Fight Card Presents: Iron Head & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  Kip O'Connor was twenty-eight years of age, about five-foot-ten inches tall, of solid build and well muscled. There was no doubt he was a fighter. His hair was light brown, and combed back neatly, and adorning his chin was a full set of whiskers. He was wearing dark cloth breeches, a dark vest buttoned up the front, polished Napoleon boots, a cabbage tree hat, and a burgundy duck-coat that had seen better days. At the bar, he was flirting with a barmaid, and she was flirting back.

  Pulling Danny along, Farrell cut through the throng to the bar and sidled up beside Kip O'Connor.

  “Mr. O'Connor, I be needing a word with you,” Farrell said gruffly.

  O'Connor looked over at Danny and saw the fear in his eyes. Then he turned to Farrell and looked him up and down. Farrell wasn't in uniform and looked like any other patron.

  “And what would you be needing to talk to me about?” O'Connor said.

  However he was more interested in the contents of his beer glass, and the woman behind the bar, than anything Farrell could have said. O'Connor flagged down the barmaid, and ordered himself another drink.

  Farrell waited patiently. It wasn't his usual way. But this deal was too important to ruin with a few hasty words. He let the big man settle himself again.

  “As I was saying, Mr. O'Connor, I would like a word with you,” Farrell repeated.

  “What about?”

  “Your fight with young Danny Clancy.”

  “What about it?”

  “I think it might be better if we talked outside,” Farrell said diplomatically.

  O'Connor grunted, but agreed. Collecting his beer, he walked to the front door and stepped out on the verandah. Farrell followed him. Danny chose to stay at the bar. He didn't think it was a good idea to be seen with O'Connor before the fight.

  O'Connor stopped and turned, looking directly at Farrell.

  “So what is it you want to know?” O'Connor asked.

  “I am curious to know how long this fight will last?”

  “How should I know? It's a sport, mate. Anything can happen in the ring.”

  “I hear six rounds,” Farrell said, looking O'Connor directly in the eye.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “From Liam and Danny Clancy.”

  “Look Mister, I don't want no trouble...”

  “There's not going to be any. I simply have to verify you are going down in the sixth. You are, aren't you?”

  O'Connor looked away.

  “You are, aren't you?” Farrell repeated.

  “Look Mister, if Fitzpatrick should find out I am done for. I don't know what scheme you have cooked up with the Clancy boys and I don't care. A deals a deal. I will do my part, but I want this kept under wraps, right!”

  O'Connor turned on his heel and walked back into the hotel.

  Farrell stood alone for a few moments, simply thinking. And his thoughts ran to money. He was now in on the ground floor of an opportunity to make an obscene amount of money, and he didn't have to lift a finger.

  DAY FIVE

  Sunday afternoon was quiet around the Kangaroo Flat mining camp. Many of the miners had gone to town for the church service and had not returned as yet. Away from unwanted eyes, down by the creek sheltered by thick gum trees, Farrell and Liam Clancy were discussing business.

  Farrell reached into his tunic, pulling out a wad of pound notes, tied tightly in a roll.

  “That there is three-hundred pounds,” he said as he handed it to Liam Clancy.

  Liam's eyes opened wide as he took the cash. He had never seen so much money in all his life.

  “You're to go to Fitzpatrick and lay a bet for me,” Farrell continued.

  “On Danny?”

  “Of course on bloody Danny,” Farrell said losing his temper. “He's going to win, isn't he?”

  “Yes, but this is a lot of cash. Fitzpatrick will wonder where I got it.”

  “Just say you had a lucky day, and came into some powder.”

  Liam nodded, tucking the money away into his breeches.

  “One last thing,” Farrell added, “if for some reason Danny should lose the fight, I will kill you and your brother.”

  Farrell's stare was hard and cruel. He meant every last word.

  Liam nodded meekly.

  * * * * *

  Later that evening at the Star of Erin Hotel, Liam Clancy approached Colin Fitzpatrick.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick, sir, can I have a word with you?” Liam asked.

  Fitzpatrick turned from the men he was talking with. Fitzpatrick was a cheerful ebullient fellow, of wide girth. His face was was as big as a plate and he had three chins under his clean shaven chin, however his eyebrows were thick and wild. He was dressed in expensive clothes and at his side he held a silver topped cane. It was all for show. He was clearly the wealthiest man in the district, and wanted everybody to know it.

  He shook Liam's hand with fingers that were like thick bratwurst sausages.

  “Mr. Clancy, what can I do for you?” Fitzpatrick asked with a warm elastic smile.

  “Could we talk in private?” Liam asked.

  “Certainly. I have a room upstairs.”

  Fitzpatrick excused himself from the men in his circle, and led Liam up the stairs to a room on the first floor. The room was small but clean. Liam closed the door behind him.

  “Now, once again, what can I do for you?” Fitzpatrick asked.

  “I'd like to place another bet on the fight.”

  “Certainly. How much would you like to wager?”

  “Three-hundred pounds.”

  “Three-hundred pounds! Why, that's a lot of money. That dig of yours appears to be paying dividends.”

  “Yes, sir,” Liam responded, pulling out the wad of pound notes.

  * * * * *

  Trooper Farrell didn't get to where he was by trusting anyone. Most of all Irish miners like the Clancy brothers. From the opposite corner of the bar, Farrell watched as Liam Clancy approached Fitzpatrick. Then he saw the two men making their way upstairs to finish the deal.

  Farrell walked to the foot of the stairs, and looked around to see if anyone was watching. All the patrons were too involved in their drinking sessions to pay any attention to him.

  Swiftly and silently he followed Liam and Fitzpatrick up to the first floor. He was just in time to see Liam close the door to one of the rooms. As quiet as a mouse, Farrell approached the door and put his ear to the paneling, and listened in he best he could.

  Good.

  They were making the deal, and Farrell's part in the scam would remain a secret. That's the way he wanted it. After all, it would be unseemly if an officer of the law were seen to be allowing an illegal, bare-knuckle fight to be staged, let alone betting on the outcome.

  He also knew now the bet had been placed, Liam and Daniel Clancy would not be stupid enough to double cross him. If they did, it would cost them their lives.

  DAY SIX

  As the team of bullocks pulled up, the miners jumped down from the dray and descended into the scrub, following alongside a deep, winding gully. Their instructions had been to follow the gully to the east. It would lead the way. The fog had barely lifted, and the bush landscape in front of them looked ghostly. The stillness was broken by the call of a currawong in the distance. The men pressed on, searching for the clearing where the bare knuckles fight would take place.

  “It's gotta be round here somewheres,” one of them muttered, as he stumbled over the exposed root of a eucalyptus tree.

  After a few more steps, the fog opened up and they found themselves in front of a crudely constructed boxing ring. It was raised about one foot off the ground, but the ropes around the square hung low and slack. Already a sizable crowd had gathered and were packed six deep around the ring. The newcomers moved into the crowd and took up their positions eager to witness the fistic mayhem set to come.

  The first of the fighters to arrive was Danny Clancy, accompanied by his brother. Danny was greeted by a mixture of cheers and hisses a
s he moved through the crowd. There were no changing rooms, and Liam ushered his brother behind a linen sheet which hung from a line stretched between two trees. Danny disappeared behind the sheet and changed. He returned three minutes later in his cream colored long-john underwear, with a pair of boxing trunks pulled over the top. On his feet he was still wearing his muddy brown mining boots. He looked a sight, but he was ready for battle.

  As he walked to the ring, O'Connor arrived. A chorus of cheers greeted him. He was clearly the favorite – and the punters had heavily backed him to win.

  It took O'Connor over twenty minutes to get ready, but he didn't appear concerned at attracting the wrath of the crowd with his tardiness. He would fight when he was good and ready. He was wearing faded red long-johns, which in the pale light of day looked pink. Over them he had a set of navy blue boxing shorts. He had also taped up his knuckles with a white bandage. As he climbed up onto the apron and stepped into the ring, he stared across at Danny Clancy who had been waiting patiently.

  The look in O'Connor's eyes worried Danny. For a man who was supposed to take a dive, O'Connor looked dangerously serious.

  The referee for the fight was a balding, red-headed Irishman with buck teeth named O'Hare, who ran the local stable. He called Danny and O'Connor to the center of the ring.

  “Okay, gentleman. This fight will be fought under Goldfield Prizefighting rules. The fight will go until a winner is decided. In the event of a knockdown, go to a corner and wait. If the fighter can go on, the fight will continue. Otherwise, the man standing will be declared the winner. Do you understand these rules?”

  Both men nodded in agreement.

  “Good. I expect a good clean fight, and may the best man win.”

  There was no bell. O'Hare started the fight when he lowered his hand and yelled, “Gentlemen, fight!”

  To many people, a traditional boxing stance may have seemed quaint, with both men squaring off in a square rigid stance with the back of their forearms held high in a defensive position. However, the reason this stance came to be adopted by fighters was due to unarmed combat techniques taught by the army. If, for example, a soldier were fighting a horde of rampaging Zulus in Africa, or a Thuggee cult in India, and had been disarmed, if he fought with his forearms open, which is the natural untrained way to want to fight, then he would be at risk of having his tendons severed by knife or spear. On the inside of the forearms were the tendons which controlled the movements of his arms and hands, if they were to be cut, essentially the soldier would be unable to fight, or pick up anything to use as a weapon.

  However, if a soldier, were to fight with the back of his forearms raised high in defense, if he was cut, the injury would be painful, but he could still fight. The soldier could pick up a weapon from a fallen comrade or foe, and rejoin the battle.

  Both fighters adopted this militaristic high forearm stance as they circled each other in the center of the ring. O'Connor was the first to attack, taking three big steps across the ring, and then throwing a wild right that cut through the air like a scythe. Danny ducked under it, and swung a left into O'Connor's midsection. The big man winced, and twisted his body round.

  Once he caught his breath, in retaliation, O'Connor threw a barrage of punches aimed at Danny's head. First a left jab, a straight right, then two more jabs. Danny swatted away the first two blows, but the final two lefts caught him on the chin and sent him reeling back. The ropes around the ring had not been tightened, and almost served to trip Danny up. At the last second he retained his balance and pushed out with a right at O'Connor's head. The big man slapped it away and advanced throwing a wild flurry of punches.

  * * * * *

  Trooper Farrell was out of uniform and had a cap pulled down low over his head so he would not be conspicuous. Loitering at the back of the crowd, he watched the fight, eagle eyed, looking for signs his money was safe. He didn't want to see O'Connor fighting too hard, and certainly did not want to see any 'lucky' punches. But he understood the necessity to make the fight look real. However to his eyes, it was looking too real. He decided to seek out Liam Clancy. If something went awry, he wanted to be able to get hold of the Irishman fast.

  ***

  O'Connor took the early honors in the fight. A hard right caught Danny in the ear, and he slumped to the canvas. O'Connor returned to his corner, as referee O'Hare signaled it was the end of round one.

  Danny climbed to his feet and sucked in several large lungfuls of air. O'Hare approached and asked if he was good to continue. Danny nodded in the affirmative and the fight recommenced.

  Colin Fitzpatrick became the district's wealthiest man by being a greedy and shrewd manipulator. He also had no doubt his man, Kip O'Connor would win the fight. Like the cock o' the walk, spinning his cane, he pressed through the crowd around the ring, and approached Liam Clancy.

  Liam was nervous and his palms were sweating. He knew the outcome of the fight, but until someone was counted out, he was anxious.

  “Looks like we have a good fight on our hands,” Fitzpatrick beamed.

  “That it does,” Liam agreed.

  “If you are interested, I would be happy to double the bet,” Fitzpatrick said nonchalantly, his eyes at the ring, not on Liam.

  In the ring, O'Connor snapped out a two hard lefts, and then a wild zinging right, which caught Danny on the chin. The young man reeled back from the blow.

  “I would like to, Mr. Fitzpatrick, but I haven't got the money,” Liam explained.

  “Too bad, this fight could go either way,” Fitzpatrick said, as O'Connor threw another wild right into Danny's breadbasket. Danny was winded and almost dropped to one knee.

  “Maybe it is for the best,” Fitzpatrick added, goading Liam. “It looks like Danny won't last many more rounds.”

  “Don't you worry about Danny! He's got plenty of fight left in him,” Liam responded defensively.

  * * * * *

  Farrell had now positioned himself close to Liam Clancy, keeping a good eye on him. As such, he couldn't help but hear the exchange between the two men.

  After Fitzpatrick had moved on, Farrell approached Liam, and moved up alongside as discreetly as he could.

  “Looks like we've got Fitzpatrick suckered good and proper,” Farrell muttered.

  “I'll say. If only I had more money. I'd show the preening toad what for!” Liam answered.

  “He wants to increase the bet?” Farrell confirmed, keeping his eyes ahead, watching the men in the ring. Danny took another blow to the chin, and was forced back.

  “Double it, he said. He thinks he's onto a sure thing.”

  “The way your brother is boxing, maybe he is right?” Farrell said angrily as Danny was caught on the jaw once again.

  “You know that is just for show. You've talked to O'Connor. You know he is set to fall in the sixth.” Liam was practically whispering.

  Farrell kept his eyes on the two men in the ring. Danny was now the aggressor and forced O'Connor back with a series of heavy body shots. O'Connor grunted in pain. Another blow caught him high on the brow.

  The brief burst of treatment Danny dished out, restored Farrell's faith in the young Irishman. It was tit for tat. The boys in the ring, were just putting on a show for the crowd, he decided.

  “How much does Fitzpatrick want?” Farrell asked greedily.

  “Like I said, he wants to double the bet,” Liam answered.

  “What would that be?”

  “Well there was the initial hundred pounds I laid down, and your three hundred. That's four hundred pounds.”

  “I am not carrying that kind of money around on me,” Farrell hissed.

  “It doesn't matter. We're gonna take a pretty penny off Fitzpatrick anyway. I can't wait to see his face.”

  “No, I want more,” Farrell stated forcibly.

  “More?” Liam couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  Farrell reached into a pocket in his breeches and retrieved a wad of notes. He counted it out.

&n
bsp; “I have about one-hundred and sixty pounds. That's it. I want you to take it and extend the bet with that peacock.”

  He handed the cash to Liam, but as he did so, he reached over and grabbed Liam by the collar and pulled him close.

  “This deal had better not go south, or so help me I will shoot you where you stand,” Farrell snarled.

  “Sure. No problem,” Liam said, shaking. “I'll go place the bet.”

  Farrell released him, and Liam hurriedly moved away, seeking out Colin Fitzpatrick. As he walked, he could feel Farrell's eyes boring into the back of his skull. Liam sure hoped those boys in the ring knew what they were doing, and everything went as planned.

  * * * * *

  Danny took the attack to O'Connor. He bounded across the ring, and unleashed a volley of punches to the bigger man's midsection. They must have hurt, but O'Connor didn't show it, and reached out crooking Danny around the neck.

  “Is that all you have got. I expected more. You're a pretty soft character, Daniel Clancy,” O'Connor taunted. The crowd ate it up, cheering wildly.

  Why was he taunting him?

  Danny broke free and threw a wild right at O'Connor's jaw. O'Connor turned his head, and it only grazed the underside of his chin.

  “You'll have to do better than that,” O'Connor said as he moved back out of reach.

  Danny's blood was up and he charged in swinging wildly with both fists. O'Connor was surprised by the onslaught and raised his arms in defense.

  Danny then targeted O'Connor's midsection, his fists slamming into the soft flesh of O'Connor's belly. O'Connor doubled over breathless, his head and whiskered chin jutting out like a bow of a ship breaking through the waves.

  Danny let him have it. He smashed O'Connor on the chin with a devastating right cross. The big man toppled over, collapsing to the canvas on his side.

  Danny returned to his corner; the knockdown marking the end of round two.

  O'Connor got up slowly. The cockiness had been knocked out of him. He glared at Danny – his eyes black, cold and full of hatred. O'Hare asked O'Connor if he wanted to continue.