Collection 2001 - May There Be A Road (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “If I did take a few the easy way,” he said, “you couldn’t blame me. My sis never had clothes like yours in her life, but she’s goin’ to have them, because I’m goin’ to see she does—ahh, you wouldn’t understand how we feel.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” She smiled at him suddenly. “Finn, I like you. But don’t start feeling sorry for yourself or making excuses. Glen never did.”

  “Glen!” Finn growled. “All I hear is Glen! I’d like to get in there with him sometime! Glen never felt sorry for himself or made excuses! Why should he?”

  “Finn Downey,” Pamela said quietly, “I hope you never get in the ring with Glen. If you do, he’ll give you such a beating as you never saw! But before this goes any further, I want to show you something. Will you go for a ride with me this afternoon?”

  He stared at her for a moment.

  “No, I won’t,” he said. He looked away angrily because he was feeling such a strange emotion that something came into his eyes and into his throat when he looked at her. “I won’t go for a ride with you because I think about you all the time now. I’m just a boxer from the wrong side of town. If I was to be around you too much it would tear my heart out. You’d never take a guy like me seriously, and I can’t see why you should.”

  Pamela shook her head. “Finn, my brother is a fighter. I’ve nothing against fighters, it’s just the kind of fighters they are. I like fighters that win their fights in the ring, not in some smoke-filled back room with a lot of fat-faced men talking about it.” Her face grew grave. “You see, something’s going on. I shouldn’t mention it to you, but it’s some sort of an investigation. It started over your fight with Gilman. One of the sportswriters, Pat Skehan, didn’t like it. I don’t know much, but if you should be mixed up in it, it will come out.”

  “So you’re warning me. Why?”

  “Because I like you. Maybe because I understand how you feel about your sister, about clothes and money and things.”

  And then, before he could say another word, she had cantered away.

  * * *

  JIMMY MULLANEY WAS in a ringside seat when Finn Downey crawled through the ropes for his return bout with Tony Gilman. Jimmy was where they had planned for him to be. His eyes were roving over the other ringsiders with a curious glint in them. Jimmy had been around for a long time and he knew pretty much what was happening tonight.

  Glen Gurney had come in, and with him were his sister, Pamela, Pat Skehan, the sportswriter, and another man. When Jimmy saw him, he began to whistle softly, for the man was Walt McKeon—and in certain quarters his name meant much.

  Cat Spelvin and Nick Lessack were there, too. Every few minutes Norm Hunter would come up to Cat and whisper in his ear. Spelvin would nod thoughtfully, sometimes making a notation on a pad. Jimmy understood that, too.

  Two hours before, the odds quoted on the fight had been three to one, with Finn a strong favorite, and thirty minutes before, the odds had fallen, under a series of carefully placed bets, to six to five. Norm Hunter was one of Cat’s legmen, and he had been actively placing bets.

  Finn felt good. He was in the best shape of his life, but he also knew he was facing the fight of his life. Regardless of the fact that he had been told Gilman was going to take a dive tonight, that had never been Spelvin’s plan. Tonight he was going to cash in by betting against Finn Downey. Gilman had never liked taking that dive for him, and he was going to get even if he could by giving Finn a thorough beating. Downey understood that clearly enough. He also knew that Tony Gilman was a fighting fool, a much better fighter than any he had ever faced. Even in that previous match when Tony had been under wraps, he had made a monkey out of Finn most of the way.

  Bernie Ledsham leaned on the ropes and grinned at Finn, but the grin was malicious.

  “You going to take him, kid?”

  Downey grinned back at him. “You can bet your last dime I am!”

  The bell sounded suddenly, and Finn went out fast. The very look of Tony Gilman told him what he already knew. Gilman was out to win! Tony lanced a left to the head that jarred Finn to his heels, then crossed a whistling right that Finn slipped by a hair. Finn went in with a left and right to the body.

  “All right, you pantywaist,” Gilman hissed in his ear. “I’m goin’ to tear you apart!”

  Downey chuckled and broke free, clipping Gilman with a quick left as they moved together again. Gilman slammed a right to the body and they circled, trading lefts. Gilman rushed, throwing both hands, and the punches hurt. Finn went back to the ropes, but slid away and put a fast left to Gilman’s face. He circled, watching Tony.

  Gilman was anxious to get him; he was a tough scrapper who liked to fight and who was angry. He ripped into Downey with both hands, landing a hard left to the head, then a jolting right that smashed home twice before Finn could get into a clinch. His mouth felt sore and he could taste blood. Tony shook him off, feinted a left, then hooked with it. The fist clipped Finn flush on the chin, and his knees wobbled.

  The crowd broke into cheers, expecting an upset but the bell rang.

  * * *

  RETURNING TO HIS corner, Finn Downey saw the fat, satisfied smile on Spelvin’s face. He dropped on the stool. For the first time he was doubtful. He had known Tony was good, but Gilman was driven by anger now and the desire for revenge, and he was even better than Finn had suspected.

  The second round was a brannigan from bell to bell. Both men went out for blood and both got it. Finn took a stabbing left that sent his mouthpiece sailing. The next left cut his lips, then he took a solid right to the head that drove him to the ropes.

  He came off them with a lunge and drove a smashing right to Gilman’s ribs. Tony wrestled in the clinches and tried to butt, but Finn twisted free, then stepped in with a quick, short hook to the chin that shook Gilman to his heels.

  In a clinch in the third round, after a wicked slugfest, Downey whispered to Gilman: “What’s the matter? Can’t you dish it out any better than that?”

  Gilman broke away from him. His blue eyes were ugly now, and his face hard. He moved in behind a straight left that Finn couldn’t seem to get away from until he had taken three on his sore mouth. Then he did get inside and drove Gilman back.

  He could taste blood and there was the sting of salty sweat in the cuts on his face, and beyond the ropes there was a blur of faces. He ripped into Gilman with a savage two-fisted attack that blasted the older fighter across the ring.

  “Thought I was a sap, huh?” he snarled in Gilman’s ear. “You win this one, bud, you fight for it!”

  Gilman smashed him with a right cross that knocked him back on his heels. Before he could get set, Tony was on him with two wicked hooks, and the first thing he knew he had hit the canvas flat on his back!

  He rolled over and got his knees under him, his head buzzing. Beyond the ropes was a vast roar of sound, but there was a roar within his skull also.

  At nine he made it to his feet, but he was shaky, and when he tried to bicycle away, Tony was on him with a stiff left, then another, then a right hook.

  The terrific punch lifted him up and smashed him to the floor on his shoulder blades. In his skull the roaring had grown to a vast drumming sound. He shook his head to clear it, but the roaring continued. He crawled to his knees, and when he saw the referee’s lips shaping nine, he came up with a lunge.

  Before him he saw the red gloves of Tony Gilman, saw the punch start. He felt it hit his skull. He tried to catch his balance, knowing that a whistling right hook would follow, and follow it did. He rolled to miss the punch, but it caught him and turned him completely around!

  Something caught him across the small of the back and he felt his feet lift up. Then he was lying flat on his face on the apron of the ring, staring through a blue haze at the hairy legs of Tony Gilman. He had been knocked out of the ring!

  He grabbed a rope, and half pulled, half fell through the ropes into the ring, then lunged to his feet. He saw Gilman coming, ducked under the punch, then
dived across the ring and brought up against the ropes.

  Then Gilman was there. Tony’s first punch was wild and Finn went under it and grabbed the blond fighter like a drowning man.

  Then he was lying back on his stool and Mullaney was working on his eye.

  “What round?” he gasped.

  “The seventh, coming up!” Mullaney said quickly.

  The seventh? But where—? He heard the warning buzzer and was on his feet, moving out toward Gilman.

  Tony was disturbed. He had been sure of this fight; however, the clumsy, hard-hitting, but mostly ineffectual fighter he had met before had changed. Gilman was having the fight of his life. What had happened to Bernie Ledsham he didn’t know, but Mullaney now was in Finn’s corner.

  A double cross? Was Spelvin going to cross him this time? Or was it Spelvin who was being crossed up?

  He circled warily, looking Downey over. This called for some cool, careful boxing. He was going to have to cut Finn up, then knock him out. He would get no place slugging with him. How anything human could have survived that punch that took him out of the ring, he didn’t know, to say nothing of the half dozen he had thrown before and after.

  Finn, on his part, knew he was going to have to slow Tony down. Gilman was still too experienced for him, and plenty tough. He was beginning to realize how foolish he must have sounded to Glen Gurney when he told the champ how he was going to knock him out. For Gurney had beaten Gilman, and badly.

  Gilman circled and stabbed a left. Finn weaved under it and tried to get in close, but Gilman faded away from him, landing two light punches.

  Finn crouched lower, watching Tony. Gilman sidestepped quickly to the right and Finn missed again. He circled. Twice he threw his right at Gilman and missed. Tony was wary, however, and did not seem to be inclined to overconfidence.

  Downey went under a left, then let a right curl around his neck, and suddenly he let go in a long dive at Gilman! They crashed into the ropes. Gilman whipped free, but Finn smashed a left to the body, whipped a cracking left hook to the chin, and crossed a right to Gilman’s head.

  Tony broke free and backpedaled, but Finn followed him relentlessly. He landed a left, took a blow, then caught Gilman in a corner.

  Tony turned loose both hands; toe to toe, they stood and slugged like wild men while the huge arena became one vast roar of sound.

  Finn was watching his chance, watching that left of Gilman’s, for he had noticed only a moment before that Gilman, after landing a left jab, sometimes moved quickly to the right.

  The left came again—again, and a third time. Gilman fell away to the right—and into a crashing right hook thrown with every ounce of strength in Finn Downey’s body!

  Gilman came down on his shoulder, rolled over on his face.

  At nine, he got up. Finn Downey knew what effort he used to make it, but make it he did. Finn walked in, feinted a right, then whipped a left hook into Gilman’s solar plexus and crossed a right on his jaw.

  Tony Gilman hit the canvas flat on his face. Downey trotted to his corner. This time, Gilman didn’t get up.

  Mullaney threw Finn’s robe around his shoulders, and he listened to the roar of sound. They were cheering him, for he had won. His eyes sought the ringside seats. Pamela was struggling through the crowd toward him.

  When she reached him, she caught his arm and squeezed it hard.

  “Oh, Finn, you won! You really won!”

  “Nice fight, man!” Gurney said smiling. “You’ve shortened up that right!”

  Finn grinned back. “I had to,” he said, “or somebody would have killed me! Thanks for the tip.”

  “Yeah,” Pat Skehan said, “it was a nice fight.” He grinned fleetingly, then brushed by.

  “Will you take that ride in the morning?” Pamela asked.

  “Okay, yeah,” Downey said. His head was spinning and the roaring in his ears had not yet died away.

  In the dressing room, Mullaney grinned at Finn as he cut the strings on the gloves.

  “Pal,” he said, “you should have seen Cat! He dropped sixty G’s on this fight! And that ain’t all! Walt McKeon was here tonight. Walt’s an investigator for the state’s attorney. He was curious as to why Bernie was in your corner when Bernie works for Cat and Cat owns Gilman’s contract. After some discussion, we rectified the situation!”

  * * *

  THE MORNING SUN was bright, and Finn leaned back in the convertible as it purred over the smooth paved roads.

  He had no idea where he was going, and didn’t care. Pamela was driving, and he was content to be with her.

  The car turned onto gravel, and he rode with half-closed eyes. When the car came to a halt, he opened them and looked around.

  The convertible was in a lane not far from a railroad track. Beyond the track was a row of tumbled-down, long-unpainted shacks. Some housed chickens. In one was a cow.

  At several of the houses, the wash hung on the line and poorly clad youngsters played in the dust.

  “Where are we?” he demanded.

  “In Jersey,” Pamela said. “There’s a manufacturing town right over there. This is where a lot of mill hands and railroad workers live, many not too long on this side of the water.”

  Not over fifty yards away was a small house that once had been painted green. The yard was littered with papers, sticks, and ashes.

  A path led from the back door into a forest of tall ragweed.

  “Let’s get out,” Pamela said. “I want to walk around.” There was an odd look in her eyes.

  It was hot and close in the jungle of ragweed. Pamela stepped carefully over the spots of mud. Finn moved carefully; he was still cut and bruised from the fight. The path led to a ditch that was crossed by a dusty plank. On the other side, the ragweed finally gave way to a bare field, littered with rusty tin cans, broken boxes, and barrels.

  Pamela walked swiftly across it and into the trees that bordered the far edge. Here the path dipped to a small open space of green grass. A broken diving board hung over what had been a wide pool. Now the water was discolored by oil.

  Pam sat down on a log in the shade. “Like it?” she asked curiously.

  He shrugged, looking around. “How’d you know all this was here?”

  Her smile vanished. “Because I used to live here. I was born in that house back there. So was Glen. Glen built that diving board. In those days, the water was still clean enough to swim in. Then the mill began dumping there and spoiled it. Even after that, I used to come here and sit, just like this. We didn’t have much money, and about all we could do was dream. Glen used to tell me what he would do someday. He did it, too. He never went to school much, and all the education he got was from reading. All he could do was fight, so that’s how he made it—by fighting. He paid for my education, and helped me get a job.”

  Finn Downey got up suddenly. “I guess I’ve been a good deal of a sap,” he said humbly. “When I looked at you and at Glen, I figured you had to be born that way. I guess I was mighty wrong, Pam.”

  Pamela got up and caught his hand. “Come on! Let’s go back to the car. There’s a drugstore in town where we used to get cherry sodas. Let’s go see if it’s still open!”

  They made their way back across the polluted ditch and through the overgrown lot. The convertible left a haze of dust on the road for some minutes after it departed.

  Far off there was the sound of a ball bouncing, then a pause and the sound of a backboard vibrating and the whiff as the ball dropped through the net. A gangly youngster dribbled down an imaginary court and turned to make another shot.

  The crowd went wild.

  THE HAND OF KUAN-YIN

  * * *

  THERE WAS NO sound but that of the sea whispering on the sand and the far-off cry of a lonely gull. The slim black trunks of the sentinel palms leaned in a broken rank above the beach’s white sand, now gray in the vague light. It was the hour before dawn.

  Tom Gavagan knelt as Lieutenant Art Roberts turned the body o
ver. It was Teo.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Roberts said impatiently. “Who would want to kill him?”

  Gavagan looked down at the old man and the loneliness of death was upon him, and a sadness for this old man, one of the last of his kind. Teo was a Hawaiian of old blood, the blood of the men who had come out of the far distances of the Pacific to colonize these remote islands before the dawn of history.

  Now he was dead, and the bullet in his back indicated the manner of his going. Seventy-five years of sailing the great broken seas in all manner of small craft had come to this, a bullet in the back on the damp sand in this bleak hour before daybreak. And the only clue was the figure beside him, that of a god alien to Hawaii.

  “It’s all we have,” Roberts said, “unless the bullet gives us something.”

  The figure was not over fifteen inches in height, and carved from that ancient ivory that comes down to China from the islands off Siberia. The image was that of Kuan-yin, the Chinese goddess of mercy, protector of shipwrecked sailors, and bringer of children to childless women. It lay upon the sand near Teo’s outstretched fingers, its deep beige ivory only a shade lighter than the Hawaiian’s skin.

  Wind stirred the dry fronds of the palms, whispering in broken sentences. Somewhere down the coast a heavier sea broke among the rocks.

  “What would he want with a Kuan-yin?” Roberts was puzzled. “And where did he get it?”

  Gavagan got to his feet and brushed the sand from his hands. He was a tall man with a keen, thoughtful face.

  “You answer that question,” Gavagan said, “and you’ll be very close to the man who killed him.”

  Roberts indicated the Kuan-yin. “What about that? Anything special?”

  “The light isn’t good,” Gavagan said, “but my guess is you’ll find nothing like it outside a museum.” He studied the figure in the better light from Roberts’s flash. “My guess is that it was made during the T’ang dynasty. See how the robe falls? And the pose of the body? It is a superb piece.”