Tiff's Game (Perry County Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Then Haycock had offered to forgo payment and call it square—if the big man agreed to spend the summer months as Haycock's pugilist, to box all comers in roped-off squares up and down the rivers. Haycock would not only cancel the IOUs, he would pay Tiny Doyle something for doing the fighting.

  Chip explained, "Tiny Doyle is as big as a house, but he's almost simpleminded. On top of that, he's as old as Roth, which is way too ancient to be box fighting."

  Tiff had followed such fights in Denver and on the coast. Two men faced across a line drawn in the dirt. Slugging with their fists and using body holds and hip throws, they fought until one went down. After a short rest, the fighters went at it again until one could no longer "toe the line."

  Such fights had been known to go on for forty or more rounds before one battered hulk could no longer step forward. It was brutal sport, with broken hands and faces inevitable. Money was bet not only on who would win but on a fight's length and such refinements as which battler would draw first blood or score consecutive throws or knockdowns.

  There was no denying the attraction of the fights. Men traveled far to see their favorites or to bet against unpopular opponents. The promoters charged entrance fees to the barns in which the fights were held. Of course, they backed their own men with heavy betting.

  Tiff knew a lot about bare knuckle fighting. It, too, was part of the gamblers' scene. There were many ramifications to the box fighting game, and Tiff wondered if the two men worried about their friend knew them. Talking only a little soon convinced him that Doyle's situation was far worse than Chip or Carter appreciated. Tiff explained some of it.

  "Gambling men like myself are careful around box fighting, Uncle Chip. Nothing is too rotten to be tried. Boxers are sometimes paid or ordered to throw fights. Managers toss a towel into the square showing their fighter has had enough when the bout isn't half way decided. Skilled professionals are brought in with false names to beat the tar out of successful local boys that people are willing to bet on.

  "Fighters have been doped with laudanum or Mickey Finned so they couldn't hardly hold their arms up. If a fight is scheduled, the boxers have to square off even if they have broken hands, busted noses, or freshly cut eyes. I saw a bare knuckler get killed in a Colorado silver town because he tried to fight with already broken ribs. A sharp end got driven into his lungs, and he choked to death on his own blood, still trying to get out to the line.

  "It's a rotten business. A fighter gets a lot of backslapping praise while taking lumps nobody would put on a mean mule. You're right in worrying about your friend."

  Captain Roth rumbled like an irritated bear.

  "Men've been bare knuckle fighting as long as I can remember, but I didn't know it had gotten that bad. We just figured Tiny was too old and too dumb and had probably been cheated anyway."

  "He wasn't likely to have been cheated, Captain. A good card man can handle three cards so that a player is only guessing which one is the ace. He may think he knows something, but believe me, the gambler has already confused things so the sucker is watching the wrong card. Purely guessing, there is only one chance in three of pointing out the ace. With the gambler laying on a fake or two, the player's chances drop to about one in five because he is deceived. So, if the game goes on, the card handler will win at least two out of three times and more likely four out of five."

  Tiff laughed. "Of course, a card man will keep his sucker going by letting him win now and then. I'll show you when we get the time."

  Chip wondered aloud, "Which was called a sucker first, the fish or a gambler's victim?"

  "Darned if I know for sure. Likely the fish because it sucks in any old bait, just like a three card player does."

  Carter Roth dropped off at his place, and Chip and Tiff rattled and bumped up a long tree shaded lane to a sturdy home with broad porches. His Aunt linker was seated on one porch peeling winter-stored vegetables into large pots.

  Chip grumbled, "Look at that, half our stores going over to the poorhouse. If your aunt keeps giving it away, you'll have to visit us up there."

  Chip's words did not disguise his pleasure in his wife's activities. He stretched his neck looking around. "I don't see George anywhere. Lord knows where he's gone to."

  Tiff supposed his cousin George would be about fourteen now. Tiff hoped Chip and Tinker's only child was turning out well.

  When Tinker stood, she did not reach Chip's shoulder. About her husband's age, Tinker hardly showed her years. Few lines touched her features, and she moved lightly and strongly. Her squeal of delight when she recognized Tiff and her swift dash to greet him, reinforced Tiff's liking of his eastern family. Shattos were the same even two thousand miles apart, he figured.

  The Roths came over with Tiny Doyle in tow. Hannah Roth had been a golden braided beauty when she had visited Falling Water. Now she was matronly with hips ax-handle wide and bosom enough for three women. That she held the rough-hewn Captain's heart was clear as daylight. Carter touched her arm or stroked her thick blond tresses. He adjusted her chair and followed her with his eyes. At least in one area, the hardy sea captain had been captured and brought to heel.

  The Roth boys resembled their mother. Blond, fair skinned, and big boned, they were as shy as new colts. They extended unwilling hands for shaking and quickly disappeared. Tiff supposed they had gone to find the still missing George.

  Tiny Doyle was awesome. He made big, round muscled Chip appear average. Doyle's hands were as large as saddles. When he shook Tiff's hand and pump handled an arm half off, Tiff's eye caught both Chip and Carter grinning expectantly. The ladies' mouths had tightened as well, and Tiff found out why. Tiny Doyle's grip felt as though a blacksmith's vise had closed. Tiff's hand bones ground and pain made his eyes want to water. But, a gambler knew control. Tiff smiled and made it look real. When he got his savaged hand back, he used it to pick up and devour a carrot slice, as though he didn't marvel that his fingers worked at all. The men were clearly disappointed by his lack of reaction, but at the moment, Tiff would have bet all his money on Tiny Doyle winning any fight, anytime, anywhere.

  But, Tiny Doyle was dumb. He functioned in his big and clumsy way, but as a fist fighter he would take terrible punishment trying to land his probably thunderous blows. Clever men would chop away at him, and others with only brute power would swing from their heels, just as Doyle would from his, until one or the other toppled. Tiny Doyle would draw a crowd and a following. He would win many battles by pure bull strength, but what it would do to the brain and body of the mild mannered giant was not pleasant to consider. The gambler, Haycock, would not care. It would be only business to him. Tiff did not wish to think more about it

  In private, Carter explained some about Tiny Doyle. "When Chip and I first moved to Pfoutz Valley we had a run-in with a bunch of hell raisers from over in Halifax. They had Tiny in tow, and I was getting set to lick him when Hannah came up and calmed him down."

  Chip groaned, "God, Roth, Tiny had already knocked you halfway through a lumber stack, and I was working on him when Hannah arrived."

  Carter glared at his friend. "Anyway, it turned out that Tiny just about worshipped Hannah and would do anything to please her. A few years later, after we got settled in good, Hannah heard Tiny was doing mule work in a coal mine near Maux Chunk. We went over and got him, and he's stayed with us ever since. Tiny lives up in Tinker's old cabin, which is really on Shatto land, so your Uncle Chip's also part of Tiny Doyle's being around.

  "Tiny requires looking after. We've taken on that responsibility as much as he will allow. In some things, Doyle is as stubborn as he is dumb. Unfortunately, paying off his gambling debt is one of those things. Although it would hurt, Chip and I would pay the IOUs, only Tiny won't have it. Of course that damned Haycock doesn't want 'em paid. He'll make a thousand times that much having a giant fist fighter like Tiny."

  Chip took over. "We've braced Haycock about it every time he's in town. We thought he had arrived when we saw his barge.
Apparently, his thugs planned on doing their boss a favor, although I doubt he would have appreciated it. You showed up just in time. We'll go back in about dark and see if we can strike some kind of sensible deal with the gambler, though I can't believe he'll ever come around and let Tiny go. Haycock isn't interested in doing the right thing. Money is all that talks to him."

  An hour before dark, Chip and Tiff saddled horses and met Carter Roth at his lane entrance. Chip had changed to a cloth hunting coat and had strapped his two-barreled pistol into the small of his back. Tiff eyed the old muzzleloader doubtfully.

  "Wouldn't you do better with a six-gun, Uncle Chip?"

  Chip reached back and closed his big right hand confidently around the pistol's polished stock. "This gun is a friend, Tiff. Your grandfather used it, and your great, great grandfather made it. I wore it during some hard times, and it's never failed to do its job." He laughed shortly. "It's just for calming down anyway. Nobody's fired an angry shot in Millerstown for years, and they won't tonight. We'll talk and probably argue, but that'll be it."

  Tiff remembered that he was talking to a man who in his youth had killed his enemies with his bare hands as well as with knife and pistol. He nodded acceptance. "If Haycock is the professional gambler he seems to be, you are right. Gambling's reputation is already delicate. A brawl or two too many can see a town council outlaw gaming and put a man like Haycock out of business.

  "On the other hand, Haycock might choose to gamble on just how far he can go. We should be ready for that."

  Chip agreed and added, "I appreciate your coming with us, Tiff. You might recognize a way of persuading Haycock that we wouldn't—you being in the same line of work."

  The gambling barge was bright with its torches and paper candle lanterns. Families walked from their homes to view the sight, and drawn to the light and activity, men lingered to talk in groups.

  The gaming room's windows had been opened against the warmth of the night, and Tiff was surprised by the intensity of the inside lighting. Where most poker playing was conducted beneath a single, center-hung lamp, Haycock's table was bright with many lamps and glass reflectors. The low ceiling was also clad in light reflecting bits of mirror, as though large mirrors had been smashed and the shards glued to the ceiling. The result was astonishingly bright with glints and rays of light intermingling.

  The players, six in number, were clearly visible, but no spectators stood within the room. A single waiter made rounds, delivering drinks, cigars, or new cards as called for. A crewman Tiff remembered as the speaker from the morning altercation, still wearing the tan sweater and cap, often approached to whisper in Haycock's ear, but having delivered his information, the man departed, apparently keeping his employer informed of other goings-on.

  After studying the scene, Tiff concentrated on Haycock himself. The gambler was a thick, jowly man of perhaps fifty years. Conservatively dressed and well barbered, only his gambler's pallor distinguished him from that of any successful man of business.

  Chip said, "Haycock usually breaks his game around dark. He likes to come out and play high card or that find-the-ace game with anybody that's interested. Makes him seem regular, I guess. Works, too. Hard to find people willing to say bad about Mister Haycock. They'll fault his crew, but allow that he doesn't realize how rough they can be.

  "Fact is, though, Tiff, if a player that isn't a regular at Haycock's game wins big, he should watch out on his way home. More than one's been jumped with his attackers searching until they found his winnings."

  Tiff stood on the dock edge with his toes touching the barge side. It was almost as good as being in the room. He could hear some of the conversation and watch the players' hands and eyes. The bright lighting made cards dealt and discarded readable, and he could follow the game.

  Haycock played a cautious, steady, uninspired game. He won and lost hands, clearly enjoying the competition. Once, then twice, he took larger pots that made players moan or chuckle. Tiff could not see the hands held, but a tiny tug of warning touched the fringe of his awareness. Something . . . Tiff studied more closely, but all appeared aboveboard.

  Then Haycock called his recess. The players rose, stretching and jawing. They stepped into the freshness of the night, and Haycock's voice called to recognized faces. Another man and the waiter began cleaning the room of fallen cigar ashes and flowing spittoons. If nothing better could be said, Haycock's gambling barge was an elegant operation.

  The crewman who had regularly whispered in the gambler's ear positioned himself atop the barge's cabin where he could look across the docks. Tiff heard him called Brown, and judged Mister Brown was Haycock's strong right arm. Tiff wondered if the gambler was really all that uninvolved in his crew's morning willingness to thump Chip Shatto and Captain Carter Roth. Brown's eyes caught Tiff's without expression and moved on.

  At bystanders' requests, Haycock called for cards and peeled open a new deck. He shuffled thoroughly and with a flourish before thumping the deck to a barrel top for cutting and reshuffling by the small-money dock players.

  Tiff smiled to himself. If the cards were marked or shaved, all the shuffling in the world would not help. More importantly, the games that would be played on the barrelhead so favored the dealer that it would require an improbable run of luck for Haycock not to win.

  Chip and Carter Roth stationed themselves so that Haycock would have to deal with them before reboarding his barge. Tiff stayed clear, keeping watch to see if the gambler's bullyboys began mustering.

  No club-armed band marshaled, and Tiff saw only a small man who appeared on the barge's top and spoke shortly to Haycock's main helper. Although stripped to his undershirt, the newcomer was sweat soaked and mopped his features with a bit of rag. Haycock's uniformed helper nodded a few times, and the small man retired to the barge's bow where a cooling breeze could reach him. He drank from a bottle and fanned himself vigorously. The poor devil must work somewhere inside the boat, Tiff assumed.

  Haycock played idly with the dock gatherers, appearing more interested in being friendly than in winning, although Tiff knew that ten or fifteen minutes of such play could bring an astonishing profit.

  Because the hands were only for a dollar or less and the money came from many players, few would realize how much changed hands. Haycock had a suited and bespeckled aide who covered bets and gathered or paid out winnings. It was a nice technique. Haycock appeared jovial and just enjoying a few moments on the dock before returning to serious gambling. The aide kept a smile glued tight and tucked away money so that he never appeared to have gained much. Smooth, very smooth.

  His break apparently over, the sweating man rose, stretched, and disappeared into the barge's galley. No mean gang gathered; Haycock folded his game and swapped a few words with his players. He turned, and Chip and Carter were waiting.

  Haycock did not seem surprised. He also did not sound pleased.

  "I supposed you two would be around."

  "We're here to ask you again to let Tiny Doyle off your hook, Haycock."

  The gambler sighed. "All Doyle has to do is pay what he owes. That is fair to us both. I've told you that every time you have appeared."

  Roth was already angry. "You knew Tiny didn't have that kind of money and never will."

  Haycock was unrelenting. "Then he will have to pay by box fighting for me." The gambler threw his arms wide. "Doyle has agreed, why is it you two continually interfere?"

  Chip said, "Because Tiny is weak in the head, Haycock, but he is also an honest man who stands by his word.

  "We will pay you what he owes. We will pay you twice what he owes. All you have to do is let him go."

  "My debt is with Mister Doyle, not with you. If he delivers what he owes, I will tear up his IOUs."

  Roth was ready to choke. "You know he won't take money from us."

  "That is between you and Doyle. Do not draw me into it." Haycock stepped around his adversaries and entered the playing room.

  Carter said, "Damn
it, Chip, we can't gain an inch. Somehow we've got to change Tiny's mind."

  Tiff came up to them and suggested, "Perhaps if I showed Tiny how easy it is for a professional to cheat him, he might just refuse to pay Haycock."

  Chip sighed. "We've tried that. Hell, gambling IOUs have no legal status. If Tiny backed off, Haycock might send his toughs, but those we could handle. If Tiny would just say "No", Haycock would likely settle for what we are offering, but Tiny says he took his chances and he will do what he agreed to. There's no changing him."

  Chip and Carter chose to go home. Tiff wished to stay on. Haycock's was clearly the area's big game. Despite the Tiny Doyle problem, playing at Haycock's table should be challenging. Tiff already looked forward to it.

  The table was again filled, and Haycock had sat down last, accepting the only open chair without comment. That was unusual. Most professionals reserved their place. A comfortable chair, a good light, even sitting out of a draft could be important to a man anchored night after night. Most gamblers preferred having their backs to a wall. It was not fear of being shot from behind, as some pulp writers claimed. A rifle bullet or a shotgun slug could penetrate most walls encountered, but a wall kept watchers from seeing the professional's cards and inadvertently or deliberately betraying the strengths or weaknesses of a hand. Haycock's game had no kibitzers, so seating did not matter.

  Although players changed, the gambling was much as before. Haycock played his stolid game, winning more than he lost. Then a pot would grow and Haycock would win—big. Not so large that players were broken, but pots rich enough to please any professional.

  Tiff did not like it, but there seemed no pattern that would indicate cheating. Haycock would just strike and win. Tiff tried to tie the occasionally present waiter to a scheme of hidden signals, but nothing matched. The right-hand man appeared now and then to whisper in Haycock's ear, but usually the game continued unchanged.