The Boss's Boy

by Roy F. Chandler

  China said, "I'm going to start straightening and lining up bones now. The quicker the better, but it's been long enough that this is going to hurt like I was dipping your fist in fire. And, get something straight, McFee, you aren't fighting for a very long time, no matter how much you want to."

  McFee's answer came in spurts interrupted by muffled groans and breath hissings. "Mister Smith, I've got to meet this man. The camp has put everything it could gather on me, and there's no way of getting it back."

  China's voice was cold. "Then the camp loses. You can't fight."

  McFee said, "There's more. I got suckered on this fight. We all got set up. What they did was ask me to fight a man named Percy Horn. They showed a picture, and Klubber almost laughed. The drawing was a young man, sort of short, but real pretty looking in the face. Nobody had ever heard of Percy Horn, and the men arranging the fight said he wasn't anything special in knuckle fighting. They said they were willing to bet because they figured Horn was about ready for a young fighter like me and would get better as time went on."

  China's snort cut through McFee's words. "I suppose these men who set up the fight are gamblers out of a city, am I right?"

  Mickey's voice was small. "That's what they are, Mister Smith, but I figured . . ." He looked a little confused. "I can't hardly believe that you didn't know about it, Mister Smith."

  Irritation was in Smith's voice. "The Captain and I have been away, or someone would have told me."

  China smoothed his voice. "You figured you had an easy fight and some easy money, and you agreed. So, who are you really going to fight?"

  McFee chose to ignore Smith's question and turned his words to the Boss's Boy.

  "Matt, I bet everything my family could put together. I even wagered Ma's gold ring and my sister Erin's brooch." Mickey's voice turned desperate. "I've got to fight and I've got to win, or we will be without anything at all. We'll . . ."

  Pain cut off McFee's voice, and he writhed, his breath whistling under China's manipulations. As soon as he could, Mickey started again.

  "What I need is for Mister Smith to wrap this fist as tight as he can, and I'll fight mostly one- handed. If I can just get one big one in I'm sure I can put him out."

  It was Matt's turn to snort disdain, and China paused to examine his work.

  Smith was ruthless, "McFee, all you've got is a right hand, and it is busted into bits. Your left couldn't jar a schoolgirl. One-handed, any mutt walking past could lick you."

  China asked again, "Who is it you agreed to fight?"

  McFee's voice was so low Matt could barely hear. "His fighting name turned out to be Boots Van Horn."

  Van Horn meant nothing to Matt, but China Smith reared back in astonishment. "Good Lord, Bootsy Van Horn is older than I am. He's as old as Klubber Cole." Smith shook his head. "Hard to believe he is still fighting."

  Despite the words, Matt could hear concern in China's voice. He waited for Smith's explanation.

  "I heard part of this just a few minutes ago, but I didn't get much out of the men I talked to over at the Irish camp. The way I figure it now, a lot of our people have put most of what they've got on McFee whipping some boy-fighter that wouldn't be able to stand up to McFee's hard punching."

  Mickey nodded. "Seems like everybody got took on this. We've all laid our money out, and if I can't win, this is going to be a poor camp."

  Smith said, "They've got you two ways, McFee. First, you couldn't have licked Van Horn even if you were well. Second, with a bad hand he would just pound you into the ground without raising a sweat."

  China silenced Mickey's protest with a raised palm before continuing.

  "I never fought Van Horn. He wasn't among the best, and you don't make serious money fighting second raters. But Boots Van Horn is a fierce spoiler. Even better battlers get hurt meeting Van Horn. His style is hard to fight, and he is as tough as a pine knot.

  "Van Horn is below medium height, but he's thick all over. His head sits deep between his shoulders, and he fights with his head down looking only at the other man's legs. Van Horn never raises his chin. He holds his fists against his temples. He likes to lunge ahead and swing from in close. He likes that because his arms are short, and in tight, he hits like he had a club. If a man stands off and tries to pick at him, Van Horn dips his head and takes everything on his thick skull. Before long his opponent's hands are too sore to go on, and he quits."

  Mickey said, "I'd get him with uppercuts."

  China was disdainful. "That's what Van Horn is hoping for. You drop a hand to uppercut, and he steps in swinging like a gate. If he can, he will butt you, and if you go down he will keep pounding until you are flat on your back and not able to move. I never fought Van Horn, but he is known, and I've met too many just like him."

  Matt said, "Well, it doesn't matter now. You'll not be fighting him." Then he speculated, "What they did was show you and Klubber a drawing of Van Horn when he was young, right?"

  McFee was shame-faced. "That's what they did, but Klubber figured I could still beat him because Van Horn is old and fat. All I would have to do is keep him working till he gave out."

  Mickey winced as Smith manipulated his fist wrapping. "That'll have to do. Don't try to use it, and keep it elevated when you can. It will feel better held high, but days will pass before the pain dies, and most likely an ache will hang on for a week or two. If you are lucky like I've been, you'll heal up and have a useful hand."

  Matt said, "So what can we do about all of this, China? I don't much like our people being taken by this tricky stuff."

  Smith lit his pipe and took one of the few drags he allowed himself. He offered the pipe to Mickey who shook his head.

  China said, "Well, I can go talk to these people, but it's real doubtful that I'll get anywhere. Where will I find them, McFee?"

  "They've gone back down to Harrisburg, Mister Smith. Klubber knows where they will be staying."

  China thought for a minute. "Might be best if I go alone. You're so young they might not take you serious enough, Matt."

  "I could go and show them my hand." McFee was again hopeful.

  "That won't cut anything." Smith sounded certain. "They'd be glad to hear you're broken up. They aren't interested in the fight. All they want is the money, and if you don't show, the cash will be in their bag."

  Then, why are you going?" Matt did not yet count himself out.

  China was a little irritated. "I haven't figured anything out yet. Probably I will be wasting my time." Then he paused and appeared to ponder something.

  "Where are you supposed to fight, McFee?"

  "Along the river on that flat just below here. It'll be Saturday evening, and a good crowd should come."

  Smith nodded. "Seems sensible and fair. Our people can be there in large numbers. So, who is holding the money?"

  "Banker in the city. Klubber said that was all right."

  Mickey was cradling his bandaged hand against his chest, and he rocked forward and backward, so Matt figured his fist hurt more than a little.

  China saw it as well. "I expect we ought to give this bonehead either a dose of strychnine to finish him off or a swallow or two of laudanum to ease his pain. Which should it be, Matt?"

  Matt grinned. "We're short of rat poison, so make it laudanum, China." Matt added, "Give him enough so that he'll sleep. Otherwise he might take to drink, and I'd have to go down and punch him unconscious."

  Mickey stood and said, "I will appreciate the pain syrup." He tried to grin. "Only time you would ever dare to come against me would be when I had a broke hand, Boss's Boy."

  Matt grinned back.

  China got back from Harrisburg late in the day. He stuck his head in the office door and said, "Let's take a walk down by the river, Matt." He started off without waiting for a response.

  When Matt caught up, Smith began without preamble. "Van Horn's backers are tough and experienced thugs. There's no chance that they can be interested in some sort of fair contest. Wi
th them, the fight's on. Be there and whip Van Horn, or the money's lost."

  Matt thought about it, but no brilliant schemes surfaced. "So, what do we do, China?"

  Smith had some ideas ready, and Matt was not surprised. First the old fighter asked a question.

  "How determined are you on this, Matt? Men lose their money all the time either gambling or drinking it away. This isn't company business. Your Uncle Brascomb wouldn't give the problem a second of thought, and he could be right."

  Matt had to answer slowly because he wasn't sure of his reasons or just how concerned he really should be. China was correct. His uncle would not bother with a worker's problem, but big Matt might, and what his father might do stood tall in young Matt's mind.

  "I can't speak a lot of sensible reasons, China, but McFee and the others are our people. I know Uncle Brascomb doesn't feel that way, but our men work hard for us. We've brought them out here, and . . ." Matt's words trailed off while he thought some more.

  "Mickey McFee and I have swung on each other a few times, but that was kid stuff. I don't dislike him for it, and I'm sure he feels the same."

  Matt grinned at his friend and trainer. "When his hand gets well, I'd like to try him again."

  China's return smile was hard. "That's no news. You've had McFee in mind ever since we first began, and if you fought smart, you could lick him, Matt."

  China had never said that before, and Matt was pleased by the words, but maybe China was just saying he could whip McFee to give him confidence. Until the deed was done, neither he nor Mickey McFee would really be convinced.

  They came to the fight area, and a few spots were already marked out. Matt saw a crude sign that read, "Saved for Barlow's." Barlow's was a popular saloon in Petersburg. The fight area had stakes placed so that vendors and other hopefuls would not have to be moved.

  Matt asked, "What are we looking for?"

  "Ideas, is all." China walked to where the bank fell steeply to the river and looked over. Matt joined him.

  Smith said, "Wouldn't do to have somebody fall over there. Must be fifteen feet down and rocks on the bottom." Matt agreed. China said, "Hmm," and sounded thoughtful.

  Away from the river the land rose in another steep bank, and some of the spectators would gather there where they could look over shorter heads to see the fighters more clearly. Big bettors and fist fighting fans would jam close to the squared off fight space, and if not kept at bay, they would crowd the fighters, sometimes attempting to trip one or the other and always willing to shove or even sneak a punch at a battler. It was not uncommon for a fighter to turn on an annoying spectator and deliver a few hard blows before the referee turned him back to his real opponent.

  Lately, organizers had been stringing ropes between stakes to hold watchers out and fighters in. The common fighting circle that formed naturally around scrappers had become a square since it was easiest to plant four corner posts and to stretch a rope from one to another.

  China had spent more than a little time teaching his protégé to stay out of corners because when a man was trapped against a post, sluggers ruled.

  They were almost back to the office before Smith spoke again.

  "There might be a way to turn all of this around." Matt waited expectantly, but China was not yet ready to announce any schemes.

  They took seats on the small office porch, and Smith asked, "You willing to take some personal risks in this, Matt?" He paused before going on. Apparently deciding, China said, "I'd best come straight out with it. Would you be willing to take on Van Horn in place of Mickey McFee?"

  Goose bumps exploded all over young Matt Miller. His neck tingled, and he felt heat in his hands. Somewhere in the back of his mind Matt supposed he had wondered if he could, just maybe, toe-the-line in McFee's place, but facing the question of actually going knuckles to knuckles with a known slugger like Van Horn was vastly different, and Matt felt himself hesitate.

  China sensed the uncertainty but did not intrude. The decision was demanding, and Smith would be just as content if young Matt was not interested.

  Big Matt Miller had made it plain that China was not training his son to be a professional fist fighter, but Smith understood the youth's enjoyment of hard scrapping. He also understood that the hunger to know who was best could chew at a willing youth's innards.

  China Smith believed there was a way to beat the professional. In fact, he figured he had two possible ways but, if Matt wanted to try, he would need to work hard on both before he met Boots Van Horn.

  Matt swallowed his reservations. Fighting some over-confident farm boy or even a man like the Baron was nothing like squaring off against a professional prizefighter—especially one that certainly had more than one hundred fights under his belt. But, he wanted to!

  Matt could feel a familiar hunger building. An equally familiar iron-like taste was reaching his mouth, and his heart had speeded up. How would it be to fight a pounder like Boots Van Horn? How would he, the Boss's Boy, stand when it got really tough? Now that it was in the open, how could he not want to punch Van Horn until the brawler quit or could no longer get up?

  Suppose he said no? Matt could feel himself cringe within. Matt knew China Smith would not send him in unless his chances were good. If China thought he could win, then he could.

  McFee? It was past helping McFee. Matt recognized that he just plain wanted to do it.

  Still, he had to ask. "Do you think I can take him, China?"

  Smith sighed. "It will be tough, Matt. Reason it'll be tough is that Boots Van Horn will foul you a hundred times. He will hit when you're down. He'll butt, and he will knee you. Van Horn uses his elbows as much as his fists. He fights in close, and after he swings he brings his elbows back just like they went out, and an elbow smash can be worse than a punch."

  "You taught me all about that kind of stuff, China."

  "Knowing about it isn't the same as facing it, and that is not all Horn will try. He will stand on your foot trying to anchor you for easier hitting. He'll head lock you, if he can, and punch your face while you are trapped. He'll bring his knee up into your face, and he will stick a thumb into your eye, every chance he gets."

  Matt felt hairs stand on his neck, but the hunger to fight kept rising, and that strange joy that went with an oncoming battle began to tickle his nerves.

  "So, how will I fight him, China?"

  Smith laughed, but his tone was grim.

  "You will beat him by being smarter and meaner. You will lure him so that he moves to where you want him. Then, you'll have one special chance to end it-—and Matt, you will have to take your opportunity without hesitation. Otherwise, the fight will be just who can last the longest, and you can't fight a bruiser like Van Horn to a finish without taking a lot of punishment that won't just wash off."

  Smith paused to stare more directly into Matt's eyes. "What I am going to plan isn't gentlemanly, young Matt, but prize fighting is the dirtiest game in town. It isn't for fun, no matter how much you think you will like it. Fighters like Van Horn get paid for winning, and they do not care how they win. The gamblers backing them care even less. Money has the voice in prize fighting, and it always will.

  "Boxing, as some like to call it, is a mug's sport, Matt. The sooner you get it out of your system, the better off you will be. You think you've got a reason for taking on Van Horn, so now is as good a time to find out what bare knuckle fighting is really like. After that, I'm hoping you won't be so interested."

  "There'll be a referee, China."

  Smith was disdainful. "A good referee, like Klubber, for instance, does what he can, but all most can really do is try to drag a rule-breaker off his victim. If a referee called off a fight because of fouling or injury or anything else, the mob would beat him senseless, and the gamblers would shoot into what they left—unless their man was declared winner.

  "Forget rules and referees. You will be out there all alone except for Van Horn, and I'm telling you now that he won't pay any more at
tention to rules than would a wild bull."

  "So, how will I fight him, China?"

  "Before I get into that, we've got to face that we might not be able to make the fight. Right now, those gamblers think they've got just about a sure thing. They've suckered a half-trained puncher into facing a spoiler who's been in there so many times he won't remember a lot of them. Why should they change anything?"

  Matt had no answer, so China told him how they would manage it.

  "We'll use Klubber for this, Matt. If they know I'm involved they will smell a hook and ignore the bait. You and Klubber will go see them. Klubber will tell how hungry you are to try professional fighting, and how you want to take McFee's place." Smith's grin turned wicked, "and that you are willing to bet one hundred dollars on yourself."

  "One hundred dollars?" The sum was stunning, nearly five months of his pay.

  Smith was unrelenting. "The game has to be sweet, Matt, or they won't come in. You've got to look like an innocent rich boy that hasn't any idea what he is getting into. Your face is smooth and unmarked, so that part will sell, but it will take profit to turn the trick.

  "Klubber will hint that he, too, knows where to lay his money, and that he wants to get in on a bigger payoff when you lose."

  "Who will Klubber claim he is betting with?"

  "He'll leave it vague. Van Horn's managers won't just leap in, Matt. They'll ask around, and we will make sure that what they'll hear is that the Boss's Boy fought a few locals some time back, but that he is just a kid, and what could he know, anyway? What they hear will support what they see, and the money will lure them. There's a good chance they will take the fight."

  Matt thought about it. He could see how it would work. Klubber Cole was known for handling all sorts of fighters, and the Boss's Boy would be just another hungry kid wanting to discover how tough he was and maybe gain a little local respect.

  Was that what he was? Except for China Smith's training over the years, that would be about right. He had the excuse of wanting to help his workers, but really? Matt found he didn't care. He was going to fight Boots Van Horn, and he wished it were tomorrow.