The Killings of Stanley Ketchel

by James Carlos Blake

  “Ah, hell. That was lowdown.”

  “What was?”

  “Shooting him in the back.”

  She put a hand over her smile.

  He said, “I’m serious.”

  She laughed so hard she lapsed into a spell of coughing.

  The first time he went out on the streets with the gun tucked in his waistband under his coat flap, he wore a new pair of tooled cowboy boots and a boss-of-the-plains hat pulled low over his eyes. Kate held close to his arm and whispered, “Now I know how Wild Bill’s woman felt.”

  And he smiled a crooked smile in the manner of the storied pistoleers he idolized.

  HE FINISHED OFF Kid McGuire in the final minute of the first round, the knockout punch snapping McGuire’s head sideways with such force he would have to wear a neck brace for the next two weeks. A week later he fought Kid Leroy and the only time this Kid touched him was when they shook hands at the opening bell. Ketchel then belabored him for a half-minute before landing one to the stomach that doubled Leroy over and clubbing him behind the ear to end it.

  Thompson rebuked him after both matches for continuing to fight like a hooligan.

  “Christ’s sake, Reece,” Ketchel said, “I bet most managers are glad when their guy wins.”

  Only two days after the Leroy bout he substituted for an injured fighter against an opponent named Young Gilsey. He forced himself to box, to jab and sidle, to circle his opponent, to exercise finesse rather than simply whale away. He reaped praise from Reece and Mickey as they tended him between rounds. “You see? You can do it,” Thompson said. “Never said I couldn’t,” Ketchel said. But then in the fourth Gilsey connected with a hook to the eye that made Ketchel wince and he retaliated like a man amok. Twenty seconds later Gilsey went down for the count. Ketchel ignored Thompson’s reproving glare and raised a fist high in appreciation of the crowd’s acclaim.

  He fought twice in September, knocking out tough Bob Merrywell in four rounds and then dropping Jimmy Murray in three. The day before the Murray fight, Kate baked him a chocolate cake in Miss Juno’s oven and put eighteen flaming candles on it and sang “Happy Birthday.” As a present, she gave him a shoulder holster for the Colt.

  In October he fought a rematch with Merrywell, a free-swinging affair that had the crammed arena howling with excitement from the opening bell and ended with Merrywell crashing to the canvas unconscious in the middle of round three. Yet Thompson was so displeased with Ketchel’s persistence in his alley style of fighting that he matched himself against him again, a ten-rounder this time, telling Ketchel he needed another firsthand boxing lesson. Ketchel shrugged and said, “Sure thing, Reece,” secretly certain that this time he would knock Thompson silly. But once again he was frustrated by Thompson’s style of fighting in constant retreat and only sporadically closing in to score with quick jabs before again scooting out of Ketchel’s range. As before, Thompson was steadily booed for refusing to slug it out, but as before, he won the decision. And believed he had made his point. “I keep proving it to you, kid, a slugger can’t beat a boxer. When you gonna start doing like I say?”

  During the next two months he had four fights and won them all by knockout. One of the bouts was in Miles City and one in Lewiston, his first fights outside of Butte. His reputation was spreading throughout Montana.

  But he continued to fight without discipline, and Thompson continued to disparage him for a clumsy brawler. “You still don’t get it, do you? I guess you just ain’t smart enough to get it.”

  That Thompson truly believed such mockery would serve good purpose merely underscored his misunderstanding of Stanley Ketchel’s nature. Ketchel veiled his anger with an expression of sincerity and said he knew he’d been a disappointment, but he thought he was starting to catch on. “Don’t quit on me, Reece. Let’s go another ten rounds, you and me. I’ll show you I can box.”

  Thompson said okay, one last time, but only on two conditions. If both of them were still on their feet at the end of the fight it would be declared a draw, because he did not want to add another loss to Ketchel’s record. Plus, Ketchel had to promise that if he didn’t win this time he would henceforth fight exactly as Thompson instructed him to.

  Ketchel said they had a deal.

  As Thompson expected, the fight went the distance and was ruled a draw. He had not, however, expected to confront such a disciplined display of boxing skill. Had not expected the jarring Ketchel jab that countered every jab of his own. Nor the nimble Ketchel footwork that repeatedly worked him into the corners or against the ropes where Ketchel each time rocked him with punches before he could manage to escape. The more seasoned observers in the crowd could tell that Ketchel was letting him off the hook each time, that he was not so much interested in scoring a knockout as in giving the man a thrashing. Thompson went down at least once in every round. He was unrecognizable at the final bell but was cheered for his fortitude. An unmarked Ketchel congratulated him on avoiding a knockout and then fired him as his manager.

  Stanley Ketchel would have sixty-four fights of record and lose only four, and it is one of the quirks of boxing history that two of those losses were to Maurice Thompson, the only two bouts Thompson ever won in a total of eight professional matches.

  HIS MOTHER WROTE to announce John’s Christmas Day marriage to Rebeka. The newlyweds would live with her on the farm. She was happy to report that Rebeka was as strong and industrious as she was pretty and kind. Kaicel’s opinion of the marriage was unknown for the simple reason that he had been missing for more than a month. He’d sometimes been absent for a few days at a time, but when he still hadn’t shown up or sent word in almost two weeks, she had dispatched John to Grand Rapids to make inquiry at the police station and at the hospital. He even asked about him in all of the taverns on the road between town and the farm. But no one knew where he had gone. Her keenest fear was that, despite her hopes and prayers, the man might yet return.

  Ketchel was delighted to learn of John’s marriage, and Kate contracted his high spirits. They celebrated the wedding that night along with the arrival of the New Year.

  A Season of Wrathful Sorrow

  He now trained at Freddie Bogan’s gym, and his new manager by handshake agreement was Joe O’Connor, a short blocky man of soft-spoken disposition, a photographer by profession, with a small portrait studio on Main Street. O’Connor was a lifelong boxing devotee who had for years been managing local fighters as a sideline, but he’d never managed one with the talent and championship potential of Ketchel.

  “I can handle the business end of things,” he told Ketchel, “but you need a hell of a better trainer than me. I think I know just the man.”

  He sent a wire to Billings, and a few days later Pete Stone arrived in response to it. Lean and whitehaired and goateed, of indeterminate age, Stone had been an old-time bareknuckle boxer of repute and was now widely regarded as the best cornerman in the northern Rockies. O’Connor had offered him the job of Ketchel’s chief second, and, having already seen Ketchel in action twice, Stone had accepted. He first saw Ketchel fight in Miles City, where he knocked out Jimbo Kelly in the opening round. Then, a week later, in Lewiston, where tough Kid Lee floored him in the eighth with a perfect shot to the chin and every man in the place was sure the fight was over. But Ketchel got up at nine, and half a minute later he trapped Kid Lee against the ropes and pounded him into helplessness, ending it with an overhand right that fractured Lee’s jaw and dislodged two sideteeth and mackled his vision for days.

  Ketchel needed to work on his boxing skills, Stone told O’Connor, he needed better discipline in the ring. Those things could be taught. But you couldn’t teach a punch like his and you couldn’t teach his endurance and you for goddamn sure couldn’t teach his killer instinct. You were born with such gifts or you were not.

  When O’Connor introduced them, Ketchel asked Stone how old he was. The old man was cutting a plug of tobacco and took his time about fitting it in his cheek before saying, “About
as old as I look.”

  Ketchel laughed. “Man, you look like Noah’s big brother.”

  Stone’s brown grin webbed his eyes with wrinkles. “Well, in that case, I’m older than I look.”

  Ketchel liked him. He said Stone’s little white beard and the way he worked his chaw reminded him of a goat. Stone said “Baaa.” And the Goat was his nickname from then on.

  Unlike Thompson, Pete the Goat conveyed his sparring-session instruction in terms of admiration. “Let the guy know he’s fighting a goddamn jungle cat, Stevie, let him know it. You’re too quick for him, he can’t hit you, you’re too smart. Play with him, move in quick and cut him up some and jump away. That’s the ticket. Jungle cat! Now work to the body, work to the body. Beat the heart out of him. Make him bring his hands down, then work to the head. Beat the heart out of the bastard, Stevie, beat the heart out of him while you get his measure and then tear into him with everything and finish him. You’re a goddamn jungle cat!”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah!” Ketchel said as he thumped his sparring partner with two hooks to the ribs and drove him into the corner with an uppercut.

  And three days later knocked out Kid Thomas in the first forty seconds of their fight with a combination of hooks to the head that repositioned the Kid’s nose and afflicted him with a sinus condition for the rest of his days. Afterward Ketchel explained to the Goat that he’d gotten the man’s measure pretty fast. “So I gathered,” the Goat said.

  Two weeks after that, he boxed impressively for four rounds against Jack Bennett before cooling him in the fifth. The Goat clinched him around the neck with a hammerlock. “What are you, kid! What are you?”

  “Jungle cat!” Ketchel yelled. “Goddamn jungle cat!”

  JOHN L. SULLIVAN’S final prizefight was on the first of March in 1905. Except for an exhibition match in 1896 the Boston Strong Boy had not fought in the twelve and a half years since losing the title to Gentleman Jim. He was now forty-six years old and weighed a leviathan 273 pounds. His hair had gone gray, his face was jowled and dewlapped. He did not really need the money, but he yearned for the old adulation. His opponent was James McCormick, half his age and 200 solid pounds. In the opening round McCormick landed several good punches, but mostly was in retreat as Sullivan lumbered after him, throwing one roundhouse atop another, most of them hitting nothing but air, some few striking McCormick’s defending arms and making the man wince. The warhorse was blowing hard when he returned to his corner at the end of round one. His crew was alarmed he might be courting a heart attack. But a minute into round two, one of those great fists found the point of McCormick’s chin and that was all she wrote. The crowd gave the grizzled hero a lusty and prolonged ovation.

  The fight took place in Ketchel’s home town of Grand Rapids, Michigan. His brother, John, was in attendance and wrote Ketchel an excitedly scrawled three-page letter packed with detail. He said Sully had a rummy’s red nose and wore every hour of his life on his face and was grossly fat, but still had a punch like a mule kick.

  “Next time we see each other,” he wrote, “you can shake the hand that shook the hand of the Great John L.”

  ONE FEBRUARY EVENING, after a vigorous session in the gym, he took Kate to Kelly’s Chop House for supper. He was still heated from the workout and the shower afterward, and steam issued from under his jacket collar as they made their way arm-in-arm through the frozen night. She said he looked like he was on fire under his clothes.

  They were drinking hot rum and cold beer, waiting for their steaks, when she broke out in a coughing fit that coated the fingers at her mouth with blood.

  Over the next weeks, she underwent examination by every doctor in Butte, and then Ketchel escorted her to Helena for another opinion, then to Billings, then to Boise. All diagnoses agreed on a rapacious throat malignancy too far advanced to be treated. The most optimistic of the doctors gave her little more than a year, the most realistic said she could not hope for three months.

  “They’re full of shit,” Ketchel told her on the train ride back from Idaho. “All of them. If they were any good they’d be set up in a big city and making plenty of jack, not sawing bones in some rathole mining town.”

  He’d been told of a prominent cancer specialist in Denver, and he wanted to take her there. But Kate said she needed to rest up a little and think things over.

  “What’s there to think about?” he said. “I know it’s not serious, but whatever it is, the sooner some smart doc checks you, the sooner you’ll get the right medicine and be fine.” He could not have admitted his terror of the possibility she’d been correctly diagnosed.

  “Please, Stanley. I just need a few days to catch my breath before—” She was interrupted by a coughing jag and turned her back to him. When the fit passed, she was gasping and had to blow her nose, dry her eyes, wipe her mouth. She tried to hide it from him but he glimpsed the bloodstains on the hankie.

  She chuckled and said in her inflated brogue, “By Jaysus, laddie, ‘catch my breath’ did I say! I believe I made a wee joke.”

  She didn’t tell him so, but she knew the doctors were right. She could feel it. At her insistence, and while Ketchel was not in the examining room, the Boise doctor had graphically described the dreadful end in store.

  THREE NIGHTS AFTER their return from Idaho, he was fetched at the Copper Queen by a resident of the boardinghouse who could tell him only that there had been a gunshot.

  He found her on the bed in her best robe, freshly bathed and redolent of perfume and talc, her hair beribboned, a powder-burned red hole in her breast and his Colt fallen at her side. A note on the pillow provided her family’s address in Cheyenne and said she loved him and wished him happiness, and that although she knew he’d miss her a little “(At least a little, I hope!),” she also knew they were two of a kind and neither of them really needed anybody. It ended with: “Sorry I won’t be there to see you KO Jeff.” Its appearance in the note was the only time the word “love” had ever passed between them.

  Someone had fetched the sheriff. Ketchel let him come in and see her. Let him read the note. The man offered his condolences and accepted Ketchel’s assurance that he would take care of things, then left.

  He sat by the bed and held her hand until it was cold in a way no living hand could ever be. In the company of her corpse he felt more alone than he’d known it was possible to feel. Felt as if she’d killed something in his own heart as surely as she had stopped hers. When the undertaker announced himself at the door, Ketchel said to go away or he’d break his neck. The cats watched him all night from the top of the wardrobe but at first light they were gone and he would see them no more. That morning he sent a telegram to Cheyenne and then shipped the body in ice on the afternoon train.

  He then returned to the room and stayed there, drinking from the bottle, softly singing the songs she’d liked best. He slept with her clothes at his face, breathing her scent. He woke in the night to new kinds of darkness.

  Pete the Goat and Joe O’Connor stopped by to offer condolences, then let him alone. Then after another two days O’Connor went to see him again. He accepted Ketchel’s offer of a drink and did his best to promote a bluff masculine stoicism, telling him he smelled worse than some dead men he’d had a whiff of and maybe it was time to get himself cleaned up before the landlady mistook him for dead and called the undertaker to cart him away.

  “What we need is something to wash down this whiskey. What say we go to a chop house, pal, and get us a big thick—”

  “Joe?” Ketchel said.

  “Yeah, kid?”

  “Thanks. Now go away.”

  O’Connor sighed and nodded, patted Ketchel’s shoulder and left.

  HE KEPT TO the room for a week before finally rousing himself and moving to another boardinghouse. The day after that he showed up at Bogan’s gym. He had trained only sporadically during Kate’s illness, and now it was late March and he had not fought in nearly two months. O’Connor and the Goat were glad to see him, but n
either thought he was ready to resume training immediately.

  “You been boozing for days and you look like hell,” the Goat said. “I bet you ain’t slept ten minutes at a time or ate more than a bite. You need some proper rest and a few regular meals, kid, then we’ll get back to training.”

  O’Connor agreed. Ketchel didn’t. He wanted to spar. He wanted to hit somebody. They were arguing about it when Tex Halliday came in and said Ketchel was just the man he was looking for. He offered him a spot on the program the following night. A twenty-five-rounder against Sid LaFontise, a miner who’d been preparing for his first pro match for the past seven weeks.

  Pete the Goat said hell no, Steve was in no condition to fight, especially not a twenty-five-rounder, and especially not against LaFontise. Pete had been in Thompson’s gym recently and seen LaFontise sparring. The man was a hardcase hitter with plenty of natural talent.

  “Give us two, three weeks to get ready,” O’Connor said, “and you got a match.”

  Halliday said he needed somebody for LaFontise by tomorrow.

  “I’ll take it,” Ketchel said. Since Kate’s death, he’d been feeling an unfamiliar and inexplicable tension, and he thought a good fight might set him straight.

  O’Connor protested. “Goddamnit, who’s the manager here?”

  “Who’s the fighter?” Ketchel said.

  He was knocked down three times in the first round, twice in the second, he went down once in each of the next three rounds. By which time his eyes were battered to beets, his nose was streaming blood, his lips cut and bloated. Just before the bell for the ninth he threw up into the sponge bucket. Then his timing began to come around, his punches to find their mark. He knocked LaFontise down for the first time in the twentieth round, then again in each of the next three rounds. And floored him for the count in the twenty-fourth. The walls of the Big Casino quivered with the exultations of the crowd. And as Ketchel stood in the ring with his fist raised high, he knew that what he most loved about fighting was its clarity. He could not have expressed it, but he understood as surely as he’d ever understood anything that when you knock a man out you resolve matters with an absoluteness impossible to rhetorical arguments or philosophical disputes. A knockout was pure truth.