by Shirl Henke
“The Bucket of Blood has good whiskey, and Blackie Drago will put us up with a clean room,” Rory said to his employer as they stopped in front of the livery and dismounted.
“Y'all know Denver?” Jenson asked, surprised.
“I've made a few friends, all on the shady side of the tracks, I confess. Drago's a countryman of mine. He runs the political machine in Denver and has something on just about every respectable man in town, even the Temperance Republicans,” Madigan said with a grin, knowing that Jenson, a Democrat from Alabama, kept his politics to himself among the wealthy community leaders in Wellsville.
The Bucket of Blood Saloon had not changed in the two years since Rory had left Denver. It was big, raucous, and gaudy, with a three-foot-high beveled glass mirror running the length of a huge, intricately carved oak bar. The two piano players were still employed plunking out the latest renditions, as a motley assortment of rough miners and bullwhackers rubbed elbows with citified clerks and slick gamblers. Here and there, a scarlet poppy draped herself across a customer, soliciting drinks and other activities that were conducted on the second floor.
“Do me eyes deceive me or is it himself, the Kilkenny Kid?” a gravelly voice with a thick brogue called out from the stairs at the rear of the room when Rory and Beau walked through the door. The speaker was a dapper-looking little man with curly dark hair and a thin waxed mustache, dressed resplendently in maroon and black, sporting diamond shirt studs.
“Blackie, you old card shark, how the hell are you?” Rory called out as the smaller man crossed the room to greet them.
They shook hands warmly and slapped each other on the back, an odd-looking pair, one slender and short, the other a head taller. Rory introduced Beau Jenson to Blackie Drago.
“So yer the one who got this fight for me boyo here. And a grand catawhumping it'll be, too! I've matched the purse with side bets on the Kid here,” Drago said.
“Another five thousand?” Jenson said, stunned. “Y'all really are certain Rory can take Archimedes Poole.”
“Aye. I've seen this bucko fight. He's just hittin' his stride while Poole's past his prime. Beside, Poole's a Sassenach.” He winked at Rory, and the two men chuckled as they all wended their way to the bar. “A pity it is that Steve Loring's up in the mountains making a freight delivery. He'd relish the chance to make a wager on your behalf.”
“Loring?” Rory echoed, unfamiliar with the name.
“Ah, you haven't met Cassie's new husband. A right proper Philadelphia gentleman he is—and a dacent sort, even if he is a Republican.”
“Cass Clayton got married?” Rory made an invidious comparison between the red-haired, bullwhip-wielding owner of Clayton Freighting and his own proper little preacher's daughter. “That hellion female bullwhacker could blister a rawhide boot with her cursing.”
Drago chuckled as he signaled Gus, the huge grizzled bar-keep, to pour three cold beers from his best German keg. “Aye, that she still can, but I think she's met her match in Steve Loring. Now, down to the matter at hand,” Blackie said, taking a deep drink from his foaming stein. Looking around, he lowered his voice. “Word on the street has it that Poole's slowed down. Using a one-two combination now, no more. Only a left jab followed by a straight right. The odds are still in Poole's favor, but closin'. Since he arrived in town and staged his first exhibition match the other night, I heard a wee bit of a rumor spreadin'.” He winked and motioned for them to grab their beers and follow him upstairs.
As they climbed the steps, Rory said, “Just what sort of a rumor would you be talkin' about?”
“While I was at Poole' s exhibition match, I happened to let it slip that you've a fearful dangerous left hook that could take the head off a grizzly. Oh, did I mention it was Denver's leadin' sports reporter who got this jewel of casual information from me?” he said, opening the heavy walnut door to his private apartment.
Beau looked puzzled. “But the left hook ain't yer special punch.”
Rory grinned. “If old Archimedes has slowed down from fast combinations to using only the left jab-straight right, and he starts to fear my left hook, it makes him into a one-punch fighter.”
“He'll keep his good right hand up high as a banner in a breeze, protectin' his jaw instead of bashin' in the boyo's brains,” Blackie supplied as a dawning light of understanding spread across Beau's face.
“But does Poole believe the rumor?” Beau asked reasonably.
“That'll be up to me boyo here.” He turned to Rory. “I've just planted the thought. It's yerself who'll have to be plantin' the fear. Wade in fast when the bell opens and attack with a hard left hook. But be careful, bucko. Poole can beat you just with his jab. Last year in Kansas City, he nearly knocked Gentleman Harry Harlow through the pearly gates with nothin more than a straight left. Old Poole's a big fellow with more power in his left jab than lots of top fighters have in their Sunday punch.”
Rory nodded grimly and tipped back his glass. “I'll remember that.”
“Three to one isn't a bad return on a man's investment. Bennett Ames is still takin' bets for Poole,” Blackie said with a wink.
“Ames, you say?” Madigan grinned and pulled out his carefully hoarded wages from the past weeks. “Added to the purse, this should give me quite a start on that ranch in Truckee Valley.”
“So, yer fixin' ta settle down after all these years of bein' fiddle-footed since Ryan and Patrick died. Must be a female waitin' out in Nevada,” Blackie said shrewdly. “I'll loan you an even thousand to fatten your bet, boyo.”
Before Rory could reply to the generous offer, Jenson pulled out a money belt from his waist and began counting out bills. “If you're that all-fired certain, I'd be a fool not to throw in with y'all fer another thousand.” Hell, he would be able to pay off that vulture Wells and own his livery free and clear!
* * * *
The crowd was typical. Bare-knuckle boxing, being illegal across the country, always drew the unsavory elements as well as the thrill-seeking rich; but out west the assortment of humanity was even more diverse. Dozens of burning torches illuminated the motley spectators. Brawny miners in flannel shirts dwarfed fragile-looking Chinese, elegant in their silk tunics and pants. A somber Jewish merchant dressed in black stroked his beard as he made a wager with several scarred Basque sheepherders. Windburned cowboys with shooting irons strapped to their hips jostled wiry bullwhackers with whips coiled across their shoulders, the jagged metal poppers dangling menacingly as if waiting to be loosed on the crowd.
Here and there a nattily dressed gambler in a silk shirt and brocade vest took bets and marked his tally sheet, surrounded by young and old, rich and poor, all eager to wager on the contest. The twenty-four-foot-square ring was set up beneath the stars outside the city limits in a shallow canyon whose gently sloping walls allowed the big crowd a clear view of the proceedings from their seats on the rocky ground.
The ring floor was smooth dirt, hard packed from numerous earlier fights. Three stout ropes were held in place by four-inch square posts at the corners. As Madigan and Jenson watched, the torches cast flickering shadows across the crowd. Suddenly, a huge roar went up, and the sports enthusiasts parted. The former champion from London walked toward the ring with his entourage. Archimedes Poole was a big man, his given name aptly fitting for a fighter known as a “scientific” precision boxer in his prime. But Poole at thirty-six was fast slipping out of his prime.
“Damn, he's a big galoot,” Jenson said sourly.
“Ah, but look at the fat overlaying his stomach muscles,” Blackie said with relish.
“At six-foot-three, he can carry the weight.” Beau was reconsidering his rash bet. Still, Drago was the king of the Denver underworld, and his money was on Madigan. If only their rumor worked.
“Don't worry, Beau. You'll win your bet.” In fact, seeing the giant ambling arrogantly around the ring, Rory was beginning to feel a niggling doubt or two, but he forced the thoughts aside. Blackie believed he could pull it of
f. And so does Rebekah. He could not let either one down, no matter what. As they made their way through the crowd, Rory reviewed all the information he could remember from January Jones, who had watched Poole box on numerous occasions and even “cornered” for him once.
“The bloke's got a wicked overhand right. Uses ‘is ‘ight to advantage, 'e does,” the little Cockney had said. Well, if Blackie's strategy worked, they could neutralize that right in round one. Then all I have to worry about is the left.
Poole had three inches on Rory and at least thirty pounds, but it was his reach that was most daunting, for Archimedes' arm length was several inches greater than the younger man's. That was an advantage the long-limbed Madigan was used to having for himself against most opponents, even if they were taller or outweighed him. Get him to guard against my left hook, Rory repeated to himself like a litany as they made their way to the ring. Irish miners cheered as Rory passed, while other Denver locals looked contemptuously at the youth who dared challenge a London Prize Ring champion.
Flanked by Blackie and Beau, Rory climbed through the ropes and walked to the center of the ring, where the referee waited impatiently while Poole and his handlers played to the crowd. Once both fighters were ready, the tall, skinny Australian referee began to review London Prize Ring rules in a swift rote monotone.
Rory quickly surveyed the scarred veteran who once had been a passable-looking man before his nose had been repeatedly broken and his ears cauliflowered by countless blows. He remembered Rebekah's gentle fingertips exploring the contours of his own features so softly and lovingly; and he vowed he would not end his days as tired and battered as Archimedes Poole.
Feeling Poole's shrewd pale eyes measuring him, Rory ignored the other fighter and stared intently at the Aussie referee. As he did so, he clenched and unclenched his left fist, working the fingers like a piano player warming up for a big concert. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Poole had taken note of the seemingly unconscious gesture. Just then, the referee finished. Both fighters returned to their corners, and their handlers climbed out of the ring. One of the fight promoters struck a crude iron triangle, signaling that the fight was on.
Instead of slipping into the familiar dance of a smaller, faster man circling his larger, more powerful foe to spy out weakness, Rory charged straight into Poole, taking the older man completely by surprise. Reflexively, the champion launched a hasty but sloppy left jab which slipped harmlessly over Rory's shoulder while the young challenger stepped inside, landing a stiff left jab to Poole's jaw. When the champion's head snapped back, Rory dropped down and crouched slightly, lowering his left shoulder, and dug a ripping left hook into Poole's midsection. It landed hard just under the champion's right floating rib.
Straightening, Rory attempted to capitalize by driving another hook toward Poole's jaw, but the older man, recovering skillfully, stepped inside the arc of the punch and used his right hand to partially block the blow, which landed on his tender, cauliflowered right ear. At this point, Madigan danced out of range and began to do what Poole had expected him to do in the first place, circle to his own right, keeping out of reach of the older man's vaunted right hand.
But Rory noted with grim satisfaction that the champ was now carrying his right fist very high, with the elbow tucked close to his rib cage. If all continued this way, Blackie's scam—with a bit of help from his own frontal assault—would change Poole from a two-punch fighter to a one-punch fighter, for the champ could not throw an effective right from the defensive position he now adopted.
The action began to fall into the pattern Blackie had envisioned as the fight progressed, with Rory circling to his right, then moving in like a mongoose baiting a cobra, drawing the champ's left jab. Most often, he was quick enough to get under it and slam his right into Poole's ribs, then follow with a stiff left. Although the left jabs to the jaw were often as not slipped or blocked by the old pro, the body blows began to do their inexorable work.
Poole became slower of foot and began carrying his left hand lower. Then, Rory ended his last body attack with a wicked right to the left side of the champion's face. Poole dropped down to one knee, signaling the end of the first round. By London Prize Ring rules, only when a man went down did a round end, regardless of how long or short a period that might be. The older man stumbled back to his corner for a blessed thirty seconds of rest. As the process repeated itself a dozen more times in the next half hour, the crowd began to grow restive and catcalls at Archimedes echoed from around the tightly massed wall of humanity encircling the ring.
“Whatsamatter, you limey—gonna let a mickey beatcha?”
“A good Irishman's worth a dozen Sassenach in my book!”
“Poole needs so many rest periods, I think the Kid there oughta give him a permanent one. Knock him cold, Kilkenny!”
As he sat in his corner during the round break, Madigan looked at the “old man,” whose left side was now covered with ugly red welts turning to purple in the flickering torchlight. The left side of his face was grotesquely bloated, and his left eye swollen almost closed, but Rory, too, had paid a price. The ex-champ had landed enough blows to cut his left eye at the corner. Blackie worked quickly to stanch the trickle of blood from it. Rory had a troublesome “mouse” swelling beneath his right eye and his right hand, with which he had so effectively battered Poole, was almost totally numb. When he tried to unclench his fist, Drago quickly covered it and held it closed.
“Don't try it, boyo, until the fight's over. It's too swollen to open now. I'll use ice on it when this night's work is done.”
“The old fox is a game one,” Rory said with respect as he watched Poole.
“Aye, you been bangin' his ribs and the side of his head like a Salvation Army bass drum, but he's lettin' his neck muscles go limp and rolling with those overhand rights of yours.”
“Get him to come to you,” Beau interjected. “Punch him while he's moving into you.”
“Aye, he's right, bucko. Without using his own forward momentum to get some extra power, you'll never keep him down.”
Just then the thirty-second bell rang and Rory approached his nemesis, thinking about what his corner men had said. Suddenly, pain like fire seared his brain and lights went off like July Fourth fireworks inside his skull. As the crowd roared, he crashed to the dirt and rolled onto his side, terrified. What had happened? Seizing the rope, he tried to pull himself up but fell partway through instead. Three ringside parties, yelling encouragement, shoved him back into the ring and Beau half carried him to his corner.
“Jasus, he used his right.” Rory shook his head, desperately trying to clear it.
“No. You walked into his left jab. Remember Gentleman Henry Harlow? But you've gone and cut a hog in the ass now, boyo,” Blackie said with a wink. “He's comin' to you right enough. Slip some ice swabs up his nose quick, Beau.” He slapped Rory on the back as the bell rang. “Practice runnin' backward until yer head clears.”
Rory swore as he rose, muttering, “Don't hit me any more than that tough old bastard already has.” He wobbled out of his corner and attempted to smother Poole's flurry of punches by grappling with the heavier man. The champion kept up his punishing barrage as Rory backed away. Then, when they locked in a clench, Madigan emulated what the crafty old fighter had done so often and dropped to one knee, ending the round. Beau rushed out to help him back to his corner.
“Stand in front of me, Beau, and fan me with the towel,” Rory commanded in a surprisingly clear voice. “Blackie, give me a sip of water. Did you boys see what I saw?”
“What, stars?” Beau asked wryly, already kissing goodbye to his thousand-dollar bet and his hope of paying off the livery.
Rory smiled, a grotesque parody on his battered face. “No. My head's cleared up—enough to see that the old boy's dropped that right hand. He's cocked it, ready to throw his famous straight-right Sunday punch. Now, if I can—”
The bell sounded, cutting short Rory's words. He got up and w
obbled out to the center of the ring. Poole snapped out his left jab. Instead of slipping away from it as he had done all during the earlier rounds, Rory acted addled and leaned away, exposing his chin. The consummate pro, Poole gave nothing away when he saw the opening, but moved forward, dropping his right shoulder to throw his killing Sunday punch. But just as he leaned forward to unleash it, Rory suddenly crouched, twisted to his own right, and drove a left hook at the oncoming champion.
The collision between Rory's left fist and the big man's jaw produced a sickening crack that was heard over the roar of the crowd. Poole stepped forward on his right leg, which simply crumpled beneath him. Fists falling to his waist, he toppled forward on his face—stone-cold unconscious.
For an instant, the crowd seemed to collectively hold its breath before erupting into wild cheers for the Kilkenny Kid. Madigan walked back to his corner and sank down on the stool Jenson slid through the ropes as Blackie shook his head sadly. “The end of an era, boyo, when a man like Archimedes Poole goes down. No offense to yerself. Rory.”
“None taken,” Rory replied through split, bleeding lips, still seeing Poole's scarred face when he had entered the ring to the triumphant cheers of the fickle crowd. “I take no pride in any of this. On my parents' graves, I swear I'll never box again—not for all the gold between Cherry Creek and the Comstock.”
“Let me help you, Kilkenny,” Junie Killian said. The big, brassy redhead climbed through the ropes and took the chunk of ice from Beau's hands. She began to stem the bleeding over Rory's eye by applying it with practiced skill. “Me da was a prizefighter. I used to do this for him.”
“You used to do lots of things, Junie, but I think the boyo here already has someone to tend him—waitin' back in Nevada,” Blackie said to the handsome madam who ran his bordello above the Bucket of Blood.
She ignored him and continued working on Rory's bloodied face, inspecting it with a practiced eye. “Nothing busted that won't heal.”