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!”