"Catfight at the No-Pay Saloon" by Preston Lewis

CLYDE DENBY SLAMMED his fist on the table, rattling the jiggers of whiskey he was sharing with Solon Turner and drawing a sudden hush from the Saturday afternoon crowd in the No Pay Saloon. As the patrons braced for a brawl, Clyde leaned across the felt-topped table, jabbed his trigger finger at Turner and scowled.

“We’ve been friends too long to get drawn into this feud, Solon.”

Turner banged his fist on the tabletop, then nodded as he tugged on the mustache that curled like hawk wings above his lip. “Agreed. I’m tired of riding into town every Saturday, braced for a Main Street showdown.”

Denby slapped the green felt again. “I’m fed up with making excuses just to share a drink with my best pal.” He yanked off his sweat-ringed hat, plopped it on the tabletop, and ran his fingers through his sun-bleached hair. “How long have we been friends?”

Before Solon could answer, bartender Stubby Dawes sidled up to the table, polishing a beer mug with the grimy hem of his soiled bib apron. “I know you boys ain’t feuding, but the rest of my customers aren’t so sure.”

The two friends surveyed the nervous onlookers. “This feud’s none of your affair, gentlemen,” Clyde growled, then added with measured menace, “unless you keep gawking at us.”

“Mind your own business unless you want free drinks,” Solon added. “You know Stubby’s rules. Get killed in his saloon, and you don’t pay for your drinks.” He pointed to the hand-painted notice on the wall stating the policy. “Ain’t that right, Stubby?”

“Not a soul’s ever taken me up on that offer,” Stubby said deadpan. “Now the rest of you get back to your liquor and your smokes. Clyde and Solon are lifelong friends here in Menard County. They ain’t a threat to anybody.”

The others returned to their conversations, their cards, and their drinks, not caring to test the bartender’s no-pay policy.

Stubby leaned toward them and lowered his voice. “Nobody’s got anything to fear, right, boys? I’ve heard rumblings of a dispute building between your families. Any truth to that?”

Clyde nodded. “Silliest feud in the history of Texas.”

Solon agreed. “It all started over a dang apron.”

“In church, no less,” Clyde added.

The bartender placed the now-sparkling mug on the table, dropped the hem of his apron, and plopped into a vacant chair between the two friends. Stubby tugged at the neck strap of his stained smock. “An apron like this dirty rag I’m wearing?”

Solon released an exasperated breath and grumbled, “No, it was a frilly waist apron Maude stitched on her sewing machine and trimmed in lace. She was so proud of her handiwork, she wore the apron to church just to show it off.”

Clyde winced, grabbed his hat and rolled the brim. “Then Beulah had to open her mouth and inform Maude it wasn’t appropriate to wear an apron to church. Maude’s response left her fuming.”

Reclaiming the narrative, Solon nodded. “Maude answered she brought it to cover her eyes if Beulah’s ugly face got to be too much to look at.”

“Beulah must’ve loved that.” Stubby smirked.

“She was ready to shoot the moon and cuss the stars,” Clyde said, “but settled on tongue-lashing Maude, telling her she looked like something the dog buried and the cat dug back up.”

Shrugging, Solon took up the story. “They started slinging insults at each other like they were in a contest to see who could be the least ladylike.”

Clyde released the grip on his hat brim. “Then the preacher stepped in and asked them to apologize. Said he knew they didn’t mean those harsh words.”

“My Maude refused. Answered, she was raised never to lie, especially in church. Besides that, she said Beulah had gotten even uglier since they started jawing. I grabbed her arm and escorted her outside before lightning struck us.”

“As the Turners left the church, Beulah yelled Maude looked like the south end of a northbound mule,” Clyde added. “Since that Sunday last month, all I’ve heard is Beulah calling my best friend’s wife a witch and other names that rhyme.”

Solon rolled his eyes. “Maude’s been claiming Beulah’s a jackass, minus the jack. She’s threatened me just for seeing Clyde, since he’s married to ‘that woman,’ as she calls Beulah. Tarnation, I’ve known Clyde longer than I’ve known Maude.”

Clyde puffed out his cheeks and exhaled a frustrated whistle. “Why’d we marry to begin with, Solon?”

His pal answered not with words, but with a sheepish smile.

“Besides that, Solon?”

Scratching his cheek, Solon pondered the other benefits of a wife. “Their cooking’s better than ours.” He turned to the bartender. “Any suggestions, Stubby?”

“Gents,” said Dawes, “you married ’em. I just serve the drinks you’ll need to survive ’em.”

“Then fetch us a bottle,” Clyde replied.

“Yeah, a big one” Solon added. “Whiskey bottles don’t talk back.”

Stubby shuffled to the bar, served two cowhands awaiting refills, then returned with an unlabeled flask of tangle-foot. “It’s the cheapest liquor I carry,” Dawes announced. “Didn’t figure your feuding wives were worth the expensive brands.”

“Beulah’s been too ornery to cuddle and too mean to cook since this started,” Clyde groused as he took and uncorked the bottle.

“We oughta give ’em pistols to settle matters,” Solon replied, lifting his jigger.

“Then who’d patch our pants and scrub our dishes?” Clyde shot back as he topped off his buddy’s jigger, then filled his own.

Dawes scratched his head. “You boys might be onto something.”

“How’s that, Stubby?” Solon asked.

“Let ’em fight it out.”

“With their strong venom and poor aim, they would kill half of Menard,” Clyde cautioned.

“Not guns—fists! Remember awhile back when you two got into it over who was gonna pay for drinks? You both insisted on covering the other’s whiskey and got so mad, you slugged it out. That’s when I started my no-pay policy and changed the name of the saloon. Business has never been better.”

Clyde shook his head. “They may hate each other, but they’d never fight it out.”

Solon agreed. “They’d rather gossip behind each other’s back and make us miserable.”

“Besides,” Clyde added, “they won’t show up if they know the other one’s gonna be here.”

Stubby crossed his arms. “You boys are no more eager to settle this than they are. If you don’t arrange a showdown, it’ll drive a wedge between the two of you.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Clyde said.

“But how’ll we do it?” Solon asked.

“And where?” Clyde asked.

Stubby’s lips twisted into a grin. “Right here in the No Pay Saloon.”

The two husbands burst out laughing.

“They’d never set foot in a drinking establishment,” Clyde said.

“Too many sermons at home about us even darkening your doorway, much less taking a Saturday afternoon drink or two in your den of iniquity.”

Stubby slapped the thighs of his soiled apron. “Then let your preacher referee the bout at church.”

“Preacher Charlie would croak at the thought,” Clyde said.

“Unless he could take up a collection.”

The bartender clapped his hands. “You two are smarter than you look.” He spun toward the crowd. “Boys, who’d pay a dime apiece to see a catfight between two mean, feuding women?”

A chorus of cheers, whistles, and stomps rocked the saloon, providing a boisterous affirmation of their interest.

Stubby turned back to Turner and Denby. “A forty-forty-twenty split of the profits. I’ll take twenty percent and give you each forty—if you get your women here.”

Clyde lowered his head, grabbed his hat, and twisted the brim again. “Beulah’s stubborn as a mule. Doubt I could ever drag her here.”

“Maude wouldn’t show up if she smelled Beulah anywhere nearby,” Solon added.

“They’d balk and bow their backs if they knew of any drinking,” Clyde observed.

“I’ll shut the bar down thirty minutes before they arrive and not resume until the fight’s over.”

Both husbands hesitated.

Stubby leaned in, eyes twinkling. “Sounds like Beulah and Maude wear the britches around your places. Are you men or apron-string husbands?”

Clyde growled, “You’re the one wearing an apron.”

“We’ll still need a reason to get ’em down here,” Solon grumbled.

“Tell ’em I’m offering a free steak to any woman that comes to the No Pay between six and seven o’clock Saturday evenings.”

“Maude’d sell her soul for a steak she didn’t have to cook,” Solon noted.

“Same with Beulah.”

Stubby poured them each another jigger. “Drink up and have ’em here by six o’clock.” He turned to his customers. “Boys, spread the word! There’ll be a catfight at the No Pay Saloon this evening at six o’clock. Admission is ten cents, but no drinking until after the fight. Bring all your pals. Maybe we can loosen the apron-strings around these fellows’ necks before they tighten into nooses.”

By the time Clyde and Solon downed their last sips of liquor and strode outside, the crowd buzzed with anticipation. After the others departed to deliver news of the impending catfight, Stubby Dawes ducked out for a few minutes to run to the butcher’s shop and purchase a thick slab of steak that he left raw on a platter in the middle of his bar beside two filthy aprons he retrieved from the back. After that, he moved tables and chairs to the walls, clearing a space for the upcoming brawl. Thirty minutes ahead of the scheduled showdown, patrons trickled back in, paying their dime and positioning themselves for the best view. Out of respect for the female fighters, Dawes prohibited smoking until after the bout was called. The noise grew with the excitement, and by six o’clock, a hundred and thirty-eight men had squeezed inside to watch the fun.

That amounted to thirteen dollars and eighty cents by Stubby’s calculation.

Five minutes past the hour, the crowd fell silent as Maude entered on the arm of Solon Turner. She looked confused as her eyes took in the packed room, then surprised when the men cheered her.

“What’s this about?” she asked her husband.

“You’ll see.”

“Where’s my steak?”

Solon steered her toward Stubby. “She wants to see her steak.”

Stubby jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the counter. “On the bar.”

Maude stepped past the bartender, stared down at the platter for a moment, then glared at her spouse. “It’s not even cooked.”

Solon shrugged. “I promised a steak. Never said it’d be cooked.”

His wife fumed, studied the slab of uncooked meat, then looked at the backbar mirror, just as the crowd hushed and Beulah Denby walked in beside her husband. Maude scowled as the men gave her adversary a rousing cheer.

As perplexed as a drunk at a temperance meeting, Beulah stood confused for a moment, then grinned at the men’s cheers. Her smile crashed into a frown as soon as her gaze caught sight of Maude by the bar. Beulah spun around to leave, but Clyde grabbed her arm. She yanked it from him and started for the door until the spectators closed their circle, blocking her exit.

“What is this about?” she snapped at her husband.

“It’s time you and Maude got past your differences,” Clyde demanded. “You can kiss and make up like little kids or settle it like men.”

“Same goes for me,” Solon informed Maude. “The feud ends here between you two. Like Clyde said, either kiss and make up or settle it like men.”

Beulah stepped toward Maude, lifting her hand and jabbing her index finger at her enemy’s nose. “I’d smooch the wrong end of a jackass first.”

Maude charged for Beulah until Solon grabbed her arm.

“Then why don’t you go kiss that mirror behind the bar?” Maude spat.

The spectators laughed and whistled, then roared when Stubby Dawes stepped between them.

“Ladies,” he announced, “since you have refused to bury the hatchet except in each other’s back, we’ll settle this like men with raw fisticuffs.”

The two women looked from the bartender to each other, their eyes brimming with a mixture of hatred and doubt.

“Either of you packing a knife? Gun? Anything else that can be used as a weapons?”

Both shrugged and shook their heads.

A voice hollered, “I’ll frisk them just to be sure!”

The women’s searing scowls drove the volunteer back into the crowd as other patrons laughed or volunteered to help with the inspection.

“At the No Pay Saloon,” Stubby continued, “neither of you’ll have to pay for any purchases or any property you may damage in settling this dispute should you die while resolving your disagreements.”

Both women glanced nervously at their husbands, who grabbed their arms to keep them from retreating.

“Furthermore, there’ll be no eye-gouging, hair-pulling, scratching, clawing, or crying. Though fists are the preferred weapon, you may slap each other if you so desire. You can kick as long as you are both standing, but you cannot kick a downed opponent.”

The fear in the women’s eyes was seeping out, replaced by worry.

Stubby stepped to the bar and picked up the filthy bib aprons. “Wear these so the blood don’t stain your dresses.” He tossed an apron to each husband. Clyde and Solon hung the strap over their wives’ necks and then tied the bib strings behind their back as the bartender continued his instructions. “You’ll fight as long as it takes to settle this issue, either by death, by severe injury, by surrender, or by hugs if you agree to call it a draw and become friends again. Do you women understand?”

Both nodded, their eyes glazed with uncertainty.

Stubby pointed at two chairs on opposite sides of the room. “Take your corners and await your husband’s instructions while the boys place their bets.”

A wag in the crowd yelled, “I’m betting on the ugly one!”

Another spectator answered, “Which one’s that? They’re both ugly.”

Solon and Clyde offered advice to their now bewildered wives. Then Stubby shouted, “Let the festivities begin.”

The women stood warily in their corners until their husbands pushed them toward each other. They stumbled forward, then stopped within reach of one another, the men cheering, egging them on. The fighters just stood there, and the cheers turned to boos.

“Fight! Fight! Fight!” chanted the spectators.

Acting as referee, Dawes stepped between the two women. “The point of a fight is to hit your opponent. We don’t turn the other cheek in the No Pay Saloon.” He backed away.

Maude’s anger finally cracked. She cocked her right arm and slapped Beulah hard, leaving a red welt. “That’s for mocking my apron at church.”

Shocked by the attack, Beulah rubbed her cheek, then swatted back. “That’s for calling me ugly.”

For a brief instance, the two women glared. Then their rage erupted, their hands flailing at each other like windmill blades in a cyclone, mostly missing but occasionally thudding into flesh. The crowd whooped and hollered at the intensity, if not the accuracy, of their blows. Both women screamed and screeched as they fought. The spectators stomped the floor with so much enthusiasm that the wooden planks vibrated through the entire building. Maude and Beulah swung and missed, then swung and hit, their frustration at missing one another growing as their anger exhausted itself. In exasperation, both lunged for a hold, grabbing a handful of hair and trying to scalp one another until Stubby stepped in and separated them.

The two wives looked at their husbands.

“Settle it,” Clyde said.

“End it,” Solon said.

Clenching their jaws, both women pounced, throwing their fists. Most swings resulted in glancing blows until Maude landed one solidly on Beulah’s nose, staggering her as her snout spewed blood on the bib apron. Beulah’s watering eyes doused the anger simmering in them. As the men cheered at her solid connection, Maude glanced briefly at her husband, proud of her damage, but when she turned her attention back to her opponent, Beulah planted a ferocious hit to her left eye. Maude screamed and shouted an epithet she had never used in church, drawing chuckles from the crowd. Stunned, she staggered backward until Solon caught her and shoved her toward Beulah.

Reinvigorated by their one-punch successes, the two attacked with growing fury, pummeling each other’s head and torso and head again. The men bayed with delight as the gals’ fists attacked bruised flesh. Gradually, their successful strikes dwindled, and their listless misses increased as they gasped for breath and the energy to continue. Both bent over, resting their hands on their knees and panting like stationary locomotives at a depot, their anger replaced by fatigue.

Beulah straightened first, lifting her hands but struggling to keep them steady and aloft. “You ready for more?”

“Whenever you are,” Maude said gasping as she lifted her shoulders and wobbly fists. “I must say, Beulah, you’ve never looked better, your nose especially!”

Beulah fought a cackle. “I’m surprised you can even see with that puffy eye.”

“That’s why you look better.” Maude said. Then she chuckled.

Both women lowered their fists, then laughed. At once, they stepped toward each other, raising their arms and grasping each other in a hug.

Stubby rushed in and grabbed an arm of each pugilist, lifting it in the air. “Boys, I’m declaring this bout a draw. Once the ladies leave, we’ll open the bar for drinks.”

The men exploded in cheers.

“What about our steak?” Beulah demanded.

“Yeah?” Maude echoed.

“Just a moment, ladies,” Stubby answered, stepping behind the bar and pulling a butcher knife from a drawer. He sliced the slab of beef in half and gave a piece to each. “Press this on your eye, Maude, and do the same on your nose and cheeks, Beulah. It’ll speed the healing.”

Both women obliged, chuckling at their battered visages as the patrons moved the tables and chairs back in place so drinking could resume once the gals left.

“We’ll be a sight to see tomorrow in church,” Beulah said wryly.

“I’ll wear my apron so no one will notice,” Maude said, dabbing the raw meat at her eye.

“Grand idea. I’ll wear one too.”

Stubby grinned. “Keep my aprons, ladies. They’re so filthy, I was gonna toss them, anyway. Y’all take them as mementos of the catfight at the No Pay Saloon.”

“Wasn’t that nice of Stubby?” asked Solon as he walked up, Clyde at his side.

“Now, are we all four friends?” Clyde inquired.

The two women looked at each other, then nodded to their husbands.

“You fellows owe us a steak tonight,” Maude said.

“And we’re not talking about the ones we’re wearing on our faces,” Beulah said.

“Absolutely,” Clyde replied, putting his arm around Beulah’s shoulder.

“I’m with Clyde,” said Solon as he took Maude’s hand. “We’ll head for the eatery straightaway.”

As the couples started toward the exit, the other customers clapped for the women, who curtsied toward them.

“You ladies go on,” Stubby said. “I need to settle up with your husbands.”

The men abandoned their wives, who put their arms around each other’s waist and headed outside in the dwindling light of day, their free hands holding the slabs of steak against their wounds.

Solon and Clyde returned to the bar. “What do we owe you?”

“I’m the one that owes you. Remember our forty-forty-twenty split?”

Clyde nodded. “Now that you reminded me.”

“We had a hundred and thirty-eight men here for the boxing match. That comes to thirteen dollars and eighty cents. Less my twenty percent take of two dollars and seventy-six cents, I owe you each five dollars and fifty-two cents.” Dawes counted the change out on the counter and pushed each man his share.

Solon whistled. “This is the biggest payday I’ve ever had in my life.”

Clyde agreed. “Mine too.”

The lifelong friends cocked their heads and looked at one another with sly grins.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Clyde asked.

Solon nodded. “If we can get them mad at each other tomorrow in church, we can make another killing next Saturday night!”

Clyde threw his arm around Solon as they marched out of the saloon. “For once, I can’t wait to get to church in the morning.”

“Same with me,” Solon replied, “but first, let’s buy them the finest steaks in Menard. They earned it.”

“And now,” Clyde laughed, “we can afford it.”

Preston Lewis is the author of some sixty novels and nonfiction works on the American West and is the 2025 recipient of the Lifetime Achievement Award from the Will Rogers Medallion Awards. Lewis’s literary honors include three Spur Awards from Western Writers of America and eleven WRMA medallions, including six golds for western humor, short stories and traditional westerns. He is a past president of WWA and the West Texas Historical Association. In 2021, Lewis was inducted into the Texas Institute of Letters for his literary accomplishments. He holds a bachelor’s degree from Baylor University and a master’s degree from Ohio State University as well as a second master’s degree in history from Angelo State University. Lewis lives in San Angelo, Texas, with his wife Harriet Kocher Lewis, who is editor and publisher of their Bariso Press imprint.