Ernest S. Wooster
326 E. Bishop
Santa Ana, Calif.

A MAN MUST FIGHT

I felt certain that my visitor was not a man of peace.
I had never met him, but he had been pointed out to me. His
name was Harrison. He was from East Texas and was said to have
murdered a man.

I believe it. In Western Louisiana in the teen-age decade
of this century, murder was common enough and frequently went
unpunished. It gave the population a rather high content of
murderers.

My experience with natives of the Lone Star State had not
produced much evidence that they were pacifists by nature or
training.

In those days, the West Louisianans used to say that when
Texas got too impatient with some of its less lawful and too
impetuous inhabitants, they crossed the Sabine River into Louis-
iana. That portion of Texas along the west bank of the Sabine
was not a Sunday School. The presence of these fugitives did
nothing to enhance the Sunday School atmosphere of Louisiana.

I was one of a group of credulous Californians who had been
sold the idea that cut-over pine land could be profitably farmed.
We were marketing some of this land. Out investigating committee
had been gullible. We were just discovering that their child-like
optimism was not a good substitute for a careful examination of facts.

They had misled us, honestly enough, but effectively. We were
now enthusiastically misleading others, also honestly, but quite
completely. As director and producer of advertising, I was chief
misleader.

man must fight--2

My visitor's opening statement, not prefaced with any idle
"How are you?" was like the cold breath of a norther sweeping
across a spring day.

"I want my brother's money back." That was his greeting,
chilly, direct and financial. I knew what he meant. His brother
was among those who had purchased land and who had already learned
what we were now unhappily discovering--that cut-over pine land
can be lacking in certain fundamentals, the chief one being fer-
tility. About the only thing it would raise without federal aid
was okra. This alleged vegetable would thrive in drought and flood,
and was immune to frost, hot winds and insect pests. The only
trouble was, nobody liked the stuff. I considered it the lowest
form of vegetable life.

I couldn't return any money. I hadn't sold his brother any land.
I didn't handle funds--only misleading advertising. I tried to get a
better look at his hip pocket. To my fearful eyes, it had a
gun-shaped bulge. He might also have a pistol or knife in his belt.
Certainly he must be armed; a murderer is expected to carry some
of the tools of his trade.

Through the thin partition dividing my one-man, no-girl office
from the printing establishment next door, I could hear voices.
I hoped Doc Williams would come in. Doc was large, powerful, and in
good athletic condition despite his 60 years.

But Doc didn't come in. I tried discussing the weather. I
learned to my dismay that there are people who can be singularly
uninterested in what, in California, is not only a chief commodity
but an always reliable topic of conversation.

Harrison looked expectantly at me. I looked expectantly at him.

man must gith--3

I felt certain that we were not expecting quite the same thing. In his primitive mind, this demand for a return of funds should meet with instant acceptance. Or if not instant, it could be accelerated by use of a direct formula rather widely used.

The evening before, I had stayed in my little office. As I emerged, I saw three of my friends in a closely clustered knot. Friendship between two of them had apparently ceased. Ansley, who was also from Texas, was jumping up and down in front of Puckett, brandishing a knife and threatening to "cut your guts out". Puckett was a fellow-Californian, one of the group of gullibles who had been lured into Louisiana by this tale of cheap land.

I had never seen anyone's guts cut out. I had no desire to be witness to such sudden surgery. Doc Williams was looking on unbelievingly, apparently hoping that what he was seeing wasn't true.

Something had to be done immediately if Puckett's inwards were to be saved. Doc seemed to have lost his initiative, so it was up to me. I am not brave, just impulsive and credulous. That's what got me into Louisiana. So, without meditating on it, I said, "Doc, you take Puckett and I'll take Ansley and we'll separate them."

Ansley was taken by surprise by this simple maneuver that he couldn't think fast enough to resist. Maybe he didn't have any real desire to disembowel Puckett. But without this interference, he might have deemed it necessary in order to save face and maintain his honor and standing in the community.

He was no coward. Neither was Puckett. I didn't know about Doc. But I am. I have only a narrow white line down an otherwise orange-colored back. It was just a heedless inspiration that made me momentarily appear to be brave.

man must fight--4

As I led Ensley away, one sentence stood out in his monologue.
He did the talking; I remained silent. This odd remark was, "A
man has got to have a fight once in a while." I don't belong to that
school of thought and couldn't see its significance or application.
But I didn't ask what he meant. When you don't possess valor, it is
well to be endowed with discretion. Anyway, If I asked questions,
he might reconsider this peaceful retreat.

I was thinking about this episode now, wondering if Doc was as
lacking in fortitude as I am. Even if he came in, would he be a
knight in an inky printer's apron, or would be consider this purely
a private affair to which he had not been invited. I recalled his
by-stander attitude of the evening before.

I churned my brains for some way to keep from becoming one of
the already large number of murdered men in that part of the state.
None of my friends was likely to come in. If one did, would he
be willing to trade his life for mine? I doubted it.

My only chance was in subterfuge. I didn't have any conscientious
objection to this stratagem. I just wondered if it would work. It
was now obvious that there was no other choice. It had to be my
subterfuge against his .32 or .45 or whatever it was that made
the bulge in his rear pocket.

Louisiana had law officers in those days. They were good enough
and brave enough but not enough. Getting one of them to become a
rescue party was the only expedient I could think of. I wasn't
optimistic about being successful.

Desperate inside, but with a thin veneer of confidence that I
hoped wasn't transparent, I told the harrassing Harrison that there
was no money in this little print-shop cubicle. Funds were kept

man must fight--5

in the main office across the street, I assured him. That
was true, except that probably the general office didn't have
any either. Land selling, up to that time, had not been a huge
financial success. What I meant was that if there were any liquid
assets, that's where they would be. Harrison accepted my ex-
planation without comment.

All the way to the main office I kept up a drumfire of con-
versation. I was afraid Harrison would ask embarrassing questions
or decide this trip was not necessary.

Conditions were not improved when we stepped inside.

The company's officers, on whom I had expected to unload my
problem, were away. But there was Ensley, quiet and orderly,
but Ensley. One of the women gave me the full impact of this
when she whispered that Puckett was in the back room.

I had walked myself around my prospective assassin into another
episode of the Ensley-Puckett feud. I didn't mind this so far as
Harrison was concerned, but I like my battles one at a time.

Now I not only had the homicidal Harrison as my special
vexation, but I had unwittingly become host to another Texan
with sanguinary ambitions and a Californian who might at any
moment become belligerent.

The stage seemed set for a gory party.

Harrison was somewhat awed by being in an office in which
women predominated. He was more of the outdoors and barroom
type. His slight embarrassment gave me a little advantage,
but not enough.

I telephoned the sheriff, as I had intended all along to do,
but which I had not explained to my uninvited guest, asking for

a man must fight--6

reinforcements. There wasn't much encouragement in what he
said. The sheriff, it seemed, did not hold Californians in very
high esteem, and had even less affection for fugitive Texans.
Moreover, he had been shot once by a man he had tried to arrest
and had walked with a cane ever since. He was a little combat-shy,
I gathered.

The end result of our brief conversation was, Why not let
things work themselves out? There was also the inference that it
might become a coroner's case, which could be a distinct relief
to the sheriff and a net gain all around. I didn't wholly concur
with his opinion.

I didn't want hostilities between Puckett and Ensley to start.
I was considerably less anxious for any involving me to break out.
Puckett and Ensley were my friends. If either wanted to start
target practice with Harrison as the bull's-eye, I would ap-
plaud their good judgment.

However, if it did become a choice between either of them
contributing the other to the undertaker's business, or of this
hatchet man from Texas making me an inanimate statistic, I would
not hesitate a minute in making a decision.

You can always make new friends.

It was apparent that any peaceable action that was to be taken
would have to be mine. If the Puckett-Ensley fight started, it
might become a general engagement. Harrison would undoubtedly
consider it the signal to bring in his own artillery. I thought
I knew the direction in which he would shoot.

So I went to the back room, promising a speedy return. I
didn't want either Harrison or Ensley to follow me. I found

a man must fight--7

Puckett. As I suspected, he had a gun. I got it away from him. I cannot remember what argument I used. I wish I could. It must have been a good one, good enough to use for some other purpose. Disarming a man who expects to be shot at takes a convincing sales talk.

I had now accomplished two minor purposes. I had disarmed Puckett and had armed myself. I felt pretty good about this for a minute or two. It would even the odds between me and Harrison. It could, of course, have a less beneficial effect on Puckett if Ensley happened to discover him too soon.

But Ensley didn't know I had Puckett's gun, didn't even know that Puckett was in the same building with him. He was merely hopefully waiting.

I realized that he might suspect it and begin a tour of investigation. So, back in the main office, I whispered to him that if anyone told him Puckett had a gun not to believe it, that it wasn't true. I didn't explain how I had obtained this somewhat intimate bit of information. I was more interested in preventing carnage which might envelope me than in truth as a mere abstract principle.

Now conditions were changed. Puckett was disarmed, Harrison and Ensley and I had weapons. But my sense of relief didn't last. It died suddenly when I remembered that I didn't know how to operate the weapon I now possessed. It seemed unlikely that I would have much change to take lessons in time to make them of any practical value.

By now my own personal head hunter was obviously becoming irked by the continuing series of delays and detours. No money

man must fight--8

had yet been taken from the safe, but there had been some mys-
terious other things going on.

By now I was convinced that if I didn't make a move soon,
Harrison would. I knew the one I preferred, in which one foot would
be placed in front of the other, the process swiftly and consist-
ently repeated until I was well away from there.

But I couldn't make this retreat. He was too close.

If I attempted to threaten with the gun I now had, Harrison
would probably move faster, and with lethal results. Puckett
would unquestionably know what to do, but I now had his gun.
This could be a serious deterrent to receiving any aid from him.
I realized that I had perhaps made a mistake in disarming the
only person who might be an ally. But even if Puckett did appear,
Ensley would see him immediately and continue his own personal
vendetta. My predicament would go unnoticed by them, but probably
not by Harrison.

I think Ensley would have come to my aid in most circumstances,
but not in these. I couldn't be sure, even if he were to ignore
Puckett for a moment, whether the bonds of Texas or the call of
friendship would prove stronger. Neither could I think of any
quick and safe way of finding out. There was also the possibility
that he might think I had interfered enough in his affairs when I
had interrupted his project of looking into the interior of
Puckett the evening before.

It didn't seem likely that anyone was going to help me.

Then came one of those breaks that cowards must depend on.

The unpredictable Ensley, who had remained silent and subdued

man must fight--9

during this whole time, which was probably only five or six
minutes, measured by the clock, though it seemed to me to
be measurable only with a calendar, did something.

Heleaped without warning on the startled, and so far as he
was concerned, unoffending Harrision with "Here's one Texan who
ain't had a fight in a long time". Pulling a pistol from his
pocket, he snapped it briskly against the skull of the sur-
prised visitor, opened the door, and kicked him down the steps.

The suspected murderer slunk away, humiliated and disillusioned.

He hadn't been armed.

Ensley? He was again his usual sweet and sunny self. He
had had his fight.

#