Ten-year-old Billy Humbolt thought his new game was just about the most fun he’d ever had. It had taken a while to get the hang of it, but once he did he honed his skill to a fare-thee-well.
It was a simple game. The blacksmith had given him the big iron hoop. It was actually a rim from a worn-out wagon wheel he’d rebanded. It was worn too thin to be used again, and the smith well knew the Humbolts could never afford toys for their ample brood of children. Delbert Andersen, or ‘Dane’ as he was known, had a soft spot for the boy. He showed him how to use a stick to propel the hoop forward, direct its path, and keep it upright. Once he caught on, Billy could – and constantly did – fly through town as fast as his bare feet would carry him, his hoop bouncing over rocks, sticks or road apples. He delighted in racing buggies whose drivers were game to race through town. He nearly always won those matches, because he could duck and dodge around horses and buggies much quicker than a buggy or a buckboard.
It was when he chose to use the sidewalk for his personal racetrack that he encountered problems. He thought it was great sport to slalom around pedestrians and the merchandise a few of the merchants displayed on the board sidewalk in front of their stores. Inevitably, he failed to evade someone who moved in an unexpected direction, and a collision resulted.
Still, the good-natured grin that always graced his generously freckled face and his abject apology almost always dispelled the wrath of the casualties of his youthful exuberance and lack of caution.
After each such episode he confined his hoop-racing to the street again for a time, but it was always he who was on the defensive there. Besides, the hoop and his bare feet went faster on the smoother surface of the sidewalks. The clatter of its passage over the boards only increased the feeling of speed and freedom.
It was nothing unusual, then, when Billy collided with Jarvis McCrae just as he stepped out the front door of the Headland Courier. Neither was it entirely an accident. Billy’s constant path up and down the street infuriated Mac for some reason that nobody understood. As he stepped out the door he spotted Billy at once, approaching at his normal dead run. Instead of moving back out of the way, he stepped into the center of the sidewalk. Billy directed the hoop over to avoid him, but Mac reached out and grabbed it. With the back of his other hand he swatted the boy along the side of his head, sending the youngster sprawling into the street.
‘You little heathen!’ Mac shouted at him. ‘Take this infernal thing and keep it off this sidewalk or so help me I’ll wrap it around your head so tight you’ll never get it off.’
‘I’m sorry, mister,’ Billy stammered, scrambling to his feet. One hand held the side of his face where Mac’s hand had landed. ‘I didn’t mean to run into ya.’
‘You are constantly running into someone,’ Mac accused. ‘You just lost your hoop. When you grow up enough to use some judgment, maybe I’ll give it back.’
‘Don’t keep my hoop!’ Billy protested.
‘It is not your hoop any more,’ Mac declared. ‘It is mine now. Now begone, before I inflict a real whipping on you.’
The voice behind Mac was soft and just as carefully proper as the pressman’s. It nonetheless held a distinct edge. ‘I do not think that is at all called for. You had no right to hit the boy. Now give him back his hoop.’
Mac whirled to face whoever dared to interfere. Facing him was Val Lingquist, the new clerk at Glendenning’s Mercantile Store. Val’s expression was almost bland, but his eyes flashed with anger. Mac’s own eyes bulged with elevated wrath. That someone would take the boy’s side in the matter was unforgivable. That this puny, immaculately dressed little man, half his size, would dare to stand up to him was more than intolerable.
‘Mind your own business,’ he rumbled.
‘I believe I just decided to make this my business,’ Val replied, his tone mild, his voice even. ‘When a grown man assaults a child as you just did, I believe that ought to be the business of any decent citizen.’
‘I didn’t do half what I should to the little whelp,’ Mac fumed. ‘I ought to beat him within an inch of his life.’
‘You have already done far more than you had any right to do,’ Val disagreed. ‘Now give the boy back his hoop and be on your way.’
‘What? Who are you to try to tell me what to do?’
‘Well, who would you like for me to be?’ Val asked with a tight smile. ‘I will be happy with whatever pleases you, just so long as you do as I say.’
‘It’ll be a cold day in July when a sawed-off little pilgrim like you tells me anything,’ Mac declared, stepping forward toward the much smaller man.
It probably wasn’t the first time that Mac had badly underestimated someone. It may well have been the time he regretted the quickest. At the threat, Val moved forward instead of backing away. His right fist connected with Mac’s nose with stunning force. Blood flew in all directions.
A small crowd had begun to gather as soon as Val confronted the bigger man. As the blood flew, a collective gasp escaped from almost every mouth.
Before Mac even had time to react, Val connected twice more with blows that felt like sledgehammers into Mac’s mid-section. The breath went out of him with a whoosh as he bent forward.
Momentarily helpless to straighten up, Mac’s face was the target of half a dozen well-placed blows in the space of two heartbeats. He staggered backward, blood already coursing down his face from cuts that the small man’s iron hard fists had opened up on his eyebrows.
Even as he staggered back, one of Val’s fists connected with his ribcage with a crack that indicated a fractured rib. Mac grunted, fighting to keep his balance.
The next blow seemed impossible to come from anyone Val’s size. A straight right to the chin lifted the big man off his feet. He crashed backward to the sidewalk, spread-eagled and unconscious. The entire episode had taken no more than two minutes.
Ignoring both his supine antagonist and the excited buzz of the small crowd that had gathered, Val turned to Billy. His voice was still calm. He seemed not in the least out of breath. ‘Are you all right, young man?’
Billy looked back and forth from Val to the unconscious form of Mac several times, as his mouth hung open. He shut his mouth, opened and shut it again, then said, ‘I – I – uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m OK. Wow! I ain’t never seen nobody hit anyone that hard in my life. How’d you do that? You ain’t very big. I – I mean, beggin’ your pardon, sir.’
Val smiled. ‘You don’t have to be a big man to be a good man, son. Don’t ever forget that. Now you had best get your hoop and head toward home. And you might be a little more careful after this, huh?’
‘Uh, yessir. I will. And … thanks, mister.’ He headed down the street at top speed.
‘That was quite a display,’ a voice behind Val observed.
Val turned, moving on the balls of his feet, obviously prepared to face a new challenge. He relaxed when he recognized Dwight Stern. ‘Ah. Good afternoon, Marshal,’ he offered. ‘I hope I am not about to be arrested for public brawling.’
Dwight shook his head. ‘I saw what he did. I can’t say that I ever saw anybody handle himself quite as well as that, though.’
Val shrugged, but offered no explanation. ‘I did feel compelled to interfere when he decided to take the lad’s hoop away from him.’
Dwight nodded. ‘That’s about the only thing that kid has to call his own.’
‘I gathered that.’
‘You’re new in town. I don’t think I even know your name.’
With a straight face, but with a dancing light in his eyes betraying him, Val said, ‘I rather suspect that’s true. You don’t.’
Anger flashed in Dwight’s eyes for the barest moment, then he grinned. ‘Well, then, I’ll ask it a different way. What’s your name, Stranger?’
‘No, actually it isn’t.’
‘Isn’t what?’
‘My name isn’t Stranger. I have heard folks called that, but I’ve never really met anyone actually named that.’
‘Keep workin’ on it an’ I may rethink whether I want to arrest you for public fightin’,’ Dwight declared, with just as straight a face. ‘In fact, when that typesetter o’ Newsome’s wakes up, he may wanta press charges.’
‘Hmm. Well, in that case, I suppose I should provide a name so you’ll know who you’re arresting.’
‘That’d help all right.’
Val thrust a hand out to the marshal. ‘Val Lindquist, at your service, Marshal.’
Dwight took the hand and returned the surprisingly strong grip. ‘You’re new in town.’
‘That also is true. I am employed by Glendenning’s Mercantile Store, as of almost a month ago.’
A curtain clouded Dwight’s eyes instantly. ‘Hmm. That’s a bit of a coincidence. That’s just about the same time that fella came to town.’
Val’s eyes darted to the prone figure on the sidewalk, just beginning to stir. ‘Is that so?’ he responded. ‘Do you happen to know where he came from?’
The sudden interest sparked an equal reaction from Dwight. ‘Nope. Newsome said he just dropped in one day and asked if he needed a typesetter. Walt says he’s the best help he’s ever hired, settin’ type an’ runnin’ the press both.’
‘You don’t say,’ Val replied, his voice thoughtful. ‘An experienced typesetter and pressman just happens to drift into town and seek work at the local newspaper.’
‘Now why would that be of special interest to you?’ Dwight demanded.
It was Val’s turn to become suddenly cautious. ‘No reason. I was just on my lunch hour, Marshal, so if you don’t mind I’ll head on down to the café and grab a bite to eat so I can get back to work. Good day.’
Without waiting for a response he turned and walked away. Dwight frowned as his practiced eye noted the bulge in the slight man’s pants pocket, indicating he carried a gun that most folks would never notice. The man was certainly not what he seemed. Just one more thing to add to the list of nagging worries the marshal was beginning to fret more and more about. ‘Too many things just ain’t addin’ up around here,’ he muttered as he too walked away.