by Jack Tunney
“There you go, Hoss,” Howard whispered. “You are human after all.”
The feral light was luminous in Schmidt’s eyes, and he cocked his head to one side before looking directly at Howard, smiling an evil grin. “It’s usually just a job, cowboy. But this time I’m gonna enjoy pounding you to jelly,” the German whispered.
Howard burst out laughing.
The reaction so startled the blond that Howard’s snake-quick left scored a glancing blow on Schmidt’s chin.
The German staggered back, throwing two fast lefts to keep Howard from following up the hit.
The crowd went wild with cheers.
Schmidt snarled and came at Howard with a rapid-fire, powerhouse, series of combinations. The Texan could do little but cover up and try to ride the trip-hammer blows.
Enough of the German’s blows got through that Howard grunted in pain. His knees became so rubbery, he almost went down.
Bell!
End of round two.
“You got him angry,” Bernie said, when the Texan collapsed on the stool. “You think that’s such a good idea?”
Howard grimaced.
He had several scrapes where the German’s fists had grazed him, and he was already beginning to bruise along his arms and his side.
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” Howard said. He could see the German also wore some badges of their battle and the sight gave the Texan reason to smile. “And I still think it is. You can’t fight to your plan when you’re angry or hurt.”
Bernie looked at him with a jaundiced eye. “It’s your head, Bob. But I’d hate to see him take it off your shoulders.”
Howard nodded. “I appreciate it, Bernie, but it’s all our heads if Big Carney doesn’t find the lady in time. Once this match is over, one way or the other, things are gonna get hot in here.”
“I got my eye on those two gunsels with O’Bannon,” Bernie said. “And I’ve got a marlin spike in my pocket for when the time comes. I know we can count on some of the guys in the bleachers when they see us in it. Wish we could have told them about Miss Julie.”
“Couldn’t take the chance word would get back to O’Bannon what we were doing.” Howard said. “We’re on our own on this.”
The timekeeper looked to O’Bannon and then raised his hand to strike the bell.
“Sure hope Big Carney shows up soon,” Howard said, “I think he’s gonna lay into me heavy this round.”
The bell for round three sounded loud and clear.
Howard was right. Schmidt started the round with an aggressive attack, which had the Texan on the defensive from the get go. The blond clearly knew he was set to win by a dive, but Howard could see in the giant’s eyes it was indeed personal now.
Good, the Texan thought while he did his best to dodge or deflect the onslaught of blows, if he’s off his game plan maybe I can get him to play mine.
There was little more time for thought as the German threw combination after combination at the Texan, many of which slammed through Howard’s defenses to land painfully.
Howard knew he had to stay on his feet no matter what until he knew the girl was safe – even if it meant going beyond the four rounds. He also knew it could mean taking a tremendous amount of punishment. Still, he reasoned, if the fight were still ongoing, O’Bannon would not dare leave the ringside to take care of Julie. If he sent one of his stooges, Howard hoped Big Carney could intercept him.
The Texan took some comfort in the fact he knew the German could be hurt. However, as fist after fist smashed into Howard, he began to doubt if he could even stay on his feet to take advantage of his new knowledge.
I can’t think that way, Howard told himself, just as a painful left slipped over his guard and slammed into his left deltoid. Howard’s whole arm went numb and he could not keep it up in full guard.
Schmidt saw he had scored and pressed hard with a right aimed at Howard’s head. Just then, the Texan did the unexpected and switched his feet to a southpaw stance. This protected his arm from the German’s attack and was so unorthodox, Schmidt paused his attack momentarily. The Texan used the momentary respite from assault to attack with a powerful series of right jabs while he shook out his left arm.
Howard had seen a fighter do the same switcheroo move in an icehouse fight back in Cross Plains when the man had broken his hand on an opponent’s elbow. The injured boxer went on to lose the fight, but he held out for another round.
Howard only hoped to do as well.
Schmidt recovered from his amazement and answered Howard’s attack with a new barrage. The Texan had a hard time countering and had to give ground at almost a run as the German pressed him.
I can’t take much more, Howard thought, just as the bell sounded to end the round.
ROUND 11
THREE RING KNOCKOUT
“How’s the arm?” Bernie asked, as Howard collapsed onto his stool. Bernie was already working Howard’s muscles with rough, but skilled hands as he spoke.
Howard was bleeding from an abrasion under his left eye and from his lip, but he had a determined expression on his face.
“The arms okay,” he said. “But he’s got my number. He’s a better boxer than I am, more scientific. My only chance is to get ’im angry again.”
“That didn’t work out so well last time,” Bernie noted.
Howard gave him a lopsided grin, which turned into a wince.
“Any idea worth anything is worth tryin’ twice,” the Texan said. “If it don’t kill you the first time.”
Bernie just shook his head. “You Texans are thicker than my mother’s stew!”
“And proud of it!” Howard laughed.
Red O’Bannon appeared by the corner, smiling.
“Round four coming up, cowboy,” the gangster said. “A big round. Lots of people’s fates depend on it.” He gave a crocodile smile, but his meaning was clear. He tipped his bowler hat and added, “Good luck.”
The bell rang and round four was on.
Howard came out still in a southpaw stance as if to protect his arm, though it was fully recovered by now.
Schmidt charged with confidence. It was clear from the cold light in his eyes, he had a calculated plan to win. Howard was sure the German would not wait for him to take any dive. It was no longer just about winning. Schmidt had a point to make and vengeance to wreak on the Texan for throwing him off his game – and for hurting him.
At the very least, he’ll try to put me down, Howard told himself. He had already decided there was nothing to be gained by taking the dive. If Big Carney did not find Julie in time, he decided to draw the fight out as long as possible on the chance O’Bannon did not have a way to communicate with whomever was with the girl.
If the gang boss had to send one of his men to actually carry out his threat perhaps it would give Big Carney someone to trail. If O’Bannon had a way to instantaneously tell the kidnapper the dive was not taken then – if Howard fought all the way to the bell of the fourth round – he was sealing the girl’s death warrant.
All this weighed on the Texan’s mind as he warded off the flying fists of the German. Schmidt pulled out all stops trying, by bull force, to batter Howard’s defenses down. He seemed as fresh as the first round and even had the ghost of a smile on his chiseled features.
The Texan took several hard hits to his body and one glancing blow to his chin, which almost rang his bell, but he managed to keep his guard up. He even managed to get in a couple of light hits to the German, but to little effect. He continued to be driven backward around the ring.
He’s got more in his tank than me, Howard thought. He trains for this all the time, lives for this, while I spend too much time behind a typewriter. He could feel himself tiring under the relentless onslaught. He realized he might not have the option of taking a dive, that Schmidt might just pound him into the promised jelly.
“You are gonna go down hard, cowboy,” Schmidt said with a wolf’s grin. “You might as well just accept it
and take your punishment.”
Howard was about to reply, then the Texan saw Big Carney.
The Negro stood in the entranceway of the arena. He barely supported the figure of a semi-conscious Julie with his good arm. She looked frail and small against the muscular black. Even across the arena Howard could see the bloody chaff marks on the girl’s wrists and ankles where she had been bound. He could also see the bruises on her cheeks and the torn clothing that made it clear she had been roughly handled.
Something inside the Texan suddenly snapped.
A thunderhead of power coursed through his body like summer lightning on the prairie. Howard’s blocks suddenly gained strength and his legs abruptly seemed to be rooted to the ring.
He would retreat no more!
The German did not know what had caused the sudden change in his opponent, since Big Carney was behind him. However, Schmidt felt the change in the Texan’s tactics and it puzzled him.
Then the writer attacked. It was abrupt and furious, powered not by anger, but by a deeper, darker, more elemental rage boiling up from the Gaelic soul of the Texan.
Howard no longer saw the Aryan fighting machine before him, instead the image of the abused girl hovered before his eyes. Howard’s fists were no longer fists, they were war hammers swung on the field of bloody battle. He was no longer a mere pugilist contending for something as simple as a win in the squared circle – he was an avenger!
The German was no longer an opponent, he was just an impediment to the real target of the Texan’s rage – Red O’Bannon.
Howard would not be stopped.
Some of the German’s blows still made it through the Texan’s guard, but they were only flyspecks on a tank.
Howard slammed his fists into any part of the German he could reach with no fear of his own injury…no fear of loss…or thought to what would happen when he destroyed Schmidt…except that he would take O’Bannon down.
Howard’s combinations were reckless, but relentless, with the power of all his Gaelic fury behind them. Schmidt was suddenly overwhelmed by the cyclonic power of the onslaught.
No matter how many of the Texan’s punches Schmidt countered, there were always more powerhouse blows raining down on him. No matter how many of his own blows landed at full power on Howard, there was no letup in the barrage of the Texan’s flying fists.
The Texan was a force of nature unleashed. Beyond the red haze swimming before Howard’s eyes, he saw the cool calculation of the German melt into animal fear. He saw the change in Schmidt’s face, and felt a savage joy at it.
The German was the wall of a fortress Howard was storming – and each punch, and every blow, smashed another brick from the wall as Howard fought his way to O’Bannon.
Schmidt tried one last rally. He threw a jab-hook-hook combination, which at any other time, would have been devastating for all of its power and speed. Now, however, it was like the Texan moved with the speed of thought. Howard actually counter punched both hooks and, with the second, smashed his right fist into Schmidt’s right forearm with so much force he broke the German’s arm.
Schmidt screamed in pain.
Howard followed the strike with an explosive left uppercut to the German’s breadbasket and a lightning quick right cross, dislocating Schmidt’s jaw.
The Aryan pugilist dropped like an anchor to lie moaning in the sawdust of the floor.
“How’s that for jelly?” Howard snarled as he leapt over the fallen man without a pause and raced toward O’Bannon.
ROUND 12
BIG TOP SEND-OFF
The Irish gangster was on his feet as Schmidt fell. His bodyguards were also up, the two gunsels reaching under their jackets for their guns.
Howard reached the first bodyguard just as the gunsel cleared leather. The Texan didn’t even break stride, simply barreling into the thug and felling him with a hard left. At the same time, he snatched the snub-nosed revolver from the man’s hand.
The second bodyguard had his gun drawn. He was just aiming at Howard when Bernie blindsided him with a dynamite right cross-aided by the marlin spike held in his fist.
“Get Red,” the short roustabout yelled.
Howard already was racing after the fleeing gangster as the bodyguard hit the floor.
The Arena had erupted into pandemonium when Schmidt fell, and went into panic when the guns appeared. Bettors screamed, cursed, tripped over each other and jammed the exits in their haste to escape what they thought was a coming gang fight. Several of the circus roustabouts ran toward Bernie and Big Carney to provide unbidden back-up.
O’Bannon was trapped in the chaos, buffeted in the almost crazed crowd. “Get out of my way,” the red haired gang boss screamed. He shoved a woman who then fell into other people.
“Move!” He kicked the prone woman then jumped over her.
Suddenly O’Bannon was jerked backward by the steel grip of the furious Texan. “You can’t leave yet, Red,” Howard said. “I got a message for you from Miss Julie.”
With that the Texan set about slapping the bookie silly.
“Didn’t…” Slap… “Your…” Slap… “Mother…” Slap… “Ever teach you manners?”
Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap!
Howard dropped the gibbering, near unconscious gangster at his feet. The Texan was a horrifying sight, bleeding from a dozen places, his lip split, his right eye all but swollen shut.
He looked more an avatar of some pagan war god than a man. His breaths came in wheezing gasps as the adrenalin fatigue began to set in and he began to feel his injuries.
“I oughta stomp you like the snake you are,” the Texan said with disgust, more at himself than at the Irish gangster. “But I guess I ain’t as near a barbarian as I’d hoped. I’ve been corrupted by civilization, after all.”
THE END
BONUS STORY
FIST OF FAE
ANOTHER TWO-FISTED
BOB HOWARD TALE
The greater dark is almost here
The sound of battle dim
It matters not if’t was us or them
Who in the end did win
For come this night in drinking halls
Above the storm wracked sky
We share a foaming horn of ale
We warriors that die.
ROUND 1
KNUCKLING DOWN, BUT NOT UNDER…
“Land-a-Goshen,” Robert (Bob) Ervin Howard murmured as he stepped off the boat on an April afternoon. “I guess this is the place where I find out just what I am – writer or roughneck.”
It had been a long, roundabout trip from his place of birth in Cross Plains Texas, U.S. of A., to the ancestral town of DunKillie, County Kerry, Ireland. After an adventure in New York with some new friends, he had crossed the Atlantic on a tramp steamer to Liverpool.
In England, Bob had an adventure in the English countryside with some dark forces, where he had also made some very good friends. Then, he had taken a train across England and signed on as an extra deck hand – a strong back to move cargo – on a packet, which brought sundries to the Irish shore. He worked his passage across to visit the land of his fathers, and considered it a fair trade.
Now, Howard stepped off the gangplank with twenty-five pounds in his pocket, a battered Underwood typewriter case at his side, and a duffle bag with his meager possessions slung across his back. He stood amazed at the rolling emerald hills of his ancestral homeland spreading out beyond the seaport town. “It really is magical,” he whispered in an awed voice.
Though he made his living as a writer of pulp fiction, he was a strapping six-foot-two and husky with muscle – not at all the image most people had of a writer.
His rough features were pleasing. His auburn hair, a bit long for current fashion, was working hard to escape from beneath a battered Stetson hat. There was no mistaking he was from Texas, even if you failed to notice his cowboy boots peeking out from beneath his heavy trousers.
The port was busy for a small town. The dock are
a was swarming with enough activity the new arrival went more or less unnoticed as he walked along the cobble streets, enjoying the feel of solid land beneath his feet again.
The Texan had grown up with his mother’s stories of the little people of old Ireland, the tricks the Fae played on many of his ancestors, and these stories had always had a special place in his imagination.
He fought back a tear when he thought of the stories his mother told him, how, despite living her whole life – like he had – on the Texas plains, she had a cellular level desire to see the old country and for her son to see it as well.
“I made it, Ma,” he whispered. “The Howards have come home.”
***
As he stood on the dock staring at the verdant colors and inhaling the scents, he discovered all he had heard and imagined was true.
The two-story slate-roofed houses, set side by side in echelon, radiated in narrow streets from the harbor and wound inland toward the gentle, rolling countryside and the ruins of a castle on a far hill. It all looked unchanged from ages past. Howard felt he was walking back in time.
The people were hardy and simply dressed. They took no special notice of the stranger, save to flash a quick smile his way then moved on to their business.
I guess small towns are small towns the world over, the Texan thought as he returned another smile with his own lopsided grin. But it sure looks to be a bustling place.
He had grown up in a small town in the middle of the arid Texas plains, never having ventured far from his place of birth except to the cities of El Paso and San Antonio until recently. After his visit to the metropolis of New York and London, he still preferred small towns.
Howard walked through the town until he came to a classic and picturesque town square, where three winding streets came together. There was a stone well in the center surrounded by storefronts – a tack shop, a butcher shop, a bakery, two clothing shops and two pubs, The North Star and The Bib and Tucker.