The leader of the gang was about my size. He had a dirty freckled face and his two front teeth were missing. I suppose he had lost them in a back alley fight. His shock of yellow sunburnt hair bobbed up and down as he skipped and jumped to the rhythm of the 'dog boy' song. He wore a pair of cowboy boots. They were two sizes too big for him, no doubt handed down by an older brother.
He stomped on my right foot. I looked down and saw a drop of blood ooze out from under the broken nail. It hurt like the dickens but I gritted my teeth and walked on.
Freckle-face pulled the ear of my little girl pup. I heard her painful cry. That was too much. I hadn't worked two long hard years for my pups to have some freckle-face punk pull their ears.
Swinging the sack from my shoulder, I walked over and set it down in a doorway. As I turned around to face the rnob, I doubled up my fist, and took a Jack Dempsey stance.
Freckle-face said, 'So you want to fight.' He came in swinging.
I reached way back in Arkansas somewhere. By the time my fist had traveled all the way down to the Cherokee Strip, there was a lot of power behind it.
Smack on the end of Freck's nose it exploded. With a loud grunt he sat down in the dusty street. Grabbing his nose in both hands, he started rocking and moaning. I saw the blood squeeze out between his fingers.
Another one sailed in. He didn't want to fight. He wanted to wrestle. He stuck a finger in my mouth. I ground down. Shaking his hand and yelling like the hoot owls were after him, he ran across the street.
Another one bored in. I aimed for his eye, but my aim was a little low. It caught him in the Adam's apple. A sick look came over his face. Bending over, croaking like a bullfrog that had been caught by a water moccasin, he started going around in a circle.
But there were too many of them. By sheer weight and numbers, they pulled me down. I managed to twist over on my stomach and buried my face in my arms. I could feel them beating and kicking my body.
All at once the beating stopped. I heard loud cries from the gang. Turning over on my back, I was just in time to see the big marshal plant a number-twelve boot in the seat of the last kid. I just knew I was next. I wondered if he'd kick me while I was down.
I lay where I was. He started toward me. I closed my eyes. I felt a hand as big as an anvil clamp on my shoulder. I thought, 'He's going to stand me up, and then knock me down.'
He raised me to a sitting position. His deep friendly voice said, 'Are you all right, son?'
I opened my eyes. There was a smile on his wide rugged face. In a choking voice, I said, 'Yes, sir. I'm all right.'
He helped me to my feet. His big hands started brushing the dust from my clothes.
'Those kids are pretty tough, son,' he said, 'but they're really not bad. They'll grow up some day.'
'Marshal,' I said, 'I wouldn't have fought them, but they pulled my pup's ears.'
He looked over to my sack. One pup had worked its way almost out through the hole. The other one's head and two little paws were sticking out. Both of them were whimpering.
A smile spread all over the big marshal's face. 'So that's what started the fight,' he said.
Walking over, he knelt down and started petting the pups. 'They're fine-looking dogs,' he said. 'Where did you get them?'
I told him I had ordered them from Kentucky.
'What did they cost you?' he asked.
'Forty dollars,' I said.
He asked if my father had bought them for me.
'No,' I said. 'I bought them myself.'
He asked me where I got the money.
'I worked and saved it,' I said.
