“September afternoon. The farmers’ teams
In Belford all along the straggling street
Stamped drowsily at flies. The rough board walk
Sounded from bank to corner store where stood
Joe Taylor in blue denims, wide straw hat,
Tall, burly, ruddy. His clear eyes looked hard
At a wagon trailed by dust in its noisy rush
From the livery. The blacksnake swung, the horses
Leaped on the bits, the driver’s comrade gripped
The spring seat, while a huge man stood behind,
Yelling hoarse words. Traffic was paralyzed.
A staring hush fell over sunbonnets,
Bare heads out of the stores, and childish curls
Lifted to see.
“”Any man in this town!
I’ll give him fifty dollars if he licks me!””
From the street end the wagon made return,
The charioteering bully bellowing
Insults profane. “”No man? All cowards? Fifty dollars!
You bob-tailed, weasel-eyed, scared puppies, you!
You stinking bastards!”
“”The town marshal, where?””
Asked women. That defender lay dead drunk
At the livery stable. Bearded men felt arms
With heavy muscles. Such a strutter’s comb
Demanded cutting.
Back the charioteer
Swooped in a cloud of dust, pouring abuse
And filth upon all heads. Joe halted him,
Lifting a big right hand. “” I do not live
In Belford, but I’ll fight you.””
“”Where’s your home?””
“”On Fairview Ridge.””
Down sat the fighting man,
And in the slowly moving wagon rose
His comrade up to ring a bell, and shout,
”Fi-i-ight! On the creek ba-n-nk!”
First the hero’s car,
Then Joe marched sturdily, while men and boys,
A cavalcade in a great smoke of dust,
Streamed after. From the sidewalk one high voice
Remonstrant, – “”Joseph Taylor, if your wife
Was here, she’d-“”
Under trees a grassy plot,
A ring of faces, little jets of talk.
“”Three men last week at Kearney.”” “”Nearly killed – Bird City.””
“”Ain’t got nothing over Joe
In size,- six foot, a hundred ninety.”” “”Odds?
Don’t bet. The bruiser is profesh.”” “”Living too fast.””
“”Young bucks get mad.”” “”No use, Joe can’t back out!
You get a dog by the ears, you can’t let go.”
Joe made no sign of hearing; to choice of gloves
He only shook his head.
“”Your cash, my lad.
Only twenty dollars, boy? Don’t fool with me!””
Contempt blared in the tone.
“”I have no more.
I give you this to fight. You need not pay
Me anything if I win.”
“”You? Win? Ha-ha! Ha-ha!””
“”Then fight for this!”” Joe’s bare hand sounded
Upon the boaster’s cheek.
An old-time game
Is rough and tumble; thus wild men fought beasts.
Grip, wrestle, strike, on ground, and now on knee.
Blows fall with dull sound, muscles swell and stretch;
Fighters puff, grunt, and sweat, and gather dust;
The hot, moist skin slips in the finger clutch.
With nostrils wide, strained eye, and bloody face,
Garments in shreds, they struggle with a rage
And craft and will beyond the power of brutes.
Twenty long minutes of such give and take,
The bully’s breath came scant. Joe pressed him hard,
And wore him under, and struck heavily
Until the prizer cried -” Enough”.
Joe rose,
Wiped bloody face, drew out the yellow bill,
Thrust it upon the speechless one, and turned
Back to the village.
Ruddy sunset gleams
Fell richly all about Joe, jogging home
With empty wagon, musing how he bought
A fight with money borrowed at the bank
To buy seed grain, and won there from an eye
Discolored, and a lip grotesquely swollen,
Bruisings and weariness. ” I wonder what
My wife – O, I ‘m a fool! But how explain?
And yet,- I couldn’t help it after all.””
(Edwin Ford Piper)”
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