That Night. A story of the Old West.(Kevin Hughes) The Saloon was filled that night. Even respectable town folks, church going, pleasant folk with waxed mustaches and pocket watches, were there that night. Ladies of the Evening stood side by side with real Ladies, and both were treated with respect and courtesy by the men there that night. Everyone who was there, remembered everything that happened that night. So much so that when people referred to what they saw, witnessed, and gaped at while it happened - they simply said: “I was there... That Night.”

If you said: “That Night.” People knew what you meant. It needed no explanation as to witch night, or what night, or when. In the annals of both Legend and History, it became known simply as: That Night. I know. I was there. That Night.

Hammerin Hank Harper, the King of Bare Knuckle Boxing, had come to Sweetwater two weeks ago. He boasted that he could beat any man, from any where, at any time. And he had. He beat some so bad that they never recovered. Others he beat so bad that they couldn’t see right anymore. Some were left crippled. Some were left- dead. Hammerin Hank didn’t stop because you went down. He kept on Hammering.

He was a huge man. Fists like Christmas Hams. A jaw built to square. He stood six foot six inches tall, and weighed as much as a pony. For the first time in many people’s lives, they saw what the expression “rippling with muscle” meant. Because when Hammering Hank Harper took off his shirt, coiled muscle, like strings of iron rope slid and slithered over ripped cut strips of even more muscle. Hammerin Hank won a lot of fights by merely taking his shirt off.

Women were known to swoon. Some to widen their eyes, flair their nostrils, and lick their lips with an unconscious desire to feel that powerful body. Hammerin Hank Harper took note of those faces. Pity the poor husband who tried to stop him from granting the wife her wish. And pity the poor wife who found to her dismay that he would leave her not in the throws of passion, but thrown up against the wall like an old used blanket, or discarded saddle gear. As bruised and broken as any of the men he had beaten.

People paid to see Hammerin Hank Harper- hoping he would meet his match. The ones who fought him, found they paid too; but in broken bones, blood, and sometimes- their lives. Hammerin Hank wasn’t a dirty fighter, merely a mean fighter. A fighter with no remorse. With his power, speed, and strength, he would pummel bigger men like a side of meat, and smaller, quicker men, he would snap like kindling. When you went down under his massive fists, he would then use brick like feet driven by thighs thick enough to be piston rods on the new fangled steam engines- and stomp. He didn’t stop hitting, stomping, or moving, until you didn’t move anymore.

Blood lust, the musky smell of fear, and being that close to danger not directed at you, was a lure no man- or woman- of the Old West could resist. In a hard land, filled with hard men, strong women, and tough times- someone like Hammerin Hank Harper earned respect, awe, and outright admiration. You took your chances when you tangled with Hammerin Hank, just like you took your chances with weather, the wild, and wolves- or any other force of nature. Until …That Night.

He was a quiet man. Not given to small talk. He did his job and did it well. As big as he was, he never seemed to attract much attention. Like a lot of men in the Old West, he was solid, solitary, steady. Nobody could out work him. Although many tried. He just never seemed to get tired. Nobody could out lift him either. He would pull a calf out of the river and carry it to shore, when the other Ranch Hands would have to use a horse and ropes.

A tip of the hat was all they gave him in acknowledgement- his only reply would be a quick smile. Sometimes, for a really big calf struggling in the mud, he would just duck under it, lift it onto his shoulders, lock his arms around its legs and walk to dry land. The other Cowboys would get off their horses, take off their hats, and bow towards him. He would give them that quick smile, and tap his hat brim with two fingers. Acknowledged.

The quiet man had only one Sister. Becky. He loved her more than any other person. When she married Tyler, well, he was as happy for her as he could be. Tyler was a good man. A man to ride the river with…in winter. Becky and Tyler made a better team than any matched horses the Quiet Man had ever seen. Every time he was in Sweetwater, he would stay at their place on the outskirts of town. That quick smile of his showing up often at her cooking, Tyler’s stories, and both their singing.

He had family. Until…

Tyler came out of the Feed Store. A big man was pawing at Becky perched on the seat of their wagon. He could see on her face she was scared. She wasn’t backing down though- she was telling the big man that she was married. She was telling him that he had better leave her alone. That if he wanted those kinds of favors, there was brothel above the Saloon. But the big man wanted her.

Tyler never had a chance. Neither did Becky.

Word got out to the Quiet Man running a small herd twenty miles away. The Foreman let him go- and wished him luck. Thinking he was going to lose the best hand he had ever had. For when the Quiet Man got the news, he asked who did it. The rider simply said: Hammerin Hank Harper. That didn’t stop the Quiet man from mounting up. But it got a grunt from the Foreman and the rest of the Cowboys. The Quiet Man was riding to his doom.

Becky was barely able to move when the Quiet Man got to her side. She couldn’t talk. Her jaw was busted in four places. A tear leaked from her only good eye. The Quiet Man couldn’t even hold her hands. Both of them had been broken in her valiant but futile attempt to stop the inevitable. Her gentle hands were no match for the rock hard head and steel jaw of Hammer Hank Harper.

Tyler was dead from just the one punch. A punch he never expected. Probably never even felt. He might have put up a fight, if he had been ready, or had much experience with bad men. He had neither. A part of his mind couldn’t believe how fast that big man turned when Tyler put a strong, but gentle hand on his shoulder and said: “Leave my wife alone.”

Those were Tyler’s last words. And luckily he never heard the screams and words of his wife , as she struggled under a body to strong, to heavy, and to filled with passion to be denied. But she fought. Hard. So hard that Hammerin Hank Harper had to slap her a couple of times, breaking her jaw and teeth with each ham fisted slap. She broke her own hands as she repeatedly hit is head and face with her hands. Hands meant to nurture, careers, and care. They made lousy weapons.

He had his way with her. And then threw her away. Only when Hammerin Hank Harper went into the Hotel to rest up for his first challenge of the evening, did the good people of Sweetwater venture out to the wagon. They lifted Tyler’s body onto the backboard. Then put Becky’s still breathing body next it. Reverend Kelly, and his wife took the wagon and its sad contents back out to the ranch. Little Red, Sparky, and Old Tom, the three Ranch Hands at Tyler’s little spread took over. Little Red is the one that lit out on a horse to find the Quiet Man.

For three days the Quiet Man sat at his sister’s side. He let Nelly, the Reverend’s wife, tend to the womanly needs of his sister’s battered, bruised, beaten body. He took care of everything else. He cooked. He kept the ranch running. He buried Tyler - propper like. He combed his sister’s hair, like he did when they were kids. And he talked to her. A lot.

He kept trying to get some life back into her eyes. He brought up every good memory he could. He told her stories about their Mom - a woman that didn’t live long enough to know Becky, or Becky her. Those stories used to make Becky smile and laugh. He told her she had to live. That Tyler would want her to stay strong. He told her he needed her.

He talked more in those three days than he had talked in his entire life. And then some. He hoped she could hear him. But the light never came back in her eyes. Or eye. For only the one eye worked, and it was alway full of a tear. Until that night. Her eye went flat. Lifeless. A moment later so did her body.

The Quiet Man built her box, while the ranch hands dug a whole next to Tyler’s grave. The Reverend and his wife, the three Cowboys, and the Quiet Man filled in the dirt without a sound. The Reverend put his hand on the Quiet Man’s shoulder.

“What are you going to do now?”

The Quiet Man said nothing. He just looked at the Reverend, who stepped back at the flatness in the Quiet Man’s Eyes. As the Quiet Man rode off to town, the Reverend told his wife and the three Cowboys to mount up.

‘I just saw the Devil. We have to follow.”

Hammerin Hank Harper was warming up. He had already beaten two would be “winners” in less than twenty seconds. He didn’t even have to take his shirt off, or dirty his boots. Those two dirt suckers had been pulled out before he could stomp them. That was okay with Hammerin Hank Harper- for they didn’t even land a punch, so why would they deserve a stomping?

He did have a light sweat covering his body with a silvery sheen; making him look like some God had stepped out of the river: dripping, deadly, magnificent. Women looked at that body with open invitation, men looked with envy, and more than a little fear. It made Hammerin Hank Harper preen.

The door to the Saloon opened. The Quiet Man stood there. Eyes flatter than the darkest night up on the Mesa. A coldness filled the room. Everyone there felt it. Even Hammerin Hank Harper. Whatever that man in the doorway brought with him, it was heavy. It was dark. It was destiny. And it weighed in the air like the wet air before a tornado. Brooding. Expanding. Poised.

No one breathed. No one moved. Except Hammerin Hank Harper - who turned to look at the Quiet Man. Not an ounce of fear in either. Hammerin Hank Harper merely raised one eyebrow in a curious gesture. The Quiet Man said one word:

“Becky.”

Hammerin Hank Harper uttered in genuine surprise what was to be his last words:

“Becky who?”

The Quiet Man didn’t move. Everyone there that night swore to it on a stack of bibles. One minute he was standing in the door of the Saloon. The next moment he was standing in front of Hammerin Hank Harper. The Quiet Man’s open hand slapped Hammerin Hank Harper on the side of his face. That first slap did three things in a row:

It dislocated the square iron jaw of Hammerin Hank Harper.

It sent teeth and blood, and Hank- flying a good six feet down the bar with out Hank’s boot touching the floor once.

It brought fear, for the first time in Hammerin Hank’s Life, to the surface.

Hank had barely regained his balance, as his body coiled with anger to strike back, when the second slap landed. This time on the other side of Hank’s face. And just like the first slap, it did three things:

It unhinged the square iron jaw of Hammerin Hank Harper.

It sent teeth, blood, and Hank- flying a good six feet down the bar- in the opposite direction, without Hank’s boots touching the floor once.

Hank had barely enough time to turn back towards the Quiet Man when the third slap landed. Then the fourth. And a fifth. By then Hank’s mind had shifted from fear to terror. This creature that was attacking him, seemed hell bent on slapping him to death.

A few minutes later, and Hammerin Hank Harper (who still hadn’t landed a punch, because he hadn’t shown any) realized that he was being slapped like one of the girls he liked to take from their puny husbands. Just like those women, he just wanted it to end. But it didn’t.

Hank felt the cold water, the burning of liquor going down his throat. He sputtered, threw his arms out to get his balance, only to be surpassed by the fact that he wasn’t standing. He was laying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood, a smattering of teeth, and even a few shards of bone. It was hard for him to see, since everything seemed to be bleary - and there were two of everything.

He watched in slow motion as the Quiet Man came into focus. Hammerin Hank Harper could only watch in awe as the Quiet Man lifted him in one smooth arc from the floor to his full height. The Quiet man didn’t stop there. His arm continued to lift Hammering Hank clear of the ground, then up almost eight feet into the air.

It was the most impressive display of strength that Hammerin Hank Harper had ever seen. For the Quiet Man had lifted him with no more effort than Hammerin Hank would have used to lift a horseshoe. It was only then that Hammerin Hank Harper saw the fist coming up from belt high towards his ribs. A moment ago he thought he had seen the most impressive display of strength he had ever seen, well…now he felt it.

The punch landed like a cannonball. Exploding half of Hammerin Hank’s ribcage like a busted melon. He could feel his innards burst, a rush of blood, snot and air flew out of his nose and mouth. Pointy ends of broken ribs sawed through the side of those coiled muscles Hank used to be so proud of. The pain was incredible. It hurt as bad as the realization that Hammerin Hank Harper was helpless to stop the next blow, or the next. He felt things move and shift under his skin, bones pounded to powder, organs popping like so many pig bladders, air leaking not from his mouth and nose, but wheezing out gaping wounds in the sides of his chest, and the small of his back.

And still the blows came. And came. And came.

Then the first of his arm bones broke,then another. Another. Still the Quiet Man wouldn’t let him fall. Holding Hank upright with one arm of Iron, the other fist of Iron was wreaking its fury on any remaining unbroken stubborn bones. Hammerin Hank Harper had ceased making any Human sounding cries minutes ago, or maybe it was hours. Hank had no conception of Time anymore. Just pain, agony and a constant prayer to make it all stop.

Hank didn’t think he could feel any more pain, or scream any louder. He was wrong. Because just then the Quiet Man broke the first of his leg bones. Hank had heard that the most painful injury a man could have , was a broken femur. Now he knew that was true- twice. No longer capable of making any human sounds or thoughts, Hammerin Hank Harper was reduced to animal sounds: grunts, shrieks, howls… and still the Quiet man vented controlled fury on the rubbery water filled sack in front of him. A sack that used to be Human, or similar to one.

No one who was there That Night, would ever forget. How could they? When the Quiet Man stopped- finally. The only part of Hammerin Hank Harper that resembled any part of a Human Being, was his boots. When the Doctor was called, to make an official ruling. He simply stared at the goo on the floor and asked:

“What is that?”

The Quiet Man rode back to the Ranch. He knelt next to his Sister’s grave. A week later he toppled over. They buried him next to his Sister and Tyler.

Stories are still told about That Night.

Around campfires all over the West, bad men take pause, knowing the Quiet Man might come back. Good men wish he would.

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