He had been a bully all his life. He belittled anything he was too stupid to comprehend—which was nearly everything.
“That’s Harry Carson, stranger,” the barkeep whispered.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Buck said, not bothering to keep his voice to a whisper.
“And his buddy is Wade Phillips,” the barkeep plunged ahead.
“I wonder if either one of them can spell ‘unimpressed,’” Buck said. He felt the old familiar rage fill him. He had never been able to tolerate bullies; not even as a boy back in Missouri.
The deputy who had been with Marshal Dooley earlier that day leaned against the bar, silently watching the show unfold before him. Carson and Phillips were both loud-mouthed troublemakers. But he felt he had pegged this tall young man right. If he was correct in his assumption, Carson and Phillips would never pick another fight after this night.
The deputy slipped out of the line of possible gunfire and sipped his beer.
“What’d you say, buddy?” Carson stuck his chin out belligerently.
Buck fought back his anger. “Go on, Carson. Back off, drink your drink, and leave me be.”
“You got a smart mouth, buddy.” Phillips stuck his ugly, broad-nosed and boozy face into it.
Upon entering the place, Buck had slipped the hammer thongs off his .44s. He slowly turned to face the twin loudmouths.
“I’m saying now I’m not looking for trouble. But if I’m pushed into it, so be it.”
“Talks fancy, don’t he?” Phillips’s laugh was ugly. But so was he, so it rounded out.
“Yeah,” Carson said. “And got them fancy guns on, too. But I betcha he ain’t got the sand in him to duke it out.”
Buck’s smile was faint. He had pegged the men accurately. Both men probably realized that neither one of them could beat Buck in a gunfight, so they would push him into a fight with fists and boots. And if he didn’t fight them at their own game, he would be branded a coward.
The bully’s way.
Buck took off his gunbelt and laid it on the bar. Spotting the deputy, he slid the hardware down the bar to him. “Look after those, will you, please?”
“Be glad to, West. Watch ’em. They’re both dirty at the game.”
Buck drained his beer mug and said, “Not nearly as dirty as I am.”
Then Buck smashed the mug into Carson’s face. The heavy mug broke the man’s nose on impact. Buck then jabbed the jagged broken edges into the man’s cheek and lips, sending the bully screaming and bleeding to the sawdust-covered floor.
Buck hit Phillips a combination left and right, glazing the man’s eyes with the short, brutal punches. Buck did not like to fight with his bare fists, knowing it was a fool’s game. But sometimes that was the only immediate option. Until other objects could be brought into play.
Phillips jumped to his boots, in a crouch. Buck stepped close and brought one knee up, at the same time bringing both hands down. As his hands grabbed the man’s neck, his knee came in contact with the man’s face. The crunch of breaking bones was loud in the saloon.
The fight was over. Carson lay squalling and bleeding on the floor beside the unconscious Phillips. Buck turned around. Marshal Dooley was standing by his deputy.
“Any law against a fair fight, Marshal?” Buck asked. “It was two against one.”
“And they were outnumbered at those odds,” Dooley said. “No, West, there is no law against it. Yet,” he added. “But someday there will be.”
Buck retrieved his guns and buckled them around his waist. “Not as long as there are people so stupid as to place and praise physical brawn over the capacity of reason.”
Dooley blinked. “Who are you, West? You’re no drifting gunhand. You’ve got intelligence.”
“Anybody who wishes to do so can read, Marshal. And most of us can think and reason. That’s who I am. Good night, Marshal.”
Buck picked up his hat from the bar and walked out into the night.
“More to him than meets the eyes, Marshal,” the deputy observed.
“Yeah,” said the marshal. “But it’s that unknown about him that I’m afraid of.”
Buck spent the next three days loafing and listening around Challis. He read a dozen six-month-old newspapers, bought a well-worn book of verse by Shelley and began reading that. He played a little poker, winning some, losing some, and ending up breaking about even. Twice he saw a couple of the most disreputable-looking men he’d seen in years. He knew they were mountain men, and he knew they were checking on him. The men had to be close to seventy years old, but they still looked like they could wrestle a grizzly bear. And probably win.
Some of the so-called “good people” of the community sniffed disdainfully at the sight of the buckskin-clad old men, snubbing them, having highly uncomplimentary things to say about them. Buck wanted to say, “But these men opened the way west. These men faced the dangers, most of the time alone. And many of their compadres were killed opening the way west. Had it not been for them, you folks would still be waiting to make the trek westward. These men are some of the true heroes of our time; living legends. You should welcome them, praise them, not snub and insult them.”
But Buck kept his mouth shut, knowing he would be wasting his words. He recalled the words of that fellow called Thoreau: If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.
