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Updated: June 20, 2025
"Soap-suds is better than blood for washin' purposes," said Joshua practically. "Seems to me you're spoilin' for a fight all the time." "I allow I am," said the Pike man, who regarded this as a compliment. "I was brought up on fightin'. When I was a boy I could whip any boy in school." "That's why they called you a rip-tail roarer, I guess," said Joshua.
The story is chock full of stirring incidents, while the amusing situations are furnished by Joshua Bickford, from Pumpkin Hollow, and the fellow who modestly styles himself the "Rip-tail Roarer, from Pike Co., Missouri." Mr. Alger never writes a poor book, and "Joe's Luck" is certainly one of his best. Tom the Bootblack; or, The Road to Success.
Bickford could no longer suppress his indignation when at a little distance he saw his mustang, which this treacherous braggart had robbed him of, quietly feeding. "Look here, old Rip-tail, or whatever you call yourself, I've got an account to settle with you." The Pike man started as he heard Mr. Bickford's voice, which, being of a peculiar nasal character, he instantly recognized.
"Nobody henders your gettin' at me," said Mr. Bickford composedly. "But that ain't answerin' my question." "If I didn't respect them two gentlemen too much, I'd shoot you where you stand," said the Pike man. "I've got a shootin'-iron myself, old Rip-tail, and I'm goin' to use it if necessary."
"Kill him! String him up!" shouted some. The Rip-tail Roarer's swarthy face grew pale as he heard these ominous words. He knew something of the wild, stern justice of those days. He knew that more than one for an offense like his had expiated his crime with his life. "It seems to me," said the leader, "that the man he injured should fix the penalty. Say you so?" "Aye, aye!" shouted the miners.
I'm glad I've got my hoss back; but I can't help pityin' poor old Rip-tail, after all. I don't believe he ever killed a wildcat in his life." Three months passed. They were not eventful. The days were spent in steady and monotonous work; the nights were passed around the camp-fire, telling and hearing, stories and talking of home. Most of their companions gambled and drank, but Mr.
He felt that the meeting was an awkward one, and he would willingly have avoided it. He decided to bluff Joshua off if possible, and, as the best way of doing it, to continue his game of brag. "Who dares to speak to me thus?" he demanded with a heavy frown, looking in the opposite direction. "Who insults the Rip-tail Roarer?" "Look this way if you want to see him," said Joshua.
Bickford and Joe were returning from a walk, when, as they approached the camp-fire, they heard a voice that sounded familiar, and caught these words: "I'm from Pike County, Missouri, gentlemen. They call me the Rip-tail Roarer. I can whip my weight in wildcats." "By gosh!" exclaimed Joshua, "if it ain't that skunk from Pike. I mean to tackle him."
"Why?" repeated the Pike man boastfully. "They were afraid. They recognized me as the Rip-tail Roarer. They knew that I had sent more than fifty Indians to the happy hunting-grounds, and alone as I was they fled." "Sho!" "Did you kill any of them?" asked Joe. "When I was some distance on my way I found I had left my revolver behind. Did you find it, stranger?"
"What about them Indians? Did you railly see any?" "I rather think I did," said the man from Pike. "It couldn't have been much after midnight when I was aroused by their war-whoop. Starting up, I saw twenty of the red devils riding through the canon." "Were you afraid?" "Afraid!" exclaimed the man from Pike contemptuously. "The Rip-tail Roarer knows not fear. I can whip my weight in wildcats "
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