The Abysmal Brute | Page 2

it. There was the time on the barge, in San
Francisco Bay, when at the moment he had the champion going, he
snapped his own forearm; and on the island in the Thames, sloshing
about in six inches of rising tide, he broke a leg at a similar stage in a
winning fight; in Texas, too, there was the never-to-be-forgotten day
when the police broke in just as he had his man going in all certainty.
And finally, there was the fight in the Mechanics' Pavilion in San
Francisco, when he was secretly jobbed from the first by a gun-fighting
bad man of a referee backed by a small syndicate of bettors. Pat
Glendon had had no accidents in that fight, but when he had knocked
his man cold with a right to the jaw and a left to the solar plexus, the
referee calmly disqualified him for fouling. Every ringside witness,
every sporting expert, and the whole sporting world, knew there had
been no foul. Yet, like all fighters, Pat Glendon had agreed to abide by
the decision of the referee. Pat abided, and accepted it as in keeping
with the rest of his bad luck.
This was Pat Glendon. What bothered Stubener was whether or not Pat
had written the letter. He carried it down town with him. What's
become of Pat Glendon? Such was his greeting to all the sports that
morning. Nobody seemed to know. Some thought he must be dead, but
none knew positively. The fight editor of a morning daily looked up the
records and was able to state that his death had not been noted. It was
from Tim Donovan, that he got a clue.
"Sure an' he ain't dead," said Donovan. "How could that be?--a man of
his make that never boozed or blew himself? He made money, and

what's more, he saved it and invested it. Did n't he have three saloons at
the time? An' wasn't he makin' slathers of money with them when he
sold out? Now that I'm thinkin', that was the last time I laid eyes on
him--when he sold them out. 'T was all of twenty years and more ago.
His wife had just died. I met him headin' for the Ferry. 'Where away,
old sport?' says I. 'It's me for the woods,' says he. 'I've quit. Good-by,
Tim, me boy.' And I've never seen him from that day to this. Of course
he ain't dead."
"You say when his wife died--did he have any children?" Stubener
queried.
"One, a little baby. He was luggin' it in his arms that very day."
"Was it a boy?"
"How should I be knowin'?"
It was then that Sam Stubener reached a decision, and that night found
him in a Pullman speeding toward the wilds of Northern California.
CHAPTER II
Stubener was dropped off the overland at Deer Lick in the early
morning, and he kicked his heels for an hour before the one saloon
opened its doors. No, the saloonkeeper didn't know anything about Pat
Glendon, had never heard of him, and if he was in that part of the
country he must be out beyond somewhere. Neither had the one
hanger-on ever heard of Pat Glendon. At the hotel the same ignorance
obtained, and it was not until the storekeeper and postmaster opened up
that Stubener struck the trail. Oh, yes, Pat Glendon lived out beyond.
You took the stage at Alpine, which was forty miles and which was a
logging camp. From Alpine, on horseback, you rode up Antelope
Valley and crossed the divide to Bear Creek. Pat Glendon lived
somewhere beyond that. The people of Alpine would know. Yes, there
was a young Pat. The storekeeper had seen him. He had been in to Deer
Lick two years back. Old Pat had not put in an appearance for five
years. He bought his supplies at the store, and always paid by check,

and he was a white-haired, strange old man. That was all the
storekeeper knew, but the folks at Alpine could give him final
directions.
It looked good to Stubener. Beyond doubt there was a young Pat
Glendon, as well as an old, living out beyond. That night the manager
spent at the logging camp of Alpine, and early the following morning
he rode a mountain cayuse up Antelope Valley. He rode over the divide
and down Bear Creek. He rode all day, through the wildest, roughest
country he had ever seen, and at sunset turned up Pinto Valley on a trail
so stiff and narrow that more than once he elected to get off and walk.
It was eleven o'clock when he dismounted before a log cabin and was
greeted by the baying of two huge deerhounds. Then Pat Glendon
opened the door, fell on