The Stranger From The Valley

"Why you dirty ole rascal, you," he said and jerked his head back, but not far enough to avoid the wicked right crunch on his jaw that sent him turning to the side and lifting his hand to the welt on his cheekbone. "Yow! That hurt! But, I'm going to make you pay for it you dirty-son-of-a-gun." The other man gave him a dirty look and replied, "You little pipsqueak! It'll be a cold day in Hell, if you think you can whip me! Come on and get some more of that medicine, if you think you're man enough!" Without saying another word, the "little pipsqueak" came in a rush, both fists whirling round and round before they let loose a barrage of blows direct to the midsection of his opponent. "Oof! Unh! A-agh!" uttered the "dirty ole rascal," as he tried to protect himself, but receiving some blows to the stomach and knocking some of the wind out of his sails. "Oo-of! You darn...I'll get you for that!" "Dirty ole rascal" pulled back to catch his breath, then sent a mighty left jab straight to the right side of the chin of the "little pipsqueak," causing the man to stop short in his performance with both hands hanging limp at his sides and his eyes in a squint. With a shrug of the shoulders, the man said, "Stop! You win for now, but I'll get even with you, if it's the last thing I do," and held his jaw in his right hand. "Anytime you're ready, and from now on stay away from my house! If I catch you nosing around there again, you'll live to regret it." The "dirty ole rascal" was Calvin "Cal" Fedderson, a local resident and hard worker. He was tall, slim, and good-looking, according to the local women. Married, with four children and a pretty wife, he usually minded his own business and was hard to anger, would rather laugh than throw a punch at somebody. "But, on this summer day," as Cal explained it to me later, "I was irrigating a hayfield north of town a couple of miles when the little pipsqueak come by on the nearby road, walking along behind his team of horses that were all harnessed up like he was going somewhere important. He saw me out in the field by myself and thought that this would be a good time to teach me a lesson. His name is Roger Proudmire, a short, cocky man with a large head, small in the shoulder, broad chest, with his stomach starting to bulge under his overalls, older than me and married to my wife's sister.