“A hundred I lay you like a rug”, says Slade.
“I see you and raise you a hundred,” I snarl.
The crowd began to yell and curse, the timekeeper hit a piece of iron with a six-shooter stock, and the riot was on.
Now, understand, this was a very different fight from any I ever engaged in. It combined the viciousness of a rough-and-tumble with that of a legitimate ring bout. No room for any footwork, concrete to land on if you went down, the uncertain flare of the lights which was hung on the ceiling over us, and the feeling of being crowded for space, to say nothing of thinking about all the snakes which had fought there. Ugh! And me hating snakes that way.
I had figured that I’d have the advantage, being heavier and stronger. Slade couldn’t use his shifty footwork to keep out of my way. I’d pin him in a corner and smash him like a cat does a rat. But the bout hadn’t been on two seconds before I saw I was all wrong. Slade was just an overgrown Young Griffo. His footwork was second to his ducking and slipping. He had fought in the pit before, and had found that kind of fighting just suited to his peculiar style. He shifted on his feet just enough to keep weaving, while he let my punches go under his arms, around his neck, over his head or across his shoulder.
At the sound of the gong I’d stepped forward, crouching, with both hands going in the only way I knew.
Slade took my left on his shoulder, my right on his elbow, and, blip-blip! his left landed twice to my face. Now I want to tell you that a blow from a bare fist is much different than a blow from a glove, and while less stunning, is more of a punisher in its way. Still, I was used to being hit with bare knuckles, and I kept boring in. I swung a left to the ribs that made Slade grunt, and missed a right in the same direction.
This was the beginning of a cruel, bruising fight with no favor. I felt like a wild animal, when I had time to feel anything but Slade’s left, battling down there in the pit, with a ring of yelling, distorted faces leering down at us. The oily bird, referee, leaned over the edge at the risk of falling on top of us, and when we clinched he would yell, “Break, you blank-blanks!” and prod us with a cane. He would dance around the edge of the pit trying to keep in prodding distance, and cussing when the crowd got in his way, which was all the time. There was no room in the pit for him; wasn’t scarcely room enough for us.
Following that left I landed, Slade tied me up in a clinch, stamped on my instep, thumbed me in the eye, and swished a right to my chin on the breakaway. Slightly infuriated at this treatment, I curled my lip back and sank a left to the wrist in his midriff. He showed no signs at all of liking this, and retaliated with a left to the body and a right to the side of the head. Then he settled down to work.
He ducked a right and came in close, pounding my waist line with short jolts. When, in desperation, I clinched, he shot a right uppercut between my arms that set me back on my heels. And while I was off balance he threw all his weight against me and scraped me against the wall, which procedure removed a large area of hide from my shoulder. With a roar, I tore loose and threw him the full length of the pit, but, charging after him, he side-stepped somehow and I crashed against the pit wall, head-first. Wham! I was on the floor, with seventeen million stars flashing before me, and the oily bird was counting as fast as he could, “Onetwothreefourfive—”
I bounded up again, not hurt but slightly dizzy. Wham, wham, wham! Bat came slugging in to finish me. I swished loose a right that was labeled T.N.T., but he ducked.
“Look out, Bat! That bird’s dangerous!” yelled the oily bird in fright.
“So am I!” snarled Bat, cutting my lip with a straight left and weaving away from my right counter. He whipped a right to the wind that made me grunt, flashed two lefts to my already battered face, and somehow missed with a venomous right. All the time, get me, I was swinging fast and heavy, but it was like hitting at a ghost. Bat had maneuvered me into a corner, where I couldn’t get set or defend myself. When I drew back for a punch, my elbow hit the wall. Finally I wrapped both arms around my jaw and plunged forward, breaking through Slade’s barrage by sheer weight. As we came together, I threw my arms about him and together we crashed to the floor.
Slade, being the quicker that way, was the first up, and hit me with a roundhouse left to the side of the head while I was still on one knee.
“Foul!” yells some of the crowd.
“Shut up!” bellowed the oily bird. “I’m refereein’ this bout!”
As I found my feet, Slade was right on me and we traded rights. Just then the gong sounded. I went back to my end of the pit and sat down on the floor, leaning my back against the wall. The dip peered over the edge.
“Anything I can do?” said he.
“Yeah,” said I, “knock the daylights out of the blank-blank that’s pretendin’ to referee this bout.”
Meanwhile the aforesaid blank-blank shoved his snoot over the other end of the pit, and shouted anxiously, “Slade, you reckon you can take him in a couple more rounds?”
“Sure,” said Bat. “Double your bets; triple ‘em. I’ll lay him in the next round.”
“You’d better!” admonished this fair-minded referee.
“How can he get anybody to bet with him?” I asked.
“Oh,” says the dip, handing me down a sponge to wipe off the blood, “some fellers will bet on anything. For instance, I just laid ten smackers on you, myself.”
“That I’ll win?”
“Naw; that you’ll last five rounds.”
At this moment the gong sounded and I rushed for the other end of the pit, with the worthy intention of effacing Slade from the face of the earth. But, as usual, I underestimated the force of my rush and the length of the pit. There didn’t seem to be room enough for Slade to get out of my way, but he solved this problem by dropping on his knees, and allowing me to fall over him, which I did.
“Foul!” yelled the dip. “He went down without bein’ hit!”
“Foul my eye!” squawked the oily bird. “A blind man could tell he slipped, accidental.”
We arose at the same time, me none the better for my fiasco. Slade took my left over his shoulder and hooked a left to the body. He followed this with a straight right to the mouth and a left hook to the side of the head. I clinched and clubbed him with my right to the ribs until the referee prodded us apart.
Again Slade managed to get me into a corner. You see, he was used to the dimensions whereas I, accustomed to a regular ring, kept forgetting about the size of the blasted pit. It seemed like with every movement I bumped my hip or shoulder or scraped my arms against the rough cement of the walls. To date, Slade hadn’t a mark to show he’d been in a fight, except for the bruise on his ribs. What with his thumbing and his straight lefts, both my eyes were in a fair way to close, my lips were cut, and I was bunged up generally, but was not otherwise badly hurt.
I fought my way out of the corner, and the gong found us slugging toe to toe in the center of the pit, where I had the pleasure of staggering Bat with a left to the temple. Not an awful lot of action in that round; mostly clinching.
The third started like a whirlwind. At the tap of the gong Slade bounded from his end and was in mine before I could get up. He slammed me with a left and right that shook me clean to my toes, and ducked my left. He also ducked a couple of rights, and then rammed a left to my wind which bent me double. No doubt — this baby could hit!
I came up with a left swing to the head, and in a wild mix-up took four right and left hooks to land my right to the ribs. Slade grunted and tried to back-heel me, failing which he lowered his head and butted me in the belly, kicked me on the shin, and would have did more, likely, only I halted the proceedings temporarily by swinging an overhand right to the back of his neck which took the steam out of him for a minute.
We clinched, and I never saw a critter short of a octopus which could appear to have so many arms when clinching. He always managed to not only tie me up and render me helpless for the time being, but to stamp on my insteps, thu
mb me in the eye and pound the back of my neck with the edge of his hand. Add to this the fact that he frequently shoved me against the wall, and you can get a idea what kind of a bezark I was fighting. My superior weight and bulk did not have no advantage. What was needed was skill and speed, and the fact that Bat was somewhat smaller than me was an advantage to him.
Still, I was managing to hand out some I punishment. Near the end of that round Bat had a beautiful black eye and some more bruises on his ribs. Then it happened. I had plunged after him, swinging; he sidestepped out of the corner, and the next instant was left-jabbing me to death while I floundered along the wall trying to get set for a smash.
I swished a right to his body, and while I didn’t think it landed solid, he staggered and dropped his hands slightly. I straightened out of my defensive crouch and cocked my right, and, simultaneous, I realized I had been took. Slade had tricked me. The minute I raised by chin in this careless manner, he beat me to the punch with a right that smashed my head back against the wall, laying open the scalp. Dazed and only partly conscious of what was going on I rebounded right into Slade, ramming my jaw flush into his left. Zam! At the same instant I hooked a trip-hammer right under his heart, and we hit the floor together.
Zowie! I could hear the yelling and cursing as if from a great distance, and the lights on the ceiling high above seemed dancing in a thick fog. All I knew was that I had to get back on my feet as quick as I could.
“One — two — three — four,” the oily bird was counting over the both of us, “five — Bat, you blank-blank, get up! — Six — seven — Bat, blast it, get your feet under you! — eight — Juan, hit that gong! What kind of a timekeeper are you?”
“The round ain’t over yet!” yelled the dip, seeing I had begun to get my legs under me.
“Who’s refereein’ this?” roared the oily bird, jerking out a .45. “Juan, hit that gong! — Nine!”
Juan hit the gong and Bat’s seconds hopped down into the pit and dragged him to his end, where they started working over him. I crawled back to mine. Splash! The dip emptied a bucket of water over me. That freshened me up a lot.
“How you comin’?” he asked.
“Great!” said I, still dizzy. “I’ll lay this bird like a rug in the next round! For honor and the love of a dame! ‘Oh, the road to glory lay—’”
“I’ve seen ’em knocked even more cuckoo,” said the dip, tearing off a cud of tobacco.
The fourth! Slade came up weakened, but with fire in his eye. I was all right, but my legs wouldn’t work like they should. Slade was in far better condition. Seeing this, or probably feeling that he was weakening, he threw caution to the winds and rushed in to slug with me.
The crowd went crazy. Left-right-left-right! I was taking four to one, but mine carried the most steam. It couldn’t last long at this rate.
The oily bird was yelling advice and dashing about the pit’s edge like a lunatic. We went into a clinch, and he leaned over to prod us apart as usual. He leaned far over, and I don’t know if he slipped or somebody shoved him. Anyway, he crashed down on top of us just as we broke and started slugging. He fell between us, stopped somebody’s right with his chin, and flopped, face down — through for the night!
By mutual consent, Bat and me suspended hostilities, grabbed the fallen referee by his neck and the slack of his pants, and hove him up into the crowd. Then, without a word, we began again. The end was in sight.
Bat suddenly broke and backed away. I followed, swinging with both hands. Now I saw the wall was at his back. Ha! He couldn’t duck now! I shot my right straight for his face. He dropped to his knees. Wham! My fist just cleared the top of his skull and crashed against the concrete wall.
I heard the bones shatter and a dark tide of agony surged up my arm, which dropped helpless at my side. Slade was up and springing for me, but the torture I was in made me forget all about him. I was nauseated, done up — out on my feet, if you get what I mean. He swung his left with everything he had — my foot slipped in some blood on the floor — his left landed high on the side of my skull instead of my jaw. I went down, but I heard him squawk and looked up to see him dancing and wringing his left hand.
The knockdown had cleared my brain somewhat. My hand was numb and not hurting so much, and I realized that Bat had broke his left hand on my skull like many a man has did. Fair enough! I came surging up, and Bat, with the light of desperation in his eyes, rushed in wide open, staking everything on one right swing.
I stepped inside it, sank my left to the wrist in his midriff, and brought the same hand up to his jaw. He staggered, his arms fell, and I swung my left flush to the button with everything I had behind it. Bat hit the floor.
About eight men shoved their snoots over the edge and started counting, the oily bird being still out. They wasn’t all counting together, so somehow I managed to prop myself up against the wall, not wanting to make no mistake, until the last man had said “ten!” Then everything began to whirl, and I flopped down on top of Slade and went out like a candle.
Let’s pass over the immediate events. I don’t remember much about them anyhow. I slept until the middle of the next afternoon, and I know the only thing that dragged me out of the bed where the dip had dumped me was the knowledge that the Sea Girl sailed that night and that Raquel La Costa probably would be waiting for the victor — me.
Outside the joint where I first met her, who should I come upon but Bat Slade!
“Huh!” says I, giving him the once over. “Are you able to be out?”
“You ain’t no beauty yourself,” he retorted.
I admit it. My right was in a sling, both eyes was black, and I was generally cut and bruised. Still, Slade had no right to give himself airs. His left was all bandaged, he too had a black eye, and moreover his features was about as battered as mine. I hope it hurt him as much to move as it did me. But he had the edge on me in one way — he hadn’t rubbed as much hide off against the walls.
“Where’s that two hundred we bet?” I snarled.
“Heh, heh!” sneered he. “Try and get it! They told me I wasn’t counted out officially. The referee didn’t count me out. You didn’t whip me.”
“Let the money go, you dirty, yellow crook,” I snarled, “but I whipped you, and I can prove it by thirty men. What you doin’ here, anyway?”
“I come to see my girl.”
“Your girl? What was we fightin’ about last night?”
“Just because you had the sap’s luck to knock me stiff don’t mean Raquel chooses you,” he answered savagely. “This time, she names the man she likes, see? And when she does, I want you to get out!”
“All right,” I snarled. “I whipped you fair and can prove it. Come in here; she’ll get a chance to choose between us, and if she don’t pick the best man, why, I can whip you all over again. Come on, you—”
Saying no more, we kicked the door open and went on in. We swept the interior with a eagle glance, and then sighted Raquel sitting at a table, leaning on her elbows and gazing soulfully into the eyes of a handsome bird in the uniform of a Spanish naval officer.
We barged across the room and come to a halt at her table. She glanced up in some surprise, but she could not have been blamed had she failed to recognize us.
“Raquel,” said I, “we went forth and fought for your fair hand just like you said. As might be expected, I won. Still, this incomprehensible bezark thinks that you might still have some lurkin’ fondness for him, and he requires to hear from your own rosy lips that you love another — meanin’ me, of course. Say the word and I toss him out. My ship sails tonight, and I got a lot to say to you.”
“Santa Maria!” said Raquel. “What ees theese? What kind of a bizness is theese, you two tramps coming looking like theese and talking gibberish? Am I to blame eef two great tramps go pound each other’s maps, ha? What ees that to me?”
“But you said—” I began, completely at sea, “you said, go fight and the best man—”
�
�I say, may the best man win! Bah! Did I geeve any promise? What do I care about Yankee tramps what make the fist-fight? Bah! Go home and beefsteak the eye. You insult me, talking to me in public with the punch’ nose and bung’ up face.”
“Then you don’t love either of us?” said Bat.
“Me love two gorillas? Bah! Here is my man — Don Jose y Balsa Santa Maria Gonzales.”
She then gave a screech, for at that moment Bat and me hit Don Jose y Balsa Santa Maria Gonzales simultaneous, him with the right and me with the left. And then, turning our backs on the dumfounded Raquel, we linked arms and, stepping over the fallen lover, strode haughtily to the door and vanished from her life.
“And that,” said I, as we leaned upon the bar to which we had made our mutual and unspoke agreement, “ends our romance, and the glory road leads only to disappointment and hokum.”
“Women,” said Bat gloomily, “are the bunk.”
“Listen,” said I, remembering something, “how about that two hundred you owe me?”
“What for?”
“For knockin’ you cold.”
“Steve,” said Bat, laying his hand on my shoulder in brotherly fashion, “you know I been intendin’ to pay you that all along. After all, Steve, we are seamen together, and we have just been did dirt by a woman of another race. We are both American sailors, even if you are a harp, and we got to stand by each other. Let bygones be bygones, says I. The fortunes of war, you know. We fought a fair, clean fight, and you was lucky enough to win. Let’s have one more drink and then part in peace an’ amity.”
“You ain’t holdin’ no grudge account of me layin’ you out?” I asked, suspiciously.
“Steve,” said Bat, waxing oratorical, “all men is brothers, and the fact that you was lucky enough to crown me don’t alter my admiration and affection. Tomorrow we will be sailin’ the high seas, many miles apart. Let our thoughts of each other be gentle and fraternal. Let us forgit old feuds and old differences. Let this be the dawn of a new age of brotherly affection and square dealin’.”
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 161