A Bright Tomorrow

by Gilbert, Morris

  “It won’t kill your kids to clean the house,” Agnes said, tossing her hair. “And those boys are big enough to work the place.”

  Will stared at her, but he had learned that Agnes wasn’t as gentle and agreeable as he’d thought. Still he was a man who hated confrontation and merely said, “Well, I’ve got work to do. I’ll take you to the dances close by…but we can’t go way over to Fort Smith every time there’s a frolic.”

  Agnes had made a quarrel of it, finally storming off for a visit with one of her old girlfriends, Ada Thomas. She’d stayed overnight, and at supper Will had been silent, saying only, “Your ma’s gone for a visit. Be back tomorrow, I expect.”

  Owen stared at his father, but said nothing.

  Later that day Lenora confided in her brother. “Owen, I don’t like her. She’s mean! I wish she’d stay gone forever!”

  Owen put his arm around the fourteen-year-old, unable to offer much comfort. “We’ll just have to get along with her, Lenora,” he said slowly. “The more you cross her, the worse she’ll get.”

  “I wish Ma—” Lenora broke off, tears springing into her eyes, then pulled out of his embrace and ran away, sobbing.

  For all practical purposes, Owen had managed the farm for years. Not that Will Stuart was a poor farmer, but his heart simply wasn’t in it. It had been Owen who had planned everything, and most of the time he had taken care of the finances—such as they were. His first clash with Agnes came when she demanded to handle the money.

  “That won’t do,” Owen said evenly. “You don’t know how to buy seed or how much to ask for cotton at the gin.”

  Agnes went off in a huff, and later that day, Will came to Owen with a hangdog expression on his face. “Son, I guess we’ll have to let her handle things now.”

  As Owen predicted, Agnes soon spent all their cash on clothes for herself and ran up a big bill at the store for useless notions. So he threw himself into spring plowing, trying to ignore the misery he could see in the faces of his brothers and sisters. Owen didn’t mind hard work, and as long as he was busy, he could think of other things. Mostly he thought of travel, of seeing things in the big world beyond the Ozarks. He’d read every travel book he could get his hands on and thought longingly of what it would be like to see the world, as Lylah and Amos had. The names of cities fascinated him, and he would put a map on the floor and stare at it for hours, reading the names of the rivers and mountains and small towns. Agnes laughed at him and called him a fool for dreaming of places he’d never see, and he put the maps away, looking at them only when she wasn’t around.

  And she was away much of the time. She began going to parties on her own, and once, when Will refused to go, she ventured to the county fair. Owen discovered from some of his friends that Agnes even went to some of the dances with her old friends. He suspected that his father knew this, too, but Will never mentioned it.

  As the days of summer grew longer, Owen became more and more restless. He began to drop in on some of the dances, where he was always welcomed for his music. He took his younger brother Logan with him on some of these excursions, and the two of them grew close. It occurred to Owen that Logan had the same feelings for him that he himself had had for Amos when he was growing up.

  Dale Truman, the science teacher at the school in Mountain View, was a particular friend of Logan’s. He’d pointed out to Will Stuart that the boy had a fine head for math and science and urged him to send his son to the university at Fayetteville. Such a thing had been out of the question, of course, but Logan did frequently spend weekends with the teacher.

  Late one Friday night, when Logan was away, Owen was sitting at the table poring over maps, when he heard a team approaching. His stepmother had gone to town, and everyone else was in bed. Rising at once, Owen picked up a lamp and went out on the front porch.

  “Owen?”

  “Yes. Who is it?” Owen stepped to the ground, held up the lamp, and recognized Dale Truman. “What’s wrong, Mr. Truman?”

  “It’s Logan. He’s been badly beaten.” The teacher, a tall man of about forty, leapt to the ground and hitched the team to the porch railing. “I got Doc Willis to patch him up, and he gave me some morphine to kill the pain. I dosed him pretty good, so we may have to carry him in.” The two men moved to the back of the wagon and together picked up the unconscious boy.

  “Let’s put him on the couch, Mr. Truman,” Owen said when they got him inside.

  They laid Logan down, and Owen stared at his face. The boy’s eyes were swollen shut, and his lips were puffed out. “Who did this to him?” Owen asked from between clenched teeth.

  Truman shook his head sadly. “It wasn’t a local fight. A carnival came to town this morning…sort of a medicine show. I took my family and Logan. There was the usual sideshow, and one of the acts was a man called Iron Mike. He performs feats of strength—bending iron bars, picking up weights, that kind of thing. Then there’s a boxing match. Mike takes on anybody in the crowd who’s game. Anyone who can last three rounds with him gets fifty dollars.”

  “And Logan took him on?”

  “Yes. I wasn’t there when he did it, Owen. I was on the merry-go-round with my children. But someone told me what Logan was doing, and I ran over to the tent to talk him out of it.” Truman shook his head. “I was too late. The fight had started. It was awful! He cut Logan all to pieces! He could have knocked him out any time, but he wanted to hurt him!”

  Owen nodded, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “The carnival…will it still be in town tomorrow night?”

  Truman stared at the young man, understanding at once what he intended to do. “Don’t try it, Owen,” he warned quickly. “That fighter outweighs you by thirty pounds and he’s strong as a bull.” Then he saw that his argument was falling on deaf ears and sighed. “Yes, it’ll be there.”

  “Thanks for bringing Logan home, Mr. Truman. Will you stay the night?”

  Truman declined, explaining, “I’ve got to get back to my family.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a brown bottle. “If the pain gets bad, give Logan a couple of drops of this. He didn’t lose any teeth, but he’s got a couple of bruised ribs, so make him lie in bed for a few days.”

  After the schoolteacher left, Owen got a blanket and made himself a pallet on the floor beside the couch. He slept on it very little, however, for a cold fury was building in him. The Stuarts suffered from their quick tempers, but Owen had never before been filled with anger. That night, however, he understood how a man could kill.

  The next day, Logan was better. He was able to eat some hot mush and drink a little fresh milk.

  Will Stuart was furious—not so much with the man who had wrecked Logan, but with the young man himself. “Don’t you have bat sense?” he demanded, shaking his finger at his son. “The man’s a professional brawler! Nobody’s got a chance against him in the ring!”

  “Well, Pa,” Owen said, angry enough to challenge his father, “you’d better not bet on that…because I’m going to that carnival tonight and whip his tail!”

  Will stared at Owen and knew at once that argument was useless. His second son, he well knew, was easy to manage, agreeable to a fault. But once his back was up, there was no changing his mind. The family all grew quiet, and Will studied his son’s set jaw. Finally he grinned, saying, “All right. I haven’t been to a carnival myself for many a year. We’ll all go!” He looked over at Logan. “If you can make it, son, you can go too. I’d like you to see your brother in action.”

  The children were ecstatic, and there was no more work done that day. They all piled into a wagon, and on the way to town, Will wondered if he was doing the right thing. “If that feller starts cutting you up for fun, Owen,” he said as they pulled the wagon up at the edge of the field where the carnival was located, “I’ll put a spoke in his wheel!” He pulled back his coat, and Owen was startled to see the butt of the Colt .44 in his belt.

  “You can’t do that, Pa!”

  Will shrugged. “Oh, I w
on’t kill him…just mebbe shoot a leg off his carcass.”

  At that moment Owen felt closer to his father than he’d ever felt. “You’re a caution, Pa!”

  Then they all got down, and for an hour, the Stuart youngsters had the best time of their lives! Neither Gavin nor Christie had ever seen a carnival, and Logan and Lenora, though they had been once before, had never ridden a ride.

  Again Owen felt a warm feeling for his father when Will said, “I’ve got a little cash I’ve been saving, kids. We’re going to ride every ride and eat everything they got! Come on!”

  Owen stayed with Logan in the wagon while the family explored the carnival. “I’m right proud of Pa, Logan,” Owen said once. “The young ones will never forget this.”

  Logan peered at his brother through puffy slits. “Neither will you if you get in the ring with Iron Mike, Owen. Don’t do it.” He winced as he moved on the wagon seat. “I know you’ve licked everybody in this part of the world, but he’s different. He knows lots of tricks.”

  Owen grinned at Logan. “Maybe it’ll be your turn to sit up with me, baby brother.” He sat loose and easy in the wagon, not in the least nervous.

  Logan, though tall and wiry, weighed no more than 140 pounds. Owen himself weighed 185 and was hard as nails. He had never lost a fight, for he was quick as a cat and tough as boot leather. He was aware that he would take some punishment, but that didn’t matter. He had a strong sense of family and knew he’d get in the ring with Iron Mike if he died for it.

  It was growing dark as the family came back, and his father gave him a worried look. “Owen, Mr. Truman told everybody what you’re planning to do. I think the whole town’s here to see the fight.”

  “Well, let’s go give it to ’em,” Owen leapt to the ground lightly, gave Logan a hand down, then led the way to the tent where the barker was already beginning his speech.

  “Step right up!” he cried in a shrill voice. “Colonel Franklin Fletcher’s world-famous show now offers for your entertainment…Iron Mike! The strongest man in the world!”

  A heavyset man wearing a purple robe stood on the platform and looked over the crowd with a contemptuous sneer on his thick lips. About forty, he was past his prime, but when he dropped the robe and bent an iron bar, Owen saw that though he had some fat around his middle, he was still a powerful man.

  When the crowd went inside to watch Iron Mike and the other performers, Logan explained, “When this is over, he’ll offer to box anybody in the crowd.”

  Owen took the children inside. Before long he himself was fascinated by the thin Greek named Populis, who rammed a sword down his throat. “Ah, that thing folds up in the handle!” jibed a man in the front row. Populis smiled and removed the handle, then handed it to the man for his inspection. When he handed it back, satisfied, Populis swallowed it again, and the crowd laughed at the scoffer. The performer lit a torch and, for his grand finale, put the flaming brand in his mouth, bringing a scream from Lenora.

  Owen was amused at the acts, some of which seemed very good. He especially enjoyed the three young women dancers. But it was Iron Mike whom he watched most closely. The strong man bent a spike in his hands, put ten men from the audience on one end of a rope, then laughed at their efforts to upset him. He lifted massive weights, and the muscles of his thick body writhed like serpents.

  Finally the show was over, and Owen moved outside and found his father and the others. Truman tried once more to persuade him to reconsider. “Owen, you’re crazy to try this. That pug will cut you to pieces!”

  But Owen only shook his head, and at that moment the barker began his spiel. “Now Iron Mike has a challenge for you sporting men. Fifty dollars in hard cash for any one of you gentlemen who can stay just three short rounds with him! Which one of you needs fifty dollars? Step right up and be a hero to your lady friend!”

  “Go on, Owen!” somebody shouted. “Beat the sucker’s head off!”

  Owen moved to stand before Iron Mike. The fighter’s tawny eyes reminded him of a tiger. “Better go home, sonny.” The man grinned, exposing yellow teeth, and he peered at Owen more closely. “You the brother of that kid I pounded last night?”

  “Sure am.”

  “I heard you was comin’.” Iron Mike laughed and said to the barker, “Hey, Sid, we got us a grudge match here. I whipped this hayseed’s brother last night, so he’s come to take his revenge on poor old Mike!”

  The man named Sid brightened at once. “Come up here, young man,” he cried, not failing to hear the cheers that went up. Apparently many of the boy’s friends were here, and the barker smelled money to be made. He quickly learned Owen’s name and made much of the fact that he was a hometown boy. There was little need for his pitch, though, for the crowd was ready.

  “Fifty dollars for only three rounds,” he repeated.

  “I’ve got thirty dollars here says I stay,” Owen said. He then looked at the fighter and asked, “You got any money, bum?”

  “Why, you—”

  Owen shrugged. “Put up or shut up.”

  “Cover him, Sid,” the fighter growled from between clenched teeth.

  “I’ll just hold the stakes…and the fifty dollars.” Sid turned to see a big man with a star on his lapel climbing up on the platform. “I’m Sheriff Peek. Let’s have that cash…and I’ll be watching to see that we have us a square fight.”

  Sid threw the fighter a despairing look, but he had no choice. He handed the money to the sheriff, and Owen did the same. But when Sid was close enough, he muttered under his breath, “Mike, let him stay and take the purse and the bet.”

  “What?” Mike grunted in shocked anger. “I’ll kill that kid!”

  “You can kill him in the second bout,” Sid whispered rapidly. “Look, we can clean up, Mike! If he wins, he’ll be cocky. You can challenge him, and we’ll put up big dough. Then you can let the hammer down on him.”

  Iron Mike shook his head stubbornly. “Nothin’ doin’, Sid! He’s a punk kid and I’m going to tear his head off…after I rough him up!”

  A pretty girl in a brief spangled costume appeared. “I’ll show you where to change, big boy.” Owen recognized her as one of the dancers in the show. She led him to a back section of the tent and gestured toward a trunk. “Find yourself something in there.” Then she touched his arm and gave him a coy look. “If you win, you and I might do some celebrating.”

  Owen grinned. “Suits me. What’s your name?”

  “Cecily.”

  She left, and from a pile of dirty clothes, Owen dug out a pair of short pants that fit him. He went at once to the tent where a boxing ring was set up—the first he’d ever seen. Except for the ring itself, every square inch of the space inside the tent was occupied. He shoved his way through the crowd, receiving a pat on the shoulder from some of the men, an encouraging word from others.

  The amber glow of the lanterns overhead bathed the ring in pale light, and Owen saw that a big man dressed in a white suit was waiting with Iron Mike.

  “I’m Colonel Franklin Fletcher, my boy,” he said in a sonorous voice. “It will be my pleasure to referee this bout myself.”

  Fletcher, Owen saw, was a drinking man, albeit a handsome one. He was at least sixty, six feet tall, and portly. He looked much like Buffalo Bill, Owen thought, with his long white hair, mustache, and goatee.

  The preliminaries were simple. After the gloves were on, Colonel Fletcher simply told them to fight fair. Then he stepped back, and a bell clanged, signaling the beginning of Round 1.

  Iron Mike came roaring out of his corner, leading with a left, which was only a feint, for he threw a tremendous right that would have broken Owen’s neck if it had landed. But it didn’t land. Owen simply pulled to one side and let the burly fighter sail by. Iron Mike hit the ropes, and whirled at once as the crowd shouted at him.

  He stared at Owen, then nodded. “You’re fast, kid. I’ll remember that.”

  Owen watched as the big man lifted his hands and came at him flatfoot
ed. He was an old hand—no doubt about that—completely confident in his skills. Sure he was overweight, but good enough for the yokels he faced each night. He was a knuckle-scarred man, flat of lip and flat of nose, with cruelty in his yellow eyes. Owen watched him plant his feet solidly, anchored by his vast bulk, and Owen began to circle the fighter at a distance. Suddenly he whipped back in the opposite direction and saw Mike stop and reverse himself. Mike’s footwork was slow, and he knew it, for he let out a huge roar and came rushing forward, his head down and his big hands stabbing out in feinting punches. Owen slid by him again, hooked a hard jab into the man’s belly, swung from the toes, and caught Mike on the side of the head with a solid right.

  The blow would have put most men down, but Iron Mike never lost his balance. Instead, he whirled and struck Owen on the chest with a blow that had a crushing effect, turning him cold. It was a warning of the awesome power that lay in that massive frame, and Owen began to back away, knowing he could not match the man’s strength. For the rest of the round, he moved away, dodging and weaving, as Iron Mike threw punch after punch. There was no way to dodge them all, and when the bell sounded, Owen sat down on the stool with sore ribs and a bleeding lip.

  His father was there, offering him water from a bottle, and mopping his face. “He’s a gorilla, Owen…stay away from him!”

  “Sure, Pa.” Owen studied the massive form of Iron Mike as he rested. Got to hurt him…and got to do it quick. He’ll run over me if I don’t.

  Getting to his feet, Owen was on his toes like a runner, and when the bell sounded, he leapt across the ring, lifting his right hand and taking the fighter by surprise. Iron Mike, puffing from his efforts to catch up with Owen, came to his feet slowly…just in time to catch Owen’s right glove in the mouth. All of Owen’s weight was behind that punch, and Mike’s head was driven back as if he’d been struck by a railroad tie. He reeled backward, crashing into the ring post.