Cracker Barrel Trouble Shooter E-Book

Jim Kjelgaard

• Herausgeber: Reading Essentials
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Cracker Barrel Troubleshooter is about Bill Rawls, a college student whose guardian - his uncle - dies after having frittered away Bill’s fortune. All that’s left is a country store in a tiny former lumber town called Elk Shanty. Bill could probably work his way through the rest of his college course, but he decides to check out Elk Shanty instead. He finds:

• a pretty girl.
• a funny dog.
• a population not capable of supporting a store.
• a burly local youth who inexplicably hates him.
• lots of food. Like, so much.
• good fishing.

Leseprobe

Cracker Barrel Trouble Shooter 

by Jim Kjelgaard

First published in 1954

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

[email protected]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cracker Barrel Trouble Shooter 

by 

Jim Kjelgaard

FOR BARBARA AND BETTY

I.

Inheritance

1

II.

Elk Shanty

20

III.

The Store

40

IV.

Hopeless Venture

58

V.

The Beginning

77

VI.

Open for Business

94

VII.

Under New Management

118

VIII.

Idea

137

IX.

Trouble

156

X.

Battle

173

XI.

Arrest

185

XII.

The Big Hotel

203

Inheritance

When the gong ended the fifth round, Bill Rawls remained for a second in the center of the ring. He teetered uncertainly on legs that were made of rubber, and a foolish grin overspread his face while with blurred eyes he seemed to see half a dozen opponents. Then he regained his strength, walked to his corner, and sat wearily down. A moment later he felt the bite of the astringent that Johnny Markson, his second, was applying to a cut on his cheek.

Johnny's jaw was set and grim, but concern was also written in his face as he ministered expertly to his friend. Bill winked a puffed and swollen eye, winced with pain, and looked ruefully across the ring at a twenty-year-old who seemed to have a mule's kick in both hands and who could throw punches so fast that both fists were quite unaccountably in Bill's face and midriff at the same time and all the time.

He was Alan Chesterton, from State College, and Bill had drawn him in this inter-collegiate boxing meet.

Johnny's soothing hands were rubbing Bill's shoulder and back muscles now, and Bill relaxed gratefully. He stole a glance at the clock and grimaced. A half second ago, or so it seemed, he had sat down. But the minute's intermission between rounds was already more than half gone.

Johnny asked, "Want me to stop it, fella?"

"Nope."

"He's murdering you and you know it."

"I can still move."

"A couple of more rounds and you won't be able to."

"If I could only figure his style, I might get him."

"Style is what that boy's got, brother."

"I know it. It's been bouncing off my face for five rounds. I can't seem to get inside his guard."

"Still think I'd better stop it."

"Nope."

Johnny said wearily, "All right. Go in and get your fool head knocked off."

The gong clanged again and Bill rose to move into the center of the ring. He circled warily, watching as he did so this young man who could handle himself so expertly and hit so hard. Of course, under all ordinary circumstances, Johnny would have been right and the fight should have been stopped; nobody but a born idiot deliberately asks for a beating. But for five rounds Bill had faced Alan Chesterton, and during that time he had studied the other very carefully. It did seem that there were times when he held his lethal right hand just a little bit lower than he should and, if Bill could get inside his almost-faultless guard for even a split second, there might be a chance of at least fighting to a draw.

There was a short flurry in which nobody got hurt. The two fighters clinched and were separated by the referee. Then Bill saw the opportunity he had been awaiting and that was the last thing he saw.

His head was spinning when he awoke, and for a moment he could not remember where he was. Then, with a sudden rush, everything was crystal-clear. He was boxing and, naturally, one did not box by lying on the canvas. He must get up and resume the fight. Bill rose to a kneeling position and then to a crouch. He pulled himself up on the ropes, swayed, and Johnny's steadying hand was on his shoulder.

In the center of the ring, the referee was holding Alan Chesterton's gloved hand erect in token of victory. Bill turned puzzled eyes on Johnny, and Johnny shook his head.

"That's all there is. There is no more."

"But—"

"It was a knockout, William, the neatest and cleanest these dim old eyes have ever beheld. He hit you so hard that your great-grandfather's teeth must have rattled."

"But that can't be!"

"It was. If you doubt me, there are a few hundred reputable witnesses present who will bear me out. I told you it would happen. That guy's a born boxer."

Alan Chesterton, who was no longer a raging demon but a nice, towheaded, amiable youngster, moved across the ring with a deceptively-awkward shuffle and grinned at Bill.

"Little boys," he said, "should not try to box men."

Bill sniffed. "The next time I fight you, you can be sure of one thing; I'll have my cousin help me."

They shook hands and Bill climbed out of the ring. Johnny stayed beside him as he went up the aisle toward the dressing rooms, and Bill murmured politely to the many spectators who spoke to him. Until now, when he had met someone who was really good, he had rather fancied himself as a boxer. It was more than a little disconcerting to be so easily out-pointed and out-classed.

Entering the dressing room, Bill took off his shoes, slipped out of his trunks, and stood still for a moment. He had taken a great many savage body blows and mighty upper cuts to the head, and it seemed impossible to hurt in so many places all at once. Johnny grinned at his many bruises.

"As a boxer," he said, "you should be a first-class architect. Into the shower with you!"

"Aw for pete's sake!"

Johnny was relentless. "Into the shower with you. Then old Doctor Johnny will rub some horse liniment on those caved-in ribs and things you're wearing."

Bill entered a shower stall and let its needle spray sting his body. His various aches melted away to throbs, and suddenly he began to laugh. Johnny poked a suspicious head inside the shower stall.

"Have you gone crazy at last?"

"His face!" Bill chortled. "I just remembered his face!"

"Whose face?"

"My uncle's!" Bill gasped, as though that were self-explanatory.

"You're punch happy!"

Bill hurled the bar of soap and Johnny ducked just in time to avoid getting it in the head. Bill's side-splitting laughter dribbled away to a few hearty chuckles.

His father had died nine years ago, when Bill was ten, and his mother had died two years before that. His uncle, who liked to be called Alfred Carling Rawls, had been appointed Bill's legal guardian and the administrator of the tidy fortune which his father had left. Alfred Carling Rawls had profound and unshakable ideas about various subjects.

For a short space Bill renewed his laughter. It was his uncle who had suggested that he go to college and study architecture and Bill had considered it a good idea. But his uncle also had positive notions as to who was and who was not a gentleman and what did and did not befit gentlemen. At Christmas vacation he had had a heart-to-heart talk with his nephew. Bill remembered the exact quotation:

"William, we are not without some right to family pride. But that right at the same time imposes certain obligations, and not the least of these is dignity. Never forget that and all that it means."

Bill laughed again, and at the same time he knew a sense of shame. To stand in a boxing ring and trade punches with Alan Chesterton—or to be punched by him—hardly coincided with his Uncle Al's idea of dignity. He would consider it rowdyism instead, and maybe the next time Bill went home the less said about some things the better. But now Bill knew only that he had enjoyed the fight.

He gave the cold water full force and his skin seemed to shrivel beneath it. But it felt good. A young man and a healthy one, he had all the recuperative powers of the young and healthy. His head was no longer rocking, and the faint nausea that had been in the pit of his stomach was washed away under the shower. He turned the water off, and while the faucet surrendered its last few gurgling splashes he stepped onto the shower mat and rubbed himself briskly with a rough towel.

Johnny advanced on him with a bottle of liniment in his hand and a gleam in his eye. Bill protested.

"I don't need any skin remover!"

"Sissy!"

Bill groaned and gave in while Johnny applied the liniment. Then he dressed and turned to his friend.

"How do I look?"

Johnny squinted at him and pronounced judgment. "Like you've been whipped up with a potato masher. One more fight like that and you'll be all cauliflower. Not that you ever were a beauty, of course."

"There won't be any more fights," Bill promised. "I've just had rather convincing proof that there are better boxers than I. Do you think I'm a dope?"

"Do I have to answer that one?"

"My pal," Bill grunted. "I won't forget your loyalty. When you're a famous lawyer and I'm a famous architect, I'll throw all my business your way."

"I haven't any doubt that you'll give me the business. Come on. Let's go drown the memory of your humiliating defeat."

Side by side they left the auditorium and walked into a star-sprinkled night. A cold wind blew and here and there a patch of dirty, melting snow still lingered. But the wind was not the snarling one that had whipped about corners while winter was at its height. It had lost its storm-born sinews and its teeth. Winter was on its way out. In a week or so, spring would bloom over the university town of Tenngale. And spring always brought new promise.

The pair passed shadowy figures as they walked, sometimes one or two and sometimes a group, and murmured greetings. Everybody either knew everyone else or, if they did not, they could be sure that they were meeting a fellow student. It was a free and easy atmosphere dominated by young people, and it was a life that Bill liked. But as he walked along with Johnny he felt a vague unrest which he could not explain.

He had been so young when his parents died that he did not remember a great deal about them. Because he had pictures, Bill knew that his mother had been lovely and he took a somewhat smug pride in the exploits of his father. Colin Rawls had landed in New York with twenty pounds in his pocket, and by sheer strength and fighting spirit he had become a successful contractor. Then a year before his marriage he had brought his young brother and sister from the genteel but down-at-the-heels ancestral home in England and ensconced them in the comfortable New York house where Bill had grown up.

Bill's aunt, Alicia, had been married before Bill was born and she died ten years later. Her brother, Alfred Carling Rawls, a boy of sixteen when he and Alicia came to the United States, had devoted himself to a life of quiet study. In recent years he had lectured frequently before learned gatherings whose purpose Bill understood only dimly.

It was difficult to reconcile the two brothers, product of the same father and mother but so different, and to find the right place for each of them. Each, in his own way, did seem to represent something fine and decent and something the world needed. But Bill often wondered, as he was wondering now, whether his uncle really understood the dynamic forces which he himself felt sometimes and whether or not Alfred Carling Rawls was really capable of guiding him. Still, he liked architecture and he seemed to have a knack for it.

"Why so quiet?" Johnny asked.

"I was thinking."

"Miracles will happen," Johnny murmured, and fell into some silent reflection of his own.

They turned the corner, and midway down the next block a neon rooster with a comb of red flame strutted back and forth above the sidewalk. This was The Rooster's Nest, and sooner or later every one of the students found his way to it. In addition to being a wonderful place for having fun, it was also a retreat where plans could be made, cramming done, sorrows quieted, new hopes born and old ones revived, and broken hearts mended under the understanding supervision of John Paleopastrinis, who had never even been to high school but who knew as much about the students at Tenngale as anyone else except the Dean of Men.

Bill and Johnny stood aside while a crowd of laughing youngsters filed out, then made their way in. The booths were filled and, save for four empty chairs, so was the fountain. A juke box played the latest hit tune and in the center of the floor two couples were dancing. Toward the rear of the long building the lights were shaded and the acoustics were such that the juke box's music was heard there as only a gentle melody. That was the quiet part of The Rooster's Nest and it was intended for those who wanted peace.

Bill and Johnny made their way to two of the empty stools at the counter and Rip Parker, who was in Law with Johnny, turned around to say with a grin, "Hi, Champ."

"Hi," Bill said cheerfully.

"Sorry you didn't take him."

"You can't lick everybody."

"Nope. You can't. That guy's got a wicked right."

"And an even wickeder left."

"Let's not get sentimental," Johnny said with mock severity. "And sleeping dogs are just as well not awakened. This sadly-battered man needs forgetfulness."

Johnny rapped on the counter and John Paleopastrinis himself responded. He was a short, fat man who had a miraculous way of keeping a clean white apron about his bulging midriff. Freshmen at Tenngale always watched breathlessly, waiting for the apron to fall off, but it never did. The top of John Paleopastrinis' entirely bald head came just about to a medium-tall man's shoulder, but on the day he was born some kindly angel had breathed a smile into his eyes and it had been there ever since. He beamed to a halt in front of Johnny and Bill.

"Ha!" he exclaimed. "You been fightin' again!"

"Not so much chatter!" Johnny, still the mockingly-severe mentor, said. "We need something to drown our sorrows because the hope of Tenngale has fallen! What'll it be, Bill?"

Bill affected an air of desperation. "Coke! Make it a double one with a dash of lemon!"

"That's the old fight! We'll have two of those!"

They sipped their drinks, paying little attention to the noise around them and not speaking themselves. Bill's reflective mood prevailed and he had no desire to talk. He drained his glass, then waited for his friend to finish. Finally Johnny turned to him.

"Strong stuff, huh?"

"Potent."

"Have another?"

"No, thanks."

"What would you like to do?"

"Let's go home."

"Brilliant! Let's."

Johnny reached for his wallet but John Paleopastrinis waved a hand the size of a small ham.

"No, this time it's on the house."

"You're a gentleman. Thank you."

They turned to leave, and John Paleopastrinis called after them, "You win the next time! Yes?"

Bill grinned and said "Yes."

Into the night that was still winter, but that held a strong promise of becoming spring, they went. A few fleecy clouds floated across the sky and the stars shone through them. Bill edged up to walk closer to Johnny, who, when the occasion demanded it, had a tongue tipped with acid but always a nature tinged with honey.

Johnny asked, "Feel any pangs?"

"No."

"I thought you might, now that you've seen your boxing career smashed on Chesterton's gloves."

"I never had or wanted a boxing career. It's just fun to stand up and trade punches sometimes."

"Good boy!" Johnny said.

They took a right-angle turn down the street to Moody Hall, entered the lobby, and side by side walked up the stairs to the second-floor room which they shared. Bill, whose aches were returning, took off his overcoat, hung it in the closet, and went in to wash his bruised face again.

When he came out of the washroom, Johnny was sitting on his bed. His eyes were troubled, his manner thoughtful, and in his hand was a square of white paper. "Feeling okeh?" he asked.

"Sure."

Johnny glanced down at the piece of paper and he raised his eyes to meet Bill's. "The Intellect wants to see you. Now—urgent."

"Oh, hang! Let me see it!"

Bill took and read the message. Instructor Tom Crooks, who was not much older than the students he supervised but who still managed to obtain a fair amount of order in Moody Hall, wanted to see Bill as soon as he came in. Bill must not for any reason delay the interview. He laid the message on the dresser and Johnny looked at him in concern.

"You in trouble, fella?"

"None I can think of."

"Well, run along and see what The Intellect wants. If you need anything, you know where I am."

"Sure thing."

Bill walked rapidly down the hall to Instructor Crooks' room and knocked on the door. Crooks himself, a young Political Science expert already noted for his mental capacities and known even to his face as "The Intellect," admitted him.

"Come in, Bill."

"Thank you."

Bill entered the plainly furnished room and waited expectantly. Everybody, even those to whom he gave poor marks, liked Tom Crooks for his fairness and complete honesty. He was not famous for his subtlety, though, and now he seemed troubled. He blinked behind thick glasses, looked at the floor a second, and faced Bill squarely.

"Bill, I'm afraid it's bad news."

"Yes?"

"Yes. I had you paged at the auditorium but you'd already left. I tried again at The Rooster's Nest, and missed you by only a minute or so. Your uncle has suffered a heart attack."

"Is it serious?"

"He's dead, Bill."

Bill stood dully, not able to assimilate at once the full meaning of all this. Within a short time, he thought oddly, it would really hit home. Right at the moment, it meant little. Bill could only think to say, "It—it's hard to imagine."

Tom Crooks said quietly, "I'm sorry, and there really isn't much anyone can do in the face of death. On the assumption that you'd want to get home as fast as possible, I did take the liberty of reserving a seat for you on the eleven o'clock plane."

"Thank you."

"I'll go with you if you want me to."

"I think I'd rather go alone."

"I understand," Tom Crooks said. "Pack your bags and I'll drive you to the airport."

Bill walked back to his room, and all he still felt, or thought he ever would feel, was a dull ache. He was grateful for Tom Crooks' understanding. This was a personal matter, one to be handled personally. His friends would extend their sympathy, and when they had done that they could do nothing else. None of them had known his uncle.

When he entered the room, Johnny looked up and Bill said, "I'm leaving, Johnny."

Johnny asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

"I'm afraid not. My uncle died of a heart attack."

"Sorry, fella," Johnny said, quietly.

Bill was glad because he said no more, but then Johnny would say no more. If Bill wanted him along, he would have been asked to go along. Johnny understood that. Bill packed his bags and he was aware of Johnny helping him. When he was ready, Johnny held the door.

"Be seeing you."

"Yep."

It was an uninspired leave-taking, but Bill felt uninspired. For the first time in his life he was at a loss for something to do, some direct course of action which he might follow. There was nothing.

Tom Crooks had been entirely right. There is little the living can do in the face of death.

A week later Bill sat in the outer office of Kincaid and Montgomery, attorneys whom he had asked to straighten out his affairs. He drummed his knuckles nervously on the arm of his chair, still feeling the strain of the past week and still bewildered.

A man emerged from one of the offices and the efficient secretary said to Bill, "You can go in now, Mr. Rawls."

Bill entered the office to face gray-haired Richard Montgomery, and the attorney rose decorously to shake his hand. From his desk drawer he took a file of papers and shuffled through them. Then he looked keenly at Bill.

"Your uncle handled all your affairs?"

"That's right."

"How long has he been in complete charge?"

"Since my father died. That's nine years ago and I was ten at the time."

"You trusted your uncle?"

"Why—of course."