The "Bad Man"

"The Bad Man" by O. Henry is a short story that humorously explores themes of mistaken identity and morality. Set in the Wild West, the narrative follows a notorious outlaw who is actually more benign than he appears. As various characters react to his reputation, O. Henry cleverly weaves a tale that reveals the complexities of human nature and the often deceptive nature of appearance versus reality. With his signature wit and twist ending, O. Henry invites readers to reconsider their judgments about good and bad.

• Short story

								
A bold, bad man made a general display of himself in a Texas town a
few days ago. It seems that he'd imbibed a sufficient number of drinks
to become anxious to impress the town with his badness, and when the
officers tried to arrest him he backed up against the side of a
building and defied arrest. A considerable crowd of citizens, among
whom were a number of drummers from a hotel close by, had gathered to
witness the scene.

The bad man was a big, ferocious-looking fellow with long, curling
hair that fell on his shoulders, a broad-brimmed hat, a buckskin coat
with fringe around the bottom, and a picturesque vocabulary. He was
flourishing a big six-shooter and swore by the bones of Davy Crockett
that he would perforate the man who attempted to capture him.

The city marshal stood in the middle of the street and tried to reason
with him, but the bad man gave a whoop and rose up on his toes, and
the whole crowd fell back to the other side of the street. The police
had a conference, but none of them would volunteer to lead the attack.

Presently a little, wizened, consumptive-looking drummer for a
Connecticut shoe factory squeezed his way through the crowd on the
opposite side of the street to have a peep at the desperado. He
weighed about ninety pounds and wore double glass spectacles. Just
then the desperado gave another whoop and yelled:

"Gol darn ye, why don't some of ye come and take me? I'll eat any five
of ye without chawin', and I ain't hungry either--whoopee!"

The crowd fell back a few yards further and the police turned pale
again, but the skinny little man adjusted his spectacles with both
hands, and stepped on to the edge of the sidewalk and took a good look
at the bad men. Then he deliberately struck across the street at a
funny hopping kind of a run right up to where the terror stood.

The crowd yelled at him to come back, and the desperado flourished his
six-shooter again, but the little man went straight up to him and said
something. The crowd shuddered and expected to see him fall with a
forty-five bullet in him, but he didn't. They saw the desperado lower
his pistol and run his hand in his pocket and hand something to the
little man.

Then the desperado walked sheepishly down the sidewalk, and the little
man came back across the street.

"Bad man?" he said. "I guess not. He wouldn't hurt a fly. That's Zeke
Skinner. He was raised on the farm next to me in Connecticut. He's
selling some kind of fake liver medicine, and that's his street rig
he's got on now. I loaned him eight dollars in Hartford nine years
ago, and never expected to see him again. Thought I knew his voice.
Pay? I reckon he paid me. I calculate I always collect what's owing to
me."

Then the crowd scattered and the twelve policeman headed Zeke off at
the next corner and clubbed him all the way to the station house.
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