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 ABOUT TUTTLE
“Books to Span the East and West”

Our core mission at Tuttle Publishing is to create books

which bring people together one page at a time. Tuttle was
founded in 1832 in the small New England town of Rutland,
Vermont (USA). Our fundamental values remain as strong
today as they were then—to publish best-in-class books
informing the Englishspeaking world about the countries
and peoples of Asia. The world has become a smaller place
today and Asia’s economic, cultural and political infl uence
has expanded, yet the need for meaningful dialogue and
information about this diverse region has never been
greater. Since 1948, Tuttle has been a leader in publishing
books on the cultures, arts, cuisines, languages and
literatures of Asia. Our authors and photographers have
won numerous awards and Tuttle has published thousands
of books on subjects ranging from martial arts to paper
crafts. We welcome you to explore the wealth of
information available on Asia at www.tuttlepublishing.com.

Please note that the publisher and author(s) of this instructional

book are NOT RESPONSIBLE in any manner whatsoever for any
injury that may result from practicing the techniques and/or
following the instructions given within. Martial arts training can be
dangerous—both to you and to others—if not practiced safely. If
you’re in doubt as to how to proceed or whether your practice is
safe, consult with a trained martial arts teacher before beginning.
Since the physical activities described herein may be too strenuous
in nature for some readers, it is also essential that a physician be
consulted prior to training.
Published by Tuttle Publishing, an imprint of Periplus Editions (HK)
Ltd.

Copyright © 1973 Charles E. Tuttle Co., Inc. Acknowledgments,

Foreword, Portfolio of Drawings in new edition Copyright © 2009 by
Futuro Designs & Publications/Adele Westbrook.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or

utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage
and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the
publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ratti, Oscar.
Secrets of the samurai : the martial arts of feudal
Japan / by Oscar Ratti and Adele Westbrook.
399 p. : ill. ; 27 cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-4-8053-0960-5 (hardcover)
1. Martial arts--Japan. I. Westbrook, Adele. II. Title.
GV1100.77.A2.R37 2009
796.815--dc22

2009014305

ISBN 978-4-8053-1405-0
ISBN 978-1-4629-1900-0 (ebook)

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TO THOSE RARE MASTERS OF BUJUTSU
who revered the arts of the warrior—
but who revered human life even more;
and

TO THOSE SCHOLARS
without whose reflections
and painstaking recollections
this book would not have been possible
If we open ourselves up to the divine Life Force in its
physical and spiritual manifestations we are all right, as
individuals and as societies of individuals. If, on the
contrary, we turn our backs on the God-made universe and
insist on living in the home-made, verbal universe of fancies
and ideals, imagining that we can improve on nature and
make God in our own image, then we ruin our private lives,
physically and spiritually, and create societies such as we
live in today. Our habit of doing most of our living in a
home-made world of words, fancies, and illusions is so
deeply ingrained that it requires hard work with special
techniques to “get back to where we have always been”—
that is to say, to the given reality of Nature and Grace, to
things as they really are, in themselves, and quoad nos , in
relation to our egos.

Aldous Huxley
The Selected Letters of Aldous Huxley
James Sexton, editor
Ivan R. Dee. 2008
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

FOREWORD
PORTFOLIO OF DRAWINGS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PREFACE
INTRODUCTION : The Martial Ethos
Definition of Bujutsu and Its Specializations
The Qualification “Martial” (Bu) and the Exponents of Bujutsu
The Qualification “Martial” (Bu) and the Art of War
The Military Tradition in the History of Japan
Origins of Bujutsu

PART I EXPONENTS OF BUJUTSU: THE BUJIN

1. The Bushi
The Rise of the Military Class
The Military Structure of Tokugawa Society: The Shogun
The Daimyo
The Military Retainer: The Samurai
Education and Status of the Buke
The Samurai Woman
The Masterless Warrior: The Ronin
2. The Heimin
The Farmers
The Militant Clergy
Artisans and Merchants
The Police Forces and the Underworld
3. The Centers of Martial Instruction
The Ryu
The Sensei
 PART II OUTER FACTORS OF BUJUTSU
Weapons and Techniques
4. Armed Bujutsu
The Armor
Evolution of Japanese Armor
Elements of Japanese Armor
The Major Martial Arts
The Art of Archery
The Art of Spear Fighting
The Art of Swordsmanship
The Art of Military Horsemanship
The Art of Swimming in Armor
The Minor Martial Arts
The Art of the War Fan
The Art of the Staff
The Art of the Jitte
The Collateral Methods of Combat
The Art of the Chain and Other Weapons
Ninjutsu
5. Unarmed Bujutsu
Specializations, Instruments, and Techniques
The Art of Wrestling
The Military Specializations of Unarmed Bujutsu
The Schools of Jujutsu
The Schools of Aikijutsu
The Arts of Striking
The Art of Kiai

PART III INNER FACTORS OF BUJUTSU

The Invisible Range
6. Control and Power
The Foundation
The Concept of the Centre
 The Concept of Intrinsic Energy
Applications of Haragei
Haragei in Ancient Specializations of Bujutsu
Kyujutsu
Kenjutsu
Sumo
Jujutsu
Kiaijutsu
Haragei in Modern Derivations of Bujutsu
Judo
Karate
Aikido
The Martial Synthesis
7. Strategic Principles
The Major Strategies
Principles of Application
The Bilateral Principle in Particular
The Attack and the Counterattack
The Defense
8. Morality of Bujutsu
The Way of the Warrior
The Value of Zen in Bujutsu
CONCLUSION : The Evolution of Bujutsu
BIBLIOGRAPHY

CHARTS

1. Bujutsu in Feudal Japan

2. Chronology of Japanese History
3. Class Structure of Tokugawa Society
4. The Central Government (bakufii) and Its Major Agencies in Edo
5. Classification of Daimyo Ranks According to the Audience Room at
the Shogun’s Court at Edo
6. Structure of the Yamanouchi Clan
7. Structure of the Okudaira Clan
8. Major Divisions within the Warrior Army in Feudal Japan
9. Chinese Classics (myokyo)
10. Program of Instruction in the Nisshinkan Institute
11. Major Schools of Bujutsu in Feudal Japan
12. Ranking System in Modern Derivations of Feudal Bujutsu
13. Methods of Unarmed Combat
14. Sumo Organization and Ranking System
15. Judo Program of Instruction (Kodokan style)
16. Major Outlines of Aikido Program of Instruction
17. Karate Program of Instruction (Shotokan style)
18. Action and Reaction in Judo and Aikido
FOREWORD
Secrets of the Samurai is the end result of a man and a woman's
passionate commitment to the literary and artistic possibilities
inherent in the combination and integration of word and image,
whatever the subject, and—more particularly—to Oscar Ratti's
unique ability to bring life to every page with drawings infused with
the vitality and humanity of the individual and of the collective spirit.
We are all part of something larger than ourselves, and yet we are
all individual entities with almost unimaginable potential for
enhancing and contributing in a positive way to the ongoing,
turbulent stream of life; to learn—sometimes through very painful
experiences—how to expand our horizons and those of others.
Down through the ages, philosophers, writers, artists, and all
reflective individuals, have grappled with the quandary Shakespeare
had Hamlet consider: “To Be, or Not To Be, that is the question…”
Whether to grasp the nettle of existence firmly and fight the good
fight—in whatever form an individual's strengths may render that the
most positive—or to shrug, throw up one's hands, and withdraw,
prematurely, into the shadows. (Or, which is even worse, because it
causes pain beyond the personal dimension—thrash about violently,
doing damage and harming instead of helping.) Of course, there is
always the Law of Unintended Consequences lurking in the
background or the “Black Swans”—unforseen events, but the only
way to deal with those realistically, is by continual reference to Trial
and Error: How do certain actions and behaviors stand up to an
objective analysis of their results? Might certain course corrections
be worth consideration?
Recent scientific discoveries may provide some guidance here,
and some encouragement. Research into the neuroplasticity of the
brain has shown that what we think and what we do can have a
powerful effect on who we are and who we can become, and that
this potential is present for as long as we live and can be actuated
by our conscious focused thoughts and actions.
In addition, the latest scientific findings indicate that we all share
ninety-nine percent of our DNA, but the one percent that
differentiates each one of us is so complex that the variety of
formations in individuals is yet to be completely understood or
appreciated. Moreover, life experiences will contribute to expressing
or repressing certain genes, so that each one of us is a combination
of genetic inheritance and multiform environmental exposures. Of
course, the genetic package and certain life experiences may be
beyond our control, but that which is within our sphere of influence
—our conscious, determined patterns of thought and action intended
to positively develop our physical, spiritual, intellectual, and
emotional powers not only for our personal fulfillment, but to
contribute to the wider world and extend a life-enhancing influence
far beyond the boundaries of our individual existence—all of that
summons us with a clarion call to enter the fray.
Perhaps we could think of life as a giant Tapestry full of bright
colors and dark accents. Each one of us is a thread that can be
altered within the pattern by the action of weaving and the
combination of colors. If anyone of us fails to fill his or her proper
place within the Tapestry, the whole will be less and that space can
never be filled. Other threads will continue the interweaving but the
Tapestry as a whole will always be less than it could be, and the lack
of even one strong, luminous thread will always be felt, even if not
always clearly evident.
Whatever our particular circumstances, and despite setbacks—as
well as the inevitable pain and loss that we will all have to face in
our own lives—as long as we live we have the potential and the
ability to envision positive actions within our individual spheres and
the personal power to take the steps that will bring those visions to
life. We can all reach out—sometimes at pivotal moments—to help
others achieve their potential and overcome obstacles that might be
impeding their development. We are all part of the larger mosaic of
existence, but each tesserae or tiny patch of color contributes to and
enriches the reflection of life as both an art and a craft.
On the aesthetic level, almost any human activity can be raised
to the level of art—but it is not easy. It requires not only talent, but
also dedication and endurance. It calls for a willingness to withstand
the strain of tedium and periods when even one's best efforts seem
woefully inadequate. Above all, there must be an overwhelming
desire to produce something of transcendent value.
Is it worth it? Is it worth the inevitable sacrifices and
disappointments? Each person must pose that question to himself or
herself. Others may inspire, support, encourage, but the ultimate
answer can only come from the depths of an individual's heart and
soul.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank the members of our

extended families and our friends worldwide for all the loving and
unstinting support they have provided, in innumerable ways, since
Oscar departed this dimension of our shared existence in August
2005. They are all living examples of the inestimable value of that
interconnected web which integrates our fragile, often challenging
lifespans.
And, to all those who are struggling, or who will struggle, with
the aftereffects of a painful loss, I say, as my Celtic, Anglo-Saxon,
and French ancestors would: Courage! And, as Oscar’s Italian
ancestors would echo: Corragio!

Adele Westbrook
New York City, 2008
PORTFOLIO OF DRAWINGS
 Since there are times and places where an image may indeed be
worth a thousand words, here are several thousand words worth of
classical images by Oscar Ratti that show how line and tone can be
infused with the vibrant, enduring spirit of their creator.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Ironheart
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: Ironheart

Author: William MacLeod Raine

Release date: November 6, 2023 [eBook #72057]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Grosset & Dunlap, 1923

Credits: Tim Lindell, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file
was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IRONHEART

***
IRONHEART
 IRONHEART
BY
WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE

AUTHOR OF
MAN-SIZE, TANGLED TRAILS,
THE FIGHTING EDGE, Etc.

GROSSET & DUNLAP

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Made in the United States of America

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY WILLIAM MACLEOD RAINE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

 TO
ARTHUR CHAPMAN
“But somehow when he’s gone, you think a heap
About his virtues—how he’s square and true;
If more come stringin’ in they’d make it cheap—
This friendship thing—and spoil it all for you.”
 CONTENTS
I. Turfing it 3
II. “De King o’ Prooshia on de Job” 8
III. One of the Lost Legion 15
IV. Betty rides 19
V. Tug is “collected” 31
VI. “Nothing but a Gay-Cat anyhow” 35
VII. Tug says, “No, Thank You” 43
VIII. A Rift in the Lute 48
IX. Under Fire 55
X. “One Square Guy” 65
XI. Mr. Ne’er-do-Well 72
XII. “Is this Bird a Prisoner, or ain’t he?” 80
XIII. A Job 85
XIV. One Bad Hombre meets Another 89
XV. The Homesteader serves Notice 98
XVI. The Stampede 105
XVII. His Picture in the Paper 111
XVIII. A Hot Trail 116
XIX. Captain Thurston K. Hollister 122
XX. A Clash 130
XXI. Irrefutable Logic 142
XXII. A Stern Chase 147
XXIII. Out of the Blizzard 157
XXIV. “Come on, you Damn Bushwhacker” 166
XXV. A Difference of Opinion 174
XXVI. Black is Surprised 182
XXVII. The Man with the Bleached Blue Eyes 189
 XXVIII. Betty has her Own Way 196
XXIX. A Child of Impulse 202
XXX. Fathoms Deep 209
XXXI. Betty makes a Discovery 214
XXXII. Without Rhyme or Reason 224
XXXIII. The Bluebird alights and then takes Wing 230
XXXIV. Born that Way 237
XXXV. Birds of a Feather 246
XXXVI. A Stormy Sea 252
XXXVII. Hold the Fort 262
XXXVIII. Beyond a Shadow of a Doubt 269
XXXIX. The Turn of a Crooked Trail 277
XL. Betty discovers why she is Young 284
IRONHEART
IRONHEART
 CHAPTER I
TURFING IT

A thin wisp of smoke drifted up from the camp at the edge of the
wash. It rose languidly, as though affected by the fact that the day
was going to be a scorcher. Already, though the morning was young,
a fiery sun beat down on the sand so that heat waves shimmered in
the air. Occasionally a spark from the crackling cottonwood limbs
was caught by a dust whirl and carried toward the field of ripe wheat
bordering the creek.
Of the campers there were three, all of the genus tramp, but each a
variant. They represented different types, these desert trekkers.
The gross man lying lazily under the shade of a clump of willows
might have stepped straight out of a vaudeville sketch. He was dirty
and unkempt, his face bloated and dissipated. From his lax mouth
projected an English brier pipe, uncleansably soiled. His clothes
hung on him like sacks, wrinkled and dusty, but not ragged. He was
too good a hobo to wear anything torn or patched. It was his boast
that he could get another suit for the asking any time he needed one.
“I’m a blowed-in-the-glass stiff,” he bragged now. “Drilled from
Denver to ’Frisco fifteen times, an’ never was a stake man or a
shovel bum. Not for a day, ’boes. Ask any o’ the push about old York.
They’ll give it to youse straight that he knows the best flops from
Cincie to Phillie, an’ that no horstile crew can ditch him when he’s
goin’ good.”
York was a hobo pure and simple. It was his business in life. For
“stew-bums” and “gay-cats,” to use his own phraseology, he had a
supreme contempt. His companions were amateurs, from his point of
view non-professionals. Neither of them had any pride in turfing it,
which is the blanket stiff’s expression for taking to the road. They did
not understand York’s vocabulary nor the ethics that were current in
his craft.
Yet the thin, weasel-faced man with the cigarette drooping from his
mouth was no amateur in his own line. He had a prison face, the
peculiar distortion of one side of the mouth often seen in confirmed
criminals. His light-blue eyes were cold and dead. A film veiled them
and snuffed out all expression.
“Cig” he called himself, and the name sufficed. On the road
surnames were neither asked for nor volunteered. York had sized
him up three days before when they had met at Colorado Springs,
and he had passed on his verdict to the third member of the party.
“A river rat on a vac—hittin’ the grit for a getaway,” he had
whispered.
His guess had been a good one. Cig had been brought up on the
East River. He had served time in the penitentiaries of three States
and expected to test the hospitality of others. Just now he was
moving westward because the East was too hot for him. He and a
pal had done a job at Jersey City during which they had been forced
to croak a guy. Hence his unwilling expedition to the Rockies. Never
before had he been farther from the Atlantic than Buffalo, and the
vast uninhabited stretches of the West bored and appalled him. He
was homesick for the fetid dumps of New York.
The corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer. “Wot’ell would any one
want to cross this Gawd-forsaken country fifteen times for unless he
was bughouse?”
“If you read the papes you’d know that travel is a lib’ral ejucation.
Difference between a man an’ a tree is that one’s got legs to move
around with. You ginks on the East Side act like you’re anchored to
the Batt’ry an’ the Bowery. Me, I was born there, but I been batterin’
on the road ever since I was knee-high to a duck. A fellow’s got to
throw his feet if he wants to learn,” York announced dogmatically.
There was obvious insult in Cig’s half-closed eyes. “’S at what
learned you all youse know?” he asked.
“Don’t get heavy, young feller,” advised the blanket stiff. “I’ve knew
guys to stay healthy by layin’ off me.”
The young man cooking breakfast barked a summons. “Come an’
get it.”
The tramps moved forward to eat, forgetting for the moment their
incipient quarrel. Into tin cups and plates the cook poured coffee and
stew. In his light clean build, slender but well-packed, was the
promise of the athlete. His movements disappointed this expectation.
He slouched, dragging the worn shoes through the cracks of which
the flesh was visible. Of the three, he was the only one that was
ragged. The coat he wore, which did not match the trousers, was at
the last extremity.
One might have guessed his age at twenty-three or four. If it had not
been for the sullen expression in the eyes and the smoldering
discontent of the face, he might have been good-looking. The
reddish hair was short, crisp, and curly, the eyes blue as the
Colorado summer sky above, the small head well-shaped and
beautifully poised on the sloping column of the neck.
Yet the impression he made on observers was not a pleasant one.
His good points were marred by the spirit that found outlet in a sullen
manner that habitually grudged the world a smile. He had the skin
pigment of the blond, and in the untempered sun of the Rockies
should have been tanned to a rich red-brown. Instead, the skin was
clammily unhealthy. The eyes were dulled and expressionless.
York ate wolfishly, occasionally using the sleeve of his coat for a
napkin. He talked, blatantly and continuously. Cig spoke only at rare
intervals, the cook not at all. Within the silent man there simmered a
nausea of disgust that included himself and all the universe in which
he moved.
In the underworld caste rules more rigidly than in upper strata of
society. The sense of superiority is everywhere an admission of
weakness. It is the defense of one who lives in a glass house. Since
all of these men were failures, each despised the others and
cherished his feeling that they were inferior.
“You ’boes turf it with York an’ you’ll always have plenty o’ punk and
plaster,” the old tramp swaggered. “Comes to batterin’ I’m there with
bells on.”
Translated into English, he meant that if they traveled with him they
would have bread and butter enough because he was a first-class
beggar.
“To hear youse chew the rag you’re a wiz, ain’t you?” Cig jeered. “I
ain’t noticed you diggin’ up any Ritz-Carlton lunches a guy can write
home about. How about it, Tug?”
The cook grunted.
“Me, I can tell a mark far as I can see him—know whether he’s good
for a flop or a feed,” York continued. “Onct I was ridin’ the rods into
Omaha—been punchin’ the wind till I was froze stiff, me ’n’ a pal
called Seattle. Shacks an’ the con tried to ditch us. Nothin’ doing. We
was right there again when the wheels began to move. In the yards
at Omaha we bumps into a gay-cat—like Tug here. He spills the
dope that the bulls are layin’ for us. Some mission stiff had beefed
on me. No guy with or without brass buttons can throw a scare into
old York. No can do. So I says to Seattle, says I—”
York’s story died in his throat. He stood staring, mouth open and chin
fallen.
Two men were standing on the edge of the bluff above the bed of the
creek. He did not need a second look to tell him that they had come
to make trouble.
 CHAPTER II
“DE KING O’ PROOSHIA ON DE JOB”

To Reed came his foreman Lon Forbes with a story of three tramps
camping down by Willow Creek close to the lower meadow
wheatfield.
The ranchman made no comment, unless it was one to say, “Get out
the car.” He was a tight-lipped man of few words, sometimes grim.
His manner gave an effect of quiet strength.
Presently the two were following the winding road through the
pasture. A field of golden wheat lay below them undulating with the
roll of the land. Through it swept the faintest ripple of quivering grain.
The crop was a heavy one, ripe for the reaper. Dry as tinder, a spark
might set a blaze running across the meadow like wildfire.
Forbes pointed the finger of a gnarled hand toward a veil of smoke
drifting lazily from the wash. “Down there, looks like.”
His employer nodded. They descended from the car and walked
along the edge of the bank above the creek bed. Three men sat near
a camp-fire. One glance was enough to show that they were hoboes.
Coffee in an old tomato can was bubbling over some live coals set
between two flat stones.
The big man with the bloated face was talking. The others were
sulkily silent, not so much listening as offering an annoyed refusal to
be impressed. The boaster looked up, and the vaporings died within
him.
“What you doing here?” demanded Reed. His voice was curt and
hostile.
York, true to type, became at once obsequious. “No offense, boss. If
these here are private grounds—”
“They are,” the owner cut in sharply.
“Well, we’ll hit the grit right away. No harm done, mister.” The voice
of the blanket stiff had become a whine, sullen and yet fawning.
His manner irritated both of his companions. Cig spoke first, out of
the corner of his mouth, slanting an insolent look up at the
ranchman.
“Youse de traffic cop on dis block, mister?”
Lon Forbes answered. “We know your sort an’ don’t want ’em here.
Shack! Hit the trail pronto! No back talk about it either.”
Cig looked at the big foreman. “Gawd!” he jeered. “Wotcha know
about that? De king o’ Prooshia on de job again.”
The bluff tanned Westerner took a step or two toward the ferret-
faced man from the slums. Hurriedly York spoke up. He did not want
anything “started.” There were stories current on the road of what
ranchmen had done to hoboes who had made trouble. He knew of
one who had insulted a woman and had been roped and dragged at
a horse’s heels till half dead.
“We ain’t doin’ no harm, boss. But we’ll beat it ’f you say so. Gotta
roll up our war bags.”
Reed did not discuss the question of the harm they were doing. He
knew that a spark might ignite the wheat, but he did not care to plant
the suggestion in their minds. “Put out the fire and move on,” he said
harshly.
“De king o’ Prooshia an’ de clown prince,” Cig retorted with a lift of
his lip.
But he shuffled forward and began to kick dirt over the fire with the
toe of his shoe.
Reed turned to the youngest tramp. “Get water in that can,” he
ordered.
“I don’ know about that.” Up till now the tramp called Tug had not
said a word. “I’m not your slave. Get water yourself if you want to.
Able-bodied, ain’t you?”
The rancher looked steadily at him, and the longer he looked, the
less he liked what he saw. A stiff beard bristled on the sullen face of
the tramp. He was ragged and disreputable from head to heel. In the
dogged eyes, in straddling legs, in the half-clenched fist resting on
one hip, Reed read defiance. The gorge of the Westerner rose. The
country was calling for men to get in its harvests. His own crops
were ripe and he was short of hands. Yet this husky young fellow
was a loafer. He probably would not do a day’s work if it were offered
him. He was a parasite, the kind of ne’er-do-well who declines to
saw wood for a breakfast, metaphorically speaking.
“Don’t talk back to me. Do as I say. Then get out of here.”
Reed did not lift his voice. It was not necessary. As he stood on the
bank above the sand bed he conveyed an impression of strength in
every line of his solid body. Even the corduroy trousers he wore
folded into the short laced boots seemed to have fallen into wrinkles
that expressed power. Close to fifty, the sap of virile energy still
flowed in his veins.
The fist on Tug’s hip clenched. He flushed angrily. “Kind of a local
God Almighty on tin wheels,” he said with a sneer.
York was rolling up his pack. Cig, grumbling, had begun to gather his
belongings. But the youngest tramp gave no evidence of an intention
to leave. Nor did he make a move to get water to put out the still
smoldering fire.
The rancher came down from the bank. Forbes was at his elbow.
The foreman knew the signs of old. Reed was angry. Naturally
imperious, he did not allow any discussion when clearly within his
rights. He would not waste his force on such a spineless creature as
York, but the youngest tramp was of a different sort. He needed a
lesson, and Lon judged he was about to get one.
“Hear me? Get water and douse that fire,” the ranchman said.
His steel-gray eyes were fastened to those of Tug. The tramp faced
him steadily. Forbes had a momentary surprise. This young fellow
with the pallid dead skin looked as though he would not ask for
anything better than a fight.