There was considerable money floating about town, and not an awful lot to do with it but drink or gamble. When it came to ranching, there were several successful men around Beeville; but in the cattle-rustling business the most successful man was Ed Singleton.
The town was about evenly divided between the ranchers and the thieves, and each knew the others by name and occupation. You could hang a cattle thief back in those days, but the trouble was you had to catch him at it. Singleton and those others, they were almighty sly.
There was a lot of betting on both the fight and the race, some of the folks even betting on me, sight unseen. There’s folks will bet on anything, given a chance.
Quite a crowd was in town. Some, like I said, had come over from Oakville, but there was a whole crowd from Helena, too. Helena was an old stop on the Chihuahua trail and, like Beeville and Oakville, it was a rough, wild town, and those men from Helena were as tough as they come.
I walked down the street, keeping away from the knots of men arguing here and there, and finally I stopped by the corral to look at that ring. It looked big enough, and small enough, too.
A man stopped beside me, looking through the corral bars at the ring. He glanced at me out of a pair of hard, measuring eyes, and thrust out his hand, “Walton. I’m sheriff. You fought much?”
“When I had to. Never in a contrivance like that.”
“He’s an experienced man, and a brute.
I’ve seen him fight.” He paused. “You must think you can beat him.”
“A man never knows,” I said, “but when we were kids I broke his nose and his jaw. I outsmarted him that time,” I said, “maybe I can again.”
“This is a grudge fight?”
“If it isn’t, then you never saw one. His pa used to beat me, and he robbed me. This one tried to bully me around. I figure he knows a lot more about fighting than I do, but I figure there’s a streak of coyote in him. It may be mighty hard to find, but I’m going in there hunting it.”
Walton straightened up. “There’s fifty to a hundred thugs in town that nobody can account for without considering the Bishop. I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise you anything.”
“In this country,” I said, “a man saddles his own broncos and settles his own difficulties.”
Walton walked away, and after a bit I went back to the house and saddled the roan. Time was shaping up for the race.
Manuel had led the mule out. “They want to know his name,” he said.
“What did you call him?”
Manuel shrugged.
“All right, call him Bonaparte, and let’s hope that track out there isn’t Waterloo.”
The Tinker came out and mounted up, and Doc Halloran too. One of the others who showed up was a husky Irishman with a double-barreled shotgun.
“I’m a mule-skinner,” he said, “and I bet on him. In my time I’ve seen some fast mules, and I saw this one run over to Oakville.”
The Bishop was out there, and Dun Caffrey. I noticed they had at least two horses in the race.
“Manuel,” I said, “how mean can you be?”
He looked at me from those big dark eyes.
“I do not know, se@nor. I have never been mean.”
“Then you’ve got only one chance. Get that mule out in front and let him run. Those two”
—I indicated the horses—?are both ridden by tough men. One or both of them will try to block you out if you look like you’d a chance, so watch out.”
“I will ride Bonaparte,” he said—?x is all I can do, but it is a proud name.”
They lined up, and the way Bonaparte walked up to the line you wouldn’t have thought he’d anything in mind but sleep. One of those Bishop horses moved in on each side of him.
So I walked across to the Bishop. I walked up to him right in front of everybody.
“Tinhorn,” I said, “you better hope those boys of yours don’t hurt that kid. If they do, I’ll kill you.”
He thought it was big talk, but he made a little move with his head and two husky shoulder-strikers moved up to me. “Caffrey will kill you,” the Bishop said, his voice deeper than any I’d ever heard, “but these can rough you up a little first.”
One of them struck at me, and the Tinker’s training was instinctive. Grabbing his wrist, I busted him over my back into the dust, and he came down hard. Coming up in a crouch, the other man missed a blow and I saw the glint of brass knuckles on his hand. My left hand grabbed his shirt collar in front and took a sharp twist that set him to gagging and choking. With the other I grabbed his hand, forcing his arm up so that everybody within sight could see those brass knuckles.
Now, like I’ve said, I was an uncommon strong man before those years in prison. My fingers wrapped around his hand just above the wrist and began to squeeze, squeezing his fingers right up to a point, then I brought his hand down and let those knuckle dusters fall into the dust. At the same time I slipped my hand up a little further and shut down hard with all my grip.
He screamed, a hoarse, choking scream. And then I put my thumb against the base of his fingers and my fingers at his wrist and bent it back sharply. Folks standing nearby heard it break.
Then I walked out to Manuel.
“You ride it clean, kid,” I said. I spoke loud enough so all could hear. “If either of these make a dirty ride, they’ll get what he got.”
Somebody cheered, and then the pistol was fired.
Those horses taken out of there at a dead run, most of them cutting horses and expert at starting from a stand.
My mule, he was left at the post.
They just taken off and went away from there, but Manuel was figuring right. He held the mule back, and sure enough, those two riders to right and left crashed together. They had risked what I’d do rather than what the Bishop might do. If Manuel had been in there, he’d have been hurt, and bad.
Then Manuel let out a shrill whoop and that Bonaparte left out of there like he had some place to go and it was on fire.
He was two lengths behind before he made his first jump, but I’d never realized the length of his legs before. He had a tremendous stride, and he ran—he ran like no horse I’d ever seen.
There was no way for me to see the finish. It was a straightaway course, and several of them seemed to be bunched up at the end.
Suddenly one of the judges, a man on a white horse, came galloping back.
“That damned mule!” he yelled. “The mule won by half a length!”
Back at the Mexicans’ cabin nobody had much to say. The Mexican folks who owned it stayed out of sight most of the time and Juana stayed with them. I had made a bit of money and Halloran cut me in on what he’d made on the race, as well as giving a bit to Manuel.
That I did too.
Those two races had made that boy more money than he and Juana had seen since Miguel died.
Me, I stretched out on the bed and lay there, resting up for the fight. My stomach felt empty and kind of sick-like, and I began to wonder if I was scared. True enough, I’d whipped Caffrey, but he was no fighter then, just a big, awkward boy, and I might have been lucky. Now he had been out among men, he had proved himself against known fighters, defeating them all, and there’s no escaping the worth of experience.
Between bouts he’d had a plenty of sparring with experienced fighters, and was up to all manner of tricks that only a professional can come by. But I thought of Jem Mace, who’d taught the Tinker. He had been a master boxer, one of the great ones. Never weighing more than one hundred and sixty pounds, he had been the world’s champion, defeating men as much as sixty pounds heavier.
Thinking about it, I dozed off and did not wake up until the Tinker shook me.
“Move around,” he advised. “Get the sleep out of you. Get your blood to circulating.”
O’Flaherty, the Irishman who’d bet on our mule, came to the house. “I’ve not seen you with the knuckles,” he commented, “but a man with sense enough to bet on a mule is a cann
y one, so I bet my winnings on you.”
The Tinker was carrying a pistol, a rare thing for him, and the Irishman had brought his shotgun. Doc Halloran had bulges under his coat that meant he was wearing two guns, and I slipped mine into my waistband, too.
We mounted up and started for the ring, but I’d gone no way at all when someone called out to me, and when I turned I saw it was a girl in a handsome carriage. It was Marsha Deckrow, and she was more beautiful than I would have believed anybody could be.
Pulling up, I removed my hat. “Still the servant’s entrance?” I said.
She showed her dimples. “I was a child then, Orlando. I must have sounded very snippy.”
“You did.”
“You’re stern!” She laughed at me. “I’m sorry you were in prison. My father told me about it.”
“I must be going on,” I said, though to be honest it was the last thing I wished to do.
“You’re going to fight that awful man. My father won’t let me go, even though I promised to sit in the carriage and we needn’t be close.
There’s a knoll a little way from the corral, and we could keep the carriage there. But I’ll watch. I think I’ve found a window.”
“It is likely to be brutal,” I said, “and he may whip me.”
“Will I see you afterward, Orlando? After all, we’re cousins, aren’t we? Or something like that?
Your father married my aunt.”
“Do you see them often?”
“With your father feeling the way he does about pa?
I should say not! In fact, we’re on our way to Austin now.”
I gathered the reins. The Tinker and Doc were waiting impatiently, and the time was soon. “You tell your pa for me,” I said, “that he’d better drop that case. He’d best forget the whole thing.
He was working for Jonas in the beginning, and when this is over he won’t even be doing that.”
Her face hardened. “You’re my enemy then?”
“I’m not anybody’s enemy,” I said, “but I know murder when I see it done. And betrayal, too.”
The look in her eyes there for a minute—well, it wasn’t what you’d rightly call pleasant; but then it was gone and she was all smiles. “After the fight, Orlando? Win or lose? Will you come?
Pa wouldn’t approve, not one bit, but if you’d come to see me … I’m staying with the Appletons, down at the end of the street. They hadn’t room for pa, too, so he won’t be there.
Do come.”
“Well”—she was a mighty pretty girl—
“I’ll see.”
My stomach felt queasy when I dismounted at the corral, for there were a sight of folks sitting atop the corral fence, which had a board nailed on it all the way around so’s men could look at stock when buying from the corral.
Inside, the yard had been sprinkled and then rolled or tamped until it was hard-packed.
They’d set four posts in the ground and had ropes around them, running through holes in the posts.
No sooner had I got down than a great yell went up from the crowd, and there was Dun Caffrey getting out of a carriage. He wore a striped sweater, and when he peeled it off, he showed a set of the finest shoulders a man ever did see.
He was some taller than me, maybe about three inches, and had longer arms. He would weigh better than me, for I was down to two hundred and six, whilst he weighed two hundred and thirty, and carrying no fat.
Folks crowded around—men in buckboards and spring wagons, men a-horseback and afoot.
Caffrey was wearing a pair of dark blue tights and some fancy, special-made shoes for boxing or handball. I wore moccasins and black tights—^the last the Tinker rustled up for me.
“They’ve got a set of gloves,” Doc Halloran said, “and they offer to fight either way, with or without.”
“Take ‘em,” the Tinker advised. “They protect your hands, and you’ll hit even harder because of them. A lot of folks don’t realize it, but a man hits harder with a bandaged hand and a glove than with a bare fist—m compact, better striking surface, and less danger of hurting your hands.”
When we agreed, they brought a pair of gloves over and I shoved my hand down inside.
These were three-ounce gloves, and when my hand was doubled into a fist it was hard as rock.
“We fight London Prize Ring rules,”
Doc explained. “You fight until one man goes down, a knockdown, slip, or throw down, then you rest for one minute, and you toe the mark when you come up for each round, and the fight is to a finish.”
“He knows,” the Tinker said, dryly. He looked at me. “I hope you haven’t forgotten what I taught you during those months of travel.
You can use a rolling hip-lock to throw him, and if you get hold of him, pound him until you’re stopped.”
Everybody had been taking notice of Caffrey, and when I slipped off my sweater, nobody was looking my way. I was brown as any Indian, and there were the scars of the old whip-cuts on my back and shoulders.
In spite of the difference in weight between us, I was better muscled and a little broader in the shoulders and quite a bit thicker through the chest.
Walton was to referee, and he made an announcement that he’d shoot the first man to come through the ropes or the first to try to tear down a post.
Around that ring those gamblers were gathered. Right off I could see that they’d outsmarted us, and the whole crowd against the ropes except right in my corner were his friends, and the men behind them were, too. My friends, and few enough of them there were, they were cut off, back some distance.
Suppose a whole rank started to move in on the ring? What would Walton do then?
Time was called and we walked out to toe the mark, and as soon as my toe touched it, Caffrey hit me. He hit me a straight left to the face, and it landed hard. I sprang at him, punching with both hands, and he moved around me like a cooper around a barrel. He hit me three times in the face without my landing a blow.
The crowd began to yell, and he came at me again, but this time I ducked my head against his chest and managed to hit him twice, short blows in the belly, before he put a headlock on me and threw me to my knees, ending the round.
When I walked back to my corner and sat on Halloran’s knee, my lip was puffed from a blow, and there was a knot on my cheekbone.
I’ll give it to him. He could punch.
“Stay close to him,” the Tinker whispered.
“Keep your hands higher and your elbows in. Work on his body when you get the chance.”
When time was called, Caffrey rushed from his corner and began punching with both hands. He hit me several times, almighty hard, but I got my head down against his chest again and hooked both hands hard to the belly. He tried to push me off then, but I stepped in fast and back-heeled him and he went down hard, ending the round.
As we went on it was nip and tuck, both of us punching hard. He was fast, and he was in good shape, and he moved well. The first six rounds were gone in fourteen minutes, but the seventh round lasted five minutes all by itself.
He’d pounded me about the head, but I wasn’t really hurt. He’d drawn first blood —there was a trickle of it from my lip that had been cut against my teeth. He was unmarked, and the betting had gone up to three to one on Caffrey.
Opposite us a window had gone up in the second story of a house, and I could see a couple of women there, watching the fight. Another window in that same house was open, too, but nobody watched from it.
Round eight came up and I went out fast, slipped a left lead for my head and smashed him in the ribs. It taken his wind, and it shook him up. It was my first hard punch of the fight, and I think it surprised him. He backed off, studying me, and I stalked him. I made awkwardly as if to throw my right and he stepped in, hitting hard with his right.
My left arm was bent at the elbow, first at shoulder level, elbow near the hip, and I’d moved my left shoulder and hip over almost to the center line, while leaving my fist coc
ked where it was. As Caffrey threw that right, I let go with my left, letting it whip around, thrown by the tension built up by turning my shoulder forward and the weight behind it.
The blow struck high on his cheekbone and knocked him across the ring into the ropes. Eager hands shoved him back, but I was moving in on him and I struck him again with my left fist, but I was too eager with my right, and missed. He clinched and back-heeled me into the dirt, falling atop me and jerking his knee into my groin.
Throwing him off, I came up fast and mad, and hurt by that knee. He cocked his fist, and then Walton stepped in and stopped the round.
Twice after that he drove me into the ropes and once I was hit from outside the ropes, hit hard just above the kidney. I turned to complain and he knocked me down … a clean knockdown.
The crowd was mad now. Arguments were starting all about us, and there were several fights going close to the ring, and one back beyond it. Once, wrestling in a clinch, I thought I saw movement at that empty window, and made up my mind to speak to Doc about it.
It was bloody fighting now. Moving in, I smashed him in the mouth with a right that split his lip and started the blood flowing. In a clinch he said hoarsely, “I’m going to kill you, Sackett!
Right here in this ring, I’m going to kill you!”
“I broke your bones once,” I replied, “and I’ll do it again!”
Catching his left arm under mine, I threw him off balance and hit him twice in the belly before I let go. We moved together, punching with both hands, and outside the ropes the crowd was shouting and brawling. Nothing could be heard above the din.
Deliberately, I still pounded away at his body, but his stomach and ribs were like rock. He cut a slit above my eye and knocked me into the ropes, and there someone struck me a stunning blow over the back of the head with something like a blackjack or sandbag.
Even as I fell, Caffrey rushed at me and struck me twice in the face. I fell forward, and was scarcely conscious as the Tinker and Doc dragged me to my corner. Yet when the bell rang I was on my feet.
Now he started after me, and, still feeling the effects of the blow over the head, I could not get myself together. My punches were poorly timed and lacked force, and Caffrey rushed at me, pounding away with both hands. Getting in close, I seized him bodily, lifted him clear of the ground, and slammed him down with such force that the wind was knocked from him.
Lando (1962) Page 13