“Well,” I begun hotly, “I’ll be derned if I’m goin’ to—”
“Shhh!” he said. “We got to change guard now; here comes the other squad. I’m goin’ off somewheres and think.”
Another gang of Chinamen come up with a native officer in charge, and Soapy and his men marched off, and I sot and wound my dragon watch, and tried to think of something, but didn’t have no success, as usual.
Time dragged slow, but finally about the middle of the afternoon, a mob of captains or something come and led me out of the tent and escorted me to the ring which had been built about halfway between the camps. They was already a solid bank of soldiers around it, Yun Chei’s on one side and General Feng’s on the other, with their rifles. The ring was just four posts stuck in the ground, with ropes stretched between ‘em, and a bare floor of boards elevated maybe a yard or more. General Yun was setting in a camp chair on one side, with his officers around him, and a big Chinee, which was naked to the waist, was standing right behind him. The other officers and the common soldiers of both armies sot on the ground or stood up.
I didn’t see Soapy nowheres, and they wasn’t no seconds nor handlers. The Chineses didn’t know nothing about such things. I clumb into the ring and examined the ropes, which was too loose, for one thing, and the floor, which was solid enough but none too even, and no padding of any kind on it. They had had sense enough to put camp stools in the corners, so I shed my cap, coat and shirt, and sot down. General Yun then riz and come over to me and smiled gently and said, “Smite the dog as you smote the Yellow Typhoon. If you lose the fight, you will lose your head in this very ring.”
“I ain’t goin’ to lose,” I snarled, being fed up on that kind of talk, and he smiled benevolently and retired to his chair. Just then somebody yanked my pants leg, and I looked down and seen Soapy. He was shaking with excitement.
“Don’t talk, Steve!” he whispered. “Just lissen! Yun Chei thinks I’m encouragin’ you for the battle. But lissen: I’ve fixed it! I got wind of a Federal army camped in a valley to the south. They don’t know nothin’ about us, but I found a man who swore I could trust him, and I smuggled him off on my horse. He’ll guide ’em back here, and they’ll break up this den of thieves. When the shootin’ starts, we’ll duck and run for the Federal lines. I sent my man right after I talked to you this mornin’, so they oughta get here in maybe an hour or so.”
“Well,” I said, “I hope they don’t get here too soon; I want to collect my thousand bucks from Yun Chei before I run.”
“I’m goin’ to snoop amongst Feng’s men,” he hissed, and just then the crowd on the opposite side of the ring divided, and here come Feng hisself, alias Joel Ballerin.
He was stripped to the waist, and he wore his fighting scowl. His short blond hair bristled, and his men sent up a cheer. He was big, and well built for speed and power. He had broad, square shoulders, a big arching chest, and a heavy neck, and his muscles fairly bulged under his sun-reddened skin with every move he made. He stood square on his wide-braced legs, and they showed plenty of power and drive. He was a fraction of a inch taller’n me, and weighed about 200 to my 190, all bone and muscle and hellfire.
Looking back on that fight, it was one of the strangest I ever mixed in. They wasn’t no referee. They was a Chinaman who whanged a gong every now and then when he remembered to, but he wasn’t no-ways consistent in his time- keeping. Some of the rounds lasted thirty seconds and some lasted nine or ten minutes. When one of us went down, they wasn’t no counting. The idea was that we should just keep on battling till one of us wasn’t able to get up at all. We hadn’t no gloves. Bare knuckles don’t jolt like the mitts, but they cut and bruise. It’s hard to knock out a tough man in good condition with one lick or half a dozen licks of your bare maulers. You got to plumb butcher him.
They was few preliminaries. Ballerin vaulted into the ring, kicked his stool through the ropes, and yelled, “Hit that gong, Wu Shang!” Wu Shang hit it, and Ballerin come for me like a cross between a bucking bronco and a China typhoon.
We met in the center of the ring like a thunder-clap, and his first lick split my left cauliflower, and my first clout laid his jaw open to the bone. After that it was slaughter and massacre.
There wasn’t nothing fancy about our battling. It was toe to toe, and breast to breast, bare knuckles crunching against muscle and bone. Before the first round was over we was slipping in smears of our own blood. In the second Ballerin nearly fractured my jaw with a blazing left hook that stretched me on the floor. But I was up and slugging like mad at the bell. We begun the third by rushing from our corners with such fury that we had a head-on collision which dumped us both to the boards nigh senseless. Ballerin’s scalp was laid open, and my head had a bump on it as big as a egg. The Chineses screamed with amazement, seeing us both writhing on the floor, but we staggered up about the same time and begun swinging at each other when Wu Shang got rattled and hit the gong.
At the beginning of the fourth I started bombarding Ballerin’s mid- section whilst he pounded my head till my ears was ringing like all the ship bells in Frisco harbor, and the blood got in my eyes till I couldn’t see and was hitting by instinct. I could hear him gasping and panting as my iron maulers sunk deeper and deeper into his suffering belly, and finally, with a maddened roar, he grappled me and throwed me, and, setting astraddle of me, begun pounding my head against the boards, to the great glee of his warriors.
As Wu Shang seemed inclined to let that round go on forever, I resorted to some longshoreman tactics myself, kicked General Ironfist lustily in the back of the head, arched my body and throwed him off of me, and pasted him beautifully in the eye as he riz.
This reduced his available sight by half, and didn’t improve his temper none, as he proved by giving vent to a screech like a steam whistle, and letting go a hurricane swing that caught me under the ear and wafted me across the ring into the ropes. Them being too loose, I continued my flight unchecked and lit headfirst in the laps of the soldiers outside.
I riz and started to climb back through the ropes, necessarily tromping on my victims as I done so, and one would’ve stabbed me with his bayonnet by way of reprisal if I hadn’t thoughtfully kicked him in the jaw first. Then I seen Ballerin crouching at the ropes, grinning fiercely at me as he dripped blood and weighed his huge fists, and I seen his intention of socking me as I clumb through. I said, “Get back from them ropes and let me in, you scum of the bilge!”
“That’s up to you, you wind-jamming baboon!” he laughed brutally. So I unexpectedly reached through the ropes and grabbed his ankle and dumped him on his neck, and before he could rise, I was back in the ring. He riz ravening, and just then Wu Shang decided to hit the gong.
At the beginning of the fifth we came together and slugged till we was blind and deaf and dizzy, and when we finally heard the gong, we dropped in our tracks and lay there side by side, gasping for breath, till the gong announced the opening of the sixth, and we riz up and started in where we’d left off.
We was exchanging lefts and rights like a hail storm when he brung one up from the floor so fast I never seen it coming. The first part of me that hit the boards was the back of my head, and it nigh caved in the floor. I riz and tore into him, slugging with frenzied abandon, and battered him back across the ring, but I was so blind I missed him as he side-stepped, and fell into the ropes, and he smashed me three times behind the ear, and then, as I wheeled groggily, he caught me square on the button with a most awful right swing. Wham! I don’t remember falling, but I must of, because the next thing I knowed I was down on the boards and Ballerin was stomping in my ribs with his boots. Away off I could hear Wu Shang banging his gong, but Ballerin give no heed, and I felt myself slipping into dreamland.
Then my blood-misted gaze, wandering at random, rested on General Yun in his camp chair. He smiled at me grimly, and that half-naked Chinaman behind him drawed a great curved sword and run his thumb along the edge.
With a howl of desp
eration I steadied my tottering brain, and I fought my way to my feet in spite of all Ballerin could do, and I pasted him with a left that tore his ear nearly off his head, and he went reeling into the ropes. He come back with a roar and a tremendous clout that missed me and splintered one of the ring posts, and I heaved my right under his heart with all my beef behind it. I heard a couple of his ribs crack under it, and I follered it with a hurricane of lefts and rights that drove him staggering before me like a ship in a typhoon. A thundering right to the head bent him back over the ropes, and then, just as I was setting myself for the finisher, I felt somebody jerking my pants leg and heard Soapy hollering to me amidst the roar of the mob, “Steve! Ballerin’s got fifty rifles trained on you right now. If you drop him, you’ll never leave that ring alive.”
I shook the blood outa my eyes and cast a desperate glare over my shoulder. The front ranks of General Feng’s warriors still leaned on their rifles, but behind ’em I caught a glimmer of black muzzles.
Ballerin pitched off the ropes, swinging a wild overhand right that missed by a yard, and he would of tumbled to the boards if I hadn’t grabbed him and held him up.
“What’m I goin’ to do?” I howled. “If I don’t drop him, Yun Chei’ll cut off my head, and if I do, his men’ll shoot me!”
“Stall, Steve!” begged Soapy. “Keep it up as long as you can; somethin’ might happen any minute now.”
I cast a glance at the sun, and sweated with despair. But I held Ballerin up as long as I dared, and then I pushed him away from me and swung wide at him. He reeled and I tried to catch him, but he pitched face-first, and I ducked as I heard a click of rifle bolts. But he was trying to climb up again, and I never hoped to see a opponent rise like I hoped to see him rise. He grabbed the ropes and hauled hisself up, and stared around, one eye closed and t’other glassy.
He was out on his feet, but his fighting instinct kept him going. He come blundering out into the ring, swinging blind, and I swung wide, but he fell into it somehow, and I hit him in spite of myself. Soapy give a lamentable howl, and Ballerin pitched back into the ropes, and I was on him and locked him in a despairing grasp before he could fall. He was dead weight in my arms, out cold, his legs dragging, and I was so near out myself I wondered how long I couldst hold him up. Over his shoulder I see General Yun looking at me impatient; even a Chinese revolutionist could see that General Ironfist was ready for the cleaners. But I held on; if I let go, I knowed Ballerin wouldn’t get up again, and his men would start target practice on me.
Then above the noise of the crowd I heard a low roar. I looked out over their heads, and beyond the ridge of a distant hill something come soaring. It was a airplane, and nobody but me had seen it. I wrestled my limp victim to the ropes, and gasped the news to Soapy. He was too smart to look, but he hissed, “Keep stallin’! Hold him up! The Federals have sent a plane to our rescue! Everything’s jake!”
General Yun had got suspicious. He jumped up and shook his fist at me, and hollered, and his derned executioner grinned and drawed his sword again — and then, with a rush and zoom, the airplane swooped down on us like a hawk. Everybody looked up and yelled, and as it passed right over the ring, I seen something tumble from it and flash in the sun. And Soapy yelled, “Look out! There’s a dragon painted on it! That ain’t a Federal plane — that’s Whang Shan!”
I throwed Ballerin bodily over the ropes as far as I could heave him, and div after him, and the next instant — blam! — the ring went up in smoke, and pieces flew every which way.
Bombs was falling and crashing and tents going sky-high, and men yelling and shooting and running and falling over each other, and the roar of that cussed plane was in my ears as I headed for the tall timber. I was vaguely aware that Soapy was legging it alongside me, hollering, “That Chinaman of mine never went to the Federals, the dirty rat! I see it all now! He was one of Whang Shan’s spies. No wonder he was so anxious to help! He wanted my horse — hey, Steve! This way!”
I seen Soapy do a running dive into General Yun’s auto, which was setting in front of his tent, and I follered him. We went roaring away just as a bomb hit where the car had been a second before, and spattered us with dirt. I dunno where General Yun was, though I caught a glimpse of a silk-robed figure, which might of been him, scudding for the hills.
We went through that camp like a tornado, with all hell popping behind us. Whang was sure giving his enermies the works in that one plane of his’n. They was such punk shots they couldn’t hit him with their rifles, and all he had to do was heave bombs into the thick of ‘em.
I don’t remember much about that ride. Soapy was hanging to the wheel and pushing the accelerator through the floor, and I was holding onto the seat and trying to stay with the derned craft which was bucking over that awful road like a skiff in a squall. Presently we hit a bump that throwed me clean over the seat into the back, and when I come up for air I had something clutched in my hand, at the sight of which I give a yell of joy — and bit my tongue savagely as we hit another bump.
I clumb back into the front seat like I was crawling along the cross- trees of the main-mast in a typhoon, and tried to tell Soapy what I’d found, but we was going so fast the wind blowed the words clean outa my mouth.
It wasn’t till we had dropped down out of the higher hills along about sundown and was coasting along a comparatively better road amongst fields and mud huts that I got a chance to catch my breath.
“I found your letter,” I said. “It was in the bottom of the car. It must of slipped outa my pocket whilst I was tied up.”
“Read it to me,” he requested, and I said, “Wait till I see is my watch intact. I didn’t get my thousand bucks for lickin’ Ballerin, and I want to be sure I got somethin, for goin’ through what I been through.”
So I looked at the watch, which must of been worth five hundred dollars anyway, and it was unscratched, so I opened the letter and read: “Ormond and Ashley, attorneys at law, San Francisco, California, U. S. A. Dear Mister Jackson: This is to inform you that you are being sued by Mrs. J. A. Lynch for a nine months board bill, amounting to exactly—”
Soapy give a ear-splitting yell and wrenched the wheel over.
“What you doin’, you idjit?” I howled, as the car r’ared and skidded and lurched around like a skiff in a tide-rip.
“I’m goin’ back to Yun Chei!” he screeched. “My expectations is bust! I thought I was a heiress, but I’m still a bum! I ain’t got the—”
Crash! We left the road, rammed a tree, and went into a perfect tailspin.
The evening shadders was falling as I crawled out from under the debris and untangled one of the wheels from around my neck. I looked about for Soapy’s remains, and seen ’em setting on a busted headlight, brooding somberly.
“You might at least ask if I’m hurt,” I said resentfully.
“What of it?” he asked bitterly. “We’re ruined. I ain’t got not fortune.”
“I was ruined when I first met a hoodoo like you,” I said fiercely. “Anyway, I still got Yun Chei’s watch.” And I reached into my pocket. And then I gave a poignant shriek. That watch must of absorbed the whole jolt of the smash. I had a handful of metal scraps and wheels and springs which nobody could tell was they meant for a watch or what. Thereafter, a figure might have been seen flitting through the twilight, hotly pursued by another, bulkier figure, breathing threats of vengeance, in the general direction of the coast.
* * *
SLUGGERS OF THE BEACH
First published in Jack Dempsey’s Fight Magazine, August 1934
THE minute I seen the man which was going to referee my fight with Slip Harper in the Amusement Palace Fight Club, Shanghai, I takes a vi’lent dislike to him. His name was Hoolihan, a fighting sailor, same as me, and he was a big red-headed gorilla with hands like hairy hams, and he carried hisself with a swagger which put my teeth on edge. He looked like he thought he was king of the waterfront, and that there is a title I aspires to myself.
&nb
sp; I detests these conceited jackasses. I’m glad that egotism ain’t amongst my faults. Nobody’d ever know, from my conversation, that I was the bully of the toughest ship afloat, and the terror of bucko mates from Valparaiso to Singapore. I’m that modest I don’t think I’m half as good as I really am.
But Red Hoolihan got under my hide with his struttings and giving instructions in that fog-horn beller of his’n. And when he discovered that Slip Harper was a old shipmate of his’n, his actions growed unbearable.
He made this discovery in the third round, whilst counting over Harper, who hadst stopped one of my man-killing left hooks with his chin.
“Seven! Eight! Nine!” said Hoolihan, and then he stopped counting and said: “By golly, ain’t you the Johnny Harper that used to be bos’n aboard the old Saigon?”
“Yuh — yeah!” goggled Harper, groggily, getting his legs under him, whilst the crowd went hysterical.
“What’s eatin’ you, Hoolihan?” I roared indignantly. “G’wan countin’!”
He gives me a baleful glare.
“I’m refereein’ this mill,” he said. “You tend to your part of it. By golly, Johnny, I ain’t seen you since I broke jail in Calcutta—”
But Johnny was up at last, and trying to keep me from taking him apart, which all that prevented me was the gong.
Hoolihan helped Harper to his corner, and they kept up an animated conversation till the next round started — or rather Hoolihan did. Harper wasn’t in much condition to enjoy conversation, having left three molars embedded in my right glove.
Whilst we was whanging away at each other during the fourth, I was aware of Hoolihan’s voice.
Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four) Page 201