Collection 2001 - May There Be A Road (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Burke looked up and grinned. “Maybe Hendryx stumbled on that punk I fought a few months ago.”

  Kirby looked queerly at Burke, his eyes narrowing slightly. “What d’you mean, the guy you fought?”

  “Why, several months ago I boxed a guy who looked enough like McGowan to be his twin. A fella named Barney Malone, from Johannesburg, South Africa. He stopped me quick. Hit like a mule, he did, but I’d seen him get stopped in the gym a couple of times by small boys, and figured I could take him.”

  “And you say he looked like the champ?” Kirby said thoughtfully.

  “Yeah,” Burke agreed. “An’ say, I hadn’t remembered it before, but I seen him talkin’ to Ryan one time…”

  “Did he sound like he was from South Africa, you know, did he have an accent?” Kirby asked Dobro.

  “Had the mouthpiece in—he sounded like a guy talkin’ past the world’s biggest chaw.”

  “You say he was stopped by somebody?”

  “Yeah, hit on the head, both times. Back around the ear. I thought I could cop him myself, but he was in better shape, an’ he never give me no chance.”

  * * *

  NEARLY RING TIME. “Dandy Jim” Kirby walked slowly down the aisle toward his ringside seat, a very thoughtful man. Kirby was nobody’s fool. He had been around the fight racket as a kid, and he’d heard the smart fight managers talk, guys who’d been in the business since the days of Gans and Wolgast. He knew Rack Hendryx well enough to know he was no more honest than he had to be. Somehow—He paused momentarily, running his long fingers through his slightly graying hair.

  Now, let’s see: McGowan, nasty as they make ’em, wins the title by a kayo. He is a slugger with a chunk of dynamite in each mitt, and plenty tough. He starts drinking and chasing women. Then, about two months later, he suddenly starts a campaign of exhibition fights.

  McGowan carouses, and yet is always in perfect shape. Tonight his face is puffy and eyes hollow—tomorrow he is lean, hard, and clear-eyed. There is another heavyweight who looks like McGowan, and Ruby Ryan knows them both.…

  Kirby dropped his cigarette and rubbed it out with his toe. Then he turned and walked back toward the dressing room. His eyes were bright. He met Hamp Morgan coming toward the ring.

  “Listen, Hamp,” he said quickly. “When you go out there tonight, I want you to hit this guy on the ear, see? Hit him, an’ hit him hard, get me?”

  * * *

  FOR YEARS, FANS were to remember that fight. It was one for the books. For four rounds, it was one of the most terrific slugging matches ever seen, with both boys moving fast and slamming away with a will. It was a bitter, desperate fight, and when the bell rang for the fifth, the crowd was on the edge of their seats, every man hoarse from yelling.

  The “champion” stopped Morgan’s first rush with a lancing left jab. A hard right to the body followed, and Morgan backed up, taking two lefts as he was going away. Then he lunged in, whipped both hands for the body, and then missed a long overhand right to the head. The “champion” backed away and Morgan followed. Suddenly Barney Malone stopped, feinted a left, and shook Morgan to his heels with a driving right to the jaw. Hamp Morgan dropped swiftly to a crouch, and suddenly, so quickly that the eye could not follow, he whipped over a terrific right to the head that crashed against Malone’s ear! With a sound, the “champion” pitched forward on his face and lay still.

  Amid the roar of the crowd, the referee’s hand began to rise and fall, slowing tolling off the seconds. In the ringside seat, Rack Hendryx sat tensely, swearing under his breath in a low, vicious monotone. Ryan leaned over the edge of the ring, fists clenched, almost breathless.

  Kirby, the championship almost in his hands, was watching Hendryx, and then his eyes slid over to Tony Mada.

  The crowd was in a frenzy, but Mada was cold and silent. He was not looking at the ring; his gaze was fastened upon “Dandy Jim” Kirby. Kirby felt his mouth go dry with fear. Then, amid the roaring of the crowd, the bell sounded. Probably not more than a dozen people heard it, but it sounded at the count of nine.

  The first thing Barney Malone understood was the dull roar in his ears and the bright lights over the ring. He felt someone anxiously shaking his head, and a whiff of smelling salts nearly tore his skull off.

  * * *

  THEN—“COME ON, son, you got to snap out of it!” Ryan was pleading. “Come on!” As Malone’s eyes opened, Ryan leaned forward, whispering, “Now’s your chance! Go out there like you were gone, see? Stagger out, act like you don’t know where you are. Then let him have it, just as hard as you can throw it, get me?”

  The sound of the bell was lost in the howl of the crowd, and Hamp Morgan was crossing the ring, tearing in, punching like a madman, throwing a volley of hooks, swings, and uppercuts that had Barney Malone reeling like a drunken man; reeling, but just enough to keep most of Morgan’s blows pounding the air. And then, like a shot from the blue, his right streaked out and crashed against Morgan’s chin with the force of a thunderbolt. Hamp Morgan spun halfway around and dropped at full length on the canvas!

  * * *

  MALONE CRAWLED STIFFLY out of bed and sat staring across the room. One eye was swollen, and he felt gingerly of his ear. Thoughtfully, but cautiously, he worked his jaw around to find the sore spots. There were plenty.

  He was shaving when suddenly the sound of the key in the lock made him look up. It was Ruby Ryan.

  “Look, kid,” he said excitedly, “we got to scram. Somebody is stirrin’ up a lot of heat! Look at this!”

  He pointed at the same daily column of sports comment that had been giving so much space to the activities of the champion, both in and out of the ring.

  Where is Barney Malone? That question may or may not mean anything, but this A.M., as we recovered from last night’s fistic brawl in which Bat McGowan (or somebody) hung a kayo on Hamp Morgan’s chin, we received an anonymous note asking this very question: Where is Barney Malone?

  Now, it is true that we are not too well aware of who this Malone party is, but an enclosed clipping from a Capetown, South Africa, paper shows us a picture entitled BARNEY MALONE, a picture of a fighter whose resemblance to Bat McGowan is striking, to say the least. The accompanying story assures the interested reader that Mr. Malone is headed for pugilistic fame in the more or less Land of the Free.

  Can it be possible that this accounts for the startling alterations in the appearance and actions of Bat McGowan? And if so, who knocked out Hamp Morgan? Was it indeed our beloved champion, or was it some guy named Jones, from Peoria, or perhaps Malone, from Capetown?

  I wonder, Major Kenworthy, if Bat McGowan has a large ear this morning?

  There was a light step behind them as Malone finished reading, and they whirled about to confront Tony Mada. He smiled.

  “Hello, kid, the boss wants to see you.”

  “Hendryx? Why don’t he come over here like he always does?” Ryan demanded. “He knows it’s dangerous to have Barney on the streets.”

  “We got a car, Barney, a closed car. Come on, he’s waiting for you.”

  Ryan was standing by the window, and he turned his head slightly, glancing at the car across the street. Suddenly his face went deathly white. Behind the wheel was “Shiv” McCloskey, another of Hendryx’s muscle men. He had the feeling that Barney Malone was about to disappear, forever.

  Malone picked up his hat, straightened his tie. In the mirror he caught a glimpse of Ryan’s face, white and strained. A jerk of the head indicated the car, with McCloskey at the wheel. Mada was lighting a cigarette.

  * * *

  WITHOUT A WORD, Barney Malone spun on his heel, and as Mada looked up, his fist caught the torpedo on the angle of the jaw. Something crunched, and the gunman toppled to the floor. Quickly, Ryan grabbed the automatic from Mada’s shoulder holster.

  “Come on, kid, we got to scram—”

  Suddenly in the door of the room stood Major Kenworthy, Rack Hendryx, Bat McGowan, and two reporters. Kenworthy steppe
d over to Mada, and then glanced out the window. He turned slowly to Hendryx.

  “I don’t know quite what this is all about yet, Hendryx,” he said dryly, “but I’d advise you to call off your dog out there. He might become conspicuous. It seems”—he smiled at Ryan and Malone—“that your other shadow has met with an accident.”

  “Are you Malone?” asked one of the reporters.

  “Of course he’s Malone,” Kenworthy interrupted. “Just what else he is, we’ll soon find out. But before asking any questions or listening to any alibis, I’m going to speak my piece. Apparently, Malone”—he eyed Barney’s bruised ear—“fighting as the champion, defeated Hamp Morgan. This means”—he looked at Hendryx—“that your ten thousand dollars is forfeit. Apparently, Malone, you scored ten knockouts while posing as champion. This is all going to be public knowledge, but you and McGowan are going to get a chance to make it right with the fans. A chance I’d not be giving either of you but for the good of the game. You can fight each other for the world’s title, the proceeds, above training expenses, to go to charity…that, or you can both be barred for life. And if you can also be prosecuted, I’ll see that it’s done. What do you men say?”

  “I’ll fight,” Barney Malone said. “I’ll fight him, and only too willing to do it.”

  Hendryx agreed, sullenly, for the scowling McGowan.

  * * *

  DON’T MISS ANY guesses, Barney,” Ruby Ryan whispered. “Watch him all the time. Remember, he won the title, and he can hit. He’s dangerous, experienced, and a killer. He’s out for blood and to keep his title. Both of you got everything to fight for. Now, go get him !”

  The bell clanged, and Malone stepped from his corner, stabbing a lightninglike jab to McGowan’s face. McGowan slid under another left and slammed both hands into Ma-lone’s ribs with jolting force, then whipped up a torrid right uppercut that missed by a hairsbreadth. Ma-lone spun away, jabbing another left to the chin, and hooking a hard right to the temple that shook McGowan to his heels.

  But Bat McGowan looked fit. For two months, he had trained like a demon. Ryan had not been joking when he said that McGowan was out for blood. He crowded in close, Malone clinched, and McGowan tried to butt him, but took a solid punch to the midsection before the break.

  McGowan crowded in again, slugging viciously, but Malone was too fast, slipping over a left hook and slamming him on the chin with a short right cross. Bat McGowan slipped under another left, crowded in close to bury his right in Malone’s solar plexus.

  Malone staggered, tried to cover up, but McGowan was on him like a tiger, pulling his arms down, driving a terrific right to the side of his head that slammed him back into the ropes. Before he could recover, McGowan was throwing a volley of hooks, swings, and uppercuts, and Malone was battered into a corner, where he caught a stiff left and crashed to the canvas!

  He was up at nine, but McGowan came in fast, measured Malone with a left, and dropped him again. Slowly, his head buzzing, the onetime ghost fighter struggled to his knees, and caught a strand of rope to pull himself erect. McGowan rushed in, but was a little too anxious, and Malone fell into a clinch and hung on for dear life.

  At the break, McGowan missed a hard right, and the crowd booed. Malone circled warily, boxing. Bat McGowan crowded in close, but Malone met him with a fast left that cut his eyebrow. Then just before the bell, another hard right to the head put Malone on the canvas again. The gong rang at seven.

  “Say, you sap,” Ruby Ryan growled in his ear, “who said you couldn’t take it? Whatever has been wrong with you is all right. You’ve taken all he can dish out now. Keep that left busy, and keep this guy at long range and off balance, got me?”

  The second round opened fast. Malone was boxing now, using all the cleverness he had. McGowan bored in, then hooked both hands to the head. But Malone took them going away. A short right dropped Bat McGowan to his knees for no count, and then the champion was in close battering away at Malone’s ribs with both hands. Just before the bell, Malone staggered the champion with a hard left hook, and then took a jarring right to the body that drove him into the ropes.

  Through the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth rounds the two fought like madmen. Toe to toe, they battered away, first one having a narrow lead, then the other. It was nobody’s fight. Bloody, battered, and weary, the two came up for the seventh berserk and fighting for blood. McGowan’s left eye was a bloody mess, his lips were in shreds; Malone’s body was red from the terrific pounding he had taken, his lip was split, and one eye was almost closed. It had been a fierce, grueling struggle with no likelihood of quarter.

  McGowan came out slowly and missed a hard right hook, which gave Malone a chance to step in with a sizzling uppercut that nearly tore the champion’s head off! Quickly Malone feinted a left, tried another uppercut, but it fell short as McGowan rolled away, then stepped in, slamming both hands to the body, and then landed a jarring left hook to the head. Slipping away, Malone jabbed a left four times to the face without a return, danced away. McGowan put a fist to Barney’s sore mouth, but took a fearful right and left to the stomach in return that made him back up hurriedly, plainly in distress. McGowan swung wildly with a left and right, Ma-lone ducked with ease, and came up with a torrid right uppercut that stretched the champion flat on his shoulder blades!

  McGowan came up at seven and, desperate, swung a wicked left that sank into Malone’s body, inches below the belt!

  There was an angry bellow from the crowd and a rush for the ring amidst a shrilling of police whistles! But Malone caught himself on the top rope, and as McGowan rushed to finish him, the younger fighter smashed over a driving right to the chin that knocked the champion clear across the ring. Staying on his feet with sheer nerve, Barney Malone lunged across the canvas and met McGowan with a stiff left as he bounded off the ropes, then a terrific right to the jaw and McGowan went down and out, stretched on the canvas like a study in still life!

  * * *

  RUBY RYAN THREW Malone’s robe across his shoulders, grinning happily. “Well, son, you made it! What are you going to do now?”

  Barney Malone carefully raised his head. “A couple more fights. Then I’m goin’ back home…buy a farm up north near Windhoek…find a wife. I need to be in a place where a man can just be himself without having to be someone else first!”

  * * *

  IN THE PRESS benches, a radio columnist was speaking into the mike: “Well folks, it’s all over! Barney Ma-lone is heavyweight champion of the world, after the first major ring battle in recent years in which neither fighter was paid a dime! And”—he glanced over at McGowan’s corner, where Hendryx was slowly reviving his fighter—“if Major Kenworthy is asked tomorrow morning whether Bat McGowan has a large ear, he will have to say ‘Yes,’ and very emphatically!”

  WINGS OVER BRAZIL

  * * *

  CHAPTER 1

  PONGA JIM MAYO walked out on the terrace and stood looking down the winding road that led across the miles to Fortaleza and the Brazilian coast. Behind him the orchestra was rolling out a conga. Under the music he could hear the clink of glasses and the laughter of women.

  His broad, powerful shoulders filled the immaculate white dinner coat, and as he walked to the edge of the terrace, he thrust his big, salt-hardened hands into his coat pockets, bunching them into fists.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered, “something smells.”

  “What is it, Captain Mayo? What’s troubling you?” He knew, even as he turned, that only one woman could have such a voice. Señorita Carisa Montoya had been introduced to him earlier, but he knew well enough who she was. She was visiting from São Paulo, and he had met her ships in a score of ports, knew of her mines and ranches. He had been surprised only that she was so young and beautiful.

  He shrugged. “Troubling me? I’m curious why the skipper of a tramp freighter is invited here, with this crowd.”

  He glanced out over the spacious, parklike grounds. All about him was evidence of
wealth and power. A little too much power, he was thinking. And the people dancing and talking, they were smooth, efficient, powerful people. They represented the wealth and ambition of all Latin America.

  She smiled as he lit her cigarette. “You seem perfectly at home, Captain,” she said, “and certainly, there isn’t a more attractive man here.”

  “At home?” He studied her thoughtfully. “Maybe, but being invited here doesn’t make sense. I had never met Don Pedro Norden before.”

  “Possibly he has a shipping contract for you,” Carisa suggested. “With his holdings, shipping is a problem during a war.”

  “Might be.” Ponga Jim was skeptical. “But with your ships and those of Valdes, he wouldn’t need mine.”

  “You’re too suspicious,” she told him, smiling. She took him by the arm. “Why don’t you ask me to dance?”

  They started toward the floor. “Suspicious? Of course I am, this is wartime.”

  She glanced at him quickly. “But aren’t you a freelancer? A sailor of fortune? I hear you take cargo wherever you choose to go, regardless of the war.”

  “That’s right. But I’m still an American,” he said simply. “Even sailors of fortune have their loyalties.”

  Three men stepped out of a door. One was Don Ricardo Valdes, a shipping magnate from the Argentine. The other two were strangers. One tall, slightly stooped, middle-aged. His gray face was vulpine, his eyes intent and cruel.