Fighting Alaska (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  ***

  “Magnanimity, she said,” Jean told Maud later. “Big word for the owner of a fancy house.”

  Maud had her arms up and began wrapping her hair into a bun. “I think the lady of the house was a school teacher before she saw the light of free-wheeling commerce shine on a nugget of gold.”

  “That almost sounds like poetry.”

  “A fancy house requires a fancy lady,” Maud said, and when Jean’s mouth formed a crooked grin, she leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. “Do you want me to hurt you again?”

  “No ma’am. The horse doctor said I need oats and rest.”

  The next day, Mexico called for him at Madam Burnet’s. “We’re going to see the others. Can you walk?”

  “Sure.” Jean stood up, but kept his hand on the back of one of Rita’s chairs.

  “Use this.” Mexico stuck the crook of a stockman’s cane toward Jean.

  “I don’t need it.”

  “Use it.”

  Jean took the cane. They walked to The Dexter and headed to a back storeroom.

  “You wanted people to see me using this thing,” Jean said.

  Mexico shrugged. “Might help the betting.”

  The same men who had faced him in Rita’s kitchen were waiting for his arrival with Mexico. Jean sat on a chair against one wall of the room. Crates, kegs, and barrels were stacked along most of the wall space. He’d learned this was where his new partners had cleaned him up after Kearney beat him with a chair in The Northern.

  Dr. McKenzie prodded, examined, ran his fingers over Jean’s skull and peered into his eyes. Finally he stepped back and stared. He blew out a big gust that shook the cloud of his beard, which obscured any features beneath his nose. “He’s the same,” he pronounced. “He needs rest.”

  Shouts and growls filled the chamber.

  Beach sat on a barrel across the room. He let the racket continue a few minutes, then he put two fingers in his mouth and released a remarkably shrill whistle.

  Silence. All eyes focused on the playwright.

  From his barrel head perch, Beach pointed at the doctor. “Is there anything wrong with him?”

  McKenzie shook his head. “Why, no. Beat up, some, yes. But look at him. He’s strong as an ox. Healthy as a horse.”

  “And,” Beach interrupted, “as all men who appreciate a fine horse know, a thoroughbred or a Morgan or a trotter needs rest after a vigorous, hotly contested race. Mr. St. Vrain’s exertions with Mr. Kearney’s fists and chairs are at least the equal of a hard-fought race. I’ve indulged in athletic competitions on occasion, and no matter one’s stamina, rest after exertion is just the tonic.”

  Earp spoke up. “Sam’s already getting ready for the fight.”

  “Let him,” Beach said. “He’s not a fighter.”

  “He’s big,” Earp countered. “Bigger than Jean.”

  “But he’s not an experienced pugilist,” Beach said. “Not like our Jean. He’ll have to catch up. Jean is a fine physical specimen. Once he’s healed up, he’ll be on his feet and ready to go. He’ll have years of experience guiding both his fists. Right, Pete?”

  Pete nodded. He seemed unable to remove his gaze from Jean.

  “There,” Beach said. “And after all, we have two weeks.”

  Earp cleared his throat. “Thirteen days.”

  The meeting broke up. Mexico bought Jean a beer at The Dexter’s bar, then accompanied him back to Madam Burnet’s. On the way, he said, “Sam wants to use gloves, not go bare knuckles in the bout. That all right with you?”

  A grim little smile turned Jean’s mouth. “Believe me, I have no complaints.”

  Mexico gestured with his head. “Lean on that cane a little heavier.”

  ***

  Jean walked more each day. He used Mexico’s cane – partly because seeing it would sway more people to bet on Kearney, partly because he needed the support. His legs would unexpectedly go untrustworthy in a way Jean had last felt his first day aboard the Excelsior.

  Jean made his way along the streets of Nome, staying as much as possible on the boardwalks. Afterward, he’d return to Madam Burnet’s and climb the stairs before returning to Rita’s kitchen. He counted each riser with a mild grunt. Thaddeus didn’t say a word, but shook his head as Jean passed.

  Jean checked his face in the mirror. Good grief, he thought. His eyes were blacked and swelled, his lips were puffed and split. A goose egg marked the edge of his hairline. I think I’ll bet on Kearney.

  Now Jean was up and around, Maud was back to her usual work. She flitted into Jean’s room at odd hours. Silent, like a ghost, she would gaze at him with no change in expression for several moments. She would waver in his tricky eyes, then Maud would show him the slightest smile before withdrawing until her next appearance.

  Beach started arriving at the kitchen to accompany Jean on his walks. They would return and Beach would compliment Rita for her coffee. She served them pie one day.

  “This is uncommonly fine pie,” Beach said.

  “You g’wan now,” she said, then laughed with pleasure.

  “You’re gait is steadier,” he said to Jean. “But Mexico recommends you keep leaning on that cane. We might start you lifting some weights. I bet Rita has some liquor jugs tucked away. You can start with one for each hand. How’s your head feel?”

  “Good enough.”

  Rita, indeed, had crockery jugs of whiskey intended to be watered and served to gentlemen callers. Beach made sure their corks were secure. Jean brought up one, then lowered it as he brought up the other. With each repetition, the quivering increased in his eyes and a dull ache throbbed in his head.

  “Excellent!” Beach encouraged.

  So it went. Beach made sure Jean walked twice in the morning and twice after noon, using the cane even though he no longer needed it. Beach also accompanied Jean after dark each night. “No need for everyone to see how well you’re getting along.”

  By the day before the fight, the worms in his vision had disappeared. Beach gave Jean a rubdown in the room adjacent to the kitchen. The fighter’s body still showed bruises, and Beach could tell when he encountered a tender spot by Jean’s reaction.

  “Take it easy today. A single walk. Get shaved over at Dibert’s. Tell him I’m paying. Go to bed early. I think you’ll be marvelous tomorrow.”

  “How’s the betting?”

  “Apparently you are the underdog, which we want. People are favoring Kearney, even though it might be grudgingly. But he also has powerful friends in town – with deep pockets.” Beach looked boyish as he grinned widely. “Jean, my friend, you are going to be great.”

  Jean wasn’t so sure he agreed.

  He didn’t see Maud that day. But the next morning, as he sat down at Rita’s table, Maud came into the kitchen. Her hair was down and she wore the long, thick robe she’d worn the day she introduced herself. She served him coffee.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Jean said.

  Maud didn’t answer. She stood by the table and looked down at him.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  Finally Maud spoke: “You always do things the hard way. I know there’s no easy way to fight. But…be careful.” Her eyes narrowed and she put her hand atop his. “And you beat that son of a bitch.” Then she flashed out of the room.

  Rita set enough food before him for two men. Maybe three. “You got a big day ahead. Eat up.” She refilled his cup. “And you do what she said.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  ROUND 12

  A ring had been set up inside a large tent Rickard had arranged to be constructed specifically for the bout.

  “It will probably come out of our earnings, too,” Pete said.

  “His generosity knows no bounds,” Jean said. He sat on a stool in his corner of the ring. Pete, his corner man, kneaded Jean’s shoulders.

  In the opposite corner, Sam Kearney sat tended by a thick-set man wearing spectacles. He had long hair he periodically pushed back from his face by
running his fingers through his locks.

  “Who’s in Kearney’s corner?”

  “Some guy named Doc Kearnan,” Pete answered.

  “Really? Kearney and Kearnan?”

  Pete nodded. “He works for Tex. Weighs gold the miners bring in to The Northern to pay for drinks.”

  The lamps hanging from the tent’s supports showed the crowd filled the tent nearly to bursting. People were pressed close to the edges of the ring. The air was thickening with smoke, and the mix of rising sounds almost seemed tangible to Jean.

  A bald man stepped into the ring. “Willie Barnes, blacksmith,” Pete said. “Seemed to be the most neutral person in town to call the fight.”

  Willie conferred with the men in their corners, then called them to the center of the ring.

  Even stripped down for fighting, Kearney looked big. His reach probably exceeded Jean’s. His confident black mustache was tidily waxed.

  Barnes said only a few words, “Let’s have a good fight. Honest and clean.”

  He sent them back to their corners before warning the close-pressed crowd to keep their hands away from the ring and not to interfere with the fighters.

  Pete tapped Jean’s shoulder and offered one last bit of advice, “Use your head.”

  That didn’t work last time, Jean thought.

  A clang started the fight. It sounded like a mallet striking an anvil. Maybe the anvil came with the blacksmith.

  The roar increased as the fighters stalked to the center of the ring. The noise fell from Jean’s awareness with each step. He kept his left up, guarding his head. Kearney had both gloved hands up just below his chin.

  They circled. Jean watched Kearney move while he took inventory of his own movements. I could be looser.

  Kearney dropped his head an inch or so and jabbed. Jean parried. He feinted with his left and drove his right into Kearney’s ribs. Kearney half-turned to his left, hooked a right Jean deflected with his shoulder. Jean swung his own right, and it glanced off the big man’s forearm.

  The first round continued in this way. They didn’t stray from the middle of the ring, and they struck and parried, checking defenses. The second round went much the same.

  Pete shouted something from his corner, but Jean was concentrating, studying Kearney, watching his swings, figuring out how he moved.

  He doesn’t move. Doesn’t move his feet. Just his knees. Shuffles around.

  Jean had years of footwork to put to use. He kept out of reach, making Kearney take longer swings. After one of those lunges, Kearney’s arm was extended and he was off balance. Jean darted in, slammed a combination to the big man’s ribs. As Kearney’s arm dropped to protect his side, Jean tagged his jaw with a right jab. Then he whipped back as Kearney’s right wheeled around and past his head.

  As the fight progressed, Kearney learned. He started moving around the ring. Jean shifted, danced, and made Kearney chase him. He stayed out of the corners unless Kearney slowed near the middle of the ring. When the big man stepped forward to trap him in a corner, Jean slid to the right or left and lanced out a fist to sting whichever of Kearney’s arms was closest.

  He’s bigger, Jean thought. Moving around will tire him sooner.

  So Jean continued dancing around the ring. Each round he increased his movement, getting Kearney to burn up more energy chasing him.

  Jean was leaving one of the corners when Kearney lunged, that long left arm snapping out and smacking Jean’s head. Jean stepped back toward the corner, and the big man was on him, slamming fists at Jean’s torso, slinging roundhouses at Jean’s head. Jean kept a hand up in front of his head and deflected some of the force. Sharp pains were slicing across his ribs and abdomen like lightning strikes.

  This will kill me.

  Jean put his shoulders up and ducked his head. He burrowed under the longer reach of Kearney’s arms and slashed thunderous blows at the big man’s solar plexus, abdomen, and heart. As Kearney stepped away, Jean unleashed an uppercut connecting with his opponent’s jaw.

  Kearney staggered to the middle of the ring.

  Jean blinked. Blood ran from his nose, but he wasn’t aware of it.

  Kearney’s image wavered in his sight like a candle flame in a delicate breeze.

  This is not good.

  Jean staggered out of the corner. Kearney came forward. Jean tried closing first one eye and then the other, but the big man still looked like his bones had liquefied. Jean put his left out before his head a little farther, trying to judge the distance between the two men.

  Kearney swam forward. Jean could tell the big man was roaring, but Jean couldn’t distinguish the sound from the rest of the clamor within the tent. Kearney ducked and swung. Jean’s left blocked the blow. Then Kearney batted aside Jean’s left and drove his left at Jean’s head.

  The fist smashed into Jean’s left cheek bone and dragged across the side of his face and scraped his ear. Jean swung his right through the sparks obscuring his vision, put all his weight into trying to crush Kearney’s ribs in a single terrific blow, then staggered away to the right.

  Kearney was slow to follow. Flashes of lightning in Jean’s left eye meant he was relying only on his right eye, but the wavering of its images had improved. Kearney’s face was red and he was heaving for breath.

  “C’mon,” Jean croaked. He got his feet moving. Slower than before, but that was okay since Kearney was moving slower, too. He started after Jean.

  Watch for him to duck his head, Jean reminded himself.

  Jean kept moving. He heard anvils clanging, but knew they were in his skull, not supplied by Willie. He thought his left eye was closed. All he saw there was a continual flashing, so he couldn’t be sure.

  Kearney rolled forward. Jean saw him drop his head, and he snapped his chin out of range as Kearney’s arm shot out. A fresh chorus of anvils started in Jean’s skull.

  Jean shifted, slid, and danced. Kearney ducked and swung. Jean stepped aside, blocked with his forearms, jabbed. His sight had cleared enough to see Kearney’s waxed mustache splayed all across his mouth, making his nose look like a bird perched in a black nest.

  Jean’s feet moved. He tried to stay on Kearney’s left, where he had drilled the big man’s ribs earlier. Kearney kept that arm lower, protecting his side. He hurts, Jean thought.

  Jean stepped to the left and Kearney’s right went up. Jean quick-stepped to the right, feinted toward Kearney’s jaw. The big man’s left arm went up to protect his face, and Jean lashed out at Kearney’s injured ribs.

  Kearney’s arms moved toward his left side, and Jean drove his left into the big man’s solar plexus. Kearney’s gloved hands moved to his core.

  Through his bleary right eye, Jean could see most clearly a wide black smudge on Kearney’s face. Aim for the nest.

  In that moment, while Kearney’s hands were below his chin, Jean blasted a right at Kearney’s nose, followed by his left. Something gave. Kearney’s head flew back, scarlet flashed in an arc from his nose and mouth. As the big man’s hands went up, Jean hammered three more times at Kearney’s ribs.

  Kearney dropped his arms and staggered backward into a corner. Jean was too tired to follow. Kearney stared at him. Jean wasn’t sure his opponent actually saw him as a fan of crimson spread from Kearney’s nose, down his mustache and bearded chin, and across his sweat-smeared chest. Then the big man slid to the floor of the ring.

  The clanging of the blacksmith’s anvil joined the orchestra in Jean’s skull. Willie was on Jean’s left side, so he couldn’t see the blacksmith, but he felt him raise his hand as the victor.

  Pete got his arm around Jean and helped him to the corner. “You did it, Jean! You did it, boyo!”

  “I did it,” Jean said. “I fit the fight.”

  And he collapsed completely into Pete’s arms.

  ROUND 13

  Jean regained his senses in a room he later learned was in The Dexter. He lay in a four-poster bed, bloodying the sheets. A man with an unkempt beard and a tang
le of gray hair tended his injuries.

  “Who’s this?” he heard someone ask. Mexico, perhaps. “Where’s Dr. Adams?”

  “Kearney has him.” Jean recognized Earp’s gruff voice. “This is Dr. Reynolds.” A pause. “He’s not a veterinarian.”

  “I haven’t seen his shingle.”

  “He prefers panning gold to dosing the clap.”

  “He owe you money, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Jean’s flickering vision stuttered into black unconsciousness.

  Later, he awoke again. He turned his head to see Pete sitting beside the bed. He learned twenty-four hours had passed since the fight.

  “I’m having trouble seeing, Pete.”

  “Doc put a patch over your left eye. Said it can come off in a couple of weeks.” Pete had spent enough time around fighting he didn’t need to ask how Jean felt. He beamed. “You were somethin’ to see, Jean. You knocked a couple of rungs out of Kearney’s ladder.”

  “How’d we do?”

  “We’re lovely, Jean. I stuck with Rickard until I knew how we came out of the money. I don’t trust these goldfield gadflies. We both go home with a stake that more than makes up for the loss of Tim Barlowe’s claim. These miners work like animals to pile up gold, then they bet like idjits. Typical boomtown suckers.”

  “That’s fine.” Jean closed his uncovered eye.

  “Rest up, boyo. We leave in three days on the Senator.”

  “I look forward to a peaceful ride on the scow.” Then he was asleep.

  He awoke again, hungry. Mexico was there. While Pete went for food, Mexico described the uproar that stirred the town after the fight. Pete returned, placed a tray covered by a big meal on the bed, and Jean dug in.

  “They say three tons of gold are going out on the Senator,” Mexico said.

  Jean chewed slowly, savoring the taste while measuring his aches. He said, “Hope we don’t sink.”

  Pete snorted a little laugh. “If we do, we’ll be the richest dead men at the bottom of the Bering Sea.”

  Mexico stood to go. He shook hands. “Good luck to you boys.”

  Two days later, Jean went to Madam Burnet’s. He relied again on the stockman’s cane. He thanked the madam for her hospitality and for the job, short as it turned out to be. She nodded. Tears came to her eyes just from looking at him. She shook his hand. “You get the hell outside and stay away. This is no kind of place for you.”