Then—
"Great sufferin' two-tailed explodin' catfish!"
There were two men fighting near a red rock. They wore identical clothes; they had identical features and physical construction, including the same lanky forms and long, stringy necks. They fought in a weird pattern of mirror-imagery—each man swinging the same blows as his opponent, right arm crossing right, left crossing left.
The man with his back to the rock had an expensive miniature camera suspended from his neck; the other one hadn't.
Suddenly, they both feinted with their lefts in perfect preparation for what hundreds of railroad bulls had come to curse as "the Gooseneck McCarthy One-Two." Both men ignored the feint, both came up suddenly with their right hands and—
They knocked each other out.
They came down heavily on their butts, about a yard apart, shaking their heads.
"You are the stubbornest cuss I ever saw," one of them began. "Where—"
"—did you learn my punch?" McCarthy finished, stepping forward.
They both sprang to their feet, stared at him. "Hey," said the man with the camera. "You two guys are twins."