by Peter Corris
'I'm Shirley Carstairs. You killed my man.'
'He would've killed me. It was a fair fight.'
'You called him a cheat.'
'That's what he was, Shirley.'
She brought her knee up high and hard and Lincoln gasped, sagged and would have fallen if the men hadn't held him. 'Don't get me wrong, Sandy Brookes wasn't much, but I gotta do something about you, I'm gonna keep my respect in this town.'
Shirley Carstairs' eye fell on Lincoln's knife lying out in the street. She pointed to it. 'Fetch me that Bowie, Alvin.'
One of the men moved away from Lincoln, collected the knife and handed it to Shirley Carstairs. 'I hear you gotta bad left mitt, mister. All the time rubbing it and carrying on. Let's see it, boys.'
The men pushed Lincoln down onto the boardwalk and stretched out his left arm and hand, palm up. Shirley Carstairs bent forward to examine the hand and again Lincoln smelled her foul breath. 'Sure looks bad. You damn near a cripple with a hand like that.'
'You tell these bastards to let me go and I'll show you what kind of a cripple I am. I'll lick them, one by one.'
Shirley Carstairs laughed. She spat in Lincoln's face again and drove the heavy knife through the palm of his hand, pinning it to the boards. Lincoln screamed. The woman kicked him hard in the crotch with her laced kid boot. 'You be on the stage to Stockton tomorrow, boy,' she said. 'Or I swear I'll cut you where I just kicked you.'
Perry fought Big Jim Simpson aboard a fruit boat anchored in San Francisco Bay. The match had been well advertised but the venue was kept secret until the morning and then revealed only to a trusted band of sportsmen who spread the news further, but not so far as to reach the ears of the police or the magistrates. The audience was ferried to the scene by a variety of craft and, by the time Perry and Simpson shaped up, it numbered about 100 and the bets were being laid fast and heavy.
The referee was Hugh Sloan of the Intelligencer, the seconds were veterans of the prize ring and the boxers wore skin-tight leather gloves. The rules were the same as those for bare-knuckle fighting and the men were called up to scratch under a hot sun precisely at midday. By five minutes past the hour it was all over. Perry had trained assiduously in a city gymnasium, polishing his skills by sparring with lighter and heavier opponents and strengthening his legs by running up the San Francisco hills. Simpson was a hulking fellow, a timber worker of enormous strength but little skill. Perry cut him to pieces, closing his eyes, flattening his nose and finally dropping him unconscious with a scientifically delivered and merciful right cross.
On the boat back to shore, Sloan introduced Perry to Major Pierce Kite who, following the editor's advice, had won a sizeable wager on the fight.
'Understand you'd like to do a little touring down south, Perry?' Kite said.
'Could be, Major. If the terms are right.'
Kite was startled by Perry's voice and manner of speech. 'Where do you hail from?'
'That's a long story. If you've talked to Mr Sloan you'll know I can be relied upon to do what I say I'll do. I've a fancy to travel in the South and pick up some money. I need a backer—fifty-fifty split on purses and exhibition gate money.'
Kite stared at Perry as he massaged a knuckle slightly bruised in the contest. 'You're looking to fight Tom Allen?'
Perry shrugged. 'That's in the future. That'd be a separate arrangement. What we're talking about now is a short-term deal. I was thinking of travelling by train, hiring a hall in a few towns, that kind of thing.'
Kite, a lean, grizzled fifty-year-old with glinting green eyes, felt the weight of the money he'd won in his coat pocket. 'Not easy, a coloured man travelling around looking for fights and paying customers.'
Perry smiled. 'That's why I need you, Major Kite. Or someone like you.'
Kite burst into laughter. 'By god, you're a cool one. I believe I'll do it. I never saw a better right cross to the point than that one. Never.'
'I have,' Perry said. 'If you're really interested, Major, we can go back to my hotel and I'll show you the places I've a mind to go to.'
Kite shot a look at Sloan. The editor had made money on the fight, had avoided a conflict with the law and had a stirring report to publish in his paper. He lit a cigar and shrugged. 'You'll find that Mr Perry knows his own mind, Major. Cigar?'
Kite accepted the cigar, allowed Sloan to light it and leant back against a boat fixture to gaze at the green waters of the bay. Perry bent and opened his bag to take out a handkerchief and dab at his lip, slightly puffy from one of the very few punches Simpson had landed.
Kite pointed. 'What the hell's that for?'
Perry picked up the Colt .45, twirled the heavy weapon on his finger and pointed it at the choppy sea. He squeezed off a quick shot. 'A coloured man can't be too careful, Major,' he said.
From a perusal of the shipping movements as published in the newspapers, Perry had ascertained that the Blue Jacket had docked five weeks before his own vessel and that Thomas Shelby had been one of the disembarked passengers. Even if he had been white and welcome in the officers of coach and railway companies, he doubted he would have been able to trace Wesley Lincoln's subsequent movements. Perry had no illusions about his quest—he would make his way to Snakehole, Texas, hoping that his role as prospective heavyweight champion contender would provide a cover for his activities. If he found Lincoln he would extract what he could; if not, he would return promptly to Australia and Sarah Braun.
The barnstorming tour, under the able direction of Pierce Kite, went well. Perry, Kite, a trainer who doubled as a second and equipment handler and two young men employed to post notices and hand out leaflets, travelled by train and coach through southern California and Arizona. Perry fought two bouts for small purses, both of which he won, and gave many exhibitions, accepting challenges from locals who were prepared to match their skills with those of the champion of the South Pacific. Perry attempted to handle all comers with finesse, only cutting loose on those who attempted illegal tactics such as eye-gouging or who made disparaging remarks about his ancestry. In Salt Flat, Arizona, having gauged the temper of the town, he gave a rifle shooting display before the boxing match. Perry leaned his rifle against the ring post and placed a pistol down beside his second's bucket. The exhibition passed off without incident.
He wrote letters to Sarah from almost every point of call, describing the towns and their inhabitants with as light a manner as he could contrive. He passed quickly over the details of the fisticuffs, assuring her that he took great care not to be hurt and almost equal care not to hurt his opponents. It was more or less true, but several of the challengers landed lucky punches and there were occasions when he was surprised by a crisp left or was caught in a heavy cross-buttock. He ate and drank sparingly, did not smoke and tried to get as much sleep as possible, but after several weeks of the hectic schedule he was feeling somewhat bruised and tired.
'Going at it a bit hard, John,' Kite said, as they boarded a train. 'I reckon you should take a break of a day or two.'
Perry and Kite had fallen into a condition which, if not quite a friendship, was more than a business arrangement. Perry had found Kite scrupulously fair in all dealings, not only with himself but with the other members of the troupe. He leaned back against the padded seat and sighed. 'You might be right, Major, sir. Where in the name of god are we going next? I forget.'
Kite examined his creased and food-stained map. 'El Paso, Texas,' he said.
35
Every jolt of the coach sent pain shooting through Wesley Lincoln's left hand. The pain seemed to travel through the arm up to his shoulder and his eyes watered with the effort of not gasping or groaning. His fellow passengers noted his pallor and tight, strained expression but put it down to a hangover, some illness or the pressure of travelling. Lincoln was on the coach which had pulled out of El Paso soon after dawn and was headed east towards San Antonio with Fort Stockton as a staging point—where a fresh team of horses would be taken on and the passengers would get s
everal hours to rest. A very long day and a good part of the night had to be got through before this respite, and Lincoln was doubtful that he would be able to endure it.
After the attack by Shirley Carstairs and her hirelings, Lincoln had pulled out the knife that pinned his hand to the boardwalk and fainted from the pain. He had regained consciousness almost immediately in the dark, empty street to find his hand bleeding freely. He was still clutching the throwing knife and when he rose to his feet the darkness swam and dipped around him and he fell heavily. Somehow, he had dragged himself back to his hotel and staunched the flow of blood. He washed the wound and bandaged it, whimpering as he did so. He looked longingly at the bottles of laudanum he had in store. He hadn't used the drug since deciding to face Brookes and had determined to do without it, but the temptation now was immense. He knew he could not afford to yield to it. He had to catch the stagecoach. He was in no condition, physically or emotionally, to confront Shirley Carstairs again. The laudanum would make him sleep. He packed the bottles in his valise, drank watered brandy to mitigate the pain of the wound, and dozed and twitched in disturbed half-dreams until sun-up.
Now, it was different. So many hours to Fort Stockton, so many ruts and corrugations, so much pain. He reached into his bag and took out one of the bottles, unstoppered it and sucked down half of the contents. He was unwashed, unshaven and had eaten nothing for twelve hours. He had lost a considerable amount of blood and was in a weakened state. Almost at once, an easeful warmth flooded through him. The opium mingled with the alcohol in his bloodstream and the hard seat suddenly softened, the jolting became a gentler motion and the fire that burned in his hand, arm and shoulder became an interesting heat, a minor inconvenience. He looked out at the grey prairie, just beginning to acquire colour and form as the sun rose above it, and found it wondrously beautiful. It was a green and purple tapestry with dancing, twisting figures—not stark, dry cactus plants and twisted nets of tumbleweed, but lean young women, weaving in seductive, mystical dances.
'That's beautiful,' he mumbled.
The other passengers, an army captain heading for Fort Worth, a circuit judge, a rancher returning to his property after delivering his wife's body to her folks in Tucson and a gambler bound for Dallas, ignored him. The gambler had thought of Lincoln as a suitable prospect for a game, but gave up the idea when he saw the thin, sunken-cheeked man suck on his medicine bottle. A croaker, he decided. Might make it to San Antonio. Might not.
In the tight confines of the coach, the gambler folded up the pages of the El Paso Chronicle and perused the sporting news. 'God damn.' he said. 'This Perry sounds like the goods. KO'd Big Jim Simpson in one round in 'Frisco.'
Lincoln struggled to be sociable. 'That so?'
'Right. Says here he's doing a barnstorm tour through Arizona and Texas. Hope I get a chance to see him. Barbados, where's that?'
Lincoln's head was feeling heavy. 'Caribbean, Jamaica, down there.'
'Does that mean this Perry guy's a nigger?'
'Could be. Most likely is.'
The gambler turned over the page. 'Can't see a nigger getting matches in Texas, less'n its against other niggers. What d'you think, mister?'
Lincoln's only answer was a light snore. He slept deeply for several hours, lurching against the captain who thrust him angrily away. 'Man shouldn't be allowed to travel in that state.'
'Reckon he's sick,' the gambler said. 'I believe he's getting off at Fort Stockton. Guess we can put up with him til then. Play some cards, captain?'
The soldier shook his head and the gambler looked at the rancher whose sad eyes were staring out the window. The judge was leaning forward to look more closely at Lincoln. 'I believe I know this man,' he said.
Bored, the gambler shuffled his deck. A judge seemed an unlikely candidate for stud poker. 'That so?'
'Yes, I think he's the man who killed Brookes back in El Paso last week. I heard about it from Judge Tuckwell. Disgraceful. This fellow should have got twenty years but a smart lawyer paid off some witnesses to say it was self-defence.'
'Disgraceful,' the gambler said. 'I don't suppose you'd care for hand of cards?'
'I believe I will. Five card stud? Fifty cent bid, dollar rise?'
The gambler had known Alexander Brookes and could only rejoice in the fact that he was dead. He didn't care much for judges either, but it was important to make conversation if he was going to control the rhythm and pace of the game. As he dealt the cards he looked at the slumped, snoring Lincoln. 'So we got us a real dangerous man here?'
'He doesn't look dangerous,' the soldier said. 'I'd say he looks like he's dying.'
The gambler took out a plug of tobacco and bit off a chew as he contemplated his hand. 'He killed Alex Brookes, he's dangerous, take my word. That was one mean son of a bitch.'
The rancher turned abruptly from the window. His eyes were damp. 'Could you watch your language? I'm grieving for my wife. She couldn't stand to hear cussing.'
The gambler touched his hat in apology.
Lincoln was jolted and slung about as the coach traversed a rough stretch of road. His dreams were a tangled mess of faces and writhing bodies. The faces were white, brown and yellow and none of the voices fitted—men spoke in women's tones and women's voices rumbled like distant thunder. Once he came awake to see that night had fallen and the other passengers were asleep. His hand was a throbbing agony. He clawed the half-empty opium bottle from his bag and drained it. Then he opened another and took a second long, bliss-inducing draught. He fell back into the soft, drugged world where the air was cool and he had a horse underneath him and everything before and behind and on all sides was fine.
Major Pierce Kite's sensational performer, John Perry, the 'Barbados Battler', reached El Paso four weeks after Lincoln's departure. The major secured a room in the Palace Hotel for Perry on the understanding that the mulatto would not eat in the public dining room or attempt to drink in the bar.
'This man is an athlete and a gentleman,' Kite told the hotel manager. 'He only drinks champagne and then only after he's won a fight.'
'You planning for him to fight in El Paso?'
Kite tapped cigar ash into a brass receptacle on the manager's desk. 'Depends. Are there any pugilists in town?'
'We've got shooters and knifers enough,' the manager said. 'Not too sure about pugilists. Sportin' folks're keen but the law ain't.'
'Well, we'll see. Just now, John and I need a rest. Maybe we could set up a shooting contest.'
'You a marksman, Major.'
'Not me. I'm talking about John Perry. Best rifle and pistol shot I ever did see.'
'Oh. Well, sign the register, Major. We'll be happy to have you to stay in the Palace. You and … Mr Perry.'
West Texas was unusually quiet at the time of Perry's arrival. After nearly a decade of war, the Apaches under Cochise had entered into peace talks with the United States. The Indians were promised a reservation and the chief had set about bringing the small, warlike bands under control. Ranchers and farmers were breathing more easily and the state authorities were expecting an influx of population and capital. The mood in El Paso was buoyant and when Pierce Kite bustled into Perry's hotel room he sent his hat sailing onto a chair and rubbed his hands.
'Say, John, this is one great old town. I reckon we can clean up here.'
Perry laid aside the newspaper in which he had been reading about the death of President Juarez of Mexico. The reporter expected civil unrest in the provinces and political strife in the capital. Life in the countryside on the other side of the Rio Grande sounded turbulent and dangerous and Perry profoundly hoped that Lincoln had not taken it into his head to go there. Mexico City, though, sounded interesting—perhaps a place to visit with Sarah. He made a mental note to mention the possibility in his next letter to her. He was making money from this travelling show and felt confident of being able to take his bride around the world. He looked up inquiringly at Kite.
'Are you talking about a match or an
exhibition?'
'A match. Three hundred dollars a side. Fellow by the name of Brennan, claims to have fought Mike McCool.'
Perry grunted. 'I bet old Mike wishes he had a dollar for anyone who claims to have fought him. Did you round up someone to talk to me?'
'Yeah, sure. He's outside now. What about this fight with Brennan?'
'Send the man in, Major, if you would. We'll talk about the fight later.'
Kite shook his head. He knew better than to argue with Perry when he was in one of his single-minded moods. He opened the door and ushered a small, unkempt man into the room. The major was following a procedure insisted upon by Perry at each town of any size they passed through—locating a resident who knew the gossip of the place and promising him a fee in return for talking to Perry.
'This is Jess Logan, John. Been in El Passo most of his life and claims he knows what goes on.'
Perry stood, towering over the little man. 'I'm glad to meet you, Mr Logan. Can I offer you some refreshment—coffee, or perhaps a drink?'
Logan had already heard rumours about the gentleman nigger who was said to be able to fight like Jem Mace and shoot like Bill Cody. One look was enough to tell him where to place his money if there was a match between this man and Tad Brennan. He lowered himself into a chair. 'A cup of coffee would be fine. Perhaps a small shot of whiskey when we finish our business.'
Kite picked up his hat. From the first, Perry had made it clear that he did not want these interviews to be overheard. The major was curious about them, but respected Perry's wishes. For a fighter, the man was an enigma—quiet, a steady trainer with no bad habits, unless you listed book-reading and letter-writing under that heading. 'I'll be on my way. I'll start the wheels rolling, eh, John?'