New York Dispatch

BOY'S DEFENSE.

BY A. F. I.

The scene was in Sacramento street, in front of a well known house. It was twenty-two years ago, and San Francisco was in her infancy. Quite a crowd had gathered on the street and the centre of attraction was a big fellow, who stood with a newspaper in his hand, raving and cursing.

"What's the matter, Wolf?" asked a newcomer, who was evidently familiar with the irate man.

"Matter?" returned Wolf, for that was his name; "matter enough, an' rough enough it'll be for some folks. Them young whelps that prints this paper has gone an' published somethin' 'bout me. Oh! I'll fix'em. They'd better go an' kill themselves afore ten minutes; it'll be an easier death fur 'em."

Wolf was a noted desperado, who, it was said, had killed more than twenty men, and but few knew him who did not fear him. He was at that time chief of a gang of loafers and gamblers that were nearly always to be found lounging in the vicinity alluded to, and disturbing the peace of the whole neighborhood daily with riotous conduct. If there was any law in those days, it was seldom executed against such characters, and in the full consciousness that they were feared, they did pretty much as they pleased.

The newspaper which had given deadly offense to Wolf was a little weekly journal, and its office was in the second story of a building on the same street with the hotel I have mentioned, and only a few rods distant. It was published by two young men-or, I might say, boys, for they were only eighteen and twenty years old, respectively-named Darrell and Kaynes. The paper and its youthful proprietors were already well-known in the young city of San Francisco.

The article which had excited the wrath of the ruffian Wolf was a bold denunciation of himself and his crowd for their lawless conduct, and it particularly mentioned him by name characterizing him as a "blustering bully." It was the work of young Darrell, a fearless boy, hailing from one of the Western States. Before leaving his home in the Mississippi Valley, he had acquired a fair education, so that he could at least edit a newspaper in those early days, and he possessed, beside, that courage and daring which may be natural in the first place, and which are more thoroughly developed by exposure to dangers and hardships.

Young Kaynes was quite a different kind of person, in point of courage, being of an unusually timorous nature.

To return to the scene of Sacramento street. Working himself up into his very worst mood and his best was bad enough, Heaven knows--Wolf tore the paper to atoms and started for the publication office. He was followed by a curious rabble, most of whom were elated with the prospect of a murder, though there were some present who would have remonstrated with the evil-hearted man, had they dared.

"Jest you watch," said Wolf, as he reached the door, "if ye want to see the'r bloody carcasses tumble out o' the winder! It won't be long. I don't spend much time on sich fellers."

It was the intention of the cruel-hearted man actually to cut the throats of the two boyish journalists, and throw their bodies out at the window, for the gratification of the crowd, and the further exaltation of his already fearful name. So, the mob on the street awaited the issue with feverish expectation, as Wolf, flourishing his knife and revolver, entered the rude frame building and rushed up stairs.

All unconscious of their danger, the two young editors were busily pursuing their usual work in their primitive office. If they had heard the noise without, they had paid no attention to it, supposing it was merely a street row, such as they were accustomed hearing every day. Darrell was sitting at a rude table, writing, and Kaynes was at the counter, arranging some papers for the mail. They heard the clatter of heavy boots on the stairs, but supposing it was some rough miner coming up to subscribe for the paper, or, perhaps, to see a lawyer who occupied a couple of rooms on the same floor; for the building was only a two-story one, and the second floor was occupied exclusively by them and an attorney--their rooms being separated from his by a narrow hall-way that was reached by the flight of stairs alluded to.

"Ah-ha! I've got ye, my young imps!" exclaimed the desperado, bursting in.

Kaynes recognized him and turned pale. Being at the counter, which faced the door and extended across the room, he was naturally the first mark for Wolf's vengeance.

"Ye young devils!" he hissed, scowling like a madman, "ye'll never write nor print nothin' more 'bout me."

Here he flourished his knife and revolver above his head.

"I've got a sure thing on both o' ye!"

Saying this, he looked about him, with careful scrutiny, to see that there was no means of escape for the quiet youth at the table, who, of course, would not dare to jump over the counter and try to pass him, but would cower down in a corner, and take his turn at being killed; then he reached across the counter and seized Kaynes by the hair, which was, unfortunately, very long. Coiling the terrified young man's locks around the great coarse fingers of his left hand, Wolf laid his revolver upon the counter, without the slightest apprehension that his youthful adversary would snatch it up and use it on him, as he might have done had he possessed the nerve, then flourished his big gleaming knife deliberately, with pure devilishness prolonging Kaynes' terror and pain.

"Now pray, you young un!" he hissed " You've got a couple o' seconds or so left-jest while I'm clippin' yer ears off. I'll take 'em off first, clean and smooth, then I'll cut yer throat an' throw yer out o' the winder. D'ye hear that?"

Such was Wolf's reliance on the terror his name everywhere inspired that he never dreamed of resistance. He simply intended to butcher the two young men, and such a thing as an obstacle to his will was not to be thought of. Had Darrell possessed no more nerve than Kaynes there can be no doubt that they would both have been murdered then and there in exact accordance with Wolf's programme.

"Time," he said, grinding his teeth in an ecstasy of rage, and drawing Kaynes' white face closer to his own repulsive countenance.

"They're a-waitin' to see yer carcass drap down into the street."

Here he flourished his knife and selected his mark.

"Right ear first. Watch how clean and smooth I'll take it off. I won't even touch a hair."

Kaynes bawled for mercy.

"Oh-oh --don't!" the poor fellow shrieked, trembling with terror. "Oh, don't, Mr. Wolf. I didn't write that, on my soul," and he whined like a schoolboy.

"None o'yer lyin'" said Wolf, fiercely. "Yer both wrote it, darn ye, an' both of ye'll pay for it!"

Here he executed decided circles with his flashing knife, having apparently prolonged the torture as much as he desired.

"Here goes; look out when I count three!" the knife was ready to descend.

"One two"

He stopped and stared. He had not observed the movements of Darrell during the last few seconds, and just as he was on the point of clipping off Kaynes' ear in the polished manner he had descanted upon, he found the muzzle of a rifle thrust almost in his face.

It was a loaded rifle which, luckily, a friend of Darrell's had left in his keeping that very morning while he went out to make some purchases. It had stood in a corner of the room near his table, and Darrell had seized it, cocked and leveled it with such dexterity that he had Wolf covered before his movements were observed; and he stood motionless as a statue, his cool eye glancing over the sights, and a steady finger on the trigger.

"You great bully!" he said; "drop that knife instantly. Mind, I came from a country where they shoot squirrels only through the eye. I can hit any hair of your big head that you will mention at a hundred yards. Drop that knife!"

The ruffian was fairly paralyzed. He relaxed his grip on poor Kaynes, who sank fainting on the floor, and his murderous knife fell upon the counter. So unexpected was this bold attitude of Darrell that Wolf was more startled than he would have been if a dozen of the roughest men in California had assailed him. There stood the boyish editor, motionless as the wall, and the muzzle of the rifle did not move the breadth of a hair. Darrell held the desperado's life in his hands.

"You cowardly bully!" he repeated, contemptuously. "Don't dare to move, I can send a bullet through your eyeball without touching the white. Don't move an eighth of an inch or I'll do it, and throw your filthy carcass out of the window!"

Wolf glanced at his revolver lying upon the counter, within two feet of his eye, but did not venture to reach for it.

"Dare to touch that revolver--so much as to look at it again," said Darrell, "and I'll make a red picture on the wall there behind you. You blustering, bragging knave! you are a coward at heart--a despicable cur! You came up here to murder two boys, because you thought it a nice, easy task, and now you are pale and trembling with fear. I would kill you in your tracks, but that I don't want your dirty blood on my hands. Go, now, Turn instantly, Leave your knife and revolver where they are, I'll keep them. Go down to your friends on the street and tell them a boy whipped you--disarmed you and kicked you down stairs! Do as I tell you instantly. If you hesitate you will never see the sun set."

Wolf, trembling from head to foot, glanced once more at his revolver, but did not dare to raise his hand. His face was pale and his lips were dry.

"Do you hear me?" demanded Darrell sternly.

"Yes-yes; don't shoot!" replied Wolf, turning about, as commanded. He was thoroughly cowed.

"Do not turn your ugly face this way again," said Darrell, "or you will pay for it with your life. Move!"

Tamer than a whipped cur, the ruffian walked toward the door, and Darrell, springing over the counter, was at his heels in an instant.

"Don't look back, or I'll kill you!"

Meekly obeying the imperative orders of the youth, Wolf moved slowly out of the room into the narrow corridor.

"Be careful don't-don't let that gun go off," Wolf stammered, as he reached the head of the stairs.

At this moment the clamors of the impatient crowd below arose with terrible distinctness, and one shrill voice was heard to say;

"Hurry up, Wolf. Why don't you throw them fellers out?"

Exasperated beyond measure, he was on the point of turning back, at the risk of his life: for after all his braggadocio how could he face those below, disarmed and chased out of the building by one of the puny boys he had intended so terribly to chastise? But Darrell was after him, and with one vigorous kick sent him heels over head down the wooden stairs, with a thundering clatter; and rolling over the doorsill, the defeated bully actually tumbled out upon the street, before he could recover his equilibrium.

"Hello! How's this? What's up?" asked a dozen voices at once, as the dreaded man reappeared in this undignified shape, without having sent any corpses down from the window.

"Why, I simply kicked him down stairs-- that's what's the matter!" responded the boyish voice of Darrell at the head of the stairs; " and if he comes up here again I won't let him off so easy. Don't be afraid of him : I took all his weapons from him."

Wolf struggled to his feet, rubbing his head and presenting such a ludicrous appearance that he was greeted with loud jeers and bursts of laughter.

So completely had he tumbled from his lofty eminence in the eyes of those who either admired or feared a bold murderer, that they who an hour ago would have dreaded to offend him by word or look, now regarded him only with contempt--laughed at and derided him.

"Ha ha! ha!" resounded on all sides. "Licked by a boy! Bah! Kicked down stairs by a child! Got your barkers took from you! Where's your knife? Where's them corpses? Ha ha! ha! You ought to be egged out of town! Three groans for Wolf!" and the three groans were given with a will.

"Three cheers for the little boy that licked him!" was responded to by three loud and enthusiastic cheers.

Never before had that rough crowd seen a man with an established reputation, like Mr. Wolf, thus suddenly fall to such a depth of degradation. All his fame, name, prestige, melted away like a mist, and he was no longer feared--no longer respected by the low thieves and cut-throats around him--only despised. Yes. despised by the meanest of creatures whom he had oftentimes bullied as though they had been hounds.

How little, how pusillanimous he looked now as he slunk away toward Montgomery street; those who had known him for the last year and regarded him as a giant, now fancied that he stood barely five feet six in his boots. The dread that had surrounded his name had cleared away like a vapor.

Such was Wolf's mortification, when he came fully to realize what a pitiable figure he had cut, that he left San Francisco and was seen in her streets no more. The fatality that had apparently thus far shielded and assisted him in his murderous work now suddenly deserted him. He was destined never to commit another murder; but was himself shot dead in Sacramento within three weeks after the events narrated.

I do not know what has become of Kaynes, or whether he is still alive; but I know that Darrell, the brave boy whose coolness and courage saved them both, is to-day a gentleman of position, residing in a flourishing city of Nevada.