The Twit.(Kevin Hughes) He was a small man. In stature. Five foot four with his boots on. Built like a small swimmer or featherweight boxer. Supple not bulky or heavily muscled. With his shirt off he looked like coiled wire. The scars and bullet holes added contour to the slate like edges of his ribs. They called him: “The Twit.”

*****

Six foot three inches of raw cattle drive cowboy muscle stood stock still. He was in shock. He had just reached to take the bottle of whiskey from in front of the rather puny looking looking man. The man -If he was a man- had snatched it back with a movement so quick and subtle, the muscled cowboy wasn’t even sure he saw the guy move.

“Get your own bottle. I paid for this one.”

He was built like a boy just entering puberty who hadn’t gotten his growth yet. Slender with square shoulders and narrow hips…but soaking wet the boy/man couldn’t have weighed more than one hundred and twenty pounds. And that would be generous. The lump of hard edged trail hardened muscle and bone thought he would have some fun…and get his whiskey bottle back.

He reached to jerk the much smaller man off his feet. He never met a man who he couldn’t beat bare fisted. He would just throw this little tenderfoot up against the wall…and take his bottle of whiskey. He smiled as his hand shot out to grab the leather vest the little varmint was wearing. His hand never got there. He felt his feet leave the ground, and then it was him, a giant heap of muscled cowboy - that hit the wall hard enough to knock out his wind. He wiped his nose as he got up…he looked down. It was blood. That did it. Reason gave way to rage. He balled his fists…and then he heard a voice:

“I’d stop there If’n I was you boy. That there tumbleweed you are picking a fight with is the Twit. “

Rage cooled. Reason rose up in the silence that fell over the men in the Saloon. The Cowboy’s brain went into overdrive. He had ridden into town once after a brutal drive down from Montana. He had gone in the Saloon for just a drink or two before heading out to camp with supplies. He got to the Saloon just after the fight. A fight he didn’t see.

But he remembered.

The floor was covered with blood. A man…if that is what it was…was sprawled out in a giant puddle of inner organs, busted teeth, and broken bones. Not quite dead, but it wouldn’t be long. A circle of men stared down at the bloody pulp. Including the fresh from the range Cowboy.

“What the hell happened to him?”

“Him? Well, he tried to take a bottle of Whiskey from the Twit.”

“The Twit? Are you joshing me?”

The man pointed at the carnage (still whimpering his last sounds) :

“Does that look like somebody was joshing you?”

“You mean there is a man they call “the Twit.”

The man pointed to the corpse (his wheezing had stopped during their short conversation)

“Not to his face, No sir. Not nobody in their right mind would do that. But we all know who you are talking about when you talk story about “The Twit.”
He has killed more then fifty men - and half he kilt with just his fists and a small knife. Like this fella (tapping the corpse with his boot). You ever run up against the little runt… back away or apologize. Lessen you want to go to see your Maker real bad. “

He looked over at the little man at the bar. He cleared his throat. For the first time in his life…he was scared. For the second time in his life, he was going to apologize to another man.

“Uh…uh…Sir, I am sorry. I was just filled with trail dust and in a mite of a hurry for a drink to wipe away the grit. You know.”

The slender man turned with a soft smile.

“Oh. I guess it was just a misunderstanding. Wash your face and join me for a drink.”

The six foot three bear of a man, wiped the blood from his face…put the rag down and went over to stand by the much smaller man.

“Thanky, mighty obliged. What do I call you?”

The small man smiled a very dangerous smile. One with many battles behind it.

“The names Mark. But you can call me Twit…most folk do.”

The Big man thought back to the scene in that old rackety saloon a few months back.

“I shall call you Mark.”

The Twit smiled. He had made a friend.

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