Fighting Alaska (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  Pete’s eyes started turning watery. “But, Jean, you wanted a stake.”

  Jean blew out a deep breath before he continued. “We can get a stake.”

  A tremendous confusion washed over Pete’s face. “How?”

  “I can fight somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Mexico interrupted, “I do! Sam Kearney!”

  Jean looked at him. “A pal said I should see Wyatt Earp.”

  Mexico nodded. “He’ll do. And he’s tight with Tex Rickard.”

  “Rickard again. What makes him so special? Won’t he be put out about our kick in The Northern?”

  “He puts up with Kearney, but he’ll see it as a great grudge match. Kearney don’t like to be given the short end of the stick like you showed him. Besides,” he said, “Tex was a marshal when he was still wet behind the ears. He isn’t happy about this court action, I tell you. And he’s promoted a fight or two since he’s been in Alaska. This is right up his alley.”

  Jean turned to his partner. “What do you say, Pete?”

  Pete twisted the bottle in his hands. Then he placed it on the floor and pushed the nest of blankets aside. “Help me up,” he said.

  ***

  If Jean thought The Northern was fancy, The Dexter was dazzling. It was outfitted with every sort of ornamentation suitable for the finest saloons in Chicago, New York City or San Francisco. King of this den of revelry – a bar, gaming tables, a stage, and dance floor – was Wyatt Earp.

  He was in his fifties. It was twenty years since the infamous Tombstone gunfight that continued to shadow his trail, but he still offered a fierce mien to the world. He wore a mustache like a thick bristle brush, which made the intensity of his gaze all the more daunting – or so Jean reckoned. Earp was clad in a suit with a vest, not showy, but nice.

  His handshake was confident.

  The former lawman displayed a dourness that wasn’t reflected in his companion, who introduced himself as Rex Beach. He was a hearty, athletic-looking fellow, probably younger than thirty. He wore a nice suit.

  “You a lawyer?” Pete asked. His eyes had a scalded look.

  “I do have a law degree,” Beach said. “But I’m a playwright.”

  Pete sniffed. “Look like a lawyer.”

  “Nome brings all types to town,” Jean said.

  “Nome or gold?” Beach parried. “I’d say gold. But you’re right. I’ve seen enough characters in the time I’ve been here to populate a dozen books. Two dozen!” He laughed.

  “Just keep me out of ‘em,” Earp growled.

  “Won’t be hard,” Beach said. “You’re just a businessman. Too boring for anyone to read about.”

  Tex Rickard entered then. Earp appeared somber and conservative in his suit. Beach had the look of a professional man. Rickard was flashy. He wore a cream-colored Stetson with a wide brim, a bear-fur coat over a chamois vest, a nugget watch chain, and black pin-striped trousers. Jean wouldn’t have been surprised to see spats on The Northern’s owner, but he wore the same mud-spattered boots as everyone else in town.

  Introductions went around again. Rickard stared at Jean. “I know you,” he said. He squinted a few moments, then snapped his fingers. “Madam Burnet’s.”

  “That’s me.”

  “So what’s this all about?” Rickard asked after they all took seats around a table on which sat a whiskey bottle with glasses, a pitcher of beer, and a pot of coffee with cups. “Mexico, why did you send for me?” He reached for the coffee pot.

  “Gentlemen,” Mexico said, “your businesses are built on entertaining hard-working men living in a hard land. You and your competitors do a fine business doing a fine job of it. But every now and then, these fellows with mud up to their elbows might could use something a little out of the ordinary.”

  “Like what?” Rickard asked.

  Mexico rubbed his hands together. “A fight.”

  “There are fights on the claims and in the streets every day,” harrumphed Earp.

  “No, no.” Mexico leaned forward. “I mean a fight. A boxing match.”

  “A bout!” Rickard thumped the table. “Why, that would be just the thing!”

  Earp nodded. His dour expression didn’t alter, but a note of interest entered his voice: “Who would fight?”

  “Me.” Jean watched Earp study him. Like he’s going to buy a horse, Jean thought.

  Earp jutted his chin at him. “So who are you?”

  Jean told him about his life in fighting. Pete threw in details. They described bouts. They talked about the plans that brought them to Nome. And about the crushing news they heard in The Northern.

  Beach whistled. “That damn Judge Noyes and his shady law.”

  “The law’s the law,” Earp said. “You went to school – you know the law isn’t always particularly helpful to all those who need it.”

  Rickard pointed at Jean. “You’re the fella who whupped Sam Kearney?”

  Jean nodded.

  Mexico slapped the table. “Wouldn’t that make a match up? Jean here and Kearney?”

  Beach was enthusiastic. “Plenty of folks here are sore at Kearney because of the claims on Anvil Creek. They’d pay good money to see him get his nose bloodied.”

  “They would,” Rickard agreed. He leaned back in his chair and covered his chin with a hand.

  “Wyatt,” Beach said, “folks would pay even more if we could get you involved.”

  “I’ve had my time in the ring,” Earp said. His eyes were shadowed by his bushy brows. His expression reminded Jean of a mountain’s unyielding face of granite. “It didn’t leave any fond memories.”

  Jean had heard about how Earp was recruited to call a bout in San Francisco. The Sharkey-Fitzsimmons match. After the fight, the sporting crowd loudly expressed a lot of sour grapes about how Earp named the winner, and the newspapers claimed the fight was fixed.

  Pete sat up straight. “But will you help us?”

  “I’m a business man. There’s money to be made,” Earp said. “I’ll back your play.”

  Rickard spoke up, “You’ve gotten the best of Sam once. After news of a bout gets around, people will soon know it was you who did it, if they don’t already. And word’s already spreading that you keep a short rein over at Burnet’s place.”

  “Folks will know it’ll be a top-rate fight,” Mexico said.

  “They will,” Rickard agreed. “Jean, you want a stake to get back outside, am I right?”

  “I do.”

  Rickard nodded. “The bigger the better, I think you’ll agree. Two things –

  you’ve whipped Kearney once, and people hate Kearney. They’ll be falling over themselves betting on you and against him.”

  Mexico scratched where his chin resided inside its beard and frowned. “That’s true.”

  Rickard said, “That’s right. You need to make people bet while thinking about their money, not thinking about their hate. If more people are betting against you, and you beat Kearney, you’ll go home with more gelt in your pocket.”

  Beach drummed his fingers next to his glass of whiskey. “How do we make that happen?”

  Jean knew the answer before Rickard pointed at him and said, “Kearney’s got to whip you.”

  ***

  Jean stepped into The Northern. Stout George Nelson, choirboy look intact, was again behind the bar. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

  Sam Kearney sat at a table playing cards. Jean felt a dry thickness in his throat, so he swallowed. He approached the card players. After a few moments, Kearney looked up. His face darkened. He stood and his chair clattered backwards onto the floor. A purple bruise was visible on Kearney’s neck.

  The big man threw his cards on the table. “You’re a bold son of a bitch,” he growled.

  Jean resisted the urge to make a placating gesture. He kept his arms hanging at his sides. “I’ve come to apologize.”

  “What?”

  Jean recognized the reactions of a
natural bully. Kearney would bluster, take a conciliatory remark as a sign of weakness, and then assert his will as if it were his God-given right to trample into the mud anyone whose face he cared to grind his boot upon.

  Jean knew he had to use these traits against Kearney without the big man realizing he was actually doing Jean’s bidding.

  “You hit my partner,” Jean said, “and I lashed out. Went a little crazy. I’m sorry.”

  Kearney strode to Jean, bent down so their faces were inches apart. “What do want?”

  “To make an offer.”

  “What could you possibly offer me?”

  Jean gave the card players still at the table a glance. Not a one was watching anything other than the drama being enacted at their sides.

  Jean cleared his throat. “A chance to get even.”

  “What are you talking about? I can beat you to an inch of your life, right here and now, and not a word out of line would be said. I’ll be completely within my rights.” Kearney’s hands already were clenched into fists.

  “That’s probably true,” Jean admitted. “But why not make it worth something?”

  Confusion flickered through the anger clouding Kearney’s features. “What are you talking about? You don’t make any sense.”

  “Let’s have a fight, a boxing match – for the whole town. Everyone can come. They can see it. There’s sure to be a lot of bets placed.”

  “So?”

  “You get a chance to get even. I get the chance to win back our claim.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If I win, you give back our claim on Anvil Creek.”

  Kearney stared at him. Finally he said, “Can’t be done.”

  “Why not?”

  Kearney straightened. “It’s a court matter. The diggings don’t belong to me.”

  “You’re operating the claim! You’re getting everything that’s being sluiced out of the rockers.”

  Kearney waved away the argument, frowning all the while. “The court assigned the claims to me. I can’t turn ‘em over to anybody.”

  Here we go, Jean thought. “Rather hang on to your money than prove you can face me, is that it? Rather hide behind Judge Noyes’ skirts than take on someone who can fight back!”

  Kearney’s face was a dangerous red. “Oh, I’ll fight you, boyo. No fear of that.”

  “That’s big talk for a greedy bastard bully who’s afraid to get your hands muddy. Easier to take someone else’s gold than to dig your own!” And Jean took a swing at him.

  He made sure he didn’t plant his feet well, so the blow lacked all the force it could have carried. Still, it stung enough to make Kearney step back.

  The big man roared.

  The bee stinging the bull, Jean thought.

  Kearney slammed forward. He aimed a galloping right at Jean’s face. Jean ducked and deflected with his left forearm so that the big man’s knuckles rapped the back of his head – still, the blow set bells ringing in Jean’s ears. He blocked a follow-up from Kearney’s right and poked his left into the big man’s ribs.

  Kearney took a half-step back, then returned.

  He’s gotta connect, Jean thought. For this to work, he’s got to connect. He lowered his right arm a bit, but kept his left fist up to protect his head and face. This is going to hurt.

  Kearney swung a roundhouse left. Jean shifted enough to stop it with his shoulder. He turned so Kearney’s right slammed into his ribs. He staggered, felt another blow on his right ear and the bells went to ringing afresh. Jean ducked, stepped forward, and drove a punch into the big man’s gut. Kearney wheeled away and crashed into his table. Money and cards fountained into the air, and the players and their chairs scattered.

  Kearney was up and at him again in a second. His face was still fierce scarlet. Jean saw a madness in the big man’s eyes. He purposefully lowered his guard and then felt a shocking blow to his ribs, followed by a white knife of pain along his collar bone.

  Jean stumbled sideways, tangled with a chair, and slammed to the floor.

  He tried to get his elbow under him to push back to his feet. He saw Kearney snatch up a chair and bring it over his head, preparing to bring it down in a vicious arc. Jean kicked his feet about and he attempted to stand, but the floor wouldn’t stop moving. Kearney lunged forward.

  Jean felt a lightning strike, then darkness eclipsed the entire saloon.

  ***

  For a moment, Jean could see again. He was in the street, swathed in mud. On his hands and knees, trying to rise. Then blackness.

  His eyes were already open when next he realized he could see. He was sitting. In a room. He did not recognize it. Pete was beside him, washing his face. Someone else was nearby. South America. No. Mexico. He held a pail. Pete pushed a bloody rag into the pail and pulled it out, dripping water. Jean heard boot steps behind his chair. The steps came into his line of sight. The step sounds were connected to a person. A man. That North Texas person. He said something…

  “By God, this looks like success. We’ll be rich.”

  A growling voice said something behind Jean but everything was going black again and he couldn’t see the words.

  ***

  Jean came back to awareness somewhere. He believed opening his eyes would only intensify the pain that wrapped his head and body. After several moments, he noticed a child’s voice echoing through the fog of aches.

  He opened his eyes.

  Jean lay in a bed. A boy sat beside the bed in a straight chair. He was reading aloud from a book.

  “What’s your name?” Jean asked, his voice dry and croaky.

  “Horace.” The boy looked at him. Jean saw that he wore a patch over one eye.

  “That’s right.”

  “Sure it’s right. I know my own name, don’t I?”

  “Sure.” The boy’s image wiggled in his sight as if some tremor shook the room. But Jean felt no shaking.

  “Madam Burnet said I’m supposed to watch you. But you’re not doing much to watch. I’m supposed to do my learnin’, too. Did I wake you up?”

  “No.”

  “Need another dosin’?”

  “Of what?”

  “Laudanum.”

  “No.”

  Horace returned to his reading. Jean sank back into the fog and went to sleep.

  When he awoke, Horace was gone. But someone sat on the bed. His sight was focused down to a narrow circle, as if he peered through the wrong end of a telescope. But he saw red hair. “Maud?”

  “Welcome back.” She raked her fingers across his hair.

  “Ouch.”

  “Horace said you turned down your laudanum.” She narrowed her eyes. “Always the hard way with you.”

  Jean shifted position. Waves of pain, rugged as Nome Beach’s surf, washed through his body. “Apparently.”

  “Tex Rickard paid Madam Burnet for someone’s time to stay with you. I made sure it was me.” Maud leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “One of his men is taking your shifts at the door.”

  “Generous of Tex.”

  “To be paid from your profits to be gained as a result of your little scheme to fight Sam Kearney.”

  “Generous.”

  A small curl of the lips, hardly enough to be called a smile, appeared at one corner of her mouth. “Looking at you, I’m not sure I’d expect much from the quality of your scheming.”

  “Everybody’s generous.” Jean sighed. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, his sight was back to normal. That’s better.

  “You’re in Nome,” Maud said. “You’ve probably exceeded your share of generosity. For a few years.”

  “Just my luck.” He winced as Maud moved and the mattress shifted under him.

  “If you feel that much pain, I think you need a fresh dose.” Maud kissed his head again. Then his cheek, just under his right eye.

  Jean flinched. “Is this going to hurt?”

  Maud narrowed her eyes. “I’m sure it will.”

  R
OUND 11

  “Sam has agreed to the date,” Mexico said. “Two weeks from today.”

  “We need to train,” Rickard said.

  “This man needs bed rest,” said the bearded man they had introduced as Dr. McKenzie. His broad shoulders stretched the seams of his sweater. He looked big enough to wrestle a Clydesdale to the ground. “There’ll be no training for him.”

  “No training!” Mexico protested. “You’re a blasted veterinarian!”

  “A horse doctor?” Pete sounded shocked.

  “Animals or men, they both work on the same principles,” Earp’s gruff voice grumbled. “Besides, he owes me money.”

  Jean sat at the table in Madam Burnet’s kitchen. Rita had abandoned her domain when the sporting crowd converged to examine Jean. Now he sat and watched the others pace and stalk around McKenzie – whatever kind of doctor he was – while they waved their hands and shouted.

  The doctor pointed at him. “His pupils don’t match. I don’t like that.”

  Earp’s friend, Beach, stood by the cook stove and dipped a spoon into each simmering pot for a taste. Like Jean, he watched. Unlike Jean, he was probably filing away material for some book, no doubt.

  As Jean looked at each man in turn, the object of his gaze would blur a moment before snapping into focus. He’d not mentioned this to anyone – not even to Maud, who seemed very able to keep secrets.

  The crowd in the room continued thrusting arguments at one another. Jean, the object of the debate, kept his own counsel. Madam Burnet burst into the room and the men shut their mouths.

  “Gentlemen,” she said. “You are braying like jackasses and disturbing my girls. They need their rest. Please conclude your business and depart. My magnanimity has its limits.” She bustled out.

  Finally, after a gap of several moments’ silence, Beach spoke up, “Give Jean another day’s rest. Let folks know he’s still in bed, even.” He gave a knowing glance at Earp. “If people know he can’t get on his feet yet, they may bet even heavier on Kearney for the bout.”

  “It will mean bigger winnings for us,” Rickard said.

  Earp growled, “If we win.”