“Do you see them often?”
“With your father feeling the way he does about Pa? I should say not! In fact,
we’re on our way to Austin now.”
I gathered the reins. The Tinker and Doc were waiting impatiently, and the time
was soon. “You tell your Pa for me,” I said, “that he’d better drop that case.
He’d best forget the whole thing. He was working for Jonas in the beginning, and
when this is over he won’t even be doing that.”
Her face hardened. “You’re my enemy then?”
“I’m not anybody’s enemy,” I said, “but I know murder when I see it done. And
betrayal, too.”
The look in her eyes there for a minute—well, it wasn’t what you’d rightly call
pleasant; but then it was gone and she was all smiles. “After the fight,
Orlando? Win or lose? Will you come? Pa wouldn’t approve, not one bit, but if
you’d come to see me … I’m staying with the Appletons, down at the end of the
street. They hadn’t room for Pa, too, so he won’t be there. Do come.”
“Well”—she was a mighty pretty girl—”I’ll see.”
My stomach felt queasy when I dismounted at the corral, for there were a sight
of folks sitting atop the corral fence, which had a board nailed on it all the
way around so’s men could look at stock when buying from the corral.
Inside, the yard had been sprinkled and then rolled or tamped until it was
hard-packed. They’d set four posts in the ground and had ropes around them,
running through holes in the posts.
No sooner had I got down than a great yell went op from the crowd, and there was
Dun Caffrey getting out of a carriage. He wore a striped sweater, and when he
peeled it off, he showed a set of the finest shoulders a man ever did see.
He was some taller than me, maybe about three inches, and had longer arms. He
would weigh better than me, for I was down to two hundred and six, whilst he
weighed two hundred and thirty, and carrying no fat
Folks crowded around—men in buckboards and spring wagons, men a-horseback and
afoot. Caffrey was wearing a pair of dark blue tights and some fancy,
special-made shoes for boxing or handball. I wore moccasins and black
tights—these last the Tinker rustled up for me.
“They’ve got a set of gloves,” Doc Halloran said, “and they offer to fight
either way, with or without.”
“Take ’em,” the Tinker advised. “They protect your hands, and you’ll hit even
harder because of them. A lot of folks don’t realize it, but a man hits harder
with a bandaged hand and a glove than with a bare fist—more compact, better
striking surface, and less danger of hurting your hands.”
When we agreed, they brought a pair of gloves over and I shoved my hand down
inside. These were three-ounce gloves, and when my hand was doubled into a fist
it was hard as rock.
“We fight London Prize Ring rules,” Doc explained. “You fight until one man goes
down, a knockdown, slip, or throw down, then you rest for one minute, and you
toe the mark when you come up for each round, and the fight is to a finish.”
“He knows,” the Tinker said, dryly. He looked at me. “I hope you haven’t
forgotten what I taught you during those months of travel. You can use a rolling
hip-lock to throw him, and if you get hold of him, pound him until you’re
stopped.”
Everybody had been taking notice of Caffrey, and when I slipped off my sweater,
nobody was looking my way. I was brown as any Indian, and there were the scars
of the old whipcuts on my back and shoulders.
In spite of the difference in weight between us, I was better muscled and a
little broader in the shoulders and quite a bit thicker through the chest.
Walton was to referee, and he made an announcement that he’d shoot the first man
to come through the ropes or the first to try to tear down a post.
Around that ring those gamblers were gathered. Right off I could see that they’d
outsmarted us, and the whole crowd against the ropes except right in my corner
were his friends, and the men behind them were, too. My friends, and few enough
of them there were, they were cut off, back some distance.
Suppose a whole rank started to move in on the ring? What would Walton do then?
Time was called and we walked out to toe the mark, and as soon as my toe touched
it, Caffrey hit me. He hit me a straight left to the face, and it landed hard. I
sprang at him, punching with both hands, and he moved around me like a cooper
around a barrel. He hit me three times in the face without my landing a blow.
The crowd began to yell, and he came at me again, but this time I ducked my head
against his chest and managed to hit him twice, short blows in the belly, before
he put a headlock on me and threw me to my knees, ending the round.
When I walked back to my corner and sat on Halloran’s knee, my lip was puffed
from a blow, and there was a knot on my cheekbone. I’ll give it to him. He could
punch.
“Stay close to him,” the Tinker whispered. “Keep your hands higher and your
elbows in. Work on his body when you get the chance.”
When time was called, Caffrey rushed from his corner and began punching with
both hands. He hit me several times, almighty hard, but I got my head down
against his chest again and hooked both hands hard to the belly. He tried to
push me off then, but I stepped in fast and back-heeled him and he went down
hard, ending the round.
As we went on it was nip and tuck, both of us punching hard. He was fast, and he
was in good shape, and he moved well. The first six rounds were gone in fourteen
minutes, but the seventh round lasted five minutes all by itself.
He’d pounded me about the head, but I wasn’t really hurt. He’d drawn first
blood—there was a trickle of it from my lip that had been cut against my teeth.
He was unmarked, and the betting had gone up to three to one on Caffrey.
Opposite us a window had gone up in the second story of a house, and I could see
a couple of women there, watching the fight. Another window in that same house
was open, too, but nobody watched from it
Round eight came up and I went out fast, slipped a left lead for my head and
smashed him in the ribs. It taken his wind, and it shook him up. It was my first
hard punch of the fight, and I think it surprised him. He backed off, studying
me, and I stalked him. I made awkwardly as if to throw my right and he stepped
in, hitting hard with his right.
My left arm was bent at the elbow, first at shoulder level, elbow near the hip,
and I’d moved my left shoulder and hip over almost to the center line, while
leaving my fist cocked where it was. As Caffrey threw that right, I let go with
my left, letting it whip around, thrown by the tension built up by turning my
shoulder forward and the weight behind it.
The blow struck high on his cheekbone and knocked him across the ring into the
ropes. Eager hands shoved him back, but I was moving in on him and I struck him
again with my left fist, but I was too eager with my right, and missed. He
clinched and back-heeled me into the dirt, falling atop me and jerking his knee
into my groin.
Throwing him off, I came up fast and mad, and hurt by that knee. He cocked his
fist, and then Walton stepped in and stopped the round. Twice after that he
drove me into the ropes and once I was hit from outside the ropes, hit hard just
above the kidney. I turned to complain and he knocked me down… a clean
knock-down.
The crowd was mad now. Arguments were starting all about us, and there were
several fights going close to the ring, and one back beyond it. Once, wrestling
in a clinch, I thought I saw movement at that empty window, and made up my mind
to speak to Doc about it.
It was bloody fighting now. Moving in, I smashed him in the mouth with a right
that split his lip and started the blood flawing. In a clinch he said hoarsely,
“I’m going to kill you, Sackett! Right here in this ring, I’m going to kill
you!”
“I broke your bones once,” I replied, “and I’ll do it again!”