Bareknuckle Barbarian (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

A disease of civilization, he thought. The operators provide the sport for the weak-kneed who don’t have the guts to participate.

  He had watched and even participated in the icehouse fights back home, but more as a tool to learn and, if truth be told, an outlet for his tremendous energy not used up at his writing keyboard.

  “I figure with you to watch my back, I’ll be able to take this German fella without breaking too much of a sweat, Boss Bob.” He gave a playful punch at the Texan’s shoulder and laughed. “So, I’d put down a bit on this brown boy to win!”

  Howard joined him in the laugh. “I’ll do so. And I’ll be your corner man. When is the fight gonna happen, Carney?”

  “Next Friday night at midnight.”

  The Texan thought for a moment. “Well, I reckon,” Howard said. “Even if I make some good connections with writers and such at my meeting, I’ll be able to get back in time.”

  “Good,” the big Negro said. “Now, I know I’ll box this German fella’s ears but good!”

  The two friends went back to work in the main arena and put in another long night, but now the interior space was beginning to look like the configuration Howard would expect for a circus.

  Later, the Texan barely had enough strength left for a few short letters he had to send out. He made only half of his usual word quota. He told himself that he’d make it up the next night and, more importantly, he would not feel guilty, since he was going to meet some other writers after the circus opened.

  The next days were sun up till midnight filled with hard labor. Each night the exhausted writer, after a reduced word quota, joined the other roustabouts in deep slumber.

  The buzz about the upcoming Saturday night fight had already begun. A lot of money was beginning to change hands. The legend of The German grew with each retelling – he had been a boxer in Chicago and killed a man, he was an enforcer for a California mob boss, and many other fanciful tales. All that was certain was he had fought many bouts in Cincinnati and Kansas City with a reputation for brutal wins.

  Big Carney enjoyed his renewed celebrity status. As for Howard, the upcoming opening of the circus and the prospect of finally meeting other writers, had him feeling as if his first trip to the big city was a rip roaring success.

  ROUND 7

  GONE TO MEETIN’

  Despite his exhaustion from the week of hard work, Bob Howard felt like an excited kid on Friday when the circus opened.

  Though the Texan had seen many of the rehearsals during the week, the dress rehearsal the circus held for the roustabouts to watch (and a few invited guests) still knocked Howard’s socks off.

  The acts were amazing displays of skill and everyone, even the formerly sulking Klaus seemed in a good mood. It seemed the magic spell of the big top had transformed the brick and stone building into a living dream for all who entered. Even the stagehands and roustabouts oohed and awed with everyone else as the trapeze artists, acrobats and riders went through their complex routines.

  Julie was especially radiant and sent another special smile toward the Texan as she rode into the arena for her show. Klaus’ slightly sour glance did nothing to dull the effect of the blonde’s smile.

  Afterward, Mr. Maxim held a feast for the cast and crew, and Bob truly felt as if he were at an extended family gathering. He had come to enjoy his time chatting with Bernie and Big Carney all week and Julie, who had often taken lunch near them.

  The Texan learned she had grown up in a small town in Illinois, not unlike Cross Plains, and married Klaus young, when he had come through with a small circus. She had learned and seen much since then, and risen to a position in the circus world where she was a headliner. Her rapid rise seemed to have affected Klaus poorly, with his gambling getting worse along with his violent attentions.

  Howard saw she had begun thinking seriously about heading out on her own. Even though Klaus had been minding his P’s and Q’s since Howard’s talk with him, it seemed as if her leaving the trainer was inevitable.

  Some of the other roustabouts noticed the friendship of the writer and the rider, but none seemed to take offense. Even Klaus seemed to be cordial when he saw the two talking, his usual brooding expression modified to a slight scowl for most of the week.

  Howard finished a novella for Adventure magazine that night, feeling a tremendous sense of accomplishment. He was also very excited knowing the next day he would fulfill his own lifelong dream – meet other writers in person!

  From correspondence with Howard Lovecraft and others, the Texan had learned that on every third Friday of the month The American Fiction Guild met at an unassuming hotel on the east side of Manhattan. The meetings were open to anyone who was in the word game. There were agents and editors there, as well as writers at all levels of the pulp profession. Howard was excited to meet any and all of them.

  “I just hope I don’t go all goose-footed and make a laughing stock of myself,” he said to Bernie, as the two went back to the barracks tent after watching the opening Friday afternoon show.

  “Ah, come on, Bob,” the little man said. “Youse can talk as good any guy I ever met when you want and you sure got enough stories and stuff in magazines.” He pointed to a Weird Tales on one of the bunks with a cover illustration of a woman kneeling before a pagan god. In bold letters across the bottom of the cover were the words, A new Conan story by Robert E. Howard.

  “I wrote that story three years ago,” the Texan said. “They are slow to print them sometimes.

  “Still it came out only last week, Bob. You’ll do fine.” Bernie made a shooing motion with his hands. “Now get going. I got me a hot card game calling my name. See ya later.”

  The Texan put on his good brown suit, shined his cowboy boots and brushed his Stetson as if he were heading on a date with Carole Lombard.

  Several of the roustabouts whistled and razed him good-naturedly as he left the Garden. After he blushed, he swept his hat off in a grand bow feeling like Gene Autry.

  Humming to himself as he walked across Fiftieth Street to the East side, Howard consulted a little hardback guidebook with a map. From it, he found his way down to Gramercy Park and the hotel where the Author’s Guild meeting was being held.

  In the hustle and bustle of the sidewalk crowds, Howard did not notice the two men who seemed to be paying particular attention to him. They had fallen into step behind him the moment the Texan had left the Garden.

  Howard was still amazed by sheer volume of humanity on the tiny island, the density of the population, and the fact everyone seemed to be hurrying somewhere. No one mossied in the Big Apple. Everyone seemed to take it all in stride.

  The Texan’s mind was on overload with the possibilities of life since leaving Cross Plains. His horizons had literally been expanded to the whole wide world. He now had hope to experience in reality so many of the great sites of the world he had only traveled to through the pages of books or on the movie screen of his mind.

  Now he was actually going to meet other writers – and not just one or two. According to letters from his pal Howie Lovecraft, there could be upward of twenty or thirty authors at some of the bigger meetings. All in one place! And editors and agents as well. Howard could not help smiling like a giddy bridegroom.

  The wonders of the city continued to amaze and overpower the Texan’s senses, and his imagination all but exploded with ideas. Every face seemed to be a starting point for him to spin off into a wild story…How had that person gotten there? Why was he or she smiling or frowning? What country were they from? Were they going? Were they chasing someone or was someone chasing them?

  He turned down Fifth Avenue, thrilling to the vista of the island above and below him. In the writer’s mind it was old Alexandria, ancient Babylon, or even fabled Atlantis, and so much more.

  I’ll bet there are more people in one of these skyscraping buildings than in all of Cross Plains, he thought. But just like all those empires that fell, an even this one will pass away someday.

  He loo
ked at the determined and preoccupied faces of all those racing around him to seemingly no purpose and concluded in his mind, civilization is just not a natural state.

  When he reached Thirty Fifth Street, he stopped and, like countless tourists since its completion, leaned back in awe to admire the steel and stone needle into the sky that was the Empire State Building. It was hard for him to even imagine such a spectacular sight succumbing to a horde of barbarian raiders, yet he knew it must someday happen.

  Surely a Tower of Babel, he thought with a grin, listening to the buzz of voices and languages around him. He murmured quietly out loud what was in his mind, “And in a blink of the eye of The Almighty, it will join Rome and all the other fallen empires. Someday barbarians will eat meals on the cracked stones of it all.”

  He thought of the looming dangers in Europe, in Germany, and China, realizing the day of the barbarian might not be so far off.

  As Howard was lost in his woolgathering, looking up at the building, he was prime for attack. The first of the two men following him swung a lead filled cosh hidden in a newspaper, landing the blow directly on the crown of the Texan’s hat.

  That direct aim saved Howard’s life. The sap crushed the crown of the stiffened cowboy hat and would have done the same for its wearer save for the guidebook he had secreted under the hat.

  The force of the blow stunned the Texan, driving him to his knees, but did not incapacitate him. Some instinct in Howard took over and, as he dropped, he twisted and grabbed for the assailant. His vice-like grip latched onto the left pant leg just below the knee, and he yanked.

  The attacker, surprised as much as his victim had been, pitched backward with a startled cry. Howard threw himself on the fallen man even though he was still not fully aware of what was going on.

  “Get this hick off of me, Moe,” the fallen man screamed.

  The yell was like cold water on the Texan and he snapped fully awake with the realization of the danger of a second man.

  “Hold him, Mike,” the unseen Moe called.

  “I’m trying,” Mike grasped.”

  Howard was completely on Mike now. He found he was grappling with a man almost his size and bulk with strong hands, which the man tried to fasten around the Texan’s throat.

  Howard was passed the stunned stage and moving full bore into frontier rage at the attack. As Mike tried to throttle him, Howard seized the thug by the shirt and heaved so the two rolled over. Now the Texan was on the bottom where the second man could not get at him directly.

  “For gosh sake, hold him, Mike, so I can bean him. Quick, we’re drawing a crowd.” Moe shuffled back and forth with his sap in hand trying to get at Howard.

  At the same time, the writer released his hold on Mike and threw a looping right cross, connecting with the thug’s temple. It was an awkward angle and a truncated swing, but it had all the Texan’s anger behind it so it did the job. Mike went limp.

  Howard grabbed the unconscious attacker and shoved him into the legs of Moe.

  Moe stumbled back, which gave Howard time to spring to his feet.

  “All right, varmint,” the Texan drawled. “Let’s see how you do face to face!”

  Moe was smaller than Mike and wiry, with long arms and legs and a thin pale face.

  He took one look at the Texan’s fighting stance and decided on the better part of valor.

  “This ain’t worth anything Mueller could get for Red and not half what I’m gettin’ paid,” he squealed as he turned and raced off through the gathering crowd.

  Howard started to chase the bandit, but the man was not only fleet of foot, but knew the city well. The Texan could not keep up the pace with the assailant, who proved adept at darting in and out of the foot traffic well beyond Howard’s ability. Moe outdistanced and evaded the Texan in less than two blocks.

  “Dang!” Howard spat when he realized there was no hope of catching the footpad. He walked back to where he had left the unconscious Mike.

  “Double dang!” The Texan exclaimed when he returned to the site of the attack and found nothing but his battered Stetson and the fortuitously placed guidebook.

  “So some fellas named Mueller and Red paid to have me ambushed, eh?” Howard mumbled. “Seems like I’m gonna have’ta make them fella’s acquaintance real soon.”

  He looked down at his suit, noting his trousers were ripped at the knee and grimy. He shrugged with typical frontier cynicism. “Well, I guess I ain’t goin’ to no authors’ meeting like this. Next time.”

  ROUND 8

  BIG TOP MESS

  Howard made his way back to the circus with purposeful and angry strides, working to burn off his Celtic anger before he reached the Garden. The first person Howard encountered when he returned to the sleeping tent was Big Carney, who was sitting quietly in preparation for his fight later.

  Even after his long walk the Texan was steaming mad.

  “Wow, Boss Bob, you’re back awfully early,” the Negro said without looking at Howard. When he did look up he added, “You look a sight! Are them writers all that rough?”

  The Texan laughed at the question, which helped evaporate most of his steam as he told the tale of the attack on him.

  “That’s powerful wrong,” the African said. “You sure the names you heard them say were Mueller and Red?”

  “Yep,” Howard said, as he slipped out of his shirt and used a wet cloth to wipe grime off his face and hands. “It’s what that bushwhacker Moe said.”

  The black man cursed softly. “Red has to be Red O’Bannon, the fella who is running my fight tonight.”

  “Any idea who this Mueller is?”

  “I’m afraid I do, Bob,” Big Carney said. A grim expression had replaced his normal smile. “And you ain’t gonna like it. I know I don’t. Come with me.”

  He led the freshly redressed Texan out of the tent toward the performers’ tents.

  “So what’s the mystery?” Howard asked.

  “That is the question, boss,” Carney said. “The Colossal Klaus is how he’s billed, but his last name is Mueller.”

  The Texan stopped in his tracks. “What? That varmint,” Howard said softly.” His eyes narrowed and his jaw set. “You know I gotta do something about it, don’t you, big Hoss?”

  “I know, Bob,” the black said. “But you gotta promise to go easy till we find out why Klaus would do such a stupid thing and how it hooks in with Red O’Bannon. That guy is a powerful bad fella!”

  Howard looked into his friend’s eye and realized how serious the man was. “Alright,” the writer said. “I’ll follow your lead on this.”

  “Thanks,” the black said. “If this is true, he has gone too far this time to just let it ride.”

  The two friends arrived outside the horse trainer’s tent, but there was already an argument in progress between Klaus and his wife.

  “I can’t believe you,” Julie said. “After everything we discussed, after all the promises you made to me about stopping your gambling…”

  “Shut up!” Klaus snapped. “It is my money as well.”

  “It was our money,” the girl said. “Savings for our house, our future. You had no right to drain that account!”

  “I had every right,” the trainer answered. “That damn Texan cost me a bundle when he scotched that fight last week. I’ll make it back when the German takes the shade tonight.”

  “You’re sick, Klaus. This time I’m through with you. You’ve taken my youth and now you’ve taken our hope for a future with your gambling and insecurities. I’m leaving while I still have some self-respect.”

  “You can’t leave me. Where would you go?”

  “Maybe before last week I couldn’t have left,” she said. “But someone said, only I could change my life, and I’m not alone as long as I have friends. And now I see you’ve always been using me. You don’t love me. You love power, and gambling gives you an illusion of power.”

  “You’re my wife,” Klaus screamed, “You’re not leaving me.”<
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  “Yes, I am,” Julie insisted.

  Suddenly the sound of a slap was like a gunshot in the night.

  Howard had heard enough. Despite his promise to his friend his Gaelic nature took control and he barged into the tent. The scene was clear. Julie was on her knees, holding her swollen face. The blond Klaus stood above her and spun when the Texan entered.

  “You!” the horse trainer yelled. “How?”

  “You shoulda sent more men to bushwhack me, ya skunk,” Howard said. “Two to one ain’t near good enough odds against a Texan.”

  Big Carney stepped beside Howard and snarled, “You can’t be hittin’ no woman, Boss.”

  “Get out!” Klaus yelled. “This is a family matter.”

  “Miss Julie is circus family,” the black said. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

  A mad light seemed to ignite in the trainer’s eyes. He backed away from his wife to a dresser where he opened a draw and pulled a silenced automatic.

  “You stay away from me, you subhuman!” Klaus snarled. He waved the gun at Howard who had moved to help the woman to her feet.

  “You, cowboy, “Klaus yelled. “You get away from my wife.”

  “I’m not your wife anymore, “Julie said. “That last hit ended it. I’m done this time.”

  “No! No!” Klaus insisted. “You belong to me.”

  “Don’t no one belong to no one no more, boss,” Big Carney said with a razor edge to his voice. “A lot of people died to make that a fact.”

  “Shut up!” Klaus snapped. Without warning he fired his pistol at the muscular black.

  The impact of the bullet staggered the big black and spun him around.

  Julie gasped.

  Bob Howard sprang forward with speed that seemed beyond so burly a build. He slapped the gun from Klaus hand then delivered a backhand slap that knocked the trainer off his feet.

  Howard moved toward the gun, but a harsh voice from the tent opening froze him. “Hold it, buddy!” the voice said. “Or I plug you.”

  All eyes turned to see Moe and Mike, guns drawn.