by Max Brand
“Young Harry Chase is taking boxing lessons. Have you heard of that?”
I admitted that I had not.
He went on to tell me that Andrew had cast about for some time looking for a proper instructor. He himself was a fine boxer, as he did all things well. But he wanted a still more expert man to give Harry his tuition. Finally one had been found. He was an ex-pugilist who had made something of a stir in the middleweight ranks until a broken jaw, which refused to knit properly, had made him retire from the ranks of the professional pugilists.
“You understand, Leon, what this means,” said Father McGuire, and there he dropped the subject.
But I understood very well, of course. I had a too vivid picture of those two big men struggling together, while the pugilist stood by and corrected their errors — or, rather, the errors of Harry, for it was hard to imagine Andrew Chase doing anything wrong. If he hit, he would by nature strike, and strike hard. If he blocked, he could not fail to pick off the flying hand that shot toward him. How vastly Harry would stride forward in this manner, with a marvelous sparring partner and an excellent teacher every day!
Moreover, the entire district heard of what was happening, and the entire district waited in suspense.
It was considered the height of sporting correctness, among those Westerners. Since I had learned to box, it was thought very fit and proper that Harry Chase should perfect himself as much as possible and then challenge me to a fight fairly and in the open. Had the Chase family been other than upright and fair, it was pointed out that they could have used their enormous influence in many ways to make my life miserable.
I suppose, for my part, that Mr. Chase looked upon this proceeding on the part of his son with as much approval as any one else. He could not see, any more than the others could see, the dreadful results which would eventually roll out of this small beginning. It seemed no more than play, boyish rivalry! But I, in fact, understood vaguely what was coming. Not fully or directly, or I should have fled from the country and taken a new name and gone to hide myself from the tragedy which was coming. But it was only a dim premonition.
Father McGuire had brought home that thought to me by the dark suggestions which were in the speech he had made to the Chase family on the unforgettable night. He called the same forebodings into my mind one day when he said to me:
“Are you still working in the gymnasium, Leon?”
I told him that I was going through my paces every day for a full two hours. He looked at my drawn face and pink cheeks and nodded.
“Yet, Leon,” said he, “I think that the wisest thing would be for you to leave this district and go some place else!”
“Run away from Harry Chase!” cried I.
“Not from Harry Chase — but from his brother and from yourself!” said Father McGuire.
I could only gape at him. I could understand that Andrew, in time, might become a menace to me. But what danger lay in my own nature, I could not for the moment see. I was to learn in good time.
But Father McGuire did not stop at good advice. When he saw that my pride was sure to keep me at my task and sure to keep me ready for Harry Chase whenever that strong young man was prepared to tackle me, the priest gave over all talk. He simply made it a point to go out to our little gymnasium with me every day and spar.
Marksmanship in boxing becomes of vital importance, and Father McGuire encouraged my practice by devising a novel idea which, I think, was unique with him. He plastered a bit of tape just in front of the second big knuckle on either hand. Then he marked four targets on the big sand bag, one to correspond with either side of a man’s chin, one for the pit of the stomach, one for the spot beneath the heart.
None of those targets — which were merely bits of white tape — were larger than half an inch in diameter. Then the tapes on my hands were blackened and the sand bag was started swinging back and forth rapidly. When I attacked that shifting bag, I was supposed to strike at those targets and land on them and on no other spots.
It would astonish you to hear how often I missed and how seldom I landed accurately. There is a temptation, as every boxer knows, to squint the eyes under the physical strain of striking a blow. I learned to keep my eyes open all the time and watch the work of my hands to the instant they landed. I had to learn, not only to hit to the vital target, but also to hit with all my force. For accuracy is useless without the full punching power behind it.
In the meantime, the weeks turned into months, and still there was no appearance of young Harry Chase in the streets of the little town of Mendez. I understood this, also. He was a headlong fellow, but his brother, Andrew, the controlling genius of the family, had seen the effects of my work upon Harry, and knew that there would have to be great work before Harry was able to face me upon even terms.
The winter passed. The spring came. I was seventeen, and I had filled out to something of my full stature. I weighed, at that time, a little more than a hundred and seventy-five pounds; and though it was all hard, effective weight, my efforts to follow the gyrations of Father McGuire when he boxed with me had kept my footwork light and easy, and my boxing fast and sure.
In the meantime, there was a good deal of talk in Mendez, and most of it was not complimentary to the courage of Harry Chase. He would never be ready for the fight, they said. But I had no doubts on that score. I had seen Andrew Chase, and I knew his power of will. So, on a fine, clear day in the first week of May, I was not surprised when young Sam Harrison came running to Father McGuire’s house to tell me that Harry Chase was in the town and asking for me.
VII. A BIT OF STRATEGY
I CANNOT HELP wondering, often, why they had not arranged to fight this battle in some secluded barn. I suppose it was because Andrew insisted on having the affair fought under conditions of ground and scene which would duplicate the first event. Men and women and boys of Mendez had seen his brother frightfully and shamefully beaten in the first place. He proposed that Harry should beat me with equal violence, in the same place — and with the same number of witnesses.
The same number? The street was alive with people as I walked down its length. Work was stopped. Women crowded the upper windows, and there was a flying cloud of boys, big and small, come out to be on the site of the encounter.
I saw the three of them, finally, as I turned the corner into the old Mexican plaza which was the center of the village. They were coming across the open plot, and I went slowly toward them, very white of face, I am afraid, and very stiff of body. In my stomach there was a feeling of waterish weakness.
There was Andrew Chase, first of all, no taller than his younger brother, and scarcely as bulky, but lifted out from the others as a tiger is distinguishable among mere cattle. At his side was his younger brother, looking drawn and fit for action, and rosy-faced with self-confidence. On the farther side of Harry was a thick-shouldered man with a broad, twisted face. That was Dan Rowley, the prize fighter. I had no need to be told that. I felt, somehow, that although I had to fight one of the trio only, the weight of the brains of the entire three would overwhelm me.
Andrew stepped out before the others. He came up to me and said simply enough: “I suppose you know why Harry is in town?”
I had to gulp down a cold lump in my throat, before I could admit that I did surmise why he had come.
Andrew lingered an instant, with contempt in his eyes as he noted my pallor. Then he turned on his heel and went back to his brother.
He said, loud enough for every member of that densely gathering crowd to hear him: “I don’t think you’ll have enough work to warm you up, Harry. He’s in a blue funk!”
That, if you like, was a cruel speech. It brought upon me an instant focusing of many eyes. Then anxious voices began to mutter behind me:
“Don’t lay down to him, kid! He’s bigger, but you’ll beat him. He can’t lick you, Lee!”
He was, in fact, a vital matter of ten or fifteen pounds heavier; and he had that great additional advantage of a
n extra year. Every year at that young season of life helps to harden and toughen a boy’s muscle.
I gave my supporters a wan smile and replied by silently stripping off my coat and then my shirt. I tightened my belt and stood out, naked to the waist. It caused a little murmur of enthusiastic applause. In fact, I was well trained. My chest was already arching as manhood increased upon me; my arms were alive with long, sinewy muscles, and my neck was growing heavier.
That murmur died away entirely when Harry Chase followed my example and showed across the breast and shoulders, beneath a stretched filament of transparent skin, thick, rubbery cushions of muscle, and deep currents of power playing up and down his arms like currents of shifting quicksilver, at every movement of his hands.
I suppose that each of us looked three years older as we squared off. I was grave, thoughtful, and — frankly — very weak with fear. Harry Chase was fairly bursting with a confident sense of his power and of the great new art of self-defense into which he had been initiated so thoroughly.
How thoroughly, I could tell by his manner of looking eagerly into my eyes as he put up his hands, and by the easy, graceful manner in which he came into his guard — nothing rigid in an inch of his big body.
I knew it would be a fight and a real one, this time. But I did not think any too well of my chances. How much I should have given for the kindly, shrewd face of Father McGuire behind me!
The crowd thought no better of me than I did of myself. I looked big and strong, but Harry seemed still larger and still more powerful. Besides, he overmatched me quite with his bubbling confidence and his handsome, smiling face.
“I’ll put down fifty bones on Harry Chase!” bellowed a cow-puncher.
“I’ll lay you three to one on Chase!”
“Aw, pikers, take a breath! A hundred to twenty on Harry Chase.”
It was a veritable roar, and the more they talked the smaller was the chance of their finding a backer for me until a sharp voice cut across them: “I’ll take every bet on Chase. I’ll take you at your own odds. Here, you, where’s that hundred to twenty? Here’s my twenty. Here’s some more — plenty more for anybody who wants to bet!”
I turned and saw a gray-headed, thin-faced man with a very solemn face, and both hands filled with money. He saw me turn and he said: “I think you can lick that big sucker, kid. Do you think so?”
“I don’t know,” said I, with a little warming of my blood.
“If you don’t know, it’s a bad sign,” said he in his crisp way. “But remember one thing — the first blood isn’t the last blood!”
He was quite right about one part of his speech, at least. First blood went to Harry Chase, and he drew it with his first blow — which was a long-sliding straight left that would have made Father McGuire shout with admiration. It darted over my tardy, feeble guard as we squared off, and it landed fairly on the end of my nose, with a tingling force that snapped my head back and brought the warm blood. My nose had turned numb, but I could taste my own blood on my lips.
“Follow up!” cried Andrew Chase. “In at him, Harry! The body!”
That was a very neat bit of strategy — to drive at my body while I was a bit off balance. But the sound of Andrew’s voice roused me to desperation. The hands of big Harry were enough against me. The wits of Andrew Chase were a frightful handicap. Like a cornered rat, I opened my eyes and began to fight as if for my life.
I caught two smashing blows by jerking out my elbows, and I saw the face of Harry wither with pain as his hands landed on the sharp bones.
Then I went in with my first attack. But my fighting spirit still was not up, and his skill was immensely improved. I merely found myself hammering at forearms on which my punches landed; then a darting right caught me at the base of the jaw and knocked me staggering.
There was no pause. Harry Chase would not wait for new and easy chances. He followed up every advantage with a lunge like a bull. Plainly that wise brother of his had not attempted to remake the nature of Harry, but had simply added skill to his natural disposition to attack, and still attack, savagely, relentlessly. Harry came swarming after me, and I tried my first trick, which was to lean forward and wrap my arms around my head.
“He’s quitting!” screamed a dozen disgusted voices. “He’s got enough.”
Harry Chase, gasping with a savage joy, hammered at my well-protected head, unheeding the wise shouts of his brother to straighten me up with an uppercut. When both of Harry’s hands were flung wide in the eager fury of his assault, I uncovered suddenly and took Andrew’s advice myself by snapping my right fist up under the chin of Harry.
Oh, wise Father McGuire! That sharp-shooting practice stood me in good stead now. It was not a tremendously powerful blow, but it landed so neatly on the button that Harry Chase reeled away. I slid in after him, brought his guard down with a long blow to the body, and then dropped him in his tracks with a neat right cross that hummed over to the point of the chin.
I stood back in the midst of a wild turmoil; but all I saw was not the fallen fellow on the ground, but the face of Andrew Chase, cold with anger as he fixed his black eyes upon me.
“Take your time, Harry,” said Andrew, still with his eyes fixed grimly upon me. “This is a finish fight, and there’s no referee to count you out. Take your time and get up when your head has cleared.”
The answer of Harry was a roar of fury, and he bounded to his feet to charge again.
Not the blind charges of our first fight. He fought with a wicked skill, in spite of his passion. But still, anger is a cloudy emotion. It dimmed the eyes of Chase, and my own were wide open. I caught him with two long, raking punches as he came in and then, ducking his swings, I opened on his body.
Brave and strong as he was, that fire weakened him and sent him back, gasping. My work was written upon his ribs in crimson splotches, and all around me was an uproar as the backers of Harry strove to hedge their bets.
He charged again, and for the first time I met him with all my might. It was only a left-hander, but that hook spatted against his mouth and laid him flat on his back.
I knew, with a feeling of a strange relief, rather than a great leap of the spirit, that this fight was in my hands, as the first one had been.
Before he was up, I said to Andrew Chase: “He can’t hurt me, and I can hurt him. Will you take him off?”
“He’ll tear you in two, in a moment,” said Andrew, and he was white with a torment of shame and crushed pride. This was his own brother, his own flesh, that was going down before me. He could not forget it; in fact, he never did.
But Harry did not tear me in two.
As he came up: “Stand off and box!” commanded Andrew.
Harry obeyed and stood off to box at long range. It was no use. That was not his natural style. If I could get my gloves past the skillful guard of Father McGuire, I could certainly flash my bare fists past the arms of Harry Chase. I did. His hair leaped on his head as my blows thudded home.
I turned him halfway round with an overhand right that made his knees sag, and the dazed look in his eyes was reflected sharply by a look of anguish and almost terror in the eyes of Andrew.
“Clinch!” shouted Andrew, and poor Harry swung about and lurched in to obey orders.
The habit of obedience to that voice, built of a life of custom, reached even his punch-dazed brain. I let him come in, and then tied up his arms in a clinch — which is a neat little art in itself.
I said over his shoulder: “You fellows see that Harry Chase isn’t good enough to lick me. Will you stop this fight before I have to hurt him?”
Andrew stepped forward.
“Have you had enough of this, Porfilo?” said he.
“I? No, he’s hardly touched me.”
“The yellow comes out on a greaser sooner or later,” said Andrew, sneering. “I thought it might be coming out in you!”
It was about as nasty a speech as anyone could have devised, and it was greeted with a heavy silence
from the circle around me. I let Harry Chase tear himself away from me. There was a devil in me then. I caught poor Harry with two cutting blows to the face that brought a gush of crimson each time.
“Has he had enough?” I shouted to Andrew Chase.
“You cur!” breathed Andrew Chase. “You’ll be ripe for me, one of these days!”
Again his speech was greeted with silence. As for me, I was beginning to see red in my rage. I slashed Harry across the face again, and as he staggered, I plunged my right hand into the pit of his stomach. He doubled up and fell with a grunt. There he lay, kicking and squirming in the dust, quite winded. I stepped across his fallen body and said to Andrew Chase:
“You called me a greaser, Chase. Do you mean that?”
“Are you ashamed of your race?” sneered he.
“You’re older and stronger than I am,” said I, “but I won’t stand for that.”
“What will you do about it, then, Porfilo?” said he.
“I’ll have your apology,” said I, beginning to tremble.
“My apology?” said he, and smiled.
I struck out that smile by flicking my open hand across his face, and the next instant a thunderbolt struck me to the ground.
It was the fist of Andrew Chase. I had heard of blinding speed before, but this was as inescapable as the lightning flash to which I have compared it. The blow landed fairly on my chin; I felt a concussion at the base of my head; and I dropped into deep darkness.
When I recovered, there was still a spinning blackness before my eyes. In the swirl I detected many faces, and I struggled to my feet, when I staggered dizzily.
“Where’s Andrew Chase?” I asked.
But Andrew Chase was gone. He had left and taken his brother with him long before I recovered from the trance into which his fist had knocked me.
Now, as my head cleared, and as I realized what had happened, I found strained, stern faces around me and many eyes that looked upon me with a sort of intense hatred. But that hatred was not for me. It was for the thing which I had been forced to suffer. I saw the lean, gray-headed man come through the rest, and he took my hand.