by P McCormac
Cyriac was moving easily and smoothly on his feet, dancing out of range as his bigger opponent tried to close in on him. When the bell went Ginsberg had not landed a punch on Cyriac. The big man was scowling as he stood in his corner, glugging from a bottle and spitting out into a bucket.
‘This sleeping potion of yours doesn’t seem to be working,’ Cyriac muttered to McCullough as the doctor pumped his arms and rubbed more fat on his face.
‘Goddamn it, he’s spitting the water in a bucket. How was I to know? You’re doing well. Just keep out of his reach. I’ve seen him fight. If he gets you in a bear hug he’ll finish you.’
The bell sounded for the second round and the fighters came out of their corners. Again Ginsberg tried rushing Cyriac but the other man was expecting him and danced out of range again, driving those deadly punches into the kidneys. This time Ginsberg winced when they landed, for Cyriac had punched him time and time again in the same place. Rounds two and three were repeats of the first with Cyriac untouched while peppering his bigger opponent with rapid fire punches either to the kidneys or the abdomen.
Ginsberg roared like a wounded bear, growling at Cyriac. Telling him to stand and fight like a man. But Cyriac had adopted a workmanlike approach to the fight. He danced around, keeping well out of reach of those mallet-like fists that looked as though they would give one solidly landed blow to finish him.
‘He’s beginning to get winded,’ the doctor told Cyriac in between rounds. ‘But it’ll take more than that to finish him.
Cyriac was looking past his second and could see Elwood Black in conference with the referee, who was leaning out over the ropes to listen to the mine owner. He wondered what was being cooked up. Warily he came out of his corner. Ginsberg had given up rushing at him but began stalking him instead.
‘Come to me, little man,’ he coaxed. ‘I have something here that will loosen your head from your shoulders.’ And he brandished his huge ham-like fists at Cyriac.
His opponent did not respond to the invitation other than dance out of range and then manoeuvre temptingly close, which had the big man swinging wildly, leaving himself open to another tattoo of punches from the smaller, swifter moving man.
As Cyriac skipped away from Ginsberg, he crashed into something solid, taking him completely by surprise. A hard shove from behind and he realized he had blundered into the referee. But he had no time to wonder how that had happened, for with a triumphant grin, Ginsberg came at him swinging. This time Cyriac had no room to dodge.
Something with the weight and texture of a side of beef hit him in the face and he cannoned back, trying desperately to backpedal but again he crashed into the referee and was bounced back within range of those brutal fists. A hammer blow to his chest sent him to his knees and then a pile driver on the top of his head and his senses were spinning. Another fist hit him on the temple and he went over backwards. He saw the boot coming and tried to roll with it. Something with the consistency of a fence post whacked into the back of his head and blackness enveloped him, blocking out the agonizing pain.
CHAPTER 21
Someone had stuffed a dead skunk into his nose and as he breathed, the pungent odour convulsed his lungs and he coughed. He tried not to breathe but the pain in his head made him gasp and again that overpowering smell seized his lungs. It was as if he was drowning. He coughed and fought against the cloying smell and intense pain that was pulling him down.
Cyriac opened his eyes and saw the anxious face of Doctor McCullough. The doctor was pushing a cloth in his face and it was this that was suffocating him.
‘Damn you,’ he muttered and pushed the doctor away.
The smell lessened somewhat but it was still there, biting into his nostrils and he shook his head and shards of metal gouged the inside of his skull. He stopped moving.
‘Cyriac, I’m stopping the fight.’
‘The hell you say?’
Cyriac was replaying the sequence of events; the referee conferring with Black and his subsequent interfering in the fight. It was all coming back. And with it, that familiar coldness; starting somewhere in the base of his skull and slowly spreading.
‘No,’ he whispered but it was to no avail – the deadly resolve was taking over – blotting out the pain. His vision took on a crimson tinge – he could not help the smile that spread itself across his face.
Doctor McCullough was bending down, peering into his face and saying something but Cyriac ignored him. Another shape loomed behind the doctor. It was Jemmy Walbeck, the referee, frowning and shaking his head, looking down at Cyriac, trying to look sympathetic and failing, a malicious glint in his eyes as he gazed at the stricken fighter.
‘You want to call it off, Doc? Your man looks in a bad way.’
‘You fat, greasy lout,’ the doctor snarled. ‘You interfered with my fighter. You’re not fit to be a referee. You should be cleaning out spittoons instead of officiating at a fight. If you ever come in my surgery needing treatment it’ll put you to sleep permanently.’
‘Now, now, Doc, that’s not very professional. Your man was so busy running away he accidentally bumped into me. I could have been badly injured. I might sue for damages.’
Cyriac stood. He was still smiling and all the while looking at Walbeck. The punch did not travel far. It sank into the large man’s belly and he bent over with an audible whoosh of breath. As the referee folded over, Cyriac head butted that fat face and Walbeck flopped on the deck like a stranded whale, blood spurting from his busted nose.
Cyriac stepped over the collapsed man and walked across the ring, everything slowing down around him. The noise of the crowd became muted.
Ginsberg was grinning and gesturing to the crowd. The roar went up a notch or two when they saw Cyriac emerge from his corner. Ginsberg looked at Cyriac and his grin grew wider. The champion waved to the crowd and stepped towards his rival. Cyriac came straight at him, ducking under a vicious hook from his opponent. Once more he punched into the sheriff’s belly.
Ginsberg was built like a sodbuster’s shack with layers of muscle protecting him. Cyriac felt the shock run up his arm as his fist drove into the sheriff’s abdomen, solid as a door. Ginsberg grunted and stepped back, visibly shaken. Cyriac smiled up at him and punched with the other fist. Again the sheriff went backwards and at the same time swung at his opponent. Cyriac dropped to one knee and the big fist sailed over the top of his head.
Again he punched Ginsberg’s midriff, this time the blow driving upwards and crunching into the rib cage. Ginsberg opened his mouth and gasped in agony as something bust in his chest. He leaned forward, his mouth gaping open as he tried to snatch a breath.
Cyriac powered up from the floor and his head cracked into Ginsberg’s chin, slamming his mouth shut and breaking his jaw. Ginsberg’s eyes glazed with pain and he staggered back from his opponent.
Cyriac was merciless, driving those piston-like punches into the sheriff’s body. He struck hard and fast without pause. Like a lumberjack working on felling a tree, he went to work, ruthlessly chopping – chopping – chopping.
Feebly Ginsberg tried to close with Cyriac – tried to wrap his big brawny arms around him in an attempt to smother the vicious punishment he was taking. It was like trying to tame a tornado. There was no stopping that stiff-armed rhythmic pummelling – pounding away at his body, shaking Ginsberg to the core of his being, weakening his ability to carry on fighting.
He backed up, looking around desperately for Walbeck to save him – for anyone to rescue him from the terrible punishment he was taking. But there was no help coming. The referee had crawled from the ring and lay slumped on the floor, ignored by everyone as they watched in awed silence the massacre of their unbeatable champion.
Aimee was finding it difficult pushing her way through the crowded marquee. Anyone who knew her would have had trouble recognizing her as a young woman. She was wearing a spare suit that belonged to Doctor McCullough and carrying a medical bag which she used to push people out of th
e way. It had been the brainchild of Arlene to dress Aimee as a male so she could get into the fight arena and help Doctor McCullough and Cyriac in any way possible.
‘What the hell!’ a big man growled, glaring at her.
‘I’m a doctor,’ Aimee snarled back. ‘I’m trying to get through to the ring.’
It seemed to be working as reluctantly the crowd parted and she was allowed to squeeze through the tightly packed throng. There was much grumbling and even threats but she steadily made headway until at last, sweating and dishevelled, she neared the ring.
Eagerly she searched for Doctor McCullough. Aimee was not to know she was at the opposite corner of the ring to where she would have encountered the doctor. Instead she had arrived at Ginsberg’s corner.
‘Damn,’ she muttered, wondering what to do next.
Aimee hovered, indecisive, while around her the crowd roared like an enraged animal as the action in the ring fired up once more. She rose on her tiptoes and was able to get a clear view of the ring. Her eyes opened wide as she viewed the action.
Cyriac was pounding the sheriff, who was reeling as if drunk around the ring. At last he made it to the ropes directly opposite Aimee and clung there, pleading for help while his body took more punishment from a relentless Cyriac.
Aimee looked to where the big man was directing his pleas and immediately recognized the men who had arrested and pistol-whipped Turlough. She stepped back a pace, not wanting them to see her and possibly recognize her as an accomplice of the condemned man.
The deputies were conferring with great urgency, for it was obvious their boss was being slowly pounded into defeat. She tensed as she saw one of them draw a pistol and his companions closed in around him. Aimee stood irresolute as the men conferred. They came to some conclusion; they broke apart and started brawling.
Spectators scattered from the melee when the deputies pulled weapons and brandished them in the air. Aimee knew immediately what was about to happen. In the confusion, one of the deputies would fire at Cyriac. Ginsberg couldn’t stop him – but a bullet would.
CHAPTER 22
The big lawman clung to the ropes, bawling for someone to help him, his broken jaw making his blubbering incomprehensible. Walbeck, the referee, the only one who might have come to his aid, had crawled from the ring and was lying in the dirt, a broken man.
Cyriac tried to pull his opponent around to get a proper punch at him, but Ginsberg was clinging to the ropes like a drowning man to a floating log. In the end Cyriac gave up the effort and concentrated on pummelling the human punch bag.
Ginsberg, who had wrought similar damage on every man who had ever came against him, killing several in the course of his career, was now being served up his own brand of brutal fighting.
A demon had taken over Cyriac and he was solely intent on demolishing this giant of a man who had sought to ruin him and his friends. With the red haze colouring his world, Cyriac set to work with dedication and with each punch, Ginsberg grew weaker.
Down below him, unbeknownst to Cyriac, a rescue plan was underway to save the besieged lawman. Under cover of his brawling companions, Deputy Jesse Linenan was waiting for a clear shot at Cyriac. He could see his boss visibly weakening as he hung on the ropes, helpless against the savage pounding of his opponent. Their instructions had been plain. On no account could Sheriff Ginsberg lose this match. Not that anyone doubted the outcome of the fight. That was, not until now. Once it became clear that Ginsberg was in trouble, Elwood Black had issued his orders.
‘Kill that bastard! Whatever it takes!’
And now the plan was going into action.
Aimee was beside the group of deputies when the row kicked off. Using her doctor’s satchel like a battering ram, she worked her way into the mêlée.
‘Make way there,’ she yelled. ‘Let me through. I’m a doctor.’
She had a good idea what was going on and who was to fire the fatal shot, and watched the deputy as he hovered about with a gun in hand, his whole attention on the fighters. She shunted a man away and was rewarded with an elbow in the ribs. Undaunted, she kicked him and he howled and got out of her way. Someone cannoned into her and she went down on her knees. She powered up, crashing into another brawler and got a knee in the side.
‘Damn you, puffed up lobos,’ she yelled. ‘Get the hell outta my way.’
Undaunted by the buffeting she was taking, the bogus doctor was making progress, getting nearer and nearer to Jesse Linenan who was watching for the opportunity to put a bullet in Cyriac. Up in the ring, Cyriac stepped to one side of his victim, punching into a different area of the sheriff’s anatomy.
Linenan saw his chance and raised his weapon, his whole attention on Cyriac. It would be an easy shot. A distance of thirty feet or so separated the shooter and target. Linenan was a crack shot; one of the attributes that had brought him to the attention of Ginsberg. A bullet into the Greek’s head, then drop back into the anonymity of his brawling companions, no one the wiser as to who had fired the fatal shot.
His hand came up. Someone thumped him in the side as he pulled the trigger and the gun went off target. Instead of hitting Halkias, the bullet punched a hole in Ginsberg’s temple, the impact jerking the sheriff’s head back. Blood and brains erupted from the rear of the lawman’s head.
Linenan’s side was hurting like hell. He turned around to look and a young man in a suit was standing beside him, grinding something into his side. There was blood on the newcomer’s hand.
‘Howdy, Deputy,’ Aimee said.
Linenan started to bring the gun around to deal with this threat, but the young man pulled the knife from his side and stuck it in his throat. Linenan opened his mouth to yell but blood bubbled from his lips. The deputy was sinking to the floor and around him the world was growing dim. Aimee stepped back, slipping the bloodied knife back into her doctor’s bag.
The crowd panicked as the gunshot was heard. Men were yelling and pushing – attempting to get away from the gunplay. Pandemonium reigned as the panic spread and men were fighting to move away from danger.
Up in the ring, Cyriac sensed the difference in Ginsberg as the man went slack. He stepped back, ready to deliver the coup de gráce. Then he noticed the blood.
The sheriff stayed upright, his arms draped over the rope, rigidly clasping them in a death grip. Cyriac’s bloodied fists dropped to his sides as he stared uncomprehendingly at Ginsberg. He noticed a young man in a suit clambering into the ring, throwing a bag ahead of him. Then Doctor McCullough was at his side, taking his arm and pulling him away.
‘Cyriac, come away. Come with me.’
Cyriac allowed the doctor and the young man to guide him across the ring, the rage and fight leaking from him like a burst water bag. There was something familiar about the youngster helping the doctor but Cyriac couldn’t figure out where he had seen him before.
They hassled and pushed an unresisting Cyriac out of the ring, through the milling crowd and got him back to the cubical. The real doctor and the bogus one chivvied the dazed man into his clothes and then pulled him along towards one of the exits.
It was a mad scramble, for everyone had the same idea – to get out of the marquee before they were caught up in the violence now erupting in different sections of the crowd.
The throng spilled out into the open like steers out of a corral and the three escapees were jettisoned into daylight along with them. Then they were hurrying through the town, keeping their grip on a dazed and compliant Cyriac. Arlene was holding the door open for them as they pushed through.
‘Cyriac,’ she said, her hand to her mouth as she saw his bloody and bruised face.
He tried to smile and fell flat on his face.
CHAPTER 23
Elwood Black was in his suite in the Green Baize Hotel holding court. The men with him were the deputies of the now deceased Sheriff Ginsberg.
‘What the goddamn hell do I pay you guys for? One lousy bum fighter and you can’t take care of him. What t
he hell went wrong? You all know Ginsberg was a certainty to win that fight. He never lost a bout yet. Hell, you couldn’t get odds against him. Now he’s dead. Shot in the head by, I suspect, that clay-brained whoreson Linenan. God job he’s dead too or I might be tempted to send him to Boot Hill anyway.
‘Where the hell am I gonna get a new fighter from? Ginsberg was a cash cow. He drew crowds from all over the country. With every fight we were guaranteed a fortune. We could never get decent odds on him but the fans more than made up for that. What a goddamn mess.’
Black kicked a chair and it skidded across the floor, cracking into the shins of the unfortunate fella in the way. The men in the room were subdued and cowed.
‘This day’s work has cost me dear. Doctor McCullough holds a note for ten thousand dollars that I never expected to have to pay out. I lost a prime fighter and a sheriff along with a deputy, not that Linenan is much of a loss.
‘I want that Greek rooster dead,’ Black continued in a quieter tone. ‘I don’t care how it’s done. I don’t want him collecting on that note nor getting his hands on Benedict’s mine.’ He paused in his ranting. ‘Benedict! I guess we’ll have to kill him, too. I suggest some of you take him out in the morning and hang him.’
‘Wait a moment, boss,’ Trent Masterson spoke up, ‘just think on it. With Ginsberg gone and Linenan dead too, we ain’t got us a sheriff or chief deputy to take on a hanging. Folk were afraid of Ginsberg. He kept people in line. With him gone, you might have a mite of trouble on your hands if you go hanging Benedict without Ginsberg to scare off anyone as objects.’
Black glowered at the deputy and nodded slowly.
‘Hell, maybe you’re right. Too many things have gone wrong lately. Perhaps it might be better if you took Benedict out somewhere, well away from town, and finish him off. Try and make it look like an accident.’
