A Bright Tomorrow

by Gilbert, Morris

  Sid shoved him forward, hissing, “Get him, Mike!” And though the older fighter was practically out on his feet, his instincts came to his aid.

  Owen went in for the kill, but no matter how desperately he tried, he could not finish him off. The old veteran kept him at bay, using the skills learned in a lifetime of brawling. He sparred lightly until his mind cleared, then, holding Owen’s gloves beneath his elbows, he suddenly butted Owen in the face with his bullet head.

  Fiery lights exploded in Owen’s brain, and he felt the bones of his nose crunch. He couldn’t see for the tears and knew that he was helpless. But even as he waited for Iron Mike to finish him, a shot rang out!

  Someone screamed, and Iron Mike stepped back in alarm. “No! Don’t shoot—!” he begged the tall man who was aiming the biggest gun he’d ever seen in his life.

  Owen wiped the blood from his face and wheeled around to see his father holding the .44 steadily on Iron Mike. The crowd grew silent, and Will Stuart said softly, “You foul my boy one more time…and I’ll put you in hell!”

  Colonel Fletcher stepped forward at once. “Sir, put the revolver away, if you please. I declare your boy the winner of this round!”

  It meant nothing, for Owen still had to go the full three rounds. But he wanted to reassure his father. “It’s all right, Pa!” he called out, then turned to face Iron Mike. “You’re a dog, Mike!” he taunted.

  The colonel stepped back and Mike came at him. A cold fury spurred Owen Stuart, and he moved like a cat, sidestepping the big man’s rushes. Iron Mike was not accustomed to this much exertion, and his chest was heaving with the effort. He gasped as he struck out, and his blows, though powerful enough to knock a horse down, were slow and Owen danced aside easily.

  The bell rang, and Owen didn’t sit down to rest. He wasn’t even breathing hard, and when the last round began, he moved toward the burly fighter, catching him with a straight left that stopped him in his tracks. He feinted to the left and, when the fighter moved in that direction, Owen came up with a tremendous uppercut, catching Mike on the chin. His teeth clicked, his head snapped back, and he reeled backward. Owen was on him like a June bug, slashing him with blows from every angle. For the rest of the round, he delivered punches that cut the flesh, then smashed the thick body with a thunderous right.

  When the bell rang, the big man was out on his feet. Blood running down into his eyes from cuts to his eyebrows blinded him. A gap showed in his teeth between puffy lips. He kept pushing his gloves forward from sheer instinct, but when the bell sounded, Sid had to come and lead him to his corner.

  The crowd went wild, but Owen was watching the old fighter and, in spite of himself, felt pity for the man. Iron Mike had only one thing to be proud of, and Owen had taken that away from him.

  Owen made his way back to the dressing room, anxious to escape the crowd, and when he was pulling his shirt on, Cecily came through the tent and smiled at him. “You ready to celebrate with me, Owen?” she purred. Her eyes were slitted, and she reminded him of a feline about to enjoy a saucer of cream as she ran her hand over his chest.

  Owen grinned recklessly. “Sure. Why not?”

  Afterward he thought of that moment, wondering what his life would have been like if he’d refused the woman and gone home with his family. But there was never an answer for things like that.

  He introduced Cecily to his father, winked, and said, “You go on home, Pa. Cecily and me…we’ve got some celebrating to do.” Then he put his hand on his father’s shoulder—the first gesture of affection he’d shown toward him in years. “Thanks, Pa…for what you did for me tonight.”

  Will felt a moment of pride, and he suddenly wanted to hug this strapping son of his. But he didn’t really know how, and merely nodded, “Sure, son. We Stuarts got to stick together.” Then he turned and moved away.

  Cecily’s hand was insistent on Owen’s arm. “Come on…let’s start the celebration!”

  The celebration was fine. The two of them wandered around the carnival grounds for a time, Cecily presenting Owen to her friends as if he were a trophy. Then the two of them went to a dance being held in the town square. Owen had never danced with any woman like this! She clung to him, pressing herself against him. And later she produced a bottle of raw whiskey, which she made him sample.

  It was potent stuff, and by midnight, Owen was drunk. “Let’s get us a place to really celebrate, honey!” Cecily said and took the bills from his pocket.

  She seemed to know what she was doing, so Owen could only follow her in a daze. He stumbled as she helped him up the step leading to a two-story frame hotel, the Excelsior, and tried to pull himself together as she paid for a room.

  Owen’s head cleared a little on his way up the narrow stairs, and as Cecily opened the door, he walked in blinking. Someone screamed, and Owen drew back in confusion.

  Cecily grabbed his arm and said to the couple in the bed, “Hey, we got the wrong room…sorry!”

  Owen felt Cecily’s grasp as she tried to pull him away—but he could not move. He was drunk, but not so drunk that he could mistake the woman who raised up, covered herself with a sheet, and cursed him vilely.

  It was his stepmother, and Owen stood there rooted, unable to turn. The man tried to hide his face, but Owen recognized one of the town’s prominent figures—no less than his honor the mayor, Alfred Jaspers, a notorious womanizer.

  Owen grew sick, turned and stumbled from the room, with Agnes’s screams striking his ears. Ignoring Cecily, he staggered down the steps and left the town, seeking only darkness and a place to hide—someplace to forget what he’d seen.

  But he knew nothing could remove the memory of that sordid scene. And as he stumbled along the road, he knew also that he could no longer live in the same house with his stepmother. By the time he reached the house, he knew what he had to do.

  Agnes was sly, however. She was home by daybreak and at once retired with Will to the bedroom. The children heard the sounds of an argument, and when the door opened, Will called to Owen, “Son, I’ve got to talk to you. Come outside.”

  As they left the house, Owen got a glimpse of Agnes, who was smiling in triumph, and knew that she had concocted some story to clear herself. As soon as they were outside, Owen told Will what he had decided. “Pa, I’m leaving home.” He said it to save his father embarrassment, for he knew what the woman had made his father agree to.

  Will Stuart looked old and tired. He shook his head, and could say nothing but, “I’m sorry, son. It’s got to be.”

  Owen put a good face on it. He stayed for three days, telling the children that he’d decided to see what the world looked like. When he left, the little ones cried, and the older ones bit their lips to hold back their tears.

  He gave Logan thirty dollars he’d won on the fight, saying, “Buy the kids a treat from time to time. I’ll send more when I get a job.” He had no prospects as he walked away from the only home he’d ever known…but he was happy.

  He caught a ride from Mountain View to Fort Smith without a single idea in his mind. As they came to the outskirts of the town, the old man who’d picked him up said, “Well, lookee there, bub. Carnival’s come to town.”

  Owen smiled as he saw the banner which read: COLONEL FRANKLIN FLETCHER’S FAMOUS ELIXIR. “Guess I’ll get out here,” he said. “Thanks for the ride.”

  The first person he saw when he walked onto the grounds was Cecily. Her eyes opened wide, and then she grinned. “Come for more celebrating, Owen?”

  “No, I’ve come for fifty dollars.”

  She laughed. “Already spent it. Maybe we can work out something else. Come on and eat.”

  Owen followed her to the cook tent and was greeted by none other than the colonel himself. “Why, it’s our young friend…sit down! Bring this man a steak.”

  “Watch out for him,” Cecily warned Owen. “He wouldn’t give you a steak if he didn’t want something.”

  Colonel Fletcher protested, but after the meal, he called O
wen over. “Come to my wagon, Mr. Stuart. I have a proposition for you.”

  “Never mind the wagon. “What’s your offer?”

  “Why, I’ve lost the services of Iron Mike, and it’s your fault,” Colonel Fletcher stated. “Mike decided to retire. So I’d like for you to join our little troupe. If you can lick Mike, you can lick anybody. How about it, my boy?”

  Owen thought it over for almost ten seconds. “I’ll take it, Colonel.”

  “Wait a minute, you fool!” Cecily yelped. “Make him pay you more than he paid Mike!”

  “Now my dear—”

  “Let’s you and me go to your wagon, Colonel,” Cecily said. “I am now this man’s manager…and I’m saying he doesn’t put on one boxing glove until we’ve talked terms!”

  The pair left, arguing about money, but Owen was content. In his mind he could picture the map he’d pored over for years. Now he’d see those little towns and those big mountains for himself.

  Owen Stuart was free at last to see the world!

  18

  ALLIE

  The April sunshine warmed Owen as he sat with his back braced against the canvas of the smaller of the two tents. Sleepy and relaxed after having helped set up both tents, he let his fingers run over the frets of the five-string banjo he held, singing softly:

  Shine on, shine on, harvest moon up in the sky,

  I ain’t had no lovin’ since January, February, June or July.

  Snowtime ain’t no time to stay outdoors and spoon,

  So shine on, shine on, harvest moon, for me and my gal.

  The new tune by Nora Bayes and Hack Norworth had taken the country by storm, and Owen liked its sentimental flavor. He sang the last line again: “Shine on, harvest moon, for me and my gal,” then strummed a progression of chords.

  As he plucked out the tune once again, he smiled, thinking how Colonel Fletcher had seized on his musical ability when he had first joined the troupe nine months earlier. “Why, my boy, the Holy Book tells us that we are not to bury our talents, does it not?” And on this righteous foundation, Fletcher had cleverly utilized Owen’s fine singing voice and ability to play the guitar and the banjo (with no extra pay, of course!). He had come up with the name ‘Kid Nightingale’ for Owen, and when Owen joined Sid on the platform, he did as much to draw in customers as Sid’s fast patter. He’d sing one of the new fast show tunes, such as “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” George M. Cohan’s newest hit, or “In the Good Old Summertime,” the new waltz everyone was dancing to. Then, after Owen had polished off his opponent, he would slip off his gloves and sing some ballad requested by one of the ladies in the audience—usually a maudlin one, such as “Sweet Adeline.”

  The colonel knew how to get the most out of his people, and Owen’s rugged good looks and talent brought the young ladies—and some not so young ones!––into the tent like lemmings.

  It had been, for Owen, a glorious nine months. The hard work of setting up and breaking down the tents and gear, the all-night journeys to the next town, the nightly bouts—often repeated as many as three times to catch all the customers—all of this was child’s play to him. Once he even admitted to Cecily, “It’s a good thing the colonel doesn’t know it, but I’d do this for nothing!” She had stared at him in blank disbelief, saying emphatically, “Don’t ever tell that old skinflint, Owen. He’d take you up on it!”

  Now as he sat enjoying the fine New England sunshine, he thought of all the small towns the show had reached. Colonel Fletcher had bought four used railroad cars, and the troupe had modified them into sleeping quarters and storage for the equipment, so they had played only towns served by the railroad. Owen thought of them now as he sat strumming his banjo with a practiced hand—the Cajun towns in southern Louisiana, the austere New England towns with their inevitable steepled white churches, the homely towns of Kansas, the blistering villages of Texas and New Mexico, the towns crouched in Colorado under the mighty Rockies. He had soaked them all in, almost gluttonous in his aching desire to see the entire country.

  He had saved no money, for what he didn’t require for his own needs, he sent back to Logan, instructing him to use it for some fun for himself and the younger ones. When Logan had asked him how he could fight so many tough men, he’d written his brother:

  I go two or three bouts every day, Logan. I was pretty tough to start with, and I’ve picked up tricks that you only get with experience. Most of the men I box with are strong and wild. I let them wear themselves out flailing away, and almost never get hit. Of course, from time to time, a pro sneaks in, and then it’s tough, but there’s not enough money in it to tempt professionals. The hard thing is having to hit them back. I hate that! What I do is let them fight themselves out, then at the end of the second round, I pound them in the stomach. It takes the wind out of them, but doesn’t cut them up.

  As he sat there he thought about how much he’d like to go home for a visit, but that couldn’t be for at least six more months when the colonel was taking the show south again. Just then his thoughts were interrupted when Colonel Fletcher pulled up in his Model A and heaved himself out.

  Fletcher took great pride in his automobile, though his driving skills were limited, and rarely did they leave a town without one of his misadventures putting a fresh scar on the shiny black finish! He’d even had the workers adapt one of the railroad cars so the machine could be carried from town to town.

  “Ah, there you are, Owen!” he called out, walking over to hold out a newspaper. “You’ll be interested in a piece in this paper, my boy. Front page—an editorial by your brother.”

  Owen took the paper eagerly. Amos never sent him copies of his work, but he was getting famous, so Owen got them when he could, collecting them in a scrapbook. The story read:

  We are now midway through the decade. Only five years ago people were in awe of the turn of the century, as if the hand of God was turning a page in human history. Cannons were fired at midnight in Berlin to mark the moment, and one listener heard the sound “with a kind of shiver: one knew all that the nineteenth century had carried away; one did not know what the twentieth would bring.”

  Well—what has it brought?

  Violence, for one thing. This new century was born brawling in the Boxer Rebellion, in the Philippines, in South Africa. And every one of the great nations is on a trigger edge, ready and even willing to plunge into a war that could engulf the entire world. The fuse is burning, and when the charge goes off, not a single living person on planet Earth will be unaffected by the apocalypse.

  We have money and bigness. Morgan, in 1900, bought out Carnegie to form with a hundred other firms the corporate colossus U.S. Steel—the world’s first billion-dollar holding company.

  But something has gone wrong with the system. The great mechanical and material achievements of the recent past have twisted society out of shape. In a country like America, with its dream of freedom and plenty, 1.7 million children put in 13 hours a day in dark factories for a pittance. Thousands of women live pinched lives, exhausting themselves with 12-hour workdays for which they are paid barely a dollar.

  The God of the Old Testament is often inaccurately painted by liberals and unbelievers as a harsh, cruel deity, but he gave commandments that the ancient Jews must leave part of their harvest for the widows and the poor. It is our leaders—men like Morgan, Vanderbilt, and Ford—who must learn compassion for our people!

  Owen whistled softly. “Strong medicine, Colonel!”

  “Indeed, but all true, every word!” The showman was tremendously proud of having the brother of one of the premier journalists in America in his show and never failed to mention the connection when introducing Owen. He was also a fierce supporter of Teddy Roosevelt, and it was his dream to meet the president someday. “Is your brother still seeing President Roosevelt from time to time?”

  Owen nodded. “Yes, he interviewed him last week. I guess Teddy has a soft spot for his old Rough Riders. He doesn’t like William Randolph Hearst or his
paper, but he likes Amos.” He laughed suddenly, remembering a letter he’d had from Amos in which he related an incident he’d witnessed involving the president.

  “Amos said he was with the president earlier this year when he went to Cambridge for his twenty-fifth reunion. President Eliot never liked Teddy, Amos says, but felt obliged to invite him to stay at his house. So Amos went along. He said Roosevelt took Amos to his room, then when the president pulled off his coat, Amos saw a big pistol in his jacket. And he said when they went downstairs and President Eliot asked Roosevelt if they would be having breakfast together, Teddy said, ‘Oh, no, I promised Bishop Lawrence I’d take breakfast with him…and…goodness gracious!’ clapping his hand to his side, ‘I’ve forgotten my gun!’”

  The story delighted the colonel, who laughed heartily. “And there was the president of the United States rushing off to see the bishop, while the president of Harvard was horrified by the highest official in the land carrying a loaded gun!”

  “Which is illegal in Massachusetts.” Owen grinned. “Anyway, I wrote Amos that if we ever play anywhere near Washington, he’ll have to get us an audience with the president. Amos mentioned it to Teddy, and know what the president said? He said, ‘Bully! Capital! And I’ll have a boxing match with the young fellow!’”

  “He’s a fighter, that Teddy Roosevelt!” Colonel Fletcher said, admiration shading his tone.

  “Yes, and Amos is afraid that’ll get us into a shooting war someday.” Owen nodded. “Well, Colonel, guess I’ll go into town and pick up a few things at the store.”

  “Take the Ford, my boy,” Fletcher said generously. “It’s too far to walk.”

  “Thanks, Colonel.”

  Owen had learned to drive the Model A, and it gave him great pleasure to use it from time to time. He had figured out how to crank the engine without breaking his arm and was so strong that it was not difficult for him. He set the spark, gave the crank a mighty pull, then leapt into the seat and manipulated the controls expertly, sending the Ford chuffing down the road that led to town.