He scowled suddenly. Suppose it was a put-up job? Mayo admitted he had met Calkins, had come in on Calkins’ train … suppose they had conspired to take his money?
He liked the look of Mayo, but who was altogether honest? He glanced around the room and recognized a tall young cavalryman, a man who he was quite sure had been one of the guard for Colonel McClean.
“You!” he called. “Come here a minute!” The young man got up from his table and walked over, beer in hand. “Do you want a drink? A better drink than that?”
“I’m satisfied. What’s on your mind?”
“Were you with that train? The one that picked up McClean and his daughter?”
“Sure was. I was on the train when he was taken, too, and they’d put me up at the front and there was no time to do anything. We heard nothing, saw nothing until there was no proper signal at the station, and then we stopped and found the colonel was taken. It was a nervy thing.”
“What about this Mayo fellow? What did he have to do with it?”
Briefly, the young cavalryman explained, then added, “He’s a tough one. He faced right up to Calkins, who didn’t like it one bit.”
“They are going to fight.”
“Fight?” It dawned on the boy suddenly. “You mean in the ring? I want to see that!”
“How did he look to you? Mayo, I mean.”
The calvaryman considered that. “He’s well set-up. I’d say he is heavier than he looks. Wider shoulders than most, a slim waist, and he’s strong. He put down that ramp all by himself when he took the horses off. It usually takes four men, though two very strong ones might do it.”
Brennan took the empty beer glass and slid it down the bar. “Fill it up!” he said, and then casually, “He and Calkins talk much?”
The calvaryman laughed. “Not so you could notice it. Sam tried to run over him and he got just nowhere.” He looked up quickly. “If you’re thinking this might be arranged, forget it. I was there. Nothing tricky about it, and I’ll bet Mayo is hell on wheels in any kind of a fight.”
“Thanks,” Brennan said. “And have another beer.”
“Two’s plenty. Mr. Brennan, I want to see that fight. I want very much to see it. I am Tom Halloran.”
Brennan was startled. “You? Halloran, the foot racer?”
“I was, until I joined the Army. Unfortunately, I may not be able to come. I’m one of the escort for the generals. They’re going on a buffalo hunt.”
Brennan brushed out his cigar. He was thinking rapidly. He knew all about Halloran: Irish blood, of good family, a college man. He was a foot racer who had begun to run in contests in the East at a time when foot racing was a focal point for gamblers. More money was wagered on foot racing than on fighting, and in some areas, more than on horse racing. Many a sprinter was drifting about the country, passing himself off as some country bumpkin until he could find men to bet against him.
Halloran had run a number of times … then there had been a shooting. He remembered that. “You’re a good man,” Brennan said quietly, “and Mayo will need such a man in his corner, one who understands physical conditioning.”
“I’ve worked behind a number of fighters,” Halloran said, “but it will depend on two things: the possibility of my being free from duty, and the certainty that you want Mayo to win. I’ll have no part of a fix.”
“That’s why I want you,” Brennan said quietly. “How many here know who you are?”
The trooper chuckled. “I am Trooper Halloran, that’s all.”
“Keep it so,” Brennan said.
As Halloran left, Brennan lit another cigar and leaned his forearms on the bar. Rolling the cigar in his teeth, he considered the situation. Sam Calkins had numerous backers who were close friends of Sam’s and believed him unbeatable. Brennan, who knew most things happening along the right-of-way of the Union Pacific, frowned thoughtfully. Sam Calkins had curious associates, but for a man who was a pugilist as well as a railroader, that was not surprising. Having told himself that, he took the cigar from his mouth, regarded it with sudden distaste that had nothing to do with the cigar, and placed it on the bar’s edge.
Owen Brennan had come to America as a laborer, had given himself a modest education through reading, beginning with a day-to-day study of the newspapers in order to acquaint himself with current beliefs, opinions, and affairs. He saved cuttings from the papers and soon had a file on politicians, sports figures, and military men, as well as a scattering of those in business.
His purpose was simple. He wished to know what was going on and who was making it go, in order to plan his own affairs. Soon he had won a place as a policeman in New York and followed that as a contractor in road building. Not long thereafter he owned a dozen teams and fresnos, those two-handled scoops for the moving of earth that were drawn by horses.
The building of the Union Pacific enabled him to get some right-of-way contracts as well as a chance to do some freighting. The saloon had been an afterthought, but a profitable one that moved westward with the tracks, and besides the selling of much drink it provided a convenient listening post.
Tom Halloran was to be one of the escort for the generals’ buffalo hunt. Well, Brennan knew the lad’s first sergeant. He could get him out of that.
Chapter 11
CRIS MAYO FINISHED his meal and refilled his cup. Reppato Pratt sat beside him, lean, tough and watchful. “I don’t like it,” he muttered after awhile.
Cris, busy with his own thoughts, asked, “What do you not like?”
“Justin Parley an’ them. They’d ruther die than quit. They’re a murderous lot, an’ they want Gen’l Sherman’s scalp so bad they can taste it. Far’s that goes, they’d like to kill the whole passel o’ them high officers.”
“Parley missed the chance. They are all here now, at Fort Sanders, with troops gathered about like bees on a hive.”
“I know. But it is a worrisome thing, an’ I don’t believe that lot’ll give up so easy. I lived among ’em, an’ the most is a tough, vicious lot. I never could figure what Silver Dick was after. He’s the smartest one, maybe smarter than Parley. Del Robb, he’s been huntin’ trouble since he was a least youngster. These folks’d be renegades in their own land, stirrin’ trouble there if not here, and most of them were druv out o’ wherever ’tis they come from. Until you’ve seen ’em in action you’ve no idea how mean folks can git.”
“They’ll be far from here,” Cris said, “they’ll be afraid of the cavalry.”
“Not much, they won’t. They’ll fight any small bunch, and they’ll stay shy of the patrols big enough to fight them even or better. And the Army has to think of Injuns, too.”
Halloran came in and sat down across the table from them. “I just left Brennan,” he told them. “He wants me to work in your corner, Mayo. You may recall me from the train. I’m Halloran.”
“Howdy,” Pratt said. “Don’t Brennan reckon I’m good enough?”
“Yes, but he wants you to be around with a gun handy. I have some experience at this sort of thing. Handling athletes, I mean.” He looked at Cris. “What kind of shape are you in? Can you go a long fight?”
“I can.” He put out his unbandaged left hand. The finger had scabbed over. “Murray shot that of. It might start to bleed. Stop it if you can, when it does.”
Startled, Halloran stared. “You’d go into a fight with that?”
“I would.” Cris glanced at the hand and said, “A man has so much to put up with in his life. I came here to make a fortune and I won’t do it sitting about crying because I got scratched.
“I came into this town without money, and I must live. Rep here is in the same boat. I figured with the two hundred dollars I’d win, we’d have enough to tide us over until there is a way to a better living.”
“Don’t take Sam Calkins lightly. He is heavier than you, very strong. He’s a tough, boring-in fighter who’s won nine or ten fights against some of the best bare-knuckle battlers around. I believe he will tr
y to wear you down. Very few men can fight more than two or three minutes without running out of steam. If he can do that he’ll have you helpless.”
“He cannot. I will last as long as any man.”
“He tries to work in close. He likes the uppercut. Do you know the blow?”
“I know it.”
Halloran was not satisfied. Mayo seemed confident, which was good, but it might be the confidence of ignorance. To a man who has never boxed or fought with a skilled professional, it is easy to believe that only strength and aggressiveness are important. A professional is just as skillful at his trade as is a master cabinetmaker. The beginner can no more do one job as well as the master than he can do the other.
There is nothing fancy about the professional boxer. He wastes no motions, his every move is timed, his distances are judged, the knowledge of what you can do is in his mind, and he knows that when a punch has been thrown certain portions of the head or body are exposed. He knows how to feint another fighter into exposing the areas where he wishes his blows to land, and he knows how to avoid blows by a hair, moving no more than is necessary. He knows how to work in close so that when a blow is thrown he remains within punching distance.
He knows that the feet should be placed in a certain way for the maximum punching power, and that certain combinations of punches can be thrown to take advantage of his opponents’ efforts, and that if the punches are thrown in sequence the openings will be there when the fists arrive.
Halloran had boxed a lot. He also had seen many fights. He had seen bruisers demolished by smaller men who knew what they were about. Sam Calkins knew much of this, how much he did not know. Halloran had been about with some of the great ones, like Jem Mace. The English gypsy was one of the cleverest fighters of his time, who had worked out many of the most advanced tactics in boxing. Yet a boxer must have good competition, for he will not improve beyond the talent required to win over the opponent he faces. The better the competition, the better the fighter; and Halloran knew nothing of the sort of boxing Mayo had done. Had he really faced good men? Or just the common run of country boys with whom he had brawled for the sport of it?
“I’ll be in your corner if I can,” he said. “Duty may prevent it. I don’t know yet.”
When he had gone they finished their coffee and walked outside. Down the street was another tent with the sign BEDS. Pratt shook his head when Cris pointed it out. “There’s a hotel here, and you’ll need rest, not drunks staggerin’ in at all hours an’ card games a-goin’. Cost a mite more, but worth it.”
They found a room, paid fifty cents for it, and borrowing a whisk broom he saw at the desk, Cris carefully brushed his clothes and his hat. Then he wiped off his brogans. They were scarred and shabby, but still intact. He washed his striped shirt out and hung it to dry.
“Didn’t you say you had a carpetbag on that first train?”
“I did.”
“Gimme a description and a note and I’ll hunt ’er up for you. Meanwhile, you better get some rest.” He glanced at the wet shirt. “You’re not goin’ anywheres for a while.”
When Rep had left, Cris stretched out on the bed in his underwear. He clasped his hands behind his head and thought.
The fight with Sam Calkins had been a logical development. If he defeated Calkins he would have two hundred dollars and he could go on to the west, maybe to California where the McCleans were headed. Brennan might advise him on that. He had no desire to continue fighting, and no real wish to work on the railroad. What he wanted was what he had always wanted, land of his own and a chance to raise the kind of horses he had handled in Ireland.
He had worked as a fisherman, a seaman, and a farm hand. He had cut peat, made hay, and worked with a pick and shovel, a saw and hammer, and as much as he liked the using of tools he longed for a chance to do something more. Land was for the taking, and that would be the first thing.
He thought of Maire. Was she married by now? Wed to that spalpeen they had planned for her? He’d like to go back and show them. He’d like to go back, owning land and cattle and horses and a dozen new suits, and strut around and show them what Crispin Mayo could do.
Much as he wished for it, he knew that it was childish. That he had first to make a place for himself here. Calkins, by his bullying tactics, had opened a door for the chance to make money quicker. His thoughts strayed to Barda, but she was an American colonel’s daughter and would have no use for a penniless immigrant Irishman. Why, there were places in the States where an Irishman was not even permitted to go! Where there were signs advising No Irish Need Apply!
He got up, did fifty squats, as many push-ups and sit-ups. He had been doing them for years, morning and evening, unless he was too tired from the work. They were something his uncle had started him on, years before.
He dozed and slept. Suddenly he awakened, hearing a low mutter of voices that at first he could not place. The room was shadowed and still, the evening well along. The voices came through the thin wall.
“ … Calkins’ll beat him. He ain’t seen any of us, anyway. Only Murray.”
“Murray’s red-eyed fightin’ mad. Figures to kill the mick, but Parley don’t want no trouble. Not until after. If he can keep Murray tied down till then he’ll be lucky. I never seen a man so mad.”
“That mick damn near killed him. Nose an’ three ribs, four, five teeth.”
“Murray ain’t Calkins. You’ll see. Ol’ Sam will beat him to the ground. I seen him work a time or two.”
Their voices dwindled and a door closed. Cris Mayo lay quiet, thinking. Some of the Parley gang were in town. Why? Of course, they’d like to come into town to blow off steam just like anybody else. But what did that mean, “not until after”? After what?
Was something being planned? Or did they just mean that Murray was not to be allowed to have his chance until after the fight? That must be it.
He dozed off, slept solidly again. When he awakened it was completely dark and Pratt was still not back, but there was his carpetbag, just inside the door. Pratt must have returned, found him asleep and gone away again.
He got up and went to the bag. So far as he could see nothing had been taken from it. He pulled on a fresh shirt, folded the one that was now dry and put it away. His finger was sore and kept getting in the way. At every moment he was bumping it.
He got out his six-shooter, emptied it, then buckling on the gunbelt he began practicing with the gun. He had heard of the fast draw but had never attempted it. His hand was awkward at first, but he practiced simply getting a good grip and bringing the gun into position. He was naturally well-coordinated and had worked with his hands all his life, so the movements came easy before long.
For an hour he worked with the gun, and liked the feel of it. He made no effort to be fast, and believed he was getting the hang of it; at least, of how he thought it should work.
He had no desire to go out on the streets so he sat down, picked up a newspaper from St. Louis that he had found lying in the room, and read through it. There was a little about the railroad, a few references to the fur trade, and much news about people of whom he had never heard.
AT FORT SANDERS, Colonel McClean was seated at a table with General Haney, the railroad engineer Dodge, and one or two other officers. “By the way, McClean, that young fellow who lent you a hand is a prizefighter.”
“Mayo?” McLean was surprised. “I had no idea.”
“He’s matched with Sam Calkins. The day after tomorrow, in a fight to the finish, London Prize Ring rules.”
“I am surprised,” McClean said. “In the few minutes I talked with him after we were safe, he seemed quite a decent lad.”
“He could be. I’ve known a number of boxers who were far from the thugs they’ve been painted, even though the bare-knuckle fighter does not have the associations we would expect from a gentleman.
“Anyway, from what I hear, it started with an altercation about the time they seized you. It seems that Calkins made some unple
asant remarks about the Irish, and your boy is from County Cork.”
“I’d like to see it,” Dodge said. “I have never liked Calkins. He’s a surly brute at best.”
“He’ll kill the boy,” someone said.
“My daughter was quite impressed with him, both his conduct and his strength,” McClean commented, “so I am not sure of that. Barda has been around Army camps so long that she’s a pretty good judge of men.”
Colonel Seymour entered. “Gentlemen, it is settled. We have a hunt arranged. Some buffalo have been sighted over along the river; several hundred of them, in fact. We have a competent guide, a chap named Holly Barnes. He himself saw the beasts. There will be ten in the party, and we should have excellent hunting.”
“There’s no chance until after our meeting, Seymour. The generals wish you to present your side of the argument, or Durrant’s side, rather. Then we’ll hear Dodge. So three days from now?”
Seymour frowned. “The buffalo may have moved on. I can promise nothing.”
“If there is to be a hunt it must be then,” General Haney said firmly, “it cannot be before.”
Seymour hesitated. The hunt, which he hoped would be successful, was to get them in the mood for a favorable decision, but he dared not push it against Haney’s last statement. “Well, whatever you say, sir. I just hope the beasts don’t drift out of the area.”
“If they do, Seymour, we will just have to postpone the pleasure, will we not? We did not come west to hunt.”
Seymour flushed. After all, this was Durrant’s problem, not his. He was prepared to replace Dodge as engineer on the right-of-way if so directed, but it was Durrant who was at war with Dodge, not himself. He had always respected Dodge, who was a highly competent engineer, yet Durrant had considerable influence in many areas and he was a good man to know.
“There’s going to be a prizefight,” he said, not aware that they knew; “we can go to that. Brennan is backing a man named Mayo, one of the tracklayers, against Sam Calkins, a conductor.”
Novel 1973 - The Man From Skibbereen (v5.0) Page 11