It’s mighty hard to hammer a giant like him out of position — especially when you’re trying to keep him from tearing off your head at the same time. I bored in close, letting Sven’s blows go around my neck while I blasted away with both hands. No — they was little science used on either side. It was mostly a wild exchange of sledge-hammer wallops.
In one of our rare clinches, Sven lifted me off my feet and throwed me the full width of the room where I hit the wall — wham! — like I was going on through. This made Bill, as referee, very mad at Sven and he cussed him and kicked him heartily in the pants, but the big cheese never paid no attention.
I was landing the most blows and they rocked Sven from stem to stern, but they wasn’t vital ones. Already his face was beef. One eye was closed, his lips were pulped and his nose was bleeding; his left side was raw, but, if anything, he seemed to be getting stronger. My training hadst toughened him a lot more than I’d realized!
Blim! A glancing slam on my jaw made me see plenty of stars. Wham! His right met the side of my head and I shot back half-way across the room to crash into the wall. Long ago we’d got off the canvas; we was fighting all over the joint.
Sven was after me like a mad bull, and I braced myself and stopped him in his tracks with a left hook that ripped his ear loose and made his knees sag for a second. But the Swede had worked hisself into one of them berserk rages where you got to mighty near kill a man to stop him. His right, curving up from his hip, banged solid on my temple and I thought for a second my skull was caved in like an egg-shell.
Blood gushed down my neck when he drawed his glove back, and, desperate, I hooked my right to his body with everything I had behind it. I reckon that was when I cracked his rib, because I heard something snap and he kind of grunted.
Both of us was terrible looking by this time and kind of in a dream like, I saw Knut wringing his hands and begging Bill and Mushy and Fritz to stop it — I reckon he’d never saw a real glove battle before and it was so different from lifting weights! Naturally, they, who was clean goggle-eyed and yelling theirselves deaf and dumb, paid no attention to him at all, and so in a second Knut turned and run out into the street like he was going for the cops.
But I paid no heed. For the first time in many a day I was fighting with my back to the wall against one of my own crew. Sven was inhuman — it was like fighting a bull or an elephant. He was landing solid now, and even if them blows was clumsy, with 245 pounds of crazy Swede behind them, they was like the blows of a pile-driver.
He knowed only one kind of footwork — going forward. And he kept plunging and hitting, plunging and hitting till the world was blind and red. I shook my head and the blood flew like spray. The sheer weight of his plunges hurtled me back in spite of myself.
Once more I tried to rock his head up for a solid shot to the jaw. My left uppercut split his lips and rattled his teeth, but his bowed neck was like iron. In desperation I banged him square on the side of the head where his skull was hardest.
Blood spurted like I’d hit him with a hand spike, and he swayed drunkenly — then he dropped into a deep crouch and shot his left to my midriff with all his weight behind it. Judas! It was so unexpected I couldn’t get away from it. I was standing nearly upright and that huge fist sank into my solar-plexus till I felt it banged against my spine. I dropped like a sack and writhed on the floor like a snake with a busted back, fighting for air. Bill said later I was purple in the face.
Like I was looking through a thick fog, I seen Bill, dazed and white- faced, counting over me. I dunno how I got up again. I was sick — I thought I was dying. But Sven was standing right over me, and looking up at him, a lot of thoughts surged through my numbed and battered brain in a kind of flash.
The new champion of the Sea Girl, I thought, after all these years I’ve held my title against all comers. After all the men I’ve fought and licked to hold the only title I got. All the cruel punishment I’ve took, all the blood I’ve spilt, now I lose my only title to this square-head that I’ve licked half a dozen times. Like a dream it all come back — the dim-lighted, smelly, dingy forecastle, the yelling, cursing seamen — and me in the middle of it all — the bully of the forecastle. And now — never no more to defend my title — never to hear folks along the docks say: “That’s Steve Costigan, champ of the toughest ship afloat!”
With a kind of gasping sob, I grabbed Sven’s legs and climbed up, up, till I was on my feet, leaning against him chest to chest, till he shook me off and smashed me down like he was driving a nail into the floor. I reeled up just as Bill began to count, and this time I ducked Sven’s swing and clinched him with a grip even he couldn’t break.
And as I held on and drew in air in great racking gasps, I looked over his straining shoulder and seen Knut come rushing in through the door with a white-faced girl behind him — Segrida. But I was too near out to even realize that Sven’s ex-girl was there.
Sven pushed me away finally and dropped me once more with a punch that was more a push than anything else. This time I took the count of nine, resting, as my incredible vitality, the wonder of manys the sporting scribe, began to assert itself.
I rose suddenly and beat Sven to the punch with a wild right that smashed his nose. Like most sluggers, I never lose my punch, no matter how badly beaten I am. I’m dangerous right to the last second, as better men than Sven Larson has found out.
Sven wasn’t going so strong hisself as he had been. He moved stiff and mechanical and swung his arms awkwardly, like they was dead. He walked in stolidly and smashed a club-like right to my face. Blood spattered and I went back on my heels, but surged in and ripped my right under the heart, landing square there for the first time.
Another right smashed full on Sven’s already battered mouth, and, spitting out the fragments of a tooth, he crashed a flailing left to my body, which I distinctly felt bend my ribs to the breaking point.
I ripped a left to his temple, and he flattened my ear with a swinging right, rocking drunkenly like a tall ship in the Trades with all sails set. Another right glanced offa the top of my head as I ducked and for the first time I seen his unguarded jaw as he loomed above me where I crouched.
I straightened, crashing my right from the hip, with every ounce of my weight behind it, and all the drive they was in leg, waist, shoulder and arm. I landed solid on the button with a jolt that burst my glove and numbed my whole arm — I heard a scream — I seen Sven’s eyes go blank — I seen him sway like a falling mast — I seen him pitching forward — bang! The lights went out.
I was propped up in a chair and Bill was sloshing me with water. I looked around at the dingy gym; then I remember. A queer, sad, cold feeling come over me. I felt old and worn out. After all, I wasn’t a boy no more. All the hard, bitter years of fighting the sea and fighting men come over me and settled like a cold cloud on my shoulders. All the life kind of went out of me.
“Believe me, Steve,” said Bill, slapping at me with his towel, “that fight sure set Sven solid with Segrida. Right now she’s weepin’ over his busted nose and black eye and the like, and huggin’ him and kissin’ him and vowin’ everlastin’ love. I knowed I was right all the time. Knut run after her to get her to stop the bout. Gosh, the Marines couldn’t a stopped it! Mushy clean chawed Mike’s collar in two, he was that excited! Say, would you uh thought a slob like Sven coulda made the fightin’ man he has in six months?”
“Yeah,” I said listlessly, scratching Mike’s ear as he licked my hand. “Well, he had it comin’. He worked hard enough. And he was lucky havin’ somebody to teach him. All I know, I learned for myself in cruel hard battles. But, Bill, I can’t stay on the Sea Girl now; I just can’t get used to bein’ just a contender on a ship where I was champion.”
Bill dropped his towel and glared at me: “What you talkin’ about?”
“Why, Sven’s the new champ of the Sea Girl, lickin’ me this way. Strange, what a come-back he made just as I thought he was goin’ down.”
“Y
ou’re clean crazy!” snorted Bill. “By golly, a rap on the dome has a funny effect on some skates. Sven’s just now comin’ to. Mushy and Fritz and Knut has been sloshin’ him with water for ten minutes. You knocked him stiff as a wedge with that last right hook.”
I come erect with a bound! “What? Then I licked Sven? I’m still champion? But if he didn’t knock me out, who did?”
Bill grinned. “Don’t you know no man can hit you hard enough with his fist to knock you out? Swedish girls is impulsive. Segrida done that — with a iron dumb-bell!”
* * *
ALLEYS OF PERIL; OR, LEATHER LIGHTNING
First published in Fight Stories, January 1931. Also published as “Leather Lightning”
THE minute I seen the man they’d picked to referee the fight between me and Red McCoy, I didn’t like his looks. His name was Jack Ridley and he was first mate aboard the Castleton, one of them lines which acts very high tone, making their officers wear uniforms. Bah! The first cap’n I ever sailed with never wore nothing at sea but a pair of old breeches, a ragged undershirt and a month’s growth of whiskers. He used to say uniforms was all right for navy admirals and bell-hops but they was a superflooity anywheres else.
Well, this Ridley was a young fellow, slim and straight as a spar, with cold eyes and a abrupt manner. I seen right off that he was a bucko which wouldn’t even let his crew shoot craps on deck if he could help it. But I decided not to let his appearance get on my nerves, but to ignore him and knock McCoy stiff as quick as possible so I couldst have the rest of the night to myself.
They is a old feud between the Sea Girl and McCoy’s ship, the Whale. The minute the promoter of the Waterfront Fight Arena heard both our ships had docked, he rushed down and signed us up for a fifteen-round go — billed it as a grudge fight, which it wasn’t nothing but, and packed the house.
The crews of both ships was holding down ringside seats and the special police was having a merry time keeping ’em from wrecking the place. The Old Man was rared back on the front row and ever few seconds he’d take a long swig out of a bottle, and yell: “Knock the flat-footed ape’s lousy head off, Steve!” And then he’d shake his fist across at Cap’n Branner of the Whale, and the compliments them two old sea horses wouldst exchange wouldst have curled a Hottentot’s hair.
You can judge by this that the Waterfront Fight Arena is kinda free and easy in its management. It is. It caters to a rough and ready class, which yearns for fast action, in the ring or out. Its performers is mostly fighting sailors and longshoremen, but, if you can stand the crowd that fills the place, you’ll see more real mayhem committed there in one evening than you’ll see in a year in the politer clubs of the world.
Well, it looked like every sailor in Hong Kong was there that night. Finally the announcer managed to make hisself heard above the howls of the mob, and he bellered: “The main attrackshun of the evenin’! Sailor Costigan, one hunnerd an’ ninety pounds, of the Sea Girl—”
“The trimmest craft afloat!” roared the Old Man, heaving his empty bottle at Cap’n Branner.
“And Red McCoy, one hunnerd an’ eighty-five pounds, of the Whale,” went on the announcer, being used to such interruption. “Referee, First Mate Ridley of the steamship Castleton, the management havin’ requested him to officiate this evenin’. Now, gents, this is a grudge fight, as you all know. You has seen both these boys perform, an’—”
“And if you don’t shut up and give us some action we’ll wreck the dump and toss your mangled carcass amongst the ruins!” screamed the maddened fans. “Start somethin’ before we do!”
The announcer smiled gently, the gong sounded, and me and Red went together like a couple of wildcats. He was a tough baby, one of them squat, wide-built fellows. I’m six feet; he was four inches shorter, but they wasn’t much difference in our weight. He was tough and fast, with one of these here bulldog faces, and how that sawed-off brick-top could hit!
Well, nothing much of interest happened in the first three rounds. Of course, we was fighting hard, neither of us being clever, but both strong on mixing it. But we was both too tough to show much damage that early in the fight. He’d cut my lip and skinned my ear and loosened some teeth, and I’d dropped him for no-count a couple of times, but outside of that nothing much had happened.
We’d stood toe-to-toe for three rounds, flailing away right and left and neither giving back a step, but, just before the end of the third, my incessant body punching begun to show even on that chunk of granite they called Red McCoy. For the first time he backed out of a mix-up, and just before the gong I caught him with a swinging right to the belly that made him grunt and bat his eyes.
So I come out for the fourth round full of snap and ginger and promptly run into a right hook that knocked me flat on my back. The crowd went crazy, and the Whale’s men begun to kiss each other in their ecstasy, but I arose without a count and, ducking the cruel and unusual right swing McCoy tossed at me, I sunk my left to the wrist in his belly and crashed my right under his heart.
This shook Red from stem to stern and, realizing that my body blows was going to beat him if he didn’t do something radical, he heaved over a hay- making right with everything he had behind it. It had murder writ all over it, and when it banged solid on my ear so you could hear it all over the house, the crowd jumped up and yelled: “There he goes!” But I’m a glutton for punishment if I do say so, and I merely tittered amusedly, shook my head to clear it, and caressed Red with a left hook that broke his nose.
The baffled look on his face caused me to bust into hearty laughter, in the midst of which Red closed my left eye with a right- hander he started in Mesopotamia. Enraged for the first time that night, I rammed a blasting left hook to his midriff, snapped his head back between his shoulders with another left, and sank my terrible right mauler to the wrist in his belly just above the waist-line.
He immediately went to the canvas like he figured on staying there indefinitely, and his gang jumped up and yelled “Foul!” till I bet they was plainly heard in Bombay. They knowed it wasn’t no foul, but when Red heard ‘em, he immediately put both hands over his groin and writhed around like a snake with a busted back.
The referee came over, and as I stood smiling amusedly to hear them howl about fouls, I suddenly noticed he wasn’t counting.
“Say, you, ain’t you goin’ to count this ham out?” I asked.
“Shut up, you cad!” he snapped to my utter amazement. “Get out of this ring. You’re disqualified!”
And while I gaped at him, he helped Red to his feet and raised his hand.
“McCoy wins on a foul!” he shouted. The crowd sat speechless for a second and then went into hysterics. The Old Man went for the Whale’s skipper, the two crews pitched in free and hearty, the rest of the crowd took sides and begun to bash noses, and Red’s handlers started working over him. The smug look he give me and the wink he wunk, drove me clean cuckoo. I grabbed Ridley’s shoulder as he started through the ropes.
“You double-crossin’ louse,” I ground. “You can’t get away with that! You know that wasn’t no foul!”
“Take your hands off me,” he snapped. “You deliberately hit low, Costigan.”
“You’re a liar!” I roared, maddened, and crack come his fist in my mouth quick as lightning, and I hit the canvas on the seat of my trunks. Before I could hop up, a bunch of men pounced on me and held me whilst I writhed and yelled and cussed till the air was blue.
“I’ll get you for this!” I bellered. “I’ll take you apart and scatter the pieces to the sharks, you gyppin’, lyin’, thievin’ son of a skunk!”
He looked down at me very scornful. “A fine specimen of sportsmanship you are,” he sneered, and his tongue cut me like a keen knife. “Keep out of my way, or I’ll give you a belly-full of what you want. Let him loose — I’ll handle him!”
“Handle him my eye!” said one of the fellows holding me. “Get outa here while gettin’s good. They ain’t but ten of us settin’ on him an
d we’re givin’ out. Either beat it or get seven or eight other birds to help hold him!”
He laughed kind of short, and, climbing from the ring, strode out of the building between rassling, slugging and cursing groups of bellering fans, many of which was yellin’ for his blood. Funny how some men can get by with anything. Here was hundreds of tough birds which was raving mad at Ridley, yet he just looked ’em in the eye and they give back and let him past. Good thing for him, though, that my white bulldog Mike was too busy licking Cap’n Branner’s police dog to go for him.
Well, eventually the cops had things quieted, separated the dogs and even pried the Old Man and Cap’n Branner apart, with their hands full of whiskers they had tore off each other.
I didn’t take no part in the rough-house. As quick as I could get dressed and put some collodion on my cuts, I slipped out the back way by myself. I even left Mike with Bill O’Brien because I didn’t want him interfering and chewing up my man; I wanted nobody but me to get hold of Mister Jack Ridley and beat him into a red hash. He wasn’t going to cow me with the cold stare of his eyes, because I was going to close both of ‘em.
Honest to cats, I dunno when I ever been so mad in my life. I was sure he’d deliberately jobbed me and throwed the fight to McCoy, and what was worse, he’d slugged me in the face and got away with it. A red haze swum in front of me and I growled deep black curses which made people stop and stare at me as I swaggered along the waterfront streets.
After a while I seen a barkeep I knowed and I asked him if he’d seen Ridley.
“No,” said he, “but if you’re after him, I’ll give you a tip. Lay off him. He’s a hard man to fool with.”
That only made me madder. “I’ll lay off him,” I snarled, “after I’ve made hash for the fishes outa him, the dirty, double-crossin’, thievin’ rat! I’ll—”
At this minute the barkeep commenced to shine glasses like he was trying for a record, and I turned around to see a girl standing just behind me. She was a white girl and she was a beauty. Her face very white, all except her red lips and her hair was blacker than mine. Her eyes was deep and a light gray, shaded by heavy lashes. And them eyes was the tip-off. At first glance she mighta been a ordinary American flapper, but no flapper ever had eyes like them. They was deep but they was hard. They was yellow sparks of light dancing in them, and I had a funny feeling that they’d shine in the dark like a cat’s.
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 177