David Barbour - Shadows Bend

“I will admit nothing of the sort.”

“Bringin’ your own food into a diner is a damned insult to the folks who run the joint. Goes against common decency.”

“The only ‘damned insult’ I’m currently aware of is this dubious eatery charging you twenty-five cents for that rather anemic portion of meat loaf and calling it a ‘special’ ”

With a chuckle, Howard lifted the top slice of dry bread and sprinkled his meat loaf sandwich with a liberal portion of Tab as co sauce. As he took his first big bite, even Lovecraft was forced to give in; he broke into a wan smile, if only for a brief moment.

THEY EXITED THE CAFE arguing about the generous tip Howard had left. As they stepped toward the car, Howard looked down the street to see if the redhead was still waiting for her bus. She was there, sitting on her suitcase in a pose Howard thought was decidedly masculine, her elbow propped on one knee, her chin on her palm. For the first time, Howard noticed that she wore a pair of men’s cowboy boots with her dress, and that perked his interest even more strongly.

Three young men were coming down the street toward the redhead-as purposefully as they could manage in their obviously drunken state. They were probably oil-field roughnecks wasting their salaries at the local bar. Howard hoped they would not bother the woman, although he could not say why he was so concerned for her.

“Bob?” said Lovecraft, his door poised open.’ “Hold on a minute.”

Lovecraft turned to see what had captured Howard’s attention. The three drunks had surrounded the young woman and stood in menacing attitudes. One of them, sporting a battered homburg cocked at ridiculous angle, stood just in front of her, practically between knees. “Where ya think you’re goin’, bitch?” he said.

The woman rose defiantly to her feet. “You just stay the hell away from me! All of you!”

“You didn’t think we was gonna let you just up and run off on us like that, did you!” The man in the homburg pointed at her, then thrust his index finger into her collarbone, leaving a spot of grease on her pale skin.

The woman swatted his hand away. “Don’t touch me!”

The second man, who stood behind her, snatched the woman’s suit case and spilled its meager contents-mostly undergarments-out into the dusty gutter. “We want our money back,” he said as he poked at her clothes with the tip of his grimy boot.

The third man, a mustached fellow, tried to pull the woman’s purse Łfrom her shoulder. She struggled to hold on to it. “God damn you, bastards! I said leave me alone!”

Howard was agitated. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, not quite knowing what he should do. At that moment a burly man with a shaggy mane of hair arrived to interrupt the fracas; he jerked the mustached fellow backwards, forcing him to let go of the purse strap.

“You boys heard what the lady said. Leave her alone!” roared the burly man.

The three roughnecks now formed a circle around the intruder.

“Sam,” said the man in the homburg, “why’re you stickin’ up for this lowlife thievin’ little bitch?”

Sam positioned himself as best he could to defend himself and the fearful woman. “Can’t rightly say I believe that, knowin’ you boys the way I do,” he said. “Get along now! Go on back to your wells! I don’t like beatin’ a man who ain’t sober, but I’ll whup all three of ya if I have to!” To illustrate his threat, he raised his fists and assumed an old-fashioned boxing stance. It merely caused all three of the muscle-bound roughnecks to laugh.

“Think ya can lick all three of us, do you, Sam?” said the man in the homburg.

“Hell, boy, the way you stink of whiskey, I think your mama could take the three of you with one hand tied behind her back.”

“This ain’t none of your affair, Sam. Mind your own damn business ’fore you get hurt!”

From across the street, Howard watched the scene slowly unfold adrenaline starting to pump through his veins-but Lovecraft was indifferent.

“Come along, Bob. We should be on our way.”

It was a matter of conscience and proper conduct for Howard; he scuffed his feet nervously against the dirt, muttering under his breath. “That ain’t right. Three men gangin’ up on one.”

Unable to discern Howard’s whispers, Lovecraft got into the car. “Bob, the petty squabblings of those dim-witted roustabouts is really beneath our concern.”

It was too late. Howard had made up his mind. “Wait here,” he said with an odd authority in his voice. He strode down the street toward the commotion, walking in a way Lovecraft had never seen before.

Lovecraft shut the door to put a barrier between himself and the unpleasant events he was sure were’ about to ensue. “What do you think you are doing?” he called after his friend, but Howard ignored him and increased his pace just as fists began to fly. “This isn’t one of your barbarian tales, you know!” Lovecraft called. He quickly glanced up and down the deserted main street for a stray police vehicle; and seeing none, he nervously watched his friend leap into the middle of the brawl, issuing a loud, dramatic battle cry. “Or perhaps it is,” Lovecraft said to himself.

Howard dived between two of the roughnecks with his arms outstretched, hitting them squarely on the backs of their thick necks; and then, as his weight bore down upon them, he folded his arms, trapping them in headlocks as he tumbled to the pavement. They were so surprised they had no clue what had hit them, and in their drunkenness, they must have thought the earth itself had heaved. Sam was caught off guard by Howard’s sudden appearance; he took a clumsy right to the chin from the man with the homburg, and he stumbled momentarily backwards into the arms of the redheaded woman. She caught him and helped him right himself as the man in the homburg turned to see what had happened to his friends. “What the hem” he said.

With the strength and persistence of a pit bull, Howard furiously gripped the two in headlocks, a low growl of exertion involuntarily escaping his throat. Sam was somewhat embarrassed to be the victim of a sucker punch, even if it was poorly aimed; he pounced back toward the man in the homburg and tapped him on the shoulder, and, as he turned, Sam slammed a solid left hook into his jaw. A glass jaw. The man in the homburg wobbled for a second, then collapsed straight down, unconscious even before he hit the ground.

Howard was now on his knees, still vigorously choking the two men. To Sam it looked like a cowboy had jumped down onto a pair of frightened horses on a stagecoach to wrestle them to a stop. Howard had lost his grip on the mustached man, who slipped out from underneath him and stood up to kick him wildly in the back with his work boots.

“Let go of ’im, you son of a bitch!”

Howard yelled out in pain, but like a badger that has sunk its curved teeth into its tormentor, he refused to yield his choke hold. The face wrapped in his arms was beginning to turn blue.

Sam pounced onto the man with the mustache, knocking him into the gutter with the redhead’s scattered clothes. The woman gave him a fast kick in the ribs, and he curled up in pain. The man in Howard’s unrelenting grip had gone limp; Howard let him drop to the ground, where he gradually regained consciousness, wheezing for air.

The mustached man got back to his feet in a rage. He tried to rush Sam, who deftly stepped out of his way with a feline grace rather unexpected from a man of his age and build. The mustached man ran square into Howard, who swiveled his entire upper body into a right cross that nearly skewered the man through the gut. He fell in a fetal position, in too much pain even to make a sound. Howard glanced around wild-eyed, then he turned back to the mustached man and kicked him in the back.