The Boss's Boy

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Relax and breathe deep and easy, Matt." China watched the Boss's Boy's breathing and judged the tension in his arms and shoulders. Matt's eyes looked clear, but China thought he looked a little scared. He should be. Van Horn was winging thunderous blows, and he would be able to keep throwing huge punches for more Attacks before he began losing steam. The time to strike was now, and China said so.

  "All right, Matt, now is the time. When you go out there, start just like you did last time, but maneuver him to where you want him. Then, plant your feet squared away as if you were going to meet his charge and slug it out. Van Horn will see, and he will come like a wild bull."

  Matt was nodding, so China added only, "Then, you know what to do."

  A spectator deep into the crowd threw a wooden pail of beer across heads aiming for the Boss's Boy. As if he had been waiting for it, China Smith knocked the bucket aside and ignored the beer that splashed on them both. Spectators who had been drenched began shoving each other and voices grew angry.

  China ignored the developing melee. He helped Matt to his feet. Across the square, Bootsy Van Horn was slamming a fist into his opposite palm and shrugging his heavy shoulders as if eager to begin punching.

  China produced a small bottle from his pocket and waved it just below Matt's chin. The powerful sting of ammonia struck Matt's nostrils and traveled through his lungs and mind with a clarifying jolt. His mind seemed to refocus, his vision sharpened, and his nose cleared. The referee signaled, and the Boss's Boy stepped ahead to toe the line.

  China wanted to curse; Van Horn had changed his style. Instead of rushing in with fists swinging, he stood flat footed and slashed at Matt's extended left arm.

  How long could his fighter stand those blows crashing against his forearm? There were ways to respond, but he had never taught the Boss's Boy those moves.

  Even while struggling to keep his palm against Van Horn's head, Matt could see inviting openings in Bootsy's guard. He could also judge the experienced professional's readiness to counter- punch the instant the Boss's Boy reached in to throw a fist through one of the tempting openings. Could he slide enough to hook a left hand up into Van Horn's liver or right hand around to a kidney? Matt shifted, trying each angle, but Van Horn turned with him.

  Matt circled, and Boots stalked him patiently slamming a right or a left fist or forearm against the extended arm and the hand on his head. Matt let his hand move ahead of the blows, easing their impact, but instantly returning his hand to Van Horn's sweating skull.

  Boots Van Horn never looked up. His chin was buried against his chest, and his eyes stayed on his opponent's knees. Matt wished mightily to drive another right hand up and into that tucked away jaw, but China had warned not to try it. What was he supposed to do, just keep letting Van Horn club his arm into uselessness?

  The crowd did not like it. They had not come to study clever sparring. They wanted blood and fist-slamming, nose-to-nose battling until the weaker man collapsed helpless and beaten.

  Their boos and cat calls rose, and as if responding, Boots Van Horn charged. A slap at Matt's extended arm led his attack. The charge was explosive and without hint of warning. Matt's hand slid off the dodging and sweat-slippery head, and Van Horn's first swinging blow slid across Matt's retreating body. Then Boots was on him. A fist drove in hard along his ribs, and Matt jammed his longer arms inside Bootsy's pummeling fists. He grabbed Van Horn's body. Heaving mightily, he hoisted the shorter fighter off his feet.

  Van Horn's knees drove into him, and his boots kicked savagely at Matt's shins. Matt got a foot behind Boots' churning legs and toppled him backward. As they fell, Matt struggled to remain on top. He succeeded, and they landed hard with Van Horn's back striking with Matt's weight on top, but Bootsy had been thrown a hundred times, and he barely slowed. His head butted Matt's face before the Boss's Boy could bury it alongside the fighter's neck.

  Brutal knee slams came, but Matt slid his body to the side, and they missed their intended target. Van Horn's boots raked at his legs, and the powerful arms slugged anything they could reach. A fist struck the back of Matt's head and the other sought to reach in front and force Matt's face from the safety of Van Horn's massive shoulder.

  It was like being beaten on by wild men using clubs. Matt hung on, and he could feel and hear the referee straining to separate them.

  A little late, Matt Miller also began to fight. He slammed the side of his head against Van Horn's hard skull, and as the referee made progress moving them apart, he got his left hand loose and deliberately jammed his thumb into Bootsy's eye.

  Van Horn jerked his face away, and Matt drove a knee into the professional's crotch. The blow felt solid and seemed to sink in. Matt's mind said, "Take that you . . ." But the referee was between them, and Van Horn was backing away and scrambling to his feet.

  Matt scrambled faster. China had warned him to be quickest, or Van Horn would get him only half ready. He was on his feet, his hands up, left hand out front, but he was panting like a wind broken horse. The struggle on the ground had taken a lot out of him.

  Van Horn seemed unaffected. He slammed around the referee and charged like a wild man. Matt held him at arm's length and danced sideward hoping desperately to position the monster for the final move, and Boots came on as if he was part of the plan.

  It was right! The positioning was perfect. Matt squared his stance and was ready, but—at the crucial instant—Van Horn raised his eyes and his whole face as if seeking a clear look at his opponent. It was a chance too large to be missed. It was an opening to good to be ignored, and the Boss's Boy went for it.

  Matt did it the smart way. He dropped his left palm in front of Van Horn's eyes to mask the straight right hand that he threw with everything he had directly down the pipe into Bootsy's battered features. Matt could almost feel the smash of his hardened fist—but the blow never landed.

  Something exploded against the side of Matt Miller's head stopping his thinking and fogging his vision. The world tilted, and even the massed spectators wobbled. Matt's legs struggled to hold him up, but the earth and Bootsy Van Horn suddenly slanted the other way, and he was falling, helplessly weak, seeing Van Horn's fist coming at his head but able to barely move before it glanced from his temple, and he landed on the earth as limp as a dropped corpse.

  China's mind had said, "Now!" but to his horror, Matt had thrown an explosive right hand into Boots Van Horn's trap.

  It was a trap, of course. Shaken from muscle-straining ground wrestling and trying to reorganize, to get back to his plan and into his rhythm, the inexperienced Boss's Boy had been unable to resist Bootsy's perfect opening.

  When Matt Miller dropped his hand across Boots' line of vision, Van Horn wove just a little so that Matt's punch would miss and launched his own devastating right.

  Van Horn could hit. Power was Bootsy's major weapon, and his gnarled and battle-hardened fist sledged solidly just below Matt Miller's ear. China knew it to be a hell of a punch. He saw Matt's head jolt, he saw his knees buckle and his legs tangle, and he winced as Van Horn's second punch went in as if it were tied to the Boss's Boy's head.

  Matt was already falling, but somehow he managed to cock his head enough that Van Horn's follow up almost missed. Matt landed soddenly on his side, and Bootsy Van Horn went down on top of him.

  The referee tried, but Van Horn landed two smashing blows to Matt Miller's head or shoulders—who could tell in the moments of raging violence—before he dragged Van Horn's struggling body from his prostrate opponent.

  Matt Miller felt as if he had been trampled by a horse herd. The side of his head was strangely numb, but his senses had cleared almost as Boots Van Horn had landed on him. Bootsy's wilder blows had not done measurable damage. One landed along his neck and another on his shoulder, but the Boss's Boy profited from the delay before having to regain his feet.

  Could he get up? Matt wasn't sure. His legs were wooden, and he had little control over them. As he strained to rise, they became rubbery
and were even worse. He doubted they would hold him.

  Then he was up, and Van Horn came around the referee in a rush. Matt made his feet move. He fled at an angle, and as Van Horn closed he staggered away in another direction, and for an essential moment, Boots had not reached him.

  Suddenly, the roar of the crowd returned to Matt's hearing. He had not noticed its absence, but it was back. He dodged away, sliding along a rope as hands from the crowd tugged and scratched at him, and a fist struck his back.

  Van Horn marched forward in his crouch, his head again tucked and his clenched fists tight along his ears. Unexpectedly, the cowbell sounded, ending the Second Attack but, as China had warned, Van Horn charged.

  The referee was taken by surprise, but Matt Miller was not. He had blundered once, but there would not be a second time—he hoped. Matt swiveled aside, and let Van Horn rush past. Then Matt retreated toward his own corner with his hands up and his eyes on his opponent.

  Van Horn had missed the chance, and he did not even look toward the Boss's Boy. He sat down on his milk stool and a pail of water was thrown in his face.

  Matt Miller almost collapsed on his upended beer keg. China Smith was not forgiving.

  "That was stupid, Matt. You had him just right."

  Matt began a gasping answer, but China cut him off.

  "Save your breath. You're going to need all you can get. Take a few deep breaths. That's good, now relax your body, let your arms hang."

  China appeared to study his fighter.

  "All right, you're coming back fast, and maybe you learned something useful.

  "Boots will come out ready to finish you. Move him around, just like you did before, but this time, do what you are supposed to do."

  China rubbed on more grease, and stood the Boss's Boy up. "Do it now, Matt while he is still willing and ready to charge like a bull."

  Matt nodded, and the referee motioned the fighters forward. Van Horn toed the line and got his hands up. Matt made himself slow to arrive and managed a slight stagger as his toe sought the right spot.

  China Smith saw the hesitation in the Boss's Boy's step just as everyone else did, but Smith recognized that Matt Miller was beginning to set up Boots Van Horn for a surprise ending.

  The referee took an instant to warn both fighters that he would not stand for any more fouling. He got no acknowledgments, and he stood back, raised his hand, brought it down smartly, and called, "Fight!"

  The Boss's Boy backed away in full flight. Boots Van Horn stomped after him, fists balled, his chin buried with his eyes on the other fighter's knees, his body squared to his opponent, ready to swing with either hand.

  Matt Miller gave him a race, but Van Horn was edging ever closer, and most doubted that the Boss's Boy could dance much longer, and even if he did, sooner or later he would tire and the remorseless Van Horn would pound him into oblivion. Few believed otherwise, but China Smith waited expectantly.

  The fighters had circled, and Matt again saw things as just right. He stopped moving and turned himself square to the advancing Van Horn. His fists bunched closer to his waist, and he bent a little forward, apparently forced to battle the heavy-handed Boots Van Horn to a slugfest finish.

  Sensing a last desperate battle, the crowd roared approval. Van Horn took the challenge and marched in. The Boss's Boy retreated ahead of the menace of Van Horn's club-like fists. Then Van Horn charged.

  Across the square they flew, Boots Van Horn closing hard, holding his punches until he was close enough to inflict brutal and crushing damage.

  Spectators bellowed hoarse-voiced approval, and frantic or raging supporters screamed encouragement to both fighters.

  Van Horn swung viciously, but Matt blocked with a forearm. Van Horn ducked his head even lower and plowed ahead in his wild bull style. Unable to face the overwhelming attack, the Boss's Boy scrabbled backward, and Van Horn pressed.

  Matt Miller's feet tangled, and he tripped and toppled backward. Almost within Miller's arms, Van Horn leaped onto the falling fighter.

  A Van Horn fist sledged Matt's ribs, but as he fell, Miller's hands clutched Bootsy's armpits, and within the same desperate and tumbling effort, Matt Miller's body extended its topple into a backward roll. His feet and legs jammed powerfully upward catching the leaping Van Horn below the waist while Matt's arms shoved Van Horn over his head as hard as he could manage.

  Bootsy's reckless charge made the result even more dramatic. Propelled by Matt's driving feet, Van Horn's body soared as if levitated. Van Horn arced above the Boss's Boy's prone body and flew over the single rope to instantly disappear over the edge of the bluff above the river.

  There was a sudden and disbelieving silence. One instant, Boots Van Horn was smashing the Boss's Boy. The next, Boots was gone as if vaporized. The crowd stood rooted. Men froze with their hands and arms in awkward positions, and faces wore blank or confused expressions.

  China Smith was not among them. He had been ready and expectant. He ducked under the rope and into the ring heading straight for his still rising charge because China knew with certainty what was about to happen.

  Smith's movement broke the spell, and almost as one the crowd surged into and around the roped-off square rushing to the bluff edge to see what had happened to Boots Van Horn.

  The referee ducked under the rope to peer over the drop off and only belatedly realized what was happening behind him. He whirled and raised both hands frantically urging the crowd to halt, but few chose to wait. A wall of excited spectators boiled across the roped square, each seeking his personal look at the probably bruised or broken Bootsy Van Horn.

  China reached Matt Miller almost as the Boss's Boy regained his feet. He placed himself protectively between Matt and the onrushing crowd and began to plow a way back through the thickening rush of mindless spectators.

  China and Matt broke clear almost as the first of the bellowing herd reached the bluff edge, and they paused to watch the ensuing disaster.

  Unwilling to miss anything, the crowd shoved ahead amid suddenly panicked squalling as those who had arrived first were pushed over the bluff edge and disappeared as swiftly as had their fighter.

  The referee fared no better, and China and Matt saw his waving arms and white shirtsleeves disappear amid a dozen other unfortunates that reached the drop off too swiftly.

  China did not waste time watching. He worked through stragglers who had been slower or luckier and were still heading into the chaos.

  Matt said, "Good God, China, some of those people are surely hurt."

  Smith's voice held no sympathy. "Surely are. Take it as a lesson, Matt. Never get caught up in a crowd. Not at a church rally, not at a lodge meeting. Crowds can become mobs in an instant, and people can get trampled or crushed."

  Matt was slightly appalled. "You figured this would happen?"

  "No way to be sure, but I'm not surprised. That's why I got to you so quick. Those excited people could have gone another way, you know. They could have mobbed you, and they still might.

  "There will be sore losers. They might just try to even things up by beating the tar out of the fighter that threw their man over the cliff. That's why you're on your way out of here while I take care of collecting the purse and the bets.

  A number of Miller's Men had gathered near the banker's wagon, and Matt realized that they did not just happen to be there.

  China urged him away, and one of their workers walked up the hill with him. Matt turned before trees hid his view and saw China and the Morgan Men surrounding the banker who was standing on his wagon and gesticulating wildly.

  China Smith was brooking no nonsense. His voice was loud enough for those nearby to clearly understand what was being said.

  "Van Horn's got one minute to get back in the ring, Banker, and I figure more than half of that is already gone."

  The banker's mouth worked, but China's voice cut through. "That's the rule, Banker, and we aren't changing it. When the minute's up, we want the money—all of it.
"

  The banker said, "But men are hurt over there. Some probably fell on top of

  Van Horn, and there is no way he can climb back up that bluff in time."

  China's voice held satisfaction. "I'm pleased that you see it our way, Banker. I figure another few ticks of our watch will make the time right. If you planned on delaying until a handful of that gambling crowd gets up here to argue and fight over how they would like it to be, change your thinking.

  "We play by the rules, Banker, and you had best start laying out the money."

  The moneyman moved slowly with many glances toward the milling, shouting, and cursing mob along the bluff, but no relief came.

  The accounting took time, but it was nearly completed before the first of Boots Van Horn's gamblers appeared. The man began loud and bitter complaint, but Miller Men surrounded him. When he attempted to leave to gather reinforcements, the Irish workers hemmed him in while China and the banker completed the count.

  Finished, China handed the purse to Klubber Cole who immediately departed accompanied by a number of Morgan's Men wielding ax handles.

  The gambler tore away to inform his friends, and Smith and a solid group of supporters waited. China figured to have all matters concerning the fight settled here and now while he had the strength of numbers.

  The gamblers and their cronies plus a large contingent of Van Horn supporters vented their rage with threats of violence and use of the sheriff's arrest authority. The referee, a bit battered from his tumble, announced that Van Horn had failed to toe the line and had still not appeared. The Boss's Boy had won.

  A tall man among the Van Horn people offered his opinion as an attorney and a principled spectator. He said, "Van Horn's unfortunate fall negates all of the betting, and the fight should be ruled a non-contest. All monies should be returned to their owners."

  The Van Horn men howled approval. China Smith stood on the banker's wagon, and they quieted.

  China said, "This is how I see it, and I have been part of more fist fights than any of you have ever seen."