The Peddler

The Peddler

         Byron Pennypacker stepped down from the train carrying a large black suitcase in each hand. He set them on the wooden planks of the train station and stirred up a cloud of gritty dust as he slapped at his dark suit and silver brocade vest with his derby hat. The smoke from the locomotive made his eyes tear.

         Pleased that the long trip from New York to Dodge City was finally behind him, Byron wiped dirt from his thin mustache and balding head with a grimy handkerchief. Although the train ride was over, his mission in Dodge City was just beginning.

         With some effort, he clasped the handles of the suitcases and carried them awkwardly away from the station. A small man, forty-two years of age, barely two inches over five feet tall and weighing less than most women, Byron stood out in the crowd of rough and tumble cowboys, soldiers and farmers he passed. And standing out was a sure thing. There were always ruffians who delighted in tormenting him because of his size and decidedly unwestern attire. Always. He could count on it as sure as he could count on the sun coming up each morning.

         Having no useful skills other than those no one seemed to want anymore, his present occupation was the last in a long string of failed endeavors -- the end of the line. If he did not prove himself now, he could expect starvation to be his constant companion once his meager savings were depleted.

         Side-stepping puddles of water in the muddy street, Byron took in the clapboard buildings lining the street, reading the sun-faded signs hanging from each. He spotted the two general stores he was there to visit, a small hotel/cafe and a saloon. The saloon was tempting, as was the hotel, but he decided to attend to his business first and save the creature comforts for later.

         He entered the first general store, passing barrels of hoes, shovels and double-edged axes, mentally reciting his spiel, readying himself for expected rejection.

         The heavy, bearded man behind the counter looked up, saw the suitcases in Byron's white-knuckled hands, then spat tobacco unerringly into a copper spittoon at his feet. He knew a peddler when he saw one.

         Byron approached the man, pasted a mock smile on his face and said, "Good afternoon, sir.
Would you be the owner of this fine establishment?"

         "I would. Henry Twain . . . like the sign says," the man answered.

         Byron set the cases down and extended his small hand across the counter. "Byron Pennypacker, Mr. Twain. Pleased to meet you."

         Twain did not offer to shake Byron's hand. Instead, he spat again, then said, "Get to the nut-cuttin', mister. What're ya sellin'?"

         Hefting one of the black cases onto the counter, Byron unsnapped and opened it. "Sir, I represent Martin's Textiles of New York City, New York. We offer the finest line of woven goods available, ranging from bonnets and lovely dresses for women, to shirts and trousers for men. Or, for those handy with a needle and thread, we carry a wide variety of cloth in bolts." Byron lifted swaths of cloth from the case and spread them out in front of Twain. "I'm sure you can see and feel the quality of our merchandise, Mr. Twain, and I assure you our prices are more than competitive. An order today will be in your hands within a month, guaranteed."

         Twain rubbed a sample of broadcloth between his stubby fingers. "Ya got the ready made dresses and bonnets and whatnot with ya?"

         Byron felt his pulse quicken. By God, the man seemed interested! He thought. "Yes, sir, right here," Byron said, lifting and displaying the contents of the second case. He unfolded a blue and white print dress and matching bonnet, and shook the wrinkles from the dress, holding it in front of him. "This is just one of the dozens of selections we have in our catalog."

         Before Byron could lay the dress down and reach for the thick, illustrated catalog in the case, a laugh came from behind him. "Well, don't he look sweet in that little dress!"

         Another voice joined in, "Not much bigger'n a girl, is he? Bet he'd be downright purdy with that bonnet on his head."

         Byron turned slowly to face the agitators. Two grinning, unshaven, trail dirty cowboys, twins or surely brothers, stood there poking each other in the ribs with their elbows. "What'cha need, boys?" Twain, asked.

         The taller of the two cowboys smirked. "I need to see that little man wearing that bonnet." His right hand slid easily to the handle of his holstered six-gun. "Put it on, runt."

         "I don't want no trouble in here, Bob. Leave Mr. Pennypacker be," Twain said.

         "Pennypacker? Pennypacker! Ya hear that, Bob? What kind'a name is that?" The shorter cowboy said, snorting with laughter.

         "It's my name," Byron answered. "That's all you need to know."

         "Feisty little man, ain't he, Charlie?" Bob said, his tone growing harder. "Put the damned bonnet on, Pennypacker."

         Twain rounded the counter. "Bob . . . Charlie . . . I'm goin' for Sheriff Bissett if'n you don't lay off."

         "Don't bother, Twain," Bob said. "We passed him on the way in'ta town. Said he was heading over to Fort Dodge on bizness."

         "It's alright, Mr. Twain," Byron said, handing the store owner the catalog. "You just pick out whatever you'd like, and I'll be back to write up your order. Would you be so kind as to hold my hat for me?" Byron asked, handing the dusty derby to Twain.

         Twain leaned closer to Byron, whispering, "You cain't fight them McReady boys. They'll stomp you in'ta the dirt."

         Drawing himself to his full, unimpressive, height, Byron stared at the two cowboys. "I have no intention of engaging in fisticuffs with these rowdies."

         Bob and Charlie exchanged frowns. "You ain't wearin' a gun," Bob said. "What'cha gonna do . . . put on that dress and dance us to death?"

         Byron stepped forward, elbowed his way between the cowboys, and walked out to the street. He paced off forty feet, removed his coat jacket and vest, dropped them on a relatively dry spot, then turned to face Bob and Charlie, who had followed him out. "Your play, boys. Draw when you feel lucky."

         Charlie squinted at the diminutive man. "You gonna out run bullets, runt?"

         Byron shifted the thick leather belt he wore, settling it on his narrow hips. "Don't worry your tiny little brains about me you worthless sons of a Texas whore. Just draw!"

         The insult reddened both cowboy's faces. Unarmed or not, the little man had chosen his fate. As one, they reached for their guns.

         From the grimy front window of his store Twain watched the scene progressing outside. He nervously tapped Byron's hat against his palm and almost failed to notice the folded sheet of paper fall from the inside crown of the derby. He bent to pick it up and, being the nosy type, unfolded the wanted poster-sized sheet and quickly read what was written there. He glanced back out the window in time to see Byron shift the belt he wore and heard him yell, "draw!"

         Twain only had time to mutter to himself, "This should be innerestin'," before the two cowboys slapped leather.

         Bob McReady felt his fingers brush the handle of his gun just as he saw both of Byron's hands disappear behind him, then flick forward. Something caught the glint of the sun. Bob completed his draw, but was amazed when he felt his gun slip from his big hand before he could fire.

         Charlie, slower than Bob, never even cleared leather before his right arm fell useless at his side.

         Then the pain registered.

         "Sonofa . . .!" Bob McReady yelped, staring at the forged steel, perfectly balanced knife protruding from his thick, hairy wrist. His fingers trembled uncontrollably as blood dripped from the dirty tips. He yanked the odd-looking, all metal blade from his wrist and looked over at his brother, where he saw a mate to the knife that had crippled him jutting from the meat of Charlie's shoulder. Charlie's face was as white as the clouds overhead as he, too, gripped the knife handle and quickly pulled it from his flesh.

         Down the street, Byron stood waiting, no evidence of fear in the little man.

         "Use your other hand, Charlie! Shoot him dead!" Bob McReady ordered, himself reaching left-handed to retrieve his gun from the street.

         Charlie struggled to remove his gun from his right holster with his left hand but, finally, juggled it into position and aimed at Byron, as Bob grasped his weapon, dropped to one knee, and raised his gun in Byron's direction.

         They both saw Byron, his hands a blur, reach for the collar at the back of his neck, then windmill forward.

         Charlie pulled the trigger. Or tried to. When he looked down at his gun he realized why it had not fired. His trigger finger lay in the mud at his feet and crimson spurted from the cleanly severed nub on his hand.

         Bob winged a panicked, errant shot at Byron before cold steel thudded into his bent kneecap and a stinging slice removed his left ear from his head. He screamed, dropped his gun and clasped his hand over the hole where his ear had been.

         Although in shock, Charlie was still dangerous. He slipped his middle finger onto the trigger and fired three shots as another knife missed its mark and snapped his hat from his head.

         Byron felt a bullet graze his cheek, then he was running as other bullets zinged past him. Vaulting the hitching rail in front of the town's second general store, he snatched an axe from a barrel similar to the display in front of Twain's store.

         Hot lead burned into the door frame beside Byron as Charlie McReady, having picked up his brother's gun, advanced, his aim improving as he closed the distance.

         Whirling around, Byron drew the axe over his head in a two-handed grip and flung it toward Charlie.

         The axe buried itself in the mud between Charlie's feet. Charlie's eyes bugged out of his head and he sucked in a deep breath.

         When he looked up he saw Byron with another axe, poised to throw. "Drop your gun, Charlie," Byron said calmly, "or this next axe will make a woman out of you."

         Intelligence was not Charlie's strong suit, but he had no doubt what the little man meant -- or that he was perfectly able to back up his threat. A shudder shot through him and he fairly threw the gun away from him.

         Once the danger of being hit by a stray bullet had passed, people eased out of the doors of buildings and peeked around corners. Two burly men lifted Bob McReady by his feet and shoulders and carried him off the street, toward a small building with "Jail" haphazardly painted above the door. Another man, gun drawn, escorted Charlie McReady to the same destination.

         A boy of about twelve, already taller than Byron, approached the small man. He carried Byron's coat, vest and the six throwing knives he recovered from the street. "Gosh, mister, I never seen such knifery," he said with admiration in his eyes and voice, handing Byron his property.

         "Thank you, son," Byron said, slipping the four shorter, broader knives into the empty slots in the back of his belt and the two longer, thinner knives into similar pockets inside the back of his shirt collar. He flipped the boy a quarter and walked wearily back to Twain's store, dabbing at the scratch on his cheek with his handkerchief.

         Twain still stood at the window when Byron entered. He shook his head. "Whew! That was a sight to behold, Mr. Pennypacker. You could'a kilt both them boys with your first throw."

         Byron shrugged. "Saw no need, Mr. Twain. Will they get medical treatment?"

         Twain strode back to the counter, waving off Byron's concern. "Oh, sure. Doc will fix 'em up best he can, 'cept for the finger and ear the kid who brung you your coat and knives took with him as souvenirs."

         "There won't be any trouble with the law, will there?" Byron asked, stuffing his soiled handkerchief in his pocket.

         "None at all. Sheriff Bissett's my brother-in-law. I'll tell him how it all played out," Twain said, setting Byron's derby on the counter. "Mind if'n I ask you somethin', though?"

         Before Byron could answer, Twain spread the poster that had fallen from Byron's hat on the counter. There, beneath large letters, was a likeness of Byron -- younger, and dramatically larger than life, arms crossed over his chest with a knife in each hand. The writing proclaimed:

THE AMAZING MR. BLADE!

SEE HIM THROW KNIVES, AXES, HATCHETS AND INDIAN TOMAHAWKS WITH EXPERT ACCURACY!

WATCH AS HE THROWS RAZOR-SHARP KNIVES UNDERHANDED, OVERHANDED AND TWO AT ONCE TO WITHIN MERE INCHES OF HIS PRETTY ASSISTANT'S FRAGILE YOUNG BODY!!!

Performances nightly at the Fairgrounds.

COME ONE, COME ALL!!

         Twain continued. "Why'd ya quit this for peddlin' textiles?"

         Byron picked up the poster, folded it along the creases, and stuffed it back into the crown of his derby. His jaws clenched. Speaking so softly Twain could barely hear him, Byron said, "My wife, Mary, was my assistant. She trusted me more than you would believe possible, night after night, standing there with her back against a wall of planks, smiling for the crowd, and for me, as I outlined her head and body with thrown knives, hatchets, axes . . ."

         The storekeeper leaned forward in anticipation.

         ". . . until one night a drunk cowboy lurched onto the stage and bumped me, just as I flung the axe. The Grand Finale. The axe was supposed to land dead center above the part in sweet Mary's hair. Instead . . ." Byron, looked down, and covered his eyes with one hand.

         "Oh, sweet Jesus!" Twain, exhaled, seeing the horrible tragedy in his mind.

         Twenty minutes later, with a sizable order from Mr. Twain tucked away in his coat pocket, Byron headed for the other general store, suitcases in hand. The folded poster was set just right in his hat to fall out at an opportune moment.

         The ploy had succeeded beautifully and only cost him a thin cut on his cheek, although he would have to remember not to take on two gunmen at a time in the future. The results could have been much different. Fortunately, the McReady brothers had come to him. Otherwise, he would have had to seek them out -- or others just like them -- tough men who enjoyed picking on the weak.

         Age, not accident, had prompted Byron to find a new profession -- and this one he could turn into a goldmine in every small town he visited. People would always admire a courageous underdog, especially one with a sad tale to tell. A few cowboys would pay the price along the way, but most were deserving.

         Byron smiled to himself as he thought of the telegraph he would send the next day: The plan works. Think about me until I return, sweet Mary. Fondly, your husband, Byron Pennypacker

The End

DM