Fight Card Presents: Battling Mahoney & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  Samuel Jones hovered around the fighters, watching for rule infractions. Shoo Lee’s head rocked back at the impact of Kennedy’s left fist, which slipped on the Vaseline but left a reddening welt behind. Shoo Lee let a whoosh of air from his lungs and shouted, “Yah, yah, yah,” punctuating each shout with solid blows to Kennedy’s midriff, left and right and left again.

  The crowd rumbled to see the big Irishman bend over, as Shoo Lee pounded his guts. Then Kennedy went to his knees.

  “Halt,” Samuel Jones shouted. “Round over. One minute of rest at your own corner.” He pointed Kennedy to his beer barrel. Shoo Lee went back to his as well.

  “He can take punishment,” Shawn Brodie said to Shoo Lee. “Irishmen can be tough.”

  Shoo Lee grunted.

  Samuel Jones came to look at Shoo Lee’s face. It was slightly red and swollen. No reason to call off the fight. He crossed to Kennedy’s corner. The marks of Shoo Lee’s fists were red splotches on Kennedy’s thick white belly. The fighter took deep breaths, trying to relax in his allotted one minute of rest.

  “Stand,” Jones said. His voice carried to the farthest of the spectators. The crowd murmured. They didn’t seem as sure of Kennedy’s victory as before. Kennedy and Shoo Lee stood.

  “Advance to the center,” Jones said. He beckoned to the fighters. They walked to within a long stride of each other. “Resume the fight,” Jones shouted, and stepped back out of the way.

  “Aarrrgh.” Kennedy moved toward Shoo Lee, his arms moving like pistons in front of his body. He bulled ahead like he knew he could overpower the smaller Chinaman. But when he closed, Shoo Lee’s forearms worked like wooden bats, knocking Kennedy’s punches aside. Shoo Lee backed slowly away as Kennedy pushed forward, but none of the Irishman’s punches landed. The crowd growled. The fight wasn’t going to their liking. Sweat formed on Kennedy’s face and rolled down his hairy white chest. He began to struggle to get enough air to fuel his piston-like punches. He slowed. The power of his punches waned.

  Shoo Lee’s eyes narrowed. He kept Kennedy moving in a circle, stepping or jumping lightly back and around as he parried the heavy Irishman’s blows. Shoo Lee leaped forward and up into the air, Kyaaah! He screeched a cry that hardened his stomach muscles and added to the momentum of his slicing blow. The horn-hard edge of his right hand bludgeoned the side of Kennedy’s neck, stunning the nerves and cutting off blood going to the Irishman’s head for an instant. Kennedy fell to one knee, dazed.

  “Halt!” Samuel Jones shouted. “Round over.” He stepped between the fighters.

  “Butch! Hey, Butch. We got all our money riding on you, asshole.” The workman hollering at Kennedy, who sat slumped on his beer keg, frothed at the mouth, his face red with booze and anger. “You hear me, champ? You lose this fight and your ass is mud. Pure mud, I say.”

  “Pud’s got that right,” shouted another. “Come on, champ. Chop the Chink up in little pieces.”

  The crowd took up the chant. “Chop the Chink. Chop the Chink. Chop the Chink.”

  The denizens of Chinkburg, who stood eight to ten deep back of Shoo Lee’s corner, said nothing. They looked at the chanters, but their eyes were flat. Their quiet confidence showed clearly. Shawn Brodie leaned close to Shoo Lee to say something into his ear. Shoo Lee nodded.

  Samuel Jones checked his watch. “One minute rest period is over. Stand and advance to the center.”

  Shoo Lee stood immediately and strode to a position near the center of the ring. He said nothing, nor did he look at anything other than his opponent, the big Irishman, Butch Kennedy.

  “Kennedy,” Jones said. “Continue the bout, or throw the towel in.”

  Kennedy stood. He took a deep breath. The rage of confidence no longer showed on his face. Instead, perhaps he wondered if he’d come out of the bout alive. He shuffled toward the center of the ring where Shoo Lee waited with his hands dangling at his sides and his feet spread slightly more than shoulder width apart. Kennedy waggled his head, seeming to test his neck where Shoo Lee’s hand had struck. He shrugged his shoulders and lifted his fists to a fighting stance, but he didn’t carry the fight to Shoo Lee as before. Instead, he stopped slightly more than an arm length away. He lunged at Shoo Lee, stabbing out with a right jab.

  Shoo Lee moved only enough for Kennedy’s jab to miss.

  Kennedy tried a left hook.

  Again, Shoo Lee was not there, and Kennedy’s fist smashed only air.

  A shout came from the crowd. “Stand still like a man, asshole Chink.”

  Shoo Lee smiled and made a little bow. He dodged from Kennedy’s path, and the Irishman’s fists cut empty air. The smile stayed on Shoo Lee’s face. The crowd’s roar took on a very nasty edge.

  “Take ‘im, Butch. He cain’t get away. We’ll catch the bugger if he runs.”

  “That we will, Kennedy.”

  Kennedy didn’t look at the men who shouted at him, he stared only at the stocky figure of Shoo Lee, a man he was fighting because the stupid Chinaman wouldn’t accept the usual half pay for Chinks. He shifted his glare to Samuel Jones. Damn gambler. This here fight was his idea in the first place. Kennedy shook his head. He had to concentrate on Shoo Lee, but couldn’t seem to get his mind to work right. He clenched and unclenched his fists, then pounded his right fist into the palm of his left hand. He got his dukes up, as they say, and went after the Chinaman.

  Right cross. Hit only air. Left jab, slipped of the slick Vaseline on Shoo Lee’s face and neck. Right straight, glancing blow. Left hook, missed. Wham. Wham. Wham. Three punches from rock-hard fists with knuckles thickened in mare’s piss smashed into Kennedy’s sternum. The bones cracked and pain flashed through Kennedy’s brain. He doubled over and slowly went to his knees. Only his Irish manhood kept him from screaming in pain.

  “Time.” Samuel Jones’s shout registered dimly in Kennedy’s ears. “Round over!”

  Now the crowd was silent. Every eye was on Butch Kennedy. He struggled to his feet, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what was happening.

  “To your corner,” Jones said. He turned Kennedy around and gave him a little shove toward the beer keg that served as the corner seat. The Irishman stumbled to the keg and sat.

  “You all right, Butch?” Bobby McGilly, Kennedy’s second, said. “Only a couple of punches to the gut, eh? Stuff you take every day of the year, right?”

  Kennedy didn’t dare try to talk. He’d groan if he opened his mouth to talk. He breathed as shallowly as he could. Deep breaths brought shooting pains to his breastbone.

  “Whiskey,” McGilly said, pushing a bottle into Kennedy’s hand.

  “No drinking during the bout,” Jones called, shaking his head. He strode toward Kennedy’s corner. “Are you calling it quits, Kennedy? Hmm?”

  Kennedy straightened his back. “Not likely,” he said in a quiet voice. “Not very goldurn likely.” He looked across the ring at Shoo Lee, who sat motionless on his keg, legs crossed at the ankles, hands on his thighs with his fingers held in funny positions. Who in hell is that man? He didn’t like the shit-eating smile on that Chink’s face. Anger began to boil again, and the adrenalin it sent surging through his body held the pain in his chest to a dull ache.

  “Time,” Samuel Jones hollered. “Fighters up and at it.”

  Kennedy got to his feet, squinting at the pain that lanced through his chest from his cracked breastbone. He’d have to make sure the Chink couldn’t get to that sore spot. He doubled his fists and put his forearms out in front to ward off any punches from head on. He shuffled toward the center of the ring.

  He watched Shoo Lee through hooded eyes, trying to detect any kind of signal that would mean the Chinaman was going to throw a punch. There was none. The Chink walked toward Kennedy casually, taking no fighting stance at all. Kennedy kept his fists under his chin and his forearms closed to protect his chest. He shuffled. It seemed that Shoo Lee sped up, came faster, but didn’t seem to be aiming at Kennedy’s injured chest as any smart fighter would do. A
nd he still had that shit-eating half-smile on his Chinky face.

  Shoo Lee moved to his right, circling around Kennedy, who pivoted to keep his guard toward the Oriental.

  “Bust his butt, Butch,” hollered an onlooker. “Beat his ass dead.”

  Kennedy wished he could, but his chest was starting to hurt again as the adrenalin wore off. He took shallow breaths through his nose. It didn’t help. He turned to keep his guard where the Chinaman was likely to hit. God, it hurts.

  Then he lost sight of Shoo Lee. Where’d he go? Kennedy turned his head left and right, trying to spot the Chinaman. Shoo Lee leaped out in front of Kennedy, who struggled to get into the proper defensive stance again. The Chinaman whirled, letting his right arm follow his body around, building centrifugal force. Kennedy put his arms up to bar a strike from the front, but Shoo Lee’s arm came around from the side and his hard middle knuckle smashed deep into Kennedy’s unprotected temple. The Irishman dropped to his knees like he’d been shot, then crumpled over onto his side.

  “Damn Chinaman killed Dutch! Smashed him dead. I seen it.”

  “Quiet!” Samuel Jones roared. He strode to Kennedy’s side and felt his neck. “Knocked out cold. No one in this ring is dead. But Shoo Lee has won this bout by a knockout.”

  Shoo Lee bowed to Jones. “Thank you,” he said. “You are a fair man.”

  Jones gave Shoo Lee a hard look. “No one cheats at my table, Chinaman, no one. You beat Kennedy fair and square. Some will be happy you did. Others will be very angry.”

  Almost in answer to Jones’s announcement of Shoo Lee’s win, the crowd of Diablo denizens that bet on Kennedy to win started getting rowdy. Shouts of “Kill the Chink,” “Cut that slant-eye down,” “Put ‘im out like he put Butch out, only dead out.”

  Shawn Brodie stepped to Shoo Lee’s side and said something to him. Shoo Lee nodded and slipped into the crowd of people from Chinkburg.

  “Where’d the Chink go?” “Get his ass, he OWES us, by the heavens, he does.” Globs of men pushed and shoved, trying their best to get to a position where they could get at Shoo Lee.

  A shotgun went off and the crowd stopped dead still. As one, heads turned toward Poker Flat.

  “The Chinaman won the fight fair and square,” Guy Rankin hollered. “Anyone tries to cross them tracks to Chinkburg and us Lazy EP riders will have us a turkey shoot.” Rankin broke open the double-barreled Greener 10-guage in his hands, plucked the spent shells from the breech, and pushed in two new ones. He snapped the shotgun closed with a flick of his wrist and settled the cannon-like muzzles on the crowd. On either side of Rankin, two Lazy EP men stood with Winchesters cocked and ready. No one in the crowd wanted to test the shooting ability of five determined men.

  “Thanks, Rankin,” Shawn said as he climbed the steps to the porch of Poker Flat. “Maybe this way, people who bet on Shoo Lee can get paid. I’ll push on in and collect for me and the Boss.”

  “Keno Harry put ours aside,” Rankin said. “Don’t you worry.”

  Shawn entered Poker Flat casually, with every sense alert. People knew he stood in Shoo Lee’s corner, and many were upset at his win.

  Keno Harry paid out winnings from behind the mahogany bar, carefully checking his tally book and confirming the claimed payout before actually dealing out the cash.

  Shawn waited patiently for his turn. “Anyone come in from Chinkburg,” he asked when he reached the bar.

  Keno Harry shook his head.

  “You make sure to hold their winnings, Harry. Wouldn’t like to hear of anyone falling short.”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “Shoo Lee tells me someone’s short, I’ll come visiting,” Shawn said. “No threat, but I’ll want to know the whys and wherefores.”

  Keno Harry nodded. “I’m good for it,” he said.

  “I’ll take my payout,” Shawn said, “and I’ll head back to Winslow with the Boss’s as soon as the train leaves, so you might as well give me his.”

  Again, Keno Harry nodded. “Lot’s a cash to carry around,” he said, almost whispering. “Specially here in this town. Let me do this.” He raised his voice. “You going to Winslow, ain’cha? I’ll give you a bank draft on Wells Fargo, then. In your name, won’t be no good to no one else.” Harry’s voice easily carried to every ear in the room. “Won’t be too many people wanting to bust you for your gold if all you’ve got is worthless paper.”

  Shawn had to laugh. “Damned if you ain’t got it right. Who’d shoot me down for a worthless piece of paper?”

  “Hang on.” Keno Harry left his spot behind the bar and hustled into the back room. Moments later he came back waving a bank draft. “Here ya go, Brodie.” He didn’t say the amount. “You take your share in Winslow and give the rest to Peel.”

  “Will do,” Shawn said. He accepted the draft and put it away without even looking at it. “Thank you, Harry. You run a good shop.”

  “You think so, kid. Have a try at Samuel Jones when you get back in town. He’ll take you for every cent you’ve got.”

  Shawn shook his head and chuckled. “Me and Sam Jones got a deal going. He don’t cheat on me and I don’t cheat on him. No one loses, everyone wins.” He held his hand above his head, waggled his fingers, and headed for the door. “See ya when I get back, Harry,” he said.

  Outside, Rankin and the Lazy EP boys still stood on the porch, but the crowd had broken up. He heard Shawn approach and gave him a sidelong look. “Get paid?” he asked.

  “Got a piece of paper.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “No good to anyone else. Take it to Wells Fargo, they give me cash money.” Shawn leaned on the porch railing. “Give me the Greener. I’ll watch things while you get paid off. Then the boys can take turns.”

  Rankin handed Shawn the shotgun, then dug a handful of 10-guage shells out of his pocket. “Just in case,” he said, and gave them to Shawn. “Be back in a jiffy.” He plunged through the door into Poker Flat.

  Grumbling and looking sideways at the Lazy EP riders, the crowd broke up into groups of three or four men. The doves that’d come out to watch Butch pound the Chink to smithereens had long gone back to their positions by the bars of Diablo. Many men disappeared through the doors of Hell Street drinkeries, but some lingered, out of cash, perhaps, because of Shoo Lee’s win. The Lazy EP riders kept their watchful stance.

  One by one, the Lazy EP cowboys collected their winnings from Keno Harry. “Damn near made me a stake,” Rankin said. “Thanks to you, Shawn. Come on back in. Buy you a drink.”

  Shawn held up a hand. “Thanks, Rankin, but I gotta take the train back to Winslow and I’d better see Shoo Lee before it leaves.” He handed the Greener back to the Lazy EP Segundo. “You boys better stay bunched up. Might be a good idea to beeline for the ranch.”

  Rankin grinned. “And who are you to be telling me what to do, kid?”

  Shawn shrugged, a grin on his face as well. “Free country,” he said. “Man can speak his mind, I hear.”

  “Common mistake, that.”

  “I reckon.”

  “You take care over in Chinkburg. Don’t want to hear of you getting kilt.”

  “Will do, Boss.” Shawn went down the steps to Hell Street. He scanned left and right. Off to the right, Hell Street ended at the edge of Canyon Diablo, less than two hundred yards away. To Shawn’s left, the street ran parallel with the Atlantic and Pacific tracks. The raw clapboard and plank-and-batten buildings along Hell Street were already gray, though most were hardly two years old. The A&P station, built of stone and painted yellow, seemed to glow in the sun, and the steel rails winked shiny and silver between the buildings. Little moved.

  Hell Street was wide, as a main street should be, with room enough for a freight wagon pulled by half a dozen mules to turn around.

  Lazy EP riders stood on the porch of Poker Flats, guns ready, watching Shawn cross Hell Street. He glanced over his shoulder at them just before crossing the tracks. Rankin put a finger to the b
rim of his Stetson and Shawn waved back. Then he turned his attention to Chinkburg.

  Fight Day in Diablo is an excerpted from Diablo by Chuck Tyrell ~ A Black Horse Western Published by Robert Hale Ltd.

  CHUCK TYRELL

  Chuck Tyrell is the pen name for Charles T. Whipple, an international prize-winning author. Whipple was born and reared in Arizona’s White Mountain country only nineteen miles from Fort Apache. He won his first writing award while in high school, and has won several since.

  Raised on a ranch, Chuck brings his own experience into play when writing about the hardy people of 19th Century Arizona. Although he currently lives in Japan, he maintains close ties with the West through family, relatives, former schoolmates, and readers of his western fiction.

  Whipple belongs to Western Fictioneers, Western Writers of America, Arizona Authors Association, American Society of Journalists and Authors, and Tauranga Writers Inc.

  ON THE WEB:

  http://www.amazon.com/Chuck-Tyrell/e/B0034NYNCQ

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Chuck-Tyrell/150155121705983

  If you want to find out what happens in Chinkburg, read Diablo, a Black Horse Western from Robert Hale, Ltd. If you wonder why Shawn Brodie is so friendly with a Chinaman, even though he’s Okinawan, read The Snake Den, the record of Shawn Brodie’s years in Yuma Territorial Prison, where he was sent for stealing a cow that he never stole. The Snake Den is a Western Trail Blazer novel, available in e-book or paperback.

  ROUND 13

  SONG OF THE CORNERMAN

  BOWIE V. IBARRA

  Bradley Coburn is a good boxer. In fact, he’s real good.