Twisted Bars
By Erle Stanley Gardner
Pug Parry was such a gorilla that he could twist iron bars into loops. Phil Dunton was such a little jigger that they called him “Big Hat.” With the other hands of the Circle C outfit Phil acted right respectful before Pug’s terrifying strength—respectful, that is, until Pug trespassed on private range.
* * * * *
Bill Carson, better known as Old Walrus, because of the gray mustache which drooped mournfully down either side of his chin, cast his mild, blue eyes over the sun-swept street, then spat reflectively. “They’s somethin’ goin’ on, as sure as shootin’. Them Bar Y boys have got some devilment up their sleeves, an’ they’re just walkin’ ’round waitin’ for it to shake out.”
Sam Eaton, tall, broad shouldered, upstanding, but with an expression of utter pessimism on his face, replied in a voice which sounded like the knelling of a bell. “They’re hangin’ somethin’ on us, sure. Here comes Big Hat; let’s see what he says.”
What Big Hat’s version of the situation might have been remained undiscovered, for at that instant a man from the rival Bar Y outfit walked behind Sam Eaton, and reaching out, clapped that individual a resounding whack between the shoulders. “Get off’n that sidewalk if yuh ain’t travelin’,” he remarked, stopping as though to argue the point. “Yuh cain’t stop traffic on the city streets that way.”
For once the expression of mournful sorrow left Sam Eaton’s face. It was crowded out by a look of surprise which was even mirrored in the faded blue eyes of Old Walrus.
Sam Eaton was supposed to be the champion fighter of the Mayama Valley, and the man who had so aggressively called him was a newcomer to the Bar Y ranch, a rather small, wiry individual who weighed several pounds less than the strapping Circle C pessimist.
It was Old Walrus who spoke first, age, gray hairs and much experience giving him the right to advise. “Start runnin’, cowboy. Yuh done stepped on a hornet’s nest.”
The Bar Y man stood his ground, his little sneering eyes fastened upon Sam Eaton. From nowhere in particular Bar Y boys began to assemble, from doorways, alleys, around corners. There was something tense and jubilant in their attitude, a thrill of anticipation permeated the atmosphere.
Sam’s great fist crashed forward in a lurching, smashing blow, a blow that dashed straight for the other’s jaw.
The smaller man did not put up his hands, made no effort to ward off that terrific drive, but somehow, just as the great fist was within a fraction of an inch of his jaw, his neck moved swiftly, smoothly, easily, not much, just the width of Sam Eaton’s knuckles. The blow whizzed harmlessly by, Sam being carried forward by his own vicious lunge.
The newcomer did not seem to move. There was a slight flick of something white below his right shoulder to be sure, but it could not have been a blow, his body did not pivot, there was no drawing back of arm and shoulder, no fierce clenching of fist; and yet, as Sam straightened, his head seemed to jerk, his face flushed, and his hand dropped involuntarily to the pit of his stomach, as his mouth flopped open, gasping for air. As he stepped back, staggering slightly, Sam’s eyes carried a look of bewilderment.
There came a flash of motion, an easy rhythmic stab of speed, and one of Sam’s eyes suddenly began to swell, puffing up like a young mushroom. That time the stranger had moved, all of the spectators could see that; but it was a motion unusual to the cow camp. The left arm had straightened like a lightning bolt, darted through space, flashed back to his side. The man seemed to have made no exertion, no effort. It was merely as though a string had been tied to his left fist and had suddenly jerked the arm out straight, then snapped it back to the man’s side. There appeared to be no force to the blow; and yet there was the swelling eye.
With a bellow of rage Sam charged, a charge that was merely a blind rush, fists hurtling, jaw thrust forward. This time there were two swift flashes of arm, and Sam sprawled backward in the thick dust of the main street. The Bar Y man turned with a slight swagger and walked on down the street. The few Circle C boys who were watching gathered about Old Walrus and the defeated puncher.
“Hell! It’s one o’ these newfangled boxin’ perfessors. He’s stayin’ up at the Bar Y for the winter an’ he’s just showin’ off what he can do.”
All eyes turned to Phil Dunton, otherwise known as “Big Hat”. Phil was one of these small wiry men who are extremely sensitive about their size. He always wore extremely high heeled shoes and a very high hat in order to make him seem taller. In that country the height of a hat was always directly proportionate to the size of the brim, so that Phil’s headgear seemed nearly big enough for him to crawl inside and use as a tent if necessary.
“How’d yuh get the dope, Big Hat?”
“I heard two of ’em talkin’ an’ I was comin’ over here tryin’ to tell Sam not to start nothin’ but I seen I was too late. What’s more, that’s not the worst. This maverick has had shipped in a coupla sets o’ these newfangled boxin’ gloves, an’ he’s goin’ to teach all the punchers over there how to handle their mitts so they can lick any Circle C man in the country.”
“Well, I guess it’ll take more than a pair o’ padded boxin’ gloves to stop old Colonel Colt’s little equalizer!” burst forth Sam Eaton, dusting the fine, powdery dust from his clothes. “Maybe them boys can get pretty fresh learnin’ all these fancy passes with their fists, but my friend Colt has taught me somethin’ that no boxin’ perfesser in the country can raise.”
A murmur of assent ran through the augmenting circle where the Circle C boys condoled their fallen champion.
“Wait a minute, lads.” It was Old Walrus who spoke. “That ain’t a-goin’ to do, an’ yuh know it. Them times have passed in this here country, an’ we’d all be gettin’ ourselves into a heap o’ trouble. Them boys can shoot, too, if they need to, an’ we can’t go killin’ off a lot o’ good cowpunchers over nothin’. Nope, we’ve been circumvented, an’ it’s up to us if we’re goin’ to stay that way. That four-flushin’ gang just happened to have this here boxin’ perfesser winterin’ there on the ranch, an’ they took advantage of it. That don’t mean nothin’ except that it’s our move.”
“An’ what move did ye have in mind?” asked one of the angry men.
All eyes turned to the Walrus. The younger men at times resented the conservatism of his counsel, but one and all respected the bowlegged old puncher for the strategist that he was. If there was a trick that could win the game, Old Walrus with his mild faded blue eye and his long drooping mustache could be counted on to be forthcoming with that trick.
“Wa’al, boys, speakin’ offhand an’ hastylike, I’ve got an idea this here perfesser is nothin’ but a shorthorn pilgrim that’s wandered in here from the outside to take advantage o’ the winter climate o’ this section in regards to his health. He’s strong enough with his arms, but he’s probably had one o’ these here nervous breakdowns, or got a touch o’ rheumatiz, or somethin’ like that. He ain’t no puncher, even if he is dressed like one an’ is runnin’ around on hossback with them Bar Y boys. There’d oughta be some way o’ keepin’ him from enjoyin’ his stay long enough to teach that bunch o’ hasbeens over there very much about this yere manly art o’ self defense.”
The ring was silent for a moment.
“To thunder with this here highbrow stuff!” came a voice from one of the sunburnt fire eaters. “I’m goin’ over to my war bag an’ strap me on a coupla six-shooters, an’ then they can take all the boxin’ gloves in the world an’ dump ’em on the Bar Y ranch. What’s more, when I get these yere shooters danglin’ on my hip, I’m goin’ to hunt up one rabbit eared boxin’ perfesser!”
A muttered chorus of approval was drowned in the thud of hoofs as a horseman came pounding down the dusty street and reined up before the impromptu council of war. As the men of the Circle C turned they confronted the sheriff of the county sitting easily astride a huge black, his star fastened to the outside of his vest, a sure sign that he was on official business.
“Howdy, boys. I just happened to hear that there was some talk of an uprisin’. Now here’s the dope. I ain’t narrow minded an’ I’m willin’ to overlook a lot, but I ain’t aimin’ to have no feud start in this here county. From now on the first puncher, whether he’s Circle C or Bar Y, that gets to wearin’ guns off the ranch an’ when he’s in town goes into the hoosegow. Yuh can fight fair any way ye want to, but guns is barred.”
The Walrus spat on the dusty sidewalk, and surveyed the sheriff coldly. “How come ye got tipped off to be over here with this here warnin’?”
The sheriff grinned easily. “Now don’t get on no high horse, Walrus. To tell ye the truth I heard that the Circle C boys was goin’ to try an organized campaign o’ pickin’ on the Bar Y outfit, an’ it was a Bar Y man that told me, too. I done said I’d ride over an’ spread a warnin’, but I told them Bar Y boys that I’d seen a lot more o’ life than a lot o’ them, and if they got to crowdin’ on the toes of a bowlegged longhorn known as Old Walrus they’d wish they’d never done it. I’m here to hold down the gunplay, but anything else yuh can think up goes—an’ I don’t aim to restrict yore style none, Walrus!”