Matt got his first look at Boots Van Horn from a distance. To the Boss's Boy's eyes he looked a lot like Klubber Cole. He was shorter and thicker than the Klubber, but his close-cropped skull was scarred and lumped, and his face was a mass of scar tissue and crude, healed-over stitching, just like Klubber's.
Van Horn's nose was almost non-existent. That feature had been flattened until it lay squashed against his cheeks.
China Smith explained. "Uppercuts, Matt. Van Horn must have eaten a million of them. Most fighters get cut around the eyes, as he has, and they all have split lips and cauliflower-looking ears, but Bootsy's fighting style results in a lot of uppercuts being aimed at the middle of his kisser."
China grinned, "He hasn't breathed through his nose for a dozen years, and that will be to your advantage. To breathe deeply, he's got to open his mouth, and getting hit hard with your jaw not clamped tight isn't ever good."
Van Horn was carefully dressed and was surrounded by a contingent of supporters, including a pair of brightly dressed younger women.
China shook his head in wonder. "Every pug I know gets followed around by handsome women wanting his attention. It used to be the same with me when I was fighting. Something about the fight game that gets to them." He smiled humorlessly at the Boss's Boy. "Watch out for that, Matt. You stay in this business, and they'll be after you."
A number of Van Horn sycophants broke away and came to shake the hand of China Smith and to size up their fighter's opponent.
One said, "I didn't hear that you were working with the Boss's Boy, China."
Smith's shrug was eloquent. "I always have." He turned to Matt. "Been about three years hasn't it?"
Matt had a role to play. He held his chin high, the way he had when dancing around for the gamblers' benefit. He nodded agreement to the number of years but said nothing.
A man said, "Well, he looks nicely set up, China. Good muscles and all, but he ain't never fought nobody."
China's nod was solemn. "True, but a fighter's got to start somewhere."
"Bootsy is a pretty tough start, China." There were grunts of agreement.
Smith appeared worried. "Well, I told him that, but he's the fighter. What am I supposed to do?"
A Van Horn supporter sneered a little. "You got any money on him, Smith?"
China appeared disgruntled, and his voice sounded weak and insincere. "I don't bet anymore. Money is short these days."
They watched the group scuttle back to report to Van Horn and his handlers. Matt asked, "You think that did any good, China?"
"It won't interest Van Horn, but it might make for a few comfortable bets among our people." China thought for a minute before reconsidering. "You never can tell, though. Bootsy is already pretty sure of this fight, and seeing your unmarked face and straight nose, he might just relax a little bit more. We can use all of that we can get, Matt."
They walked back to the house to rest, and China reviewed what they had to do.
"Boots will try to grab your left wrist and pull you into him, Matt. Be ready for that. We've practiced against it enough. Use his pull to give your right fist momentum. Up you come with your right hand into the hole he left when he grabbed your arm, and you will have all you've got behind it.
"If you can't get the punch off, get in quick and tie him up. Then wrestle him down. Either be tight against Van Horn or back out of his reach. In between will get you hurt."
Matt lay down to rest, but China went back to spread rumors and smell the air. There would be preliminary bouts with local youths pounding on each other before the big fight, but Matt would see none of those. His task was to rest. He was to avoid thinking about Boots Van Horn and little about anything else until the fight began.
Matt wondered for a hundredth time what his father would say about all of this. There was no question that he would despise the betting, but he might be pleased by his son's willingness to stand by their men. The older Matt Miller placed great value on loyalty, but if the Captain had not been out of town, the Boss's Boy would not be fighting.
Of course, Matt knew how his Uncle Brascomb would react. The uncle would almost spit in disdain, and he would probably lay a small and very secretive bet on Bootsy Van Horn. That awareness brought a smile to Matt's lips.
Resting was not so easy. His mind roamed, and he found his fists and jaw clenched. China had taught him ways to relax, and Matt tried them. He deliberately relaxed his facial muscles followed by relaxing his hands and his arms. He worked for a while at letting his mind become vacant and managed a shallow doze for more than an hour.
As usual, China made a project out of wrapping protection around Matt's knuckles. Wrapping took time, but the work helped to ease the waiting. China had prepared a mountain of linen strips of various widths, and he applied them based on his own experience of hitting hard with brittle bones.
He covered Matt's knuckles, binding them tightly together with thinner strips running between the joints and far down the backs of his hands. China talked as he taped.
"This will feel too tight for a short time, Matt, but the cloth stretches, and unless it is tight, it doesn't help much. I'm padding your knuckles a little and wrapping them tight together. As usual, I'll wrap beyond your wrist so that nothing bends between your fist and your elbow. Wrapped right, your wrist won't give at the wrong time, and the wrappings will protect your hand and wrist bones from his fists when you block. When you hit, your arm and fist will be like ramming a log straight into his ugly mug."
The fight-gathering along the river resembled a carnival or a visiting circus. Prizefighting was rare in Perry County, but the farmers and townsmen took to it with hunger. A half-century earlier, the few oldest men present had fought hostile Indians, and many of their sons were veterans of the great revolution. Wild blood ran strong in the men of the north valley.
Of course, men fought without formalities. Men fought everywhere, but those were only mean and often drunken brawls that were hard to admire. Here men stood face to face, fought within agreed upon rules, and battled until one could no longer toe the line or the referee declared the fight a draw.
A draw was not considered shameful because fighters often punched until neither could raise a hand to knock the other into submission. Among poorly trained men, fights could not last long because the boxers became exhausted and simply leaned on each other trying to suck in enough energy for another ineffective blow. Those fights were draws.
Professional knuckle fighters sometimes fought for fifty Attacks, but bouts more often lasted only a few line-toeings because one fighter or the other managed to land a huge punch that flattened his opponent more or less completely.
China had guaranteed that Bootsy Van Horn was one of those blasting-powder hitters who preferred to win with quick violent and furious jaw-cracking blows. He had worked Matt hard to be ready for them.
The preliminary bouts were raucous affairs, some short and bloody, a few canceled in disgust when the fisticuffs sagged into exhausted clutching and wheezing. The crowd was ready for a real fight, the one they had bet their wages and savings on. The appearance of Matt in his boxing attire sided by the great fighter, China Smith, brought them to their feet howling and cheering in anticipation.
The shouted approvals of Boots Van Horn fans were insignificant in comparison, but the professional fighter's powerful physique and experience-battered features brought doubts to Boss's Boy supporters.
Here, clearly, was a battler who had seen the elephant. In contrast, Matt's muscled but youthful body and his unmarked features instilled serious doubts. Could a youth, almost a stripling in appearance, no matter how well trained, smash to the ground a brute like Van Horn? Perhaps they had been hasty in expecting that even the hard hitting McFee, much less the Boss's Boy, could toe the line against such a fighter.
The crowd made way for Matt and China to enter the square. Shouting and jostling drowned most of what was being requested, but Smith safely guided his fighter into the square where
Van Horn and his handler waited. The handlers carefully examined the other fighter's hands for the presence of iron weights. Van Horn's man thoroughly felt Matt's wrappings grumbling about their extension onto his forearms but found nothing illegal. Van Horn wore tightly laced leather gloves that featured roughened leather knuckles. China ritually complained but could do nothing more.
Smith carried a bucket half-filled with water that he placed in the corner chosen for the Boss's Boy. A towel hung around China's neck, and he had certain helpful emollients buried in his pockets.
The fighters and handlers stood in their corners until the referee out-shouted the mob. China held the water bucket waist high, and Matt plunged his fists into it. At Smith's direction, he held his hands under his chin letting the excess water drain from his elbows. The wet linen tightened around his knuckles and seemed to bond his fists into solid and dangerous clubs.
The referee finally got enough silence to introduce the fighters, but Matt heard little of it. His mind seemed dazed, and he found himself intently studying unimportant things as if they were of special interest. He fought to focus his attention, and partly succeeded, but he felt astonishingly weak and incompetent. His heart pounded, his hands were chilled within China's wet wrappings. He had not suffered such debilitating uncertainties before other fights, and Matt suddenly feared he was about to make a fool of himself.
China demanded that a clutch of Van Horn supporters be removed from near the Boss's Boy's corner where they could flick cigar butts or spit tobacco juice at the resting fighter. Moving recalcitrant men took time, and there were demands to explain the Attack system and lengths of time for fighting and resting.
From a pocket, China withdrew a corked bottle of some kind of sheep oil that he spread liberally over his fighter's face. "The oil will help make his fists slide on your skin, Matt, and it'll make his handler mad."
Everyone's patience wore at the interminable delays, but finally all was ready. Matt found himself alone with Boots Van Horn and the referee, with his front foot touching a line scratched in the dirt.
Matt heard China's order. "Wake up!"
The command snatched Matt's mind from its wanderings, and he studied his opponent. Close in, Van Horn looked even worse. His gargoyle face had been beaten nearly inhuman, his head lacked a neck, and his shoulders bunched with immense muscle pads as high as his ears. The short but hugely thick arms were raised along the sides of his head, and even as Matt looked, Van Horn tucked his chin tight to his chest and appeared to gaze intently at Matt's knees. There seemed no opening large enough for even the straightest driven fist to get through.
Matt wore light, high-laced shoes, but Van Horn had heavy, hard-soled boots that China had warned could stomp and kick or scrape a shin to the bone. Fighters like Van Horn also used the heavy boots when stepping on and hold an opponent's foot while beating him thoroughly with fists, elbows, and head butts. All of those were fouls, but China said to expect them.
Still, Matt had a height and reach advantage on Van Horn. He was younger and expected that he was in better physical condition. He had a plan, and fair or not, he would use it.
The referee was a fat and mild looking older man neither he nor China had seen before, and they both doubted his ability to control the fight if things got nasty.
The referee cleared his throat in preparation, then announced the fighters in sonorous tones that belonged on a church pulpit. He explained most of the illegalities that Matt and China had already considered and warned that he would not allow them. Despite the strong words, Matt still doubted the man's abilities.
Gathering himself for the great moment, the referee surveyed his charges, raised a hand in warning, then dropped it with a shouted single word.
"Fight!"
The Boss's Boy hitched his body sideward, left foot forward, balanced with his weight on both feet, and with his arm straight as he could make it, he slammed his open palm against Bootsy Van Horn's forehead.
Chapter 15
Boots Van Horn exploded! He burst from his crouch. His fists swung in tight vicious hooks. He slipped his head from under Matt's palm and drove at Matt's body. He grunted with each blow, packing all of his power behind every punch, intending that any that landed would flatten and finish the youth attempting to fight him.
Matt sucked in his gut to avoid the brutal swings and stepped sideward, fighting his left hand back onto Van Horn's head. The professional bobbed and weaved, and Matt danced left and right holding off the furious charge.
Gone were the butterflies in his belly and the weakness that had plagued him. There were no longer lessons to be recalled or skills to be pondered, only intense concentration on avoiding the wild man's slamming blows. Van Horn intended to end the fight quickly. He put immense power into stone-hard fists and grunted with every hook after monstrous hook that seemed to barely miss.
Spectators screamed and bellowed with excitement, expecting a blow to connect solidly and to see the youth smashed to the ground. Even the Boss's Boy's strongest supporters realized that their man was running for his life.
Matt Miller felt the same. He could not plan. He shuffled and shifted. He faked and swirled away, struggling to keep his palm against the monster's head because if those hammer blows reached him, he would surely be broken and beaten. He threw no countering blows, and he blocked nothing. The Boss's Boy concentrated on keeping his elbow straight and his body beyond Van Horn's short-armed swings—as he waited.
It could not continue. Everyone could see that except China Smith, who judged the fight going exactly right, providing Matt could clear his mind and hold his balance for a few moments longer.
Van Horn snarled, and the ringside watchers heard a rumble of primeval rage that froze blood and made eyes smart. Some were suddenly fearful, but others licked lips in anticipation. A killer had been loosed among them.
Van Horn shrugged his massive shoulders and crouched lower, his head weaving a snake-like pattern. In irritation he flailed an arm at the palm holding him from his victim and lunged even harder into his attack.
Without hesitation or consideration of what he was attempting, Matt Miller dropped his right shoulder and drove his tightly clenched right fist upward into where Bootsy Van Horn's throat should be. He aimed at the open spot where Van Horn's thick arm had protected his face and chin.
It was not a vast opening, but the Boss's Boy had practiced, and he had waited for the target. His reaction to the opening was as instinctive as training could make it. Matt threw the mightiest right hand of his life, the punch that he and China had practiced for a seeming eternity.
This was not the calculated and powerfully balanced response that he and China had planned. Matt's blow was survival, and he spared nothing. If the blow missed, he would be wildly off balance and so committed that for terrible moments he would be almost helpless. Desperation added power to Matt's tremendous uppercut.
His shoulder low, Matt's cocked arm hooked upward, power exploding from a planted foot, through a driving leg and muscled back and shoulder into the water-saturated wrappings that froze his arm and fist into an almost oaken battering ram.
From his earliest training, Matt Miller had been taught to aim deep into a target. He did not point for Van Horn's buried jaw or the vulnerable throat behind it. His blow would peak at the back of Van Horn's skull—unless something stopped it before then.
Boots Van Horn's experience could not save him from something he never saw. Matt's fist struck like a sledgehammer against the professional's chin. It was a thunderous punch that drove Van Horn's head back, rocked him onto his heels, dazed his senses, and staggered him backward.
The crowd also exploded. Eyes glared and voices screamed in satisfaction or dismay. Men's fists were clenched, and their bodies heaved about as if they were part of the action.
Matt, too, was staggered by the effort, for a long instant his balance was gone, and he shuffled and bobbed regaining a fighting stance. A barely noticed ache blossomed in his hand and
marched up his wrist, proving how solidly his blow had landed.
But Boots Van Horn did not go down. The seasoned warrior tucked back into his fighting shell and backed away beyond Matt Miller's reach.
With satisfaction, China Smith saw Van Horn's legs wobble, and judged that Matt had delivered a serious cautionary message,
He whistled silently to himself. That had been one hell of a punch, but he also sensed the Boss's Boy's desperation and awareness of fighting on the sharp edge of annihilation.
Now, Matt must not rush in. He must continue their plan because Boots Van Horn would be back harder than before, and with China's thoughts, Van Horn resumed his attack.
He lunged a bit more carefully, and he did not again paw at the hand on his head. He bobbed and weaved, he swung hard, and occasionally he brutally slammed a fist against Matt's straightened left arm. The Boss's Boy could not indefinitely stand heavy blows on his extended arm. The arm would tire; then Van Horn would break through.
A cowbell clanged ending the first Attack, and the referee pushed himself between the fighters. Matt Miller backed away, fists still cocked, and as usual, sliding sideward—this time behind the referee using him as protection against the raging professional.
Sure enough, Boots Van Horn tried to get around the referee and continue the fight. Not until Van Horn turned away and strode toward his corner did Mat Miller lower his hands and go to China Smith's ministrations.
An empty twenty-gallon beer keg had appeared in Matt's corner, and Smith sat him on it. The wrung-out towel was hung over Matt's head, and China mopped his charge's flushed features. He talked as he reapplied the sheep oil to Matt's face.
"All right, Matt, you're doing it just right. That uppercut was terrific, but do not try it again. Van Horn will be looking for it, and he might leave you a tempting opening.
The Boss's Boy Page 14