's idea is that you do not fight with that intention, but
rather to set your mark upon and conquer your adversary, and so give
yourself fame and glory. Naturally, they were angry with Jack and
became anxious to get rid of him, and by and by he gave them an
excuse. He fought with and killed a man, a famous young fighter, who
had many relations and friends, and some of these determined to avenge
his death. And one night a band of nine men came to the rancho where
Jack was sleeping, and leaving two of their number at the door to kill
him if he attempted to escape that way, the others burst into his
room, their long knives in their hands. As the door was thrown open
Jack woke, and instantly divining the cause of the intrusion, he
snatched up the knife near his pillow and sprang like a cat out of his
bed; and then began a strange and bloody fight, one man, stark naked,
with a short-bladed knife in his hand, against seven men with their
long facons, in a small pitch-dark room. The advantage Jack had was
that his bare feet made no sound on the clay floor, and that he knew
the exact position of a few pieces of furniture in the room. He had,
too, a marvellous agility, and the intense darkness was all in his
favour, as the attackers could hardly avoid wounding one another. At
all events, the result was that three of them were killed and the
other four wounded, all more or less seriously. And from that time
Jack was allowed to live among them as a harmless, peaceful member of
the community, so long as no person twitted him with being a gringo.
Quite naturally, my brother regarded Jack as one of his greatest
heroes, and whenever he heard of his being in our neighbourhood he
would mount his horse and go off in search of him, to spend long hours
in his company and persuade him to talk about that awful fight in a
dark room with so many against him. One result of his intimacy with
Jack was that he became dissatisfied with his own progress in the
manly art of self-defence. It was all very well to make himself
proficient with the foils and as a boxer, and to be a good shot, but
he was living among people who had the knife for sole weapon, and if
by chance he were attacked by a man with a knife, and had no pistol or
other weapon, he would find himself in an exceedingly awkward
position. There was then nothing to do but to practise with the knife,
and he wanted Jack, who had been so successful with that weapon, to
give him some lessons in its use.
Jack shook his head. If his boy friend wanted to learn the gaucho way
of fighting he could easily do so. The gaucho wrapped his poncho on
his left arm to use it as a shield, and flourished his facon, or knife
with a sword-like blade and a guard to the handle. This whirling about
of the knife was quite an art, and had a fine look when two
accomplished fighters stood up to each other and made their weapons
look like shining wheels or revolving mirrors in the sun.
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