“When I had to. Never in a contrivance like that.”
“He’s an experienced man, and a brute. I’ve seen him fight.” He paused. “You
must think you can beat him.”
“A man never knows,” I said, “but when we were kids I broke his nose and his
jaw. I outsmarted him that time,” I said, “maybe I can again.”
“This a grudge fight?”
“If it isn’t, then you never saw one. His Pa used to beat me, and he robbed me.
This one tried to bully me around. I figure he knows a lot more about fighting
than I do, but I figure there’s a streak of coyote in him. It may be mighty hard
to find, but I’m going in there hunting it.”
Walton straightened up. “There’s fifty to a hundred thugs in town that nobody
can account for without considering the Bishop. I’ll do what I can, but I can’t
promise you anything.”
“In this country,” I said, “a man saddles his own broncos and settles his own
difficulties.”
Walton walked away, and after a bit I went back to the house and saddled the
roan. Time was shaping up for the race. Manuel had led the mule out. “They want
to know his name,” he said.
“What did you call him?”
Manuel shrugged.
“All right, call him Bonaparte, and let’s hope that track out there isn’t
Waterloo.”
The Tinker came out and mounted up, and Doc Halloran too. One of the others who
showed up was a husky Irishman with a double-barreled shotgun.
“I’m a mule-skinner,” he said, “and I bet on him. In my time I’ve seen some fast
mules, and I saw this one run over to Oakville.”
The Bishop was out there, and Dun Caffrey. I noticed they had at least two
horses in the race. “Manuel,” I said, “how mean can you be?”
He looked at me from those big dark eyes. “I do not know, senor. I have never
been mean.”
“Then you’ve got only one chance. Get that mule out in front and let him run.
Those two”—I indicated the horses—”are both ridden by tough men. One or both of
them will try to block you out if you look like you’d a chance, so watch out.”
“I will ride Bonaparte,” he said “it is all I can do, but it is a proud name.”
They lined up, and the way Bonaparte walked up to the line you wouldn’t have
thought he’d anything in mind but sleep. One of those Bishop horses moved in on
each side of him.
So I walked across to the Bishop. I walked up to him right in front of
everybody. “Tinhorn,” I said, “you better hope those boys of yours don’t hurt
that kid. If they do, I’ll kill you.”
He thought it was big talk, but he made a little move with his head and two
husky shoulder-strikers moved up to me. “Caffrey will kill you,” the Bishop
said, his voice deeper than any I’d ever heard, “but these can rough you up a
little first.”
One of them struck at me, and the Tinker’s training was instinctive. Grabbing
his wrist, I busted him over my back into the dust, and he came down hard.
Coming up in a crouch, the other man missed a blow and I saw the glint of brass
knuckles on his hand. My left hand grabbed his shirt collar in front and took a
sharp twist that set him to gagging and choking. With the other I grabbed his
hand, forcing his arm up so that everybody within sight could see those brass
knuckles.
Now, like I’ve said, I was an uncommon strong man before those years in prison.
My fingers wrapped around his hand just above the wrist and began to squeeze,
squeezing his fingers right up to a point, then I brought his hand down and let
those knuckle dusters fall into the dust. At the same time I slipped my hand up
a little further and shut down hard with all my grip.
He screamed, a hoarse, choking scream. And then I put my thumb against the base
of his fingers and my fingers at his wrist and bent it back sharply. Folks
standing nearby heard it break. Then I walked out to Manuel.
“You ride it clean, kid,” I said. I spoke loud enough so all could hear. “If
either of these make a dirty ride, they’ll get what he got.”
Somebody cheered, and then the pistol was fired. Those horses taken out of there
at a dead run, most of them cutting horses and expert at starting from a stand.
My mule, he was left at the post.
They just taken off and went away from there, but Manuel was figuring right. He
held the mule back, and sure enough, those two riders to right and left crashed
together. They had risked what I’d do rather than what the Bishop might do. If
Manuel had been in there, he’d have been hurt, and bad.
Then Manuel let out a shrill whoop and that Bonaparte left out of there like he
had some place to go and it was on fire. He was two lengths behind before he
made his first jump, but I’d never realized the length of his legs before. He
had a tremendous stride, and he ran—he ran like no horse I’d ever seen.
There was no way for me to see the finish. It was a straightaway course, and
several of them seemed to be bunched up at the end. Suddenly one of the judges,
a man on a white horse, came galloping back. “That damned mule!” he yelled. “The
mule won by half a length!”
Back at the Mexicans’ cabin nobody had much to say. The Mexican folks who owned
it stayed out of sight most of the time and Juana stayed with them. I had made a
bit of money and Halloran cut me in on what he’d made on the race, as well as
giving a bit to Manuel. That I did too.
Those two races had made that boy more money than he and Juana had seen since
Miguel died. Me, I stretched out on the bed and lay there, resting up for the
fight. My stomach felt empty and kind of sick-like, and I began to wonder if I
was scared. True enough, I’d whipped Caffrey, but he was no fighter then, just a
big, awkward boy, and I might have been lucky. Now he had been out among men, he
had proved himself against known fighters, defeating them all, and there’s no
escaping the worth of experience.
Between bouts he’d had a plenty of sparring with experienced fighters, and was
up to all manner of tricks that only a professional can come by. But I thought
of Jem Mace, who’d taught the Tinker. He had been a master boxer, one of the
great ones. Never weighing more than one hundred and sixty pounds, he had been
the world’s champion, defeating men as much as sixty pounds heavier.
Thinking about it, I dozed off and did not wake up until the Tinker shook me.
“Move around,” he advised. “Get the sleep out of you. Get your blood to
circulating.”
O’Flaherty, the Irishman who’d bet on our mule, came to the house. “I’ve not
seen you with the knuckles,” he commented, “but a man with sense enough to bet
on a mule is a canny one, so I bet my winnings on you.”
The Tinker was carrying a pistol, a rare thing for him, and the Irishman had
brought his shotgun. Doc Halloran had bulges under his coat that meant he was
wearing two guns, and I slipped mine into my waistband, too.
We mounted up and started for the ring, but I’d gone no way at all when someone
called out to me, and when I turned I saw it was a girl in a handsome carriage.
It was Marsha Deckrow, and she was more beautiful than I would have believed
anybody could be.
Pulling up, I removed my hat “Still the servant’s entrance?” I said.
She showed her dimples. “I was a child then, Orlando. I must have sounded very
snippy.”
“You did.”
“You’re stern!” She laughed at me. “I’m sorry you were in prison. My father told
me about it.”
“I must be going on,” I said, though to be honest it was the last thing I wished
to do.
“You’re going to fight that awful man. My father won’t let me go, even though I
promised to sit in the carriage and we needn’t be close. There’s a knoll a
little way from the corral, and we could keep the carriage there. But I’ll
watch. I think I’ve found a window.”
“It is likely to be brutal,” I said, “and he may whip me.”
“Will I see you afterward, Orlando? After all, we’re cousins, aren’t we? Or
something like that? Your father married my aunt.”