Itchy Mitch and the Taming of Broken Jaw Junction

by Duane L. Ostler

  Chapter 3 - How Itchy Mitch Handled Big Tom and the Knife Man

 

  Three whole weeks had passed since the famous showdown between Itchy Mitch and Bad Bart. During that time, news of what had happened spread across the western states just like manure through Mitch’s new garden in front of the sheriff’s office. Already, half a dozen young bucks, wanting to make a name for themselves, had called Mitch’s bluff and tried to outdraw him, and all of them had ended up in jail with an itchy hand.

  Now when trouble started at the saloon or elsewhere in town, someone would just shout, “Itchy Mitch is comin’!” and the trouble would immediately stop, even if Mitch knew nothing about it and was miles away. Broken Jaw Junction hadn’t seen so much peacefulness since before gold was found, and the mayor and council members were ecstatic (and richer too, since even more gold seekers were flowing into town, now that it was safe).

  But not everyone was happy that Mitch had brought law and order to town. The horse salesman no longer had a new sheriff every few days to sell a horse to, and—to his horror—realized he would have to start working for a living. The undertaker had lost so much business, he had to go door to door selling pencils. But the most unhappy person in town was the owner of the saloon, since he knew it was only a matter of time until Mitch found out he was using false roulette tables and trick cards to swindle the gold miners out of their hard earned money.

  And so, one afternoon the undertaker, horse salesman and saloon owner got together just like the mayor and councilmen had a month before. Only this time they were trying to think of a way to get rid of Mitch so Broken Jaw Junction could go back to the lawless, bloodbath they enjoyed.

  “So, what are we gonna do?” asked the saloon owner grumpily. “I’m already losing business, since the miners think Itchy Mitch is going to clean out the saloon any day now, and so they’ve stopped gambling until he does.”

  “You’re losing business?!” exclaimed the undertaker. “What about me? I haven’t buried anyone in twenty-one days!”

  “What we’ve got to do,” said the horse salesman as he spat a chew of tobacco out of the corner of his mouth, “is figure out how you can knock off Itchy Mitch—and fast!”

  There were general nods of agreement from the group.

  “But how?” said the saloon owner. “He’s already outgunned Bad Bart and half a dozen upstart kids.”

  “How about sending for ‘Mean Mo?’” asked the undertaker. “Wasn’t he the one that taught Bad Bart how to draw?”

  “No good,” replied the saloon owner with a sigh. “I sent him a telegram the day Mitch shot Bad Bart, telling him to come a runnin’ and protect the reputation of one of his students. I got a reply the next week saying that he was retired, and that he didn’t like poison ivy.”

  Several in the group shook their heads sadly. If Mean Mo wouldn’t try to face Itchy Mitch, there was little hope of finding someone who would.

  “It’s too bad there isn’t a way to get rid of Itchy Mitch, without using a gun,” said the undertaker absently.

  A sudden light glinted in the saloon owner’s eyes. “That’s it!” he suddenly cried, jumping up in excitement. “Why didn’t I think of it before?!”

  “What are you yellin’ about?” asked the horse salesman.

  “Remember how Mitch refused to draw first on Bad Bart? Well, if we could get someone who wouldn’t draw first on Sheriff Mitch, then he wouldn’t draw his gun on them! And if they could get rid of Mitch some other way, we’d have it made! After all, guns aren’t the only language people listen to here in the west.” The saloon owner smirked gleefully. “In fact, gunfighters aren’t the only ones with mean reputations. I know just who we need …”

  “You don’t mean—“ gasped the undertaker.

  “Yep,” replied the saloon owner smugly. “I’m gonna send for Big Tom!”

  Now it should be known that in all the state of Nevada, there wasn’t anyone bigger or meaner than Big Tom. He was so blackhearted he scared rattlesnakes just by looking at them. And he was so big there wasn’t a house in the state he could get into without stooping, or a piece of furniture he couldn’t break just by sitting on it.

  But that’s not all. Big Tom had the reputation of being the toughest, most brutal fist fighter in all the west. It was said that once he took on twenty men at once in a fight, and they all ended up either in boot hill or the hospital, while Big Tom walked away with hardly a scratch. So it was no wonder that the saloon keeper and his buddies were delighted when they got a telegram from Big Tom saying that he accepted their invitation to rid their town of its annoying sheriff, and that he would be in town to do the job in three days.

  The news spread like wildfire. In no time, everyone was talking about how Itchy Mitch was going to be beat up so bad even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him. And just like before, Cousin Elias was planning to head out for Soda Jerk Springs without delay to save his skin.

  “C’mon, Mitch,” he said while packing his bags in the sheriff’s office, the day before Big Tom was to arrive. “If’n we high tail it right now, we might be able to make Soda Jerk Springs before sundown.”

  “I can’t leave,” replied Mitch calmly, as he filled a pitcher of water to take out to his tomato plants. “I have accepted the public trust, and must fulfill my duty.”

  “Are you nuts?!” cried Elias. “Big Tom will tear you limb from limb the minute he arrives! They say he knocked down a whole saloon with his bare hands once when he thought they had cheated him at cards. You don’t stand a chance!”

  “Nevertheless, I must stay and fulfill my duty,” replied Mitch. “Besides, who would look after my carrots if I left?”

  “How can you think of your silly garden at a time like this!” cried Elias. Then as Mitch glared at him, Elias said in embarrassment, “uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to say your garden was silly. Just, uh … you know … a distraction in a time of crisis.”

  Mitch raised an eyebrow. “I would hardly call aphids a distraction,” he replied seriously.

  Elias sighed. Getting through to Mitch was like trying to tell a river to start flowing backwards. “Look,” he pleaded, “promise me this. When Big Tom comes at you, shoot him with some itching pellets. That should stop him, at least for awhile.”

  Mitch looked horrified. “I can’t shoot someone who hasn’t threatened me with a gun! My pistol is a weapon of last resort. No,” he said calmly, “I’m sure this Big Tom fellow is probably quite reasonable, and if I talk to him for a bit, he will probably desist from assaulting me.”

  Elias shook his head in defeat. “Well,” he replied glumly, “It’s your funeral. As for me, I think I’ll pack up and head for Soda Jerk Springs. Drat it all! And I haven’t yet found any gold!” And with that he went back to packing.

  Just after sundown a few hours later, Cousin Elias took off for Soda Jerk Springs. He was grumbling and grumpy and would stop every once in a while and turn to shake his fist in the direction of Broken Jaw Junction. He was nearly two miles out of town when he suddenly stopped, looked up at the starry sky, and slapped his hand on his forehead. With a sudden smile spreading over his face, he said, “what in the sam hill am I thinking?” Then he turned and headed quickly back to town.

  The next day, the whole town was buzzing with excitement about the upcoming fight. In fact everyone was making bets on it—not about who would win, but about how many seconds it would take Big Tom to flatten Itchy Mitch.

  Once again, Main Street was lined with spectators, as if for a parade. The bets were flying fast, and the popcorn salesman had already sold out. The undertaker was happily whistling in his mortuary. He already had Mitch’s coffin ready.

  Around ten in the morning, a dust cloud was seen approaching town. Soon people could see a team of four horses pulling an enormous wagon, which was completely filled with the bulking frame of Big Tom. In a cloud of dust he stopped in front of the saloon. Wi
th one step he was inside (stooping to get in through the door, of course), and then he bellowed in a voice that was probably soft for him, but which was heard throughout the entire town, “Where’s the polecat saloon keeper that sent for me? He better have a drink ready!!”

  Slick as a whistle the saloon keeper appeared. He gave Big Tom not a glass, but a whole barrel of something to drink, then invited him to try his hand at roulette or cards before tearing the sheriff limb from limb (of course, for Big Tom, the saloon keeper wouldn’t think of using trick cards or a rigged roulette table).

  “No time for little stuff like that,” bellowed Big Tom. “Gotta get back and finish breakin’ a canyon through the solid rock hills above my house, so the horses on my ranch can get some drinking water.” Then, after swallowing his barrel drink in one gulp he ducked back through the door onto the street.

  In three steps, Big Tom strode from the saloon to the sheriff’s office. “Sheriff Mitch!” he cried so loudly that he scared away an approaching thundercloud. “Come on out and let’s fight!”

  There was a moment of breathless silence. Once again, people wondered if Mitch had slipped out the back way. But suddenly there he was, stepping calmly out of his office. And to the delight of the saloon keeper, undertaker, and other ruffians in town, he was not wearing a gun!

  Mitch stopped a few paces in front of Big Tom. “Did you call for me?” he asked quietly.

  “Sure did,” replied Big Tom in a surly tone, with a nasty smirk on his face. Then he added, “my golly, you’re a disappointment. I was hoping you’d be some big tough feller that would take me a whole minute to whup. But you’re nothin’ but a scrawny little runt, the size of table scraps!”

  Although most men would have gone red with anger at such words, Mitch didn’t even bat an eyelash. “What is it you want with me?” he asked simply.

  “What do I want?!” bellowed Big Tom. “Why, I want to tie your arms in knots! I want to knock your knees together until they rattle! I want to twist your ears ‘till they’re shaped like tulips!”

  “Why?” said Mitch simply. “I haven’t done anything to you. I’m not trying to arrest you, because so far I am not aware that you’ve broken any laws.”

  Big Tom flushed red. “Haven’t you got any sense?” he yelled. “I like to fight! I like to beat up sheriffs!”

  Mitch turned to go back into his office. “Well, go do it somewhere else,” he replied with a yawn.

  Now, in all his born days, no one had ever turned their back on Big Tom. His skin turned redder than an overripe tomato. With a cry of “NO ONE TURNS THEIR BACK ON ME!” he vaulted over the fence Mitch had put up around his new garden and blocked Mitch’s path. And as it turned out, that was the biggest mistake he ever made.

  The instant Mitch turned around, his face went white as a sheet. A few strangled noises came out of his throat as if he couldn’t speak. Steam seemed to come out of his ears.

  Big Tom guffawed. “What’s the matter, sheriff? Are ya skeered?”

  With a tremendous effort, Mitch said in a voice that sounded like granite, “you’re standing on my watermelon plant!”

  In surprise, Big Tom looked down at his feet. Sure enough, his massive shoes were right over a watermelon plant, smashing it right into the ground. Big Tom smiled a wicked smile. Then, he dug his heel into the dirt, crushing the plant to smithereens. “Well, isn’t that too bad,” he said gleefully.

  Those were the last words Big Tom uttered that month. Quicker than lightning, Mitch sprung toward Big Tom and began thrashing him up one side and down the other. His fists flew so fast they looked like a dust cloud in summer. Big Tom didn’t have time to even so much as raise his hand before he found himself lying face down in the dirt, completely black and blue, and quickly losing consciousness. In fifteen seconds flat, Mitch had whupped Big Tom!

  The fight (if you can call it that) was over. Mitch stood quietly next to the beaten and bruised hulk of Big Tom, breathing heavily from his exertion. Then, to the amazement of all, he lifted the massive hulk of Big Tom right off the ground (where he had fallen on Mitch’s potato plants) and heaved him out into the street. It felt like a small earthquake when he hit. Then Mitch turned, paying no more attention to the brute, and quickly began trying to revive his crushed plants.

  It took almost two minutes before most of the townspeople could comprehend what they had just seen. Then the street was abuzz just like it had been when Mitch outdrew Bad Bart. ‘Did you see that?!’ everyone was saying. ‘Mitch beat up Big Tom, the biggest, meanest fist fighter of them all!! Can you believe it?!’ But when they tried to talk with Mitch about it, he paid no attention. He was too busy with his wounded plants.

  Suddenly, at the edge of the crowd, some people spied Mitch’s Cousin Elias. He was holding several pieces of paper in his hands. In a calm voice he announced, “will all those people who bet me that Mitch would lose kindly pay up!”

  People swarmed around Elias, peppering him with questions. “How did he do that?” they asked. “Does he have superhuman strength? How could he beat up someone so fast?”

  Once again, Cousin Elias was enjoying himself as if he was the one that had beat up Big Tom. “Well,” he said dryly, trying to draw out the anticipation as long as he could, “I remembered something last night, something that happened about a year ago. Mitch had the most wonderful watermelon patch in West Virginia. He was more proud of those watermelons than a mother coon is of her newborn cubs. Then one day, a dozen ruffians broke through his garden gate and started helping themselves to his melons without asking! Boy, was Mitch mad! He lit into them like a hornet and laid ‘em all moaning in the dirt in less time than it takes to say ‘scat!’ And then he walked away without even a bruise!”

  And then, with emphasis, Elias added, “if’n you want to live ‘till tomorrow, never, never, NEVER mess with Mitch’s garden!”

  The next day, the saloon keeper, undertaker and horse salesman got together again to talk about what had happened and what to do next. The saloon keeper was fuming. It had cost him a bundle to doctor up Big Tom and send him on his way, and he had also lost a bundle in bets to Cousin Elias, who was the only one in town who had bet that Mitch would win (at very large odds). More than ever, the saloon keeper was determined to do something—anything—to get Mitch out of town.

  “I’ve got a plan,” he told them all through clenched teeth. “Itchy Mitch may be fast as lighting with a gun, and may be able to beat up a big galoot like Big Tom if he’s dumb enough to step on his watermelon plant, but there’s one scoundrel in the west who doesn’t use guns or fists, and that no one can beat! He’s meaner than Bad Bart or Big Tom. I’ve sent him a telegram, and he’s on his way. He’ll be here tomorrow!”

  The undertaker’s eyes grew big. “Surely, you don’t mean—“

  “Yep,” said the saloon owner with grim satisfaction. “I’ve sent for the knife man!”

  Now, it’s a sad fact that in the entire west there was no one more feared than the knife man. He got his name and fame because of his skill with a bowie knife. He could carve up a dozen enemies with his knife quicker than you could wink, and that’s just what he loved to do. One time he’d even faced an entire fort full of soldiers, and whittled it down to a handful of toothpicks before their very eyes (then they all took off running). No doubt about it, Bad Bart and Big Tom were pussycats when compared to the knife man.

  And so, the town was again buzzing with excitement. What a fight this would be! Mitch didn’t stand a chance this time. Fast draws and fists would do him no good here. There was no doubt what the outcome would be when Mitch met the knife man. Once again, Cousin Elias pleaded with Mitch to get out of town to save his skin.

  “C’mon, Mitch,” he said outside the sheriff’s office the night before the knife man was to arrive. “There’s still time to save your skin from being peeled off. Let’s high tail it out of here.”

  “What for?” rep
lied Mitch calmly, as he replaced the bandage on one of his half-crushed watermelon plants. “This ‘knife man’ hasn’t broken any laws that I am aware of. I can’t just leave because he supposedly is going to use a knife against me.”

  “Supposedly?!” cried Cousin Elias. “There isn’t any question he’s gonna use the knife! That’s what they hired him to come here and do! You’ve got to get out of town while there’s still time! Or at least promise you’ll use a gun against him!”

  “Nope,” replied Mitch simply. “If this fellow wants to cause trouble with a knife, then I guess I’ll have to take him in. But I won’t use my gun if he’s not going to use one.”

  Elias shook his head, then picked up his pack and headed for the street. “Well, I guess I’ll read your obituary in Soda Jerk Springs. Good-bye.” And then he was gone.

  Elias had walked over an hour along the dusty desert road, muttering about how he still hadn’t been able to find any gold when he suddenly stopped, looked up at the copper sky, and then yelled loudly, “what in tarnation am I doing?!” Then he turned and headed quickly back to town.

  By the next day, everyone in town was so excited about the big fight that they actually had built wooden seats in a circle around the sheriff’s office so they could watch the show. The undertaker was so happy that he carved little flowers all over Mitch’s coffin, and the saloon keeper was so giddy, he actually gave free drinks to everyone the whole hour before the knife man arrived in town. And once again, the bets were flying about how long it would take for the knife man to get rid of Mitch.

  When the knife man arrived, he didn’t waste any time. He went straight to the sheriff’s office (where a large, breathless crowd waited), and said in a soft, deathly voice, “Sheriff, come on out! You’re gonna be the subject of a pumpkin carving!”

  Everyone watched excitedly. The popcorn salesman was busy again (he was becoming one of the richest men in town), along with a dozen others who were selling everything from pretzels to lemonade.

  There was deathly silence (except for the shouts of the salesmen offering their products) as Mitch came out of his office and faced the knife man. The two were still as statues, staring at each other. Finally Sheriff Mitch spoke.

  “Did you call for me?” he asked blandly.

  “Sure did,” said the knife man in an icy voice. “I hear you’ve been subjecting the people of this fair town to too much law and order. I’m here to correct that problem.” Then he pulled out his bowie knife and in two seconds flat carved a statute of a scared looking sheriff out of the hitching post in front of Mitch’s office.

  Mitch didn’t say a word or bat an eyelash for two whole minutes. When he finally spoke, people were amazed that he sounded quite relaxed and cheerful. “Well,” yawned Mitch, “if you’re going to carve me up, it’d be a shame to do it on an empty stomach. How about some lunch first? I’ve got some fresh vegetables!”

  The knife man was so surprised he nearly dropped his knife. “Lunch?” he repeated stupidly. “You’re going to give me vegetables before I carve you up?”

  “Yep,” replied Mitch with a smile. “My garden just got planted, so I’m afraid there’s nothing ripe out of it yet that I can give you. But I just got some fresh lettuce, tomatoes and baby carrots as a gift from the widow Holbrook down the street—and they look delicious! So how about some fresh salad?”

  Without a word, Mitch disappeared into his office, leaving the knife man gawking at him in amazement. In a moment he reappeared with a large salad bowl, a cutting knife and the vegetables. He set the bowl down on the path next to his new garden, then gripped the knife firmly and tossed a head of lettuce in the air.

  What happened next was truly amazing. Before the head of lettuce had fallen more than two inches Mitch slashed his knife through the air at the speed of lightning, neatly slicing the lettuce into hundreds of pieces which fell gently into the bowl below. After slicing several more heads of lettuce this way, Mitch tossed a tomato in the air, and quick as a wink had sliced it into dozens of tiny, tasty looking pieces which fell in a perfect circle around the outer edge of the bowl. In no time flat, he had chopped up the whole salad, never once touching the bowl or its contents, but always slicing everything in the air with incredibly quick, deft slashes of his knife.

  The knife man had turned more white than an albino rattlesnake. Never in all his born days had he seen a display of knife work like that—not even by himself. He gulped and carefully put his bowie knife back into its scabbard. The townspeople waited in breathless silence, not knowing what would happen next.

  Meanwhile, Mitch had disappeared into his office again, and when he came out he was carrying two bowls and two forks. He quickly filled both bowls, popped a fork in each, and stepped up to the knife man, handing him one. “Here you are,” he said cheerfully. “Sorry I don’t have any salad dressing. The General store doesn’t sell any for some reason, but I’ve got some on special order!” Then Mitch sat down on the step of the sheriff’s office and began to eat.

  For a moment no one moved. They were all staring at the knife man, wondering what he was going to do. Finally he gripped his fork securely, jabbed it into the salad, and raised it to his mouth. He grimaced as he took a mouthful of salad, but he didn’t stop chewing. He probably hadn’t eaten a fresh salad since his mama made him eat one as a kid, but that day he ate every bite (making funny faces the whole time) out of respect for Sheriff Mitch. When he was done he set the bowl down, said “thanks” to Itchy Mitch—who simply nodded in return—and then headed down the street and out of town.

  The saloon keeper ran after him, hopping mad. “What in the blazes are you a doing?” he demanded. “Aren’t you gonna carve Mitch up like you promised?”

  “Are you nuts?!” replied the knife man. “I’ve never seen anybody handle a knife like that, not even the injuns! I wouldn’t stand a chance!”

  “But what about your reputation?” exclaimed the saloon keeper desperately. “You’ve got to at least try!”

  The knife man shrugged his shoulders but kept walking. “I’d rather keep my skin than my reputation,” he said simply. And then he was gone.

  The whole town was buzzing again about how Mitch had outdone the knife man simply by making a salad. It was just as unbelievable as when he outdrew Bad Bart and beat up Big Tom. But he still wouldn’t answer any of their questions.

  Then some folks spotted Cousin Elias at the edge of the crowd. Once again, he was holding up some betting slips.

  “Will all those who bet that the knife man would beat Mitch kindly pay up?” he said. The people swarmed around him, peppering him with questions. For the third time, Elias smiled and paused dramatically, enjoying the excitement as if he had beat the knife man himself.

  “Well, it’s this way,” he drawled happily. “I remembered yesterday the many times I would go visit Mitch back in West Virginia, and watch as he sliced up vegetables from his garden. He would always slice them up quick as lightning. That’s when I realized that nobody could be quicker or better with a knife than him. Now, will those who placed bets with me kindly pay up?”

  And that is how Itchy Mitch faced down Big Tom and the knife man, and made history once again. And that is also how the saloon keeper nearly went bankrupt (from paying off all his bets with Cousin Elias, who was now quite rich), and how he and the other mean characters in town finally realized there was no way they were going to drive Itchy Mitch out of Broken Jaw Junction.