|
|
|
|
 |
 |
|
|
Five-ten, maybe, one-eighty-five and bald headed. Been that way since age twenty and didn’t mind being funned about it, but when the big lumberjack walked up behind and kissed his shiny scalp he came undone. The lumberjack, Mort Clegg by name, did it on a dare. Few noticed the bald man when he entered the Crown Saloon in Kalispell. Nattily dressed in a grey broadcloth suit and derby hat he found an empty stool at the crowded bar and ordered a drink. He took off his hat, stuck it on his knee and sat minding his own thoughts. He’d always been of such a mind. Take care of your own affairs best you can and let the other feller handle his. He didn’t hear the laughter at table in the far corner and didn’t hear the grinning Mort Clegg walk heavy across the room. When the kiss came Homer spun from the stool, not thinking, found the grinning face and smashed a fist into it. It caught the big lumberman full on the mouth and he fell back over a table scattering men and bottles across the wooden floor. The legs splintered and gave way, breaking his fall some, but he hit the floor hard and slid on his back through the eight boots at the next table. Men were on their feet pulling furniture back to clear the floor. They’d seen Clegg fight and no one ever stood to him. A big man folks guessed to around six-four and no less than two hundred fifty pounds. He looked some pathetic now trying to get two legs under him. Blood ran down into his scraggly beard as he squinted up at the hairless man. “You pack some kind of wallop,” he panted. “I’ll give you that, but I know a lucky punch when I see one.” He stared at the small man who stood with hands held behind his back. “I’m gonna’ crack me an egg now, mister,” he growled. “Ain’t no humpty-dumpty gonna’ put me down.” “Go get ‘im, Mort,” somebody yelled. “We’ll clean up the mess for you.” “No need to,” Mort chuckled, waiting for his head to clear. “I’ll use him to mop up with.” Everybody laughed knowing that for a fact. Tougher than whang leather, Clegg cut his teeth on an axe and a swede saw. Had it out with half the town and sometimes two at once. They all wished for him to meet his match some day and wanted to be there when it happened but knew of a certain this bald headed feller blame sure wasn’t the man for it. Mort loved a good scrap, reason being he was always the one looking down at the other man when it got over. He knotted his huge fists and walked toward the bald man who still stood the same with hands held behind. Get it done with one punch. That’s the way Clegg liked to do it. Two steps away he swung his right, in time with his feet so as to have the full force of his weight behind it. The punch would have ended it then and there, but the bald head moved to the left and the big fist whistled past. Mort caught himself and whipped around expecting the other man to be on him, but baldy had turned and stood planted, hands still where they were. With the roar of a mad bull Clegg lunged, arms spread out wide. The small man went straight in the air, feet pulled up tight and Clegg hit the floor on his face. He turned over and sat, arms braced to the floor behind. “Guess we’re gonna’ have to go about this some different,” he laughed. “That’s fine with me. I’ve skinned cats mor’n one way.” He got to his feet, stuck his dukes out like a boxer and the man with no hair did the same. The big lumberman had a deep frown on as he circled. He’d been on the floor twice inside a minute and hadn’t so much as touched the other man. Except to kiss him on his bald head and that seemed to have riled him some. “Come and get it, Baldy,” he panted, “There’s more than enough.” Baldy didn’t seem to hear the laughter. His face held a deadpan look as he locked his small blue eyes into Mort’s. The big man shot a left that came up short. He tried another and before he could pull it back a fist snaked in and took him in the eye. Then another one in the same spot and that brought up both hands. The right that buried itself just under his ribs took the air out and when he doubled over the blue eyed man drove in a straight hard left that caught Clegg flush on his whiskered chin. He wasn’t more than a pile for some time after and Baldy went back to his bar stool paying no more attention. “Can I sit?” said a voice at his elbow. He turned to see a tall man of forty or so wearing a grey, handlebar mustache and a brown leather vest with a star pinned to it. The lawman straddled the next stool and stuck out a hand. “Thaddeus Carr, here.” The other man took it and Marshal Carr found the grip hard to meet. “I’m Homer Rainwater, Mister Carr. You takin’ me in for disturbin’ the peace?” “It’d be Clegg I took in if anybody,” Carr laughed, “but I reckon he got his dues. If you got a minute I’d like a word with you.” They walked to the lawman’s table in the corner as the roomful of loggers parted to let them pass. Book Titles Available | | The BANYON NETWORK | Betty Byers | Whitlow Synopsis | INNER-VIEWS WITH CELEBRITIES | ECLECTIC REVIEWS | BOOK REVIEWER'S CORNER | The NEWS | SHORT STORIES CORNER | | Return Home | GREAT LINKS | WHAT'S NEW? | CONTACT US | |
||
 |
 |
