Dog Fight

"Mighty big one, ain't it," came a comment from behind little Russell. The boy spun on his heels in surprise. He was new in town and had not yet been accepted by the other boys. Already he had been a couple scrapes with a few of the more aggressive boys.

A sigh of relief escaped from Russell’s chest. It was only a grown-up. Seated on a great gray stallion, a man dressed in blue-black smiled down on the boy.

"Never seen a tree growed up like that in the middle of a town before. Must be a special one," continued the man. He wasn't a big man; in fact he was on the small side. His face was pleasant. His smile was warm through several layers of trail dust. Red eyebrows crinkled over youthful blue eyes.

"Ah reckon it is, mistuh. Most folks set store by it in these parts," replied the boy, brushing back his orange red hair. The stranger laughed and waved off his white hat. He ran his fingers through his blood red hair and grinned at the boy.

"Must be an important day when two redheads chance to meet," he said.

"Must be," reflected the boy. His eyes drifted over the stranger and came to rest on the two guns at his hips. Not many men carried two guns. One was usually enough.

The stranger noted the boy's observation. "Self protection, boy. Its a wild and woolly world out there.

"What's yur name, son?"

Russell squinted at the stranger, who couldn't be much more than a youth himself. "Russell, suh."

"Well, Russell, can yuh direct me to a place where Ah can get some home cooking. Its been a while since Ah tasted something besides bacon and beans."

The boy thought about it for a while, then pointed down the street. "Ah reckon Miss Emily's could serve yuh up some fine fixins."

The stranger nodded and straightened up in the saddle. He thanked the boy and turned his stallion in the direction of Russell's finger. He had not gone far when he heard a slapping sound. Turning, the stranger saw a pack of big boys surrounding Russell. He backed his horse slowly toward the commotion.

One of the large boys held Russell by his shirt collar and slapped him again. The smaller boy failed to break away from a kid over a head taller.

"Just to let yuh know who's boss in this here town, boy. Ah'm Farly Runge. Ah'm the best boy in town. What Ah say goes," the big boy said. To emphasis his point, Farly slapped Russell again. The smaller boy swung at Farly. The big boy blocked the punch and smashed his own fist in Russell's face.

"That's enough," said the stranger. He swung his right leg over the saddle horn and slipped to the ground. He ambled over to the boys and eyed the leader of the gang. Farly Runge stepped up to the stranger. The boy smiled when he realized that this man was so short he was only a half foot taller than he was.

"Who says so? Why yuh ain't much more than a kid yuhself," said Farly. "My pa would make two of yuh. Maybe three."

"Size ain't everything. And it don't excuse manners," replied the stranger.

"Muh pa says that if yuh can whup someone yuh ain't got to have manners. Whuppin' puts those uppity folk in their place," laughed Farly Runge.

"Your pa sounds like a real educated man, boy," said the stranger, "or a man in need of educating."

"Muh pa is Bobcat Runge, the meanest, fightinest man in these parts. He don't need no educating," boasted the boy proudly.

The stranger frowned and shook his head. A tired look washed over his youthful features. Then he pointed to Little Russell.

"That boy needs to show me the way to Miss Emily's. Hope yuh boys don't have a problem with that," he said.

Farly glanced at the stranger's guns and decided that, though he was a short man, he was too dangerous for a 14 year old boy to challenge.

"No, we don't, but Ah'm gonna tell my pa about yuh, mistuh," warned Farly.

The stranger smiled. "It will be a displeasure to meet him. Come along, Russell."

Farly was left with a puzzled look on his face as Russell walked away with the stranger. It took the boy a minute to figure out what the stranger had meant by 'displeasure', but when he did he scowled and ran home to tell his pa.

Russell led the stranger over to Miss Emily's. He kept his head lowered as he walked. He was ashamed to look up at the stranger.

"It ain't easy to stand up to someone who's a lot bigger than yuh, Russell. But if yuh don't, yuh'll never get what's yours," said the stranger as he tied his stallion to the hitching post.

"Yes, suh," mumbled Russell. The stranger smiled and ruffled the boy's red hair.

As the boy ran away, the stranger let himself into Miss Emily's, but not before he brushed off some of the trail dust and ran his fingers through his unruly red hair. Miss Emily turned out to be a woman of late middle age, with a long face and longer nose. She instructed him to sit down with the sternness of a school marm, and the stranger wondered if she had been a teacher in the past. There was no menu. She told him what she was serving, and he gratefully accepted it. After he ate it he was glad he had.

When he was finished, he paid her and stepped out into the street.

"Yeah, what can I do for you?" the barkeeper asked.

"Looking for a man named Pete Shury. Has he been in lately?" asked the stranger.

"Old Pete? Nah, haven't seen him an quite a passel of time. What will you have, mister?"

"Soda pop if you have it."

The barkeeper stared at the young stranger in disbelief. He started to laugh, but when he looked around the saloon for company, he saw several men shake their heads in warning. Wisely, the barkeeper decided to give the stranger his soda pop.

The stranger took the bottle and walked over to a table by a wall. He sat down and took a swig from the bottle. If he heard the whispers circulating around the room, he continued to ignore them.

The room settle down. Men continued to play cards, and the rest of them nursed on their beers. It was midday so the saloon wasn't as filled as it would be toward evening. The afternoon sun cast a lazy heat through the dirty window. The stranger leaned back in his seat and grew a little drowsy.

The afternoon's indolence was shattered by the saloon's swinging doors banging wildly against the wall. Three men entered. One was huge, towering well above six feet and weighing in at over 250 lb.. The other two were normal sized. Behind these men came Farly Runge. The boy pointed over at the stranger and spoke curtly to the big man.

The huge man stomped his way over to the stranger's table. Several of the other men in the saloon tried to speak with the big man, but he brushed them aside. He went over and slapped his hand down on the stranger's table.

"Muh boy says yuh roughed him up, stranger. We don't take kindly to men beating on boys around here," bellowed the giant. Behind him, Farly stood with a smug look on his face.

"Your boy is mistaken, mistuh. All Ah did was break up a fight between a big boy and a smaller boy," replied the stranger.

"Are yuh calling muh boy a liar?" growled the big man.

The stranger remained calm. The big man had a grip on the table. It looked miniature in his huge hands. The stranger rose to his feet and stepped away from the table.

"Ah'm telling you what happened, mistuh." The stranger looked past the big man and saw a familiar face at the window. Little Russell Kramer had come to see the show.

"Mistuh, muh name is Calhoun Runge. Ah come here to teach yuh a lesson. We don't cotton to men beating on boys around here," growled Runge as he stepped toward the stranger.

"Whoa, there Cal, that stranger's the Rawhide Kid," yelled one of the more knowledgeable barflies.

"Well, that don't mean nothing. Ah ain't carrying a gun. Ah'm gonna tan yur hide, Kid," proclaimed Runge as he hurled a malletlike fist at the Kid.

The Rawhide Kid could have drawn and shot the giant before that fist reached his face. Had he done so he would have been hunted down by every man the town could muster. Instead, he kept his guns in his holster and ducked. The fist whistled over his head, and so great was the giant’s swing, that he lost his footing and stumbled toward the Kid. Rawhide turned away from Runge and brought the heel of his boot down on Runge's foot with enough force to break several toes. Then he stepped behind the bellowing giant, ignoring Runge's flailing arms, and pulled the giant’s legs out from under him. Runge hit the floor with his face, bounced up a foot, and turned over to sit upright facing the Kid.

Rawhide hit him from way back. Runge hit the floor again. Confused, the giant grabbed a nearby chair and hurled it at the Kid. It didn't hit Rawhide, but it sent him back pedaling away. The giant used this time to get back on his feet. He was a little marked up, but still ready to fight.

"Yuh scrawny runt! Ah'm gonna pull yur arms off," roared Runge as he charged the Kid. For a big man Runge was fast, but he found it next to impossible to hit the Rawhide Kid. The Kid's marvelous reflexes, a gift of nature that made him one of the fastest guns in the West, kept him away from those sledgehammer fists. Realizing that he wasn't going to hit the Kid, Runge lunged for him in an attempt to grapple. Rawhide dropped flat on his back, hooked his feet on the inside of Runge's boots, and spread his legs wide. Runge lost his balance and fell back on his ass. Up on his feet quickly, Rawhide smashed a boot in Runge's face. Then he was on the big man, raining a hurricane of blows on his face and throat. In desperation Runge reached out to stop the punishment, and by sheer luck alone managed to grab Rawhide's right arm. With all his strength the giant wrenched on the Kid's arm. Rawhide grunted in pain as it was almost torn from his shoulder. Tables and chairs splintered and sprawled about as Runge hurled the Kid, one handed, across the room.

Runge rose from the floor, still fighting mad. His eyes were puffed up and blood covered his face like a red mask. An insane instinctual urge to break off a table leg and brain his enemy swarmed over Runge's pain fogged mind. To his credit he pushed it aside. He wanted to smash his enemy with his bare hands. All he needed to do was seize the smaller man.

Rawhide leaned against the bar, clutching his right shoulder as he wondered if he should just shoot this enormous man. That would be the simple solution. And the wrong one for the Rawhide Kid. He'd lick this big fellow fairly.

Runge charged the Kid. This time Rawhide didn't try to dodge. He met the giant head on, depending on his superior speed and agility to score the first, decisive blow. A streak of blue-black raced under Runge's arms and a white gloved fist exploded on his jaw. Runge's eyes crossed, then faded as he slumped to the beer covered floor.

Panic slapped fear into the Kid at the pain in his left hand. He flexed his fingers gingerly and was relieved that they were just bruised, not broken.

Suddenly the saloon was quiet. Rawhide went over and picked up his hat. Then he leveled his gaze at the other two men who had come in with Runge.

"Yuh boys have something to say?" he asked them.

Both men backed up and put up their hands. Tackling the Rawhide Kid was too tough a bronco for them to ride.

Rawhide left the saloon, pausing on the wooden sidewalk to talk to Russell.

"Sometimes it is the size of the fight in the dog rather than the dog in the fight that wins. Be quick, be strong, and most important of all pick yur fights," advised the Kid as he walked out into the street.

The sun was hot and bright. Rawhide decided that he wouldn't stay and wait for his old friend, Pete Shury. With his shoulder wrenched and his left hand bruised it was better that he hole up somewhere until he was in fighting shape again. He started to untie Nightwind's reins from the hitching post when a challenge rang out.

"Hey, Kid. Think you're going somewhere?"

Rawhide turned to face this new menace. Under the shade of the brim of his hat, the Kid saw a tall thin man stalking toward him. Rattlesnake Jim! A killer who was reputed to be fast with a gun.

"Ah'm gonna ride out of town for some peace and quiet," replied the Kid. The ache in his shoulder was growing greater. He wiggled the fingers of his left hand to keep them loose.

"I don't think so. I think you'll get your peace and quiet in the grave," laughed Rattlesnake.

"Ah'm not wanted in this part of the country," said Rawhide.

"I know. This isn't about any bounty. Its about reputation. If I kill the Rawhide Kid in a fair fight everyone will know the name of Rattlesnake Jim."

"Yuh can't take me, Jim. Yuh never could," warned Rawhide.

"I think I can.....now."

Rawhide grimaced and let his hands drop to his side. Rattlesnake was a wolf crazed by the bloodscent. There was no backing away.

"Slap leather, then," growled the Kid. Rattlesnake went for his iron. He was fast, certainly faster than the Kid with a bum arm. But the Kid's right arm never moved. Instead his left hand drew his gun and put a bullet in the center of Rattlesnake's chest, while at the same time Rattlesnake's bullet brazed his right arm. Rattlesnake was kicked back and lay twitching in the dust.

Rawhide walked slowly over to his fallen foe. By the time he got there Rattlesnake was dead. Hurt the way he was, the Kid had to shoot to kill. If he had not, then his enemy might have killed him. Still, Rawhide didn't like to kill people. And he didn't want to be known as a killer. Even in a 'fair' fight.

Behind him he heard one man tell another, "Guess old Rattlesnake furgot why Rawhide wears two guns."

Rawhide holstered his gun and mounted his horse. Without a word he rode out of town.

The End

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