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Title: Twisted bars
Author: Erle Stanley Gardner
Release date: August 11, 2026 [eBook #79336]
Language: English
Original publication: New York, NY: Doubleday, Page & Co., 1926
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79336
Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWISTED BARS ***
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!”
The old man beamed at the compliment. “Wa’al, wa’al, an’ did ye tell ’em
that, now! Wa’al under those circumstances, sheriff, we appreciate yore
official position and thankee for yuh sentiments. Boys, I guess we’ll be
ridin’ out to the ranch. There ain’t nothin’ in town for us this
afternoon, anyhow.”
This suggestion was greeted with storm. “What! Let them Bar Y boys bluff
us into backin’ out when we’ve got a legal holiday with nothin’ to do?
Why shucks! What’s come over yuh, Walrus! We ain’t goin’ to let no
boxin’ perfesser bluff us out!”
Big Hat Phil Dunton was particularly emphatic. “I got a date, an’ I
ain’t goin’ no place for nobody.”
The old Walrus sighed. “That’s the way with yuh young fire eaters. I was
just tryin’ to git ye away where we wouldn’t have nothin’ rubbed in. It
looks to me like that Bar Y gang was loaded for trouble. Stay if ye want
to, but the less we give ’em to crow over the less we’ll have to wipe
out. Stay if ye want to, but we’d better be all stickin’ around
together. That bunch ain’t much more than started.”
The old man’s prediction proved to be correct. Before the afternoon had
merged into evening, and before the evening had slipped away to the time
of closing the Palace Theatre, the official closing time of all Coyote
City, four of the Circle C boys were wearing black eyes, eyes that were
puffed and shiny. The Bar Y outfit seemed to have already had
considerable advance instruction, and the punchers had laid aside the
wild haymakers of the cow camp, and instead fought with swift, deadly
short-arm jabs, jabs that came with speed and precision. In short the
Bar Y outfit had become formidable fighters, fighters who had very
apparently been training, eagerly looking forward to this occasion and
wearing chips on their shoulders.
The town of Coyote City was the county seat of Mayama County and lay in
the center of the sun-swept valley known as Mayama Valley. In
prehistoric times there had been a river in the valley. Now there was a
depression in the glaring sand. The only water was that reached from
deep wells. Sun, sand and cacti surrounded the little city which was
supported entirely by the patronage of cowpunchers who came in from the
adjoining ranches to spend their pay checks.
The valley cut through two ranges of mountains. Those to the west gave a
fertile, rolling pasture land where the Bar Y held nearly all of the
grazing privileges. The eastern range was the property of the Circle C
ranch. To the north and south there were smaller ranches, but the two
main ranches of the entire county were the well established rival brands
which held the opposing mountain ridges, controlling untold thousands of
acres in their grazing lands and fostering a deep-seated rivalry.
Because of the formation of the country the Bar Y boys and the Circle C
contingent held infrequent meetings. It was only on legal holidays that
the town of Coyote City held any great numbers of the two factions. On
ordinary nights a few men would ride in to the picture show and on
Saturday nights the stores did a brisk business, but there were
relatively few occasions on which the men turned out in numbers.
Big Hat Phil was “sweet” on the cashier of the moving picture show, a
sweetness which was a matter of weeks and was patent and undisguised.
The recipient of his admiration, however, a black haired, snub-nosed
bundle of feminine foibles, enjoyed the prestige of being virtually the
only unattached girl of any importance in the little city, and was
inclined to take every advantage of her position. Her heart was besieged
by a round score of cowmen, some half dozen of whom were intensely
serious. If she had any preference she carefully disguised it, and her
smiles were just personal enough to be upsetting, yet impersonal enough
to be noncommittal. It was a fair field and no favors.
* * * * *
At the Circle C the men took stock of injuries, compared notes, and
consulted the Walrus. It appeared certain that the cowpunchers, men who
fought as they lived, with that wild direct vigorous mode of attack,
could not stand up against the scientific fighting which the men of the
Bar Y were mastering rapidly.
In the past the Circle C had enjoyed all the advantage. Big Sam Eaton
had been a tower of strength, and there could be no denying that at
times he had used his fistic prowess in other than self defense. In fact
it had always amused the Circle C men to think that the Bar Y punchers
hunted a hole when Big Sam was on the warpath. The shoe was now very
decidedly on the other foot.
The Walrus declined to commit himself. “I gotta go in to Los Angeles an’
meet the big squeeze this week, an’ I gotta hundred an’ one things to
worry me about. I ain’t goin’ to take on no problems in addition until
after I’ve got all this business stuff outa my system, an’ even then I
ain’t makin’ no promises.”
“S’pose yuh pick us up a boxin’ professor of our own an’ bring the bird
out here with yuh?” suggested Sam Eaton, whose black eyes had turned to
a sickly green, and who bitterly resented his downfall from the throne
of fistic supremacy.
Walrus shook his head. “I don’t want to have yuh all gettin’ interested
in somethin’ that’s goin’ to take up all yore time. Yuh are sort of a
no-’count outfit as it is, an’ there’s lots o’ work to be done. Yuh can
earn more money ropin’ steers than yuh can shadow boxin’ out in the
corral, an’ one of them things is bound to interfere with the other.
What’s more it ain’t no use to fight the other fellow with his own
weapons. This is a time when we gotta use strategy; an’ I ain’t goin’ to
think of it until after I’ve done got all this here business stuff off
my chest.”
The edict was final, and those who knew the Walrus best recognized the
firm mouth that was concealed behind the drooping mustache. The Walrus
could be depended on to think up some scheme which would enable the
Circle C to regain its self respect and also its supremacy, but he would
think it up in his own way.
In the meantime some of the others took the situation into their own
hands, trying to find out some method whereby the boxing instructor of
the Bar Y could be persuaded to leave the country. They acquired some
additional information and a little experience, but no direct
results—unless the black eye which was hung on the luckless individual
who approached the professor directly with a bribe to transfer his
instruction to the Circle C could be considered a result.
The boxer was none other than Herbert Malone, a former candidate for
championship honors. A spot on his lung which had developed after he had
retired from the ring had caused him to winter in the south, taking
advantage of a cattle ranch where he could be in the open air. He was
not in a condition to indulge in any great amount of desperate fighting,
but the few blows which were necessary when he was confronted by one of
the unskilled punchers of the Circle C were hardly enough to make him
draw a long breath, and he was making rapid strides in teaching the men
of the Bar Y just how to handle their fists.
Those who knew and would talk stated that the bunkhouse of the Bar Y
resembled a huge gymnasium. Bags of sand hung from the rafters and the
men, under the personal supervision of Herbert Malone, practised hitting
those short-arm jabs which are so deadly in the ring, but which the
average untrained individual knows nothing of.
If the Walrus could be said to be the slave of any particular form of
dissipation, it was an overpowering desire to watch motion pictures in
the making. Inasmuch as Fielding Spencer, director of the Sun Maid
Comedies, was a close friend of the old man’s and one who made a hunting
trip every year to the Circle C ranch, old Walrus had no difficulty in
indulging himself in his pet hobby whenever he was in the city of the
Angels.
About the studios of the Sun Maid Comedies hung all sorts of types,
beautiful girls and near beautiful girls, fond mothers with infants,
also fond mothers who left their infants at home and posed as flappers.
In short, there was always a crowd of extras numbering all sorts and
conditions, all types and styles, all ages and sexes, assembled about
the doors of the studio.
It was while Fielding Spencer was discoursing on his latest stunt in
artistic lighting, leading the old cowpuncher around the lot, that he
felt a tug at his sleeve. Turning and ceasing his discourse on lights
and back lights, floods, broads, banks and spots, he beheld the old man
staring into the crowd of extras who thronged the gateway in the high
board fence.
“Who is he?” asked the Walrus, his mustache almost seeming to bristle as
his eyes kindled with interest.
The director followed his gaze, then laughed. “That’s ‘Pug’ Parry, the
toughest looking bird in seventeen states, bar none. He always takes the
part of the heavyweight pug in the fight scenes, and does the strong man
stunts. He’s strong as an ox and can bend iron bars over his arm like
you’d bend curtain rods.”
The Walrus nodded. “That’s my man. Send him over. I got a job for him on
the ranch.”
The director looked at his friend with widened eyes. “Walrus, a fellow
never knows just what’s going on in that mind of yours, nor what’s in
the wind. I don’t know whether you want this fellow or not. He’s strong
as an ox, but——”
Walrus interrupted. “I don’t want the ‘but’ part of it. I gotta hunch,
an’ when I gets a hunch I plays it. There’s always these buts that take
the joy outa life an’ sap your confidence in what yuh want to do. I tell
yuh this bird is made for the part an’ I want to talk with him, an’ if
he’s got any weak points I don’t want to know ’em. Call him over.”
Pug Parry proved to be a man of striking appearance. His face bore the
marks of a considerable amount of external violence. His nose had been
broken at least once, and apparently no one had taken the trouble to
reset it. His jaw stuck forward like the prow of a battleship tearing
into a head sea. His ears resembled two cauliflowers which had gone well
to seed. His eyes were two small, beady glitters of light beneath heavy
eyebrows, well covered by a projecting porch of skull. Here and there a
missing tooth punctuated the smile which the giant gave as he lumbered
over and extended a hamlike hand.
The Walrus, small, bowlegged, gazed over the six-feet-and-a-half of
battered hulk with an appreciative blue eye. “Are yuh strong as yuh
look?” he asked as soon as the introductions had been performed.
Pug Parry did not answer the question directly. Instead he turned and
looked around the cluttered lot. Finally finding what he sought, he
lumbered away and soon came back with a heavy iron bar.
Opening his great jaw, he clamped the middle of the bar in his teeth,
took a grip on either end, gave a heave, and pulled the ends down,
making a perfect arch of the heavy iron! Next he rolled up his sleeves,
took the bent iron, swung it in one hand down upon the other arm, and as
the bar struck those corded muscles, it whipped around until the ends
nearly closed, making it appear to be a heavy iron hoop!
“An’ that ain’t all,” boasted the giant. “I’ll get a bunch o’ nails an’
I’ll show yuh——”
Walrus shook his head, his long pendant mustaches swinging and swaying
with the emphasis of his gesture. “No yuh don’t. Yuh are just exactly
what I’m lookin’ for, an’ I don’t want yuh to go no further. I’m
convinced. How’d yuh like a job for the next thirty days at steady pay
an’ expenses, all transportation to an’ from, furnished?”
Pug Parry’s face beamed. Jobs at steady pay were none too frequent in
the movie game at the time. “The full thirty days, regardless o’ how she
turns out?”
Walrus nodded.
“Here, wait a minute,” came the desperate voice of Fielding Spencer.
“It’s only right you should know, Walrus, that this here hombre——”
Walrus interrupted. “Don’t want to know. Pug you’re hired. The full
thirty days goes. There’s a maverick I want yuh to chase off the range.”
The director sighed, the sigh of one who had attempted to do his duty
and who was blameless as far as results are concerned.
* * * * *
When Walrus and his strange guest arrived at the Circle C ranch a
council of war was in progress. The men were desperate, and the most
desperate of all was Big Hat Phil. Dotty Manners, the cashier at the
Coyote City Palace Theatre, had recently made it plain both by actions
and words that she liked manly men, men who could be counted on for
protection in time of need. The boxing instructor, Herbert Malone,
appealed to her, and she was showing a decided preference for the Bar Y
men as a whole.
Big Hat, with his diminutive stature, his small hands and tiny wrists,
was distinctly at a disadvantage when it came to a comparison of
physical prowess. While he was quick, with that catlike quickness of the
small, well knit man, he had not the weight or the brawn to enable him
to hold his own in physical combat with the more burly men of the rival
ranch, and he lacked the science to make proper use of his speed. The
world had been unkind to him of late, and his morose ways and clouded
eyes bore evidence that Dotty Manners was more than merely a passing
fancy with him.
The men gave one startled glance at the flat-footed, barrel-chested
giant who carried his distorted features slightly behind old Walrus as
the latter came chugging into camp in the flivver, and then they crowded
around the car, forgetting their conference, eager to see what Walrus
had in mind.
One glance at Pug Parry was enough.
“Boys,” said the mild mannered old fox, “shake hands with Pug Parry, the
strongest man in Arizony!”
Hand after hand was crushed in the viselike grip of the professional
strong man. The cowpunchers of the Circle C began to smile, those broad,
expansive smiles which bespeak triumph.
Parry turned to Walrus. “Yuh said yuh wouldn’t tell me what yuh wanted
me to do until we got to the ranch, but that yuh’d tell me then. What’s
my line?”
Walrus smiled. “You will come into the big an’ thrivin’ county seat o’
Mayama County with me tonight, an’ when I give yuh the word you’ll start
wrappin’ iron bars around yore hands an’ twistin’ nails with yore teeth
an’ all of that. Then I’ll hand yuh a message to a party an’ yuh go an’
deliver it. That’s all.”
Parry looked suspicious. “But the job runs on the full thirty days?”
Walrus nodded. “Sure. I want yuh to register as a permanent fixture o’
the Circle C. Thirty days’ll do it, but I wouldn’t trust it to work in
any less time than that.”
Amidst jubilant whoops of delight the Circle C punchers made haste to
break into war bags and to don bright colored shirts and long haired
chaps. It gave every evidence of being a big night. A Saturday, it was
almost certain that a goodly contingent of the Bar Y punchers would be
at the Palace Theatre.
So elaborate were the preparations of the Circle C men that the picture
had started at the Palace Theatre before the cowpunchers had dined,
adorned themselves in their glad rags, saddled and ridden into the city.
Whatever Bar Y men may have been in town were in the theatre and there
was nothing to do but go on in and watch the show, trusting to luck for
a conflict afterward. The Circle C men were anxious to see their protégé
in action, and hoped to waylay some of the punchers of the rival ranch.
Hardly had the delegation from the Circle C ranch reached the ticket
window than it became apparent that Pug Parry was gripped by some form
of violent emotion. He looked long and intently at Miss Dotty Manners,
who presided over the destinies of the cash, and sighed. Pug’s sigh was
like all the rest of him, very easy to perceive. Also, there was
something flattering about that tremulous sigh. It was the gasp of a man
whose heart simply has got up and walked off, completely lost.
Dotty Manners patted her black hair and endeavored to look indifferent,
but her startled eyes could not keep from returning to the face which
towered above the heads of the cowpunchers, the face which was battered
and banged until it led one to believe its possessor must have been used
at some time as a human battering ram. Still it was not a hard face,
there was something sensitive about the eyes——.
Nor was all of this lost upon Big Hat Phil. He was first warned by that
sigh of admiration which sounded like steam escaping from a defective
boiler. By standing on his toes he was able to see the self-conscious
face of his queen as she patted her black hair in that manner she
assumed when she felt herself basking in the light of masculine
admiration.
Big Hat sighed, himself. It would seem that his troubles were on the
increase instead of otherwise. It had been only two days ago that Dotty
Manners had remarked that she simply adored manly men. Big Hat had stood
to his full height, swelled his narrow chest and elevated the lofty
crown of his flapping hat to its highest point, while he had turned to
receive her smile of admiration. To his surprise she was not looking at
him at all but at some distant point, and there was a meditative
something about her tone that made him feel very much a part of the
background.
Eventually the punchers filed noisily into the show and shuffled down
the board aisle to a place where several vacant seats showed in a row.
Hardly were they seated than Pug Parry’s voice came booming over the
theatre. “This here’s one o’ my pictures. You’ll see me in this. I took
the part o’ Knockout Smith, the champion. Wait’ll yuh see me work!”
Heads turned in surprise, heads of both Circle C and Bar Y men. Across
the theatre one Herbert Malone nearly snapped his neck looking across at
the Circle C visitors, and thereafter he squirmed uneasily in his seat.
Nor was Pug’s prediction unfounded. The picture had progressed only to
the second reel when the hero and heroine were disclosed as spectators
at a series of prize fights. The main event was pictured as being
between Knockout Smith and Cyclone Kelley. The features of Knockout
Smith showed clearly upon the screen, typical features such as were the
delight of screen directors, in short, the features of Pug Parry
himself.
The cowpunchers of the Circle C looked on their visitor with renewed
respect, a respect that was akin to awe, for Knockout Smith of the
screen moved with such catlike quickness and packed such a terrific
wallop that Cyclone Kelley seemed to have no other use for the back of
his head than to make dents in the floor of the ring. To men who knew
nothing of variable speed photography, or the numerous devices employed
by wily directors, the feats performed by Knockout Smith seemed
marvelous.
When the screen battle had been concluded, and Cyclone Kelley had hit
the floor for the final time, when the camera had registered a closeup
of the battered, battle-scarred features of Knockout Smith, the
champion, there came a flash while the scene shifted back to the hero
and heroine.
At that instant, from the back of the theatre, there sounded the patter
of feminine applause, the dainty clapping of enthusiastic palms. Pug
Parry leaned back in his seat and smiled. “Pretty nifty, eh?”
Big Hat slumped in his chair. No need to ask who had applauded. He did
not turn his head. The clapping could have come only from the cashier’s
window.
Big Sam Eaton, deposed pugilistic champion of the Mayama Valley did not
gloat over the possibilities of the situation now that Pug Parry had
joined the Circle C group. His pessimistic mind worked, as ever, upon
gloomy channels. He leaned across two intervening punchers in order to
whisper to Walrus. “If Parry kills that bird won’t we be liable as
accomplices or some such things? Me, I don’t want to get hung.”
The whisper carried across the theatre, and Herbert Malone mopped a
perspiring forehead with a red bandanna handkerchief.
Walrus shook his head, while he stroked his long mustaches, “He won’t
kill him, jest only maim him for life.”
Malone coughed, a dry, nervous cough.
When the picture show had drawn to a close and the hero and heroine had
embraced for the exact footage allowed by various unemotional censors,
the audience shuffled along the board aisles, out into the open, and
over to the Barrel Soft Drink Parlor.
In times past the Barrel Soft Drink Parlor had been called the Barrel
Saloon. The word Saloon had been removed by the simple process of adding
another coat of paint, but the word defiantly showed through the paint
which had been added, indicative of the difficulties of enforcement of
prohibitive legislation. Within the cool interior there were soda
fountains, bar and rail. To the initiated was known the secret signal by
which a white liquid could be transferred from beneath the bar to a
small glass, and served with the whispered admonition to drink it quick.
It was here that the various cowpunchers held informal club.
When Pug Parry entered the place there was an expectant hush. All eyes
were turned upon him. As though by accident an iron bar reposed on the
counter. Near it were some heavy spikes. Pug Parry seemed fascinated by
the iron bar. Picking it up he put it in his massive jaw and clamped his
teeth. His hands sought either end of the bar, there was a heave. Parry
took the bent bar and rolled up his sleeve, bending it into a hoop over
the muscle of his arm. He picked up one of the big spikes and twisted it
between his fingers.
One by one, silently, furtively, men of the Bar Y outfit left the place,
slinking out of the door and into the night. The muffled thud of hoofs
sounded from the street and the Circle C boys were left in sole
possession. Herbert Malone had not been in the room. Apparently he had
faded immediately after the picture show.
The Circle C men became hilarious. The Walrus received many enthusiastic
thumps upon his back. Much white mule was slipped over the counter.
Big Hat, however, did not share in the general jubilation. He worked
around to the Walrus and, when he had a fitting opportunity, suggested
that the time had probably come when Pug Parry could be returned. He had
performed his duties, made the world safe for Coltocracy.
The Walrus looked his surprise. “Shucks, we just got ’em started. We
gotta run that maverick of a boxin’ perfesser plumb outa the country. I
opine he’s now headed for parts unknown, leavin’ a shaken bunch o’
pupils behind him, but we gotta keep Pug here long enough to make sure.
I got him tied up for thirty days, and here he stays.”
Disconsolate, Big Hat wandered out into the night.
* * * * *
Subsequent events proved that Pug Parry had done all that could be
expected of him, and more. All, in that he had put the enemy to rout.
More, in that he had elected himself king of the Circle C. At first the
cowpunchers had paid willing homage, given him the best cuts of meat,
the choice desserts, listened to his booming voice as the final decision
upon all disputes; but, finally, Parry seemed too much. He grew arrogant
and domineering.
Tactfully Walrus approached the subject. “Wa’al, Pug, I guess there
ain’t no need o’ ye stickin’ around no longer. This here boxin’
perfesser has beat it, an’ the rest o’ the Bar Y boys seemed to have
tamed down quite considerable. I guess yuh can hit the grit back to the
movies if yore heart is pinin’ that way.”
Pug shook his battered head. “I ain’t goin’ until the month is up. She
was a month’s job, an’ I’m stickin’ by my end o’ the contract, an’ you
can stick by yours.”
Casually, Pug picked up a large spike which was lying on the bunkhouse
table and twisted it between his fingers, much as a nervous person would
play with a piece of thin wire.
Walrus nodded. “O’ course, o’ course. She was a month’s job, an’ I
wasn’t figurin’ on short changin’ yuh any. I’ll jest pay yuh off on a
month’s time an’ yuh can have the advantage o’ not havin’ to work.”
“That’s all right, too,” rejoined Pug, his narrow eyes squinting with
malice, “but I like it here. The contract was for a month right here on
this ranch an’ here I stay, and if anything should happen to make it
unpleasant for me——” He did not finish the sentence, but contented
himself with twisting the spike.
Walrus tried diplomacy. “Fielding Spencer is due here tonight for his
month’s vacation. Yuh’ll be glad to see yore old boss, huh?”
The question had an entirely different effect on Pug Parry from what
might have been supposed. He dropped the spike and twisted his brow in
thought. “Comin’ tonight, is he? Shucks!”
Over at the other end of the bunkhouse Big Hat was making the final
adjustments of tie and hat which marked the beginning of an eventful
night. Rumor freely predicted that Big Hat was going to pop the question
that night.
Dotty Manners had been blowing first hot then cold, but for all that it
was easy to see that the big form of Pug Parry held for her a certain
attraction, a fascination that seemed irresistible.
Old Walrus had summed the situation up nicely when he had remarked
earlier that afternoon, “Dotty’s really in love with Big Hat if she’d
listen to her heart, but when this here big Pug’s around her heart don’t
get a chance. She’s got the idea she likes a manly man, a go gettum, two
fisted heavyweight. Shucks!”
Big Hat, heedless of the conversation between Walrus and Pug, clanked to
the door and swung into the saddle of his waiting horse.
Pug’s eyes suddenly lit up with a cunning light. “Comin’ tonight is he?
An’ she likes a go gettum, does she? Walrus, get me a hoss!”
Walrus sighed and gave an order to the wrangler. Fifteen minutes later
Pug Parry was galloping toward Coyote City.
“Boys,” piped Walrus, as soon as the sound of beating hoofs had gone
well down the trail, “I’ve got me a hunch old Pug Parry is aimin’ to go
chase Big Hat off the reservation tonight. Mebbe some o’ yuh better
mosey on into town an’ give things a once over to make sure they’re all
fair an’ regular. Me, I gotta go on in an’ meet this here Fielding
Spencer when the eight o’clock bus gets in, an’ some of yuh might just’s
well come along.”
For a moment there was silence while the men looked at one another. Big
Hat was one of the most popular men at the ranch, and Pug Parry’s stock
had rapidly dropped until it was greatly below par. Feet hit the floor,
voices arose in excited comment while men trooped out to the dark
corrals.
* * * * *
At the cashier’s window of the Palace Theatre Big Hat was getting his.
“Takin’ it standin’ up,” as Walrus would have put it. In spite of the
fact that his world was toppling about his ears he was standing with a
frozen smile on his lips.
“No, Phil,” Dotty Manners was saying, albeit with a sigh on her lips. “I
may as well be frank. While there is much about you I admire, and while
I care for you very much; still, I’m not in love with you. My prince
charming must be a big man, one of the kind who will sweep me off my
feet, a regular go-getter. Oh I can’t tell you very well just what I
mean, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I want a man who
doesn’t know what it is to be afraid, a big giant of a go-getter. Oh,
Phil, I feel so funny. I just don’t know how I do feel. I’ll be a sister
to you—Oh, how do you do, Mr. Parry! This is a lovely evening isn’t it?”
Pug Parry growled at Phil, and smiled at the girl. Standing beside her
with only the wicket of the cashier’s window between them he appeared a
veritable giant, nor did Big Hat Phil Dunton dispel the impression.
“Say,” boomed Pug, “I got somethin’ to say to yuh. It’s somethin’ I
wouldn’t care to have everyone in the whole state hear, an’ maybe yuh
could close up that window or perhaps get somebody else to take your
place.”
Her eyes lowered until the long lashes rested against her cheeks, while
the warm color flooded her skin.
“Why—er—maybe—well, perhaps Mr. Dunton will excuse himself a while, and
you can say anything you’ve got to say here, or maybe after the show——”
Pug turned to Big Hat, giving him a shove. “Beat it, kid!”
The shove knocked Phil’s hat off where it fell with a plump on the floor
of the theatre lobby. Appearing more diminutive than ever Phil stood
white faced, looking up at the distorted features of the giant.
At that instant there came the honking of the horn of the eight o’clock
bus as it pulled in from Yuma, but neither of the men heard it.
Something there was in Phil Dunton’s eyes that caused the girl to gasp,
something that caused big Pug Parry to reach in his pocket.
When Pug’s hand came out he brought with it a piece of twisted spike.
His great fingers began to twist and untwist the metal. When he had tied
it into a veritable snarl of bends and twists, he again reached into his
pocket.
“Look at this,” he announced. He had withdrawn a silver dollar. He took
it in his fingers, gave a quick twist and bent it double.
“Look at this,” he announced. He was standing on his tiptoes and
smashing his open palm against Pug’s cheek, “and then take this!” The
slap was followed with a wild swing.
Pug Parry stood there. The blow fell upon his shoulder, hardly jarring
his huge bulk. He looked down upon his diminutive antagonist with an
expression of surprised incredulity, as though his eyes had not seen
correctly.
Then, suddenly, there came over his face an expression of fear and he
made for the door. Behind him, a wildly flying tornado of feet and fists
came Big Hat Phil, urged on by that wild fury which is only known in men
of small stature and big spirit.
Pug’s retreat became a rout and he dashed madly down the street, Phil
tearing along behind, swinging now and then to the back of the giant’s
head, administering a kick every few feet, begging the huge hulk to turn
around and fight like a man.
Walrus stood at the edge of the dusty street, the suitcase of Fielding
Spencer in his hand, the director standing at his side. With wide open
eyes he watched the strange sight as Pug Parry, begging for mercy,
dashed down the street, Big Hat Phil bringing up the rear.
“Fer—the—love—o’—Mike!” he gasped.
The director laughed. “I see your men have taken Pug Parry’s measure,”
he said.
Walrus turned to him. “Meanin’ what?”
“Why, that man’s a physical coward. I tried to tell you when you wanted
him for the job. He’s champion strong man but he’s deathly afraid of
fist fights. He got his face all mashed up in an automobile accident so
that he’s fearfully sensitive about it, but that, coupled with his great
strength, makes him a valuable man to use as an extra in fight scenes;
though even then we have to fake a lot of the stuff so that there’s not
the slightest chance of his getting hurt. As long as he can bluff a
fellow by his stunts of twisting iron bars and all that he’s a regular
bully, but a two-year-old baby could run him off the ranch. I thought
you’d found it out. I kept trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.
You fell for his face and his strong man stunts.”
The Walrus looked meditatively down the street, then back to the
cashier’s office of the picture show. “Say Spencer, do me a favor, will
yuh?”
The director did not hesitate. “Uh huh.”
“Wa’al, just don’t say a word of that to any of the boys. Keep it under
yore hat.”
The visitor looked his surprise. “Why so, and for how long?”
Walrus cast his faded blue optic upon the form of Big Hat Phil who was
marching back down the street, his chest thrown out, arms swinging,
walking straight toward the Palace Theatre.
“Oh not very long,” replied Walrus, “just until after the weddin’ of
this go-getter over there!”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in West Magazine,
January 20, 1926. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
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