No Man to Trifle With



  No Man to Trifle With

  by K.G. McAbee

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © K.G. McAbee 2015

  Cover art: Old Western Town. Public domain.

  No Man to Trifle With

  K.G. McAbee

  Offered with the deepest admiration for Robert E. Howard and his Breckinridge Elkins stories

  Bein' the runt of the litter, and havin' a passel of brothers and sisters what towered over me, me bein' only a mite over six and a half feet at my full growth, it ain't no wonder that my mamma took special care of me.

  In Grizzly Branch, just where the Pecos runs into the Rio Grande, we Wellkins has lived for a considerable amount of time. My mamma met my pa there, when they was both no more'n younguns theyselves, and when they was old enough to get hitched, they proceeded to produce one a the healthiest, if contrariest, bunch a offspring that's ever been heard of west of the Mississippi. My brother Breck was the biggest, but brother Rutledge was near as large, and our sisters Sarah and Charity didn't lag behind much themselves; Sar and Char was both able to whup most a the neighbor boys by the time they was six or seven, and if they hadn't both also been as purty as a pair of speckled pups, they might not'a been able to catch no beaux. A course, catchin' 'em warn't never no problem, since both them girls could run like mustangs, but a hold'n 'em coulda been problems if, as I done stated, they wasn't might near the purtiest thangs in five days' ride. Besides, weren't no men stupid enough to turn Sar and Char down when they decided it was time to wed, and both of 'em set into having babies as comfortable as my mamma had.

  But anyhow, I was a'speakin' of my own insignificant height, amongst a family of sech astoundin' proportions. Me—Archibald Wellkins, that is—was jest a little ole thang, runt of the litter as I done said, no bigger'n one a them brown bears what lives in the eastern mountains they calls the Smokies.

  "Archie," my mamma would say as she dished out the supper and we all fell to, "you just eat up your vittles like a good boy. Mind you, I don't want to see nuthin' but bones left of them two chickens on yore plate, you hear me, boy?"

  So naturally, bein' a lovin' son and wishing to ketch up with my larger siblings, I did my best, gobbling down chickens like they was biscuits, and the odd cow leg or whole hog, whenever mamma slapped 'em in front of me. But try as I did, and even though my mamma set the finest table in Grizzly Branch, I never did attain the growth of my brothers or sisters.

  But this story ain't about that, but about the proven fact that even a small man like yours truly got a heart as big as any man's, and it hurts like pizen to get it broke.

  So, when I got to be about eighteen, more or less—ain't none of us Wellkins real good at arithmetic, so I'm just guessin'—I decided that I couldn't stay in Grizzly Branch my whole life. Desirin' to see the world, I took up a couple a butcher knives what I had sharpened, my gun, a bag a trail rations, and proceeded to the front door of our cabin, fixin' to inform my mamma that I was a goin' to wander over to the Rio Grande to take me a swim and maybe bring back a couple dozen jackrabbits for a stew, not wantin' to worry her at all or have her decide that I warn't big enough to be allowed out alone.

  "Now, Archie," said my mamma, her hands on her hips as she eyed me, "you be careful, now, you hear me? Don't go wrassling with none of them buffaloes, cause them holes they tear in yore shirts is pure hell to mend. And don't visit them Comanches and be a borrowin' of their horses and breakin' their pore little old scrawny backs, like last time. You know yourself, there ain't no decent mount for none a the Wellkins 'cept a pair a mules what got strong backs. And another thing…"

  Well, as you can see, it woulda took me some days to get away from my mamma, iffen there hadn't been a most convenient yell and whoop about then, sounding like the whole Indian Nations was on the warpath all at once.

  "Tarnation!" snapped my mamma. "If that ain't yore pa and the grandbabies a startin' of a stampede, then my name ain't Isabella Coralinda Wellkins! Do you get yerself along, there's a good boy, and don't come back all dirty and tore to pieces, mind."

  Well, as you can imagine, I took off like a ghost was after me, whistling up my dog Biter to go with me. My laigs, though they weren't as long as some I could name, was still a mighty good way to travel, and it was all Biter could do to keep up, even if he did have it on me in the laig department.

  We traveled for some days acrost the desert towards the Territories, livin' offa the land and not seeing nobody for the longest stretch, ceptin' only buzzards and buffalo. But one morning early, I seed a town in the distance and says to Biter, "There we go, boy! Adventure at last!" Cause you understand, we hadn't had anyone to exchange the time of day with, bar the occasional rattlesnake or scorpion, for ever so long, and we was both sociable kinds of beings.

  Anyway, as I was sayin', we saw this here town in the distance, not more'n five or six mile away—say a half hour's walk. So's we set off for it, Biter with a little old buffalo leg in his mouth, what he had been a chawin' on for some time, and me with what musta been a kinda silly grin, cause I hadn't been to too many places, unlike my older brothers what had done lots of traveling.

  The town was called Dry Gulch Station—I could read it plain as day on a sign when we was about two mile away—and it was a small, dusty kind of a place. Still, it was my first strange town, after spending all my short life in Grizzly Branch, so's I was a mite excited to be there. I stopped on a little rise and just gazed at it for a spell so's I could always remember it, before I proceeded into town, Biter just on my heels.

  The first building we reached was a saloon, as was clear from the swinging doors and the fumes that come out of 'em, reminiscent of Pa's best moonshine. I'd stopped outside for a second, a'wonderin' iffen I should go in and get me something to settle the trail dust in my throat, when there was a whoop and a holler and a small man come flying out them swinging doors, his heels flipping over his head as he rolled to a stop almost at my feet.

  Biter growled and dropped his buffalo leg, then slapped one foot on the poor feller's chest, what was a heavin' and a gaspin' for breath, as was in no way surprisin' after his sudden and unexpected departure from the saloon.

  "Down, Biter. Howdy, mister," I says politely, raising my hat—my mamma didn't raise no savages, you understand, and besides, this feller warn't no bigger than my cousin Lukey, who'd just had his eighth birthday three days afore I left Grizzly Branch. I reached down and hauled him to his feet, then dusted his coat off for him. He musta been weakened by his trip through them swinging doors, cause he fell back to the ground after I'd took no more'n a couple of swipes at him. Biter picked the feller's hat up and sat back on his haunches, holdin' that hat as particular as you please until the man might be ready to take it.

  "Well," says the feller from the middle of the street where he'd fell, "ain't you the big'un?"

  "Oh, shoot, mister," I says, feeling myself blush, "I'm just the runt of the litter." I didn't wish to say more, see'in as how he was considerable smaller than me, not wishin' to embarrass him none. "You should see my brothers."

  "Scout," says he, getting gingerly to his feet and keeping a careful eye on Biter, "I don't got no desire to see anyone what's bigger than you. Though I did hear tell that over to War Whoop they was a big man what broke a couple of fellers' laigs for 'em without even breathing hard."

  "Musta been one a my brothers," I comments, taking his hat from Biter and handin' it to the feller. "They's both got tempers when they's riled."

  "I just bet they do," said the feller, still keepin' a close watch on Biter, who'd resumed his chawin' on that ole buffalo laig. "So tell me, friend, what brings you to Dry Gulch Station? If so be's that you're lookin' for a game of cards, well then, I might be able to ru
stle one up for you."

  "Naw," I shakes my head, "I'm just a traveling to broaden my education. I could use a mite of dinner, though, seein' as how I ain't et for an hour or so. Do you know where I could get me a couple dozen bottles of beer and a slab of meat, with maybe four-five pounds of taters and onions and a loaf a bread, just to hold me until supper?"

  "Brother, I don't know if she can fill you up, but I know a lady who'll be tickled to try," he says, holding out his hand.

  I took it, right gingerly, and give it a soft kinda shake. He gave a sort of gasp and shook it when I let it go—I put that down to politeness, him not wantin' me to think on how weak I was and all. I took it right kindly of him.

  "My name is Archibald Wellkins," I says.

  "Shorty Powell," he replies, all the time eyeing me and Biter. "And the lady I'm taking you to see, for a light lunch, is name of