the Man from Skibbereen (1973)

by L'amour, Louis

  "Parley missed the chance. They are all here now, at Fort Sanders, with troops gathered about like bees on a hive."

  "I know. But it is a worrisome thing, an' I don't believe that lot'll give up so easy. I lived among 'em, an' the most is a tough, vicious lot. I never could figure what Silver Dick was after. He's the smartest one, maybe smarter than Parley. Del Robb, he's been huntin' trouble since he was a least youngster. These folks'd be renegades in their own land, stirrin' trouble there if not here, and most of them were druv out o' wherever 'tis they come from. Until you've seen 'em in action you've no idea how mean folks can git."

  "They'll be far from here," Cris said, "they'll be afraid of the cavalry."

  "Not much, they won't. They'll fight any small bunch, and they'll stay shy of the patrols big enough to fight them even or better. And the Army has to think of Injuns, too."

  Halloran came in and sat down across the table from them. "I just left Brennan," he told them. "He wants me to work in your corner, Mayo. You may recall me from the train. I'm Halloran."

  "Howdy," Pratt said. "Don't Brennan reckon I'm good enough?"

  "Yes, but he wants you to be around with a gun handy. I have some experience at this sort of thing. Handling athletes, I mean." He looked at Cris. "What kind of shape are you in? Can you go a long fight?"

  "I can." He put out his unbandaged left hand. The finger had scabbed over. "Murray shot that off. It might start to bleed. Stop it if you can, when it does."

  Startled, Halloran stared. "You'd go into a fight with that?"

  "I would." Cris glanced at the hand and said, "A man has so much to put up with in his life. I came here to make a fortune and I won't do it sitting about crying because I got scratched.

  "I came into this town without money, and I must live. Rep here is in the same boat. I figured with the two hundred dollars I'd win, we'd have enough to tide us over until there is a way to a better living."

  "Don't take Sam Calkins lightly. He is heavier than you, very strong. He's a tough, boring--in fighter who's won nine or ten fights against some of the best bareknuckle battlers around. I believe he will try to wear you down. Very few men can fight more than two or three minutes without running out of steam. If he can do that he'll have you helpless."

  "He cannot. I will last as long as any man."

  "He tries to work in close. He likes the uppercut. Do you know the blow?"

  "I know it."

  Halloran was not satisfied. Mayo seemed confident, which was good, but it might be the confidence of ignorance. To a man who has never boxed or fought with a skilled professional, it is easy to believe that only strength and aggressiveness are important. A professional is just as skillful at his trade as is a master cabinetmaker. The beginner can no more do one job as well as the master than he can do the other.

  There is nothing fancy about the professional boxer.

  He wastes no motions, his every move is timed, his distances are judged, the knowledge of what you can do is in his mind, and he knows that when a punch has been thrown certain portions of the head or body are exposed. He knows how to feint another fighter into exposing the areas where he wishes his blows to land, and he knows how to avoid blows by a hair, moving no more than is necessary. He knows how to work in close so that when a blow is thrown he remains within punching distance.

  He knows that the feet should be placed in a certain way for the maximum punching power, and that certain combinations of punches can be thrown to take advantage of his opponents' efforts, and that if the punches are thrown in sequence the openings will be there when the fists arrive.

  Halloran had boxed a lot. He also had seen many fights. He had seen bruisers demolished by smaller men who knew what they were about. Sam Calkins knew much of this, how much he did not know. Halloran had been about with some of the great ones, like Jem Mace. The English gypsy was one of the cleverest fighters of his time, who had worked out many of the most advanced tactics in boxing. Yet a boxer must have good competition, for he will not improve beyond the talent required to win over the opponent he faces. The better the competition, the better the fighter; and Halloran knew nothing of the sort of boxing Mayo had done. Had he really faced good men? Or just the common run of country boys with whom he had brawled for the sport of it?

  "I'll be in your corner if I can," he said. "Duty may prevent it. I don't know yet."

  When he had gone they finished their coffee and walked outside. Down the street was another tent with the sign BEDS. Pratt shook his head when Cris pointed it out. "There's a hotel here, and you'll need rest, not drunks staggerin' in at all hours an' card games a--goin'. Cost a mite more, but worth it."

  They found a room, paid fifty cents for it, and borrowing a whisk broom he saw at the desk, Gris carefully brushed his clothes and his hat. Then he wiped off his brogans. They were scarred and shabby, but still intact He washed his striped shirt out and hung it to dry.

  "Didn't you say you had a carpetbag on that first train?"

  "I did."

  "Gimme a description and a note and I'll hunt 'er up for you. Meanwhile, you better get some rest." He glanced at the wet shirt. "You're not goin' anywheres for a while."

  When Rep had left, Cris stretched out on the bed in his underwear. He clasped his hands behind his head and thought.

  The fight with Sam Calkins had been a logical development. If he defeated Calkins he would have two hundred dollars and he could go on to the west, maybe to California where the McCleans were headed. Brennan might advise him on that. He had no desire to continue fighting, and no real wish to work on the railroad. What he wanted was what he had always wanted, land of his own and a chance to raise the kind of horses he had handled in Ireland.

  He had worked as a fisherman, a seaman, and a farm hand. He had cut peat, made hay, and worked with a pick and shovel, a saw and hammer, and as much as he liked the using of tools he longed for a chance to do something more. Land was for the taking, and that would be the first thing.

  He thought of Maire. Was she married by now? Wed to that spalpeen they had planned for her? He'd like to go back and show them. He'd like to go back, owning land and cattle and horses and a dozen new suits, and strut around and show them what Crispin Mayo could do.

  Much as he wished for it, he knew that it was childish. That he had first to make a place for himself here. Calkins, by his bullying tactics, had opened a door for the chance to make money quicker. His thoughts strayed to Barda, but she was an American colonel's daughter and would have no use for a penniless immigrant Irishman. Why, there were places in the States where an Irishman was not even permitted to go!

  Where there were signs advising No Irish Need Apply!

  He got up, did fifty squats, as many push--ups and sit--ups. He had been doing them for years, morning and evening, unless he was too tired from the work. They were something his uncle had started him on, years before.

  He dozed and slept. Suddenly he awakened, hearing a low mutter of voices that at first he could not place. The room was shadowed and still, the evening well along. The voices came through the thin wall.

  "... Calkins'll beat him. He ain't seen any of us, anyway. Only Murray."

  "Murray's red--eyed fightin' mad. Figures to kill the mick, but Parley don't want no trouble. Not until after. If he can keep Murray tied down till then he'll be lucky. I never seen a man so mad."

  "That mick damn near killed him. Nose an' three ribs, four, five teeth."

  "Murray ain't Calkins. You'll see. Ol' Sam will beat him to the ground. I seen him work a time or two."

  Their voices dwindled and a door closed. Cris Mayo lay quiet, thinking. Some of the Parley gang were in town. Why? Of course, they'd like to come into town to blow off steam just like anybody else. But what did that mean, "not until after?" After what?

  Was something being planned? Or did they just mean that Murray was not to be allowed to have his chance until after the fight? That must be it.

  He dozed off, slept solidly again. Whe
n he awakened it was completely dark and Pratt was still not back, but there was his carpetbag, just inside the door. Pratt must have returned, found him asleep and gone away again.

  He got up and went to the bag. So far as he could see nothing had been taken from it. He pulled on a fresh shirt, folded the one that was now dry and put it away. His finger was sore and kept getting in the way. At every moment he was bumping it.

  He got out his six--shooter, emptied it, then buckling on the gunbelt he began practicing with the gun. He had heard of the fast draw but had never attempted it. His hand was awkward at first, but he practiced simply getting a good grip and bringing the gun into position. He was naturally well--coordinated and had worked with his hands all his life, so the movements came easy, before long.

  For an hour he worked with the gun, and liked the feel of it. He made no effort to be fast, and believed he was getting the hang of it; at least, of how he thought it should work.

  He had no desire to go out on the streets so he sat down, picked up a newspaper from St. Louis that he had found lying in the room, and read through it. There was a little about the railroad, a few references to the fur trade, and much news about people of whom he had never heard.

  At Fort Sanders, Colonel McClean was seated at a table with General Haney, the railroad engineer Dodge, and one or two other officers. "By the way, McClean, that young fellow who lent you a hand is a prizefighter."

  "Mayo?" McLean was surprised. "I had no idea."

  "He's matched with Sam Calkins. The day after tomorrow, in a fight to the finish, London Prize Ring rules."

  "I am surprised," McClean said. "In the few minutes I talked with him after we were safe, he seemed quite a decent lad."

  "He could be. I've known a number of boxers who were far from the thugs they've been painted, even though the bare--knuckle fighter does not have the associations we would expect from a gentleman.

  "Anyway, from what I hear, it started with an altercation about the time they seized you. It seems that Calkins made some unpleasant remarks about the Irish, and your boy is from County Cork."

  "I'd like to see it," Dodge said. "I have never liked Calkins. He's a surly brute at best."

  "He'll kill the boy," someone said.

  "My daughter was quite impressed with him, both his conduct and his strength," McClean commented, "so I am not sure of that. Barda has been around Army camps so long that she's a pretty good judge of men."

  Colonel Seymour entered. "Gentlemen, it is settled. We have a hunt arranged. Some buffalo have been sighted over along the river; several hundred of them, in fact. We have a competent guide, a chap named Holly Barnes. He himself saw the beasts. There will be ten in the party, and we should have excellent hunting."

  "There's no chance until after our meeting, Seymour. The generals wish you to present your side of the argument, or Durrant's side, rather. Then we'll hear Dodge. So three days from now?"

  Seymour frowned. "The buffalo may have moved on. I can promise nothing."

  "If there is to be a hunt it must be then," General Haney said firmly, "it cannot be before."

  Seymour hesitated. The hunt, which he hoped would be successful, was to get them in the mood for a favorable decision, but he dared not push it against Haney's last statement. "Well, whatever you say, sir. I just hope the beasts don't drift out of the area."

  "If they do, Seymour, we will just have to postpone the pleasure, will we not? We did not come west to hunt."

  Seymour flushed. After all, this was Durrant's problem, not his. He was prepared to replace Dodge as engineer on the right--of--way if so directed, but it was Durrant who was at war with Dodge, not himself. He had always respected Dodge, who was a highly competent engineer, yet Durrani had considerable influence in many areas and he was a good man to know.

  "There's going to be a prizefight," he said, not aware that they knew; "we can go to that. Brennan is backing a man named Mayo, one of the tracklayers, against Sam Calkins, a conductor."

  "I am going, McClean," Haney said. "Will you join me?"

  "Of course. And I hope Mayo wins. I owe him a great deal."

  Barda McClean heard the news from the woman who brought her supper. Crispin Mayo was going to fight! Odd, he had never mentioned being a fighter. (Barda had not overheard his conversation with Rep on that subject.) He had talked a little of Ireland, but nothing of what he did beyond that he was recently over, and had expected to be laying track for the U.P. by now. What had changed his mind?

  She combed her hair for an unusually long time that night, thinking about Cris. When her father came in she went to him. "Papa, we should do something for Crispin Mayo. He was so brave, and so quick to help, and he saved my life and helped to save yours. We've never even thanked him properly."

  "What would you suggest?"

  "First, we might ask him to dinner. Then we could find out what he intends to do. Maybe we could help him."

  "We might," he admitted. "But the fellow is a prizefighter, Barda. There may come a time when that will not be held against a man, but most of them are toughs, associated with gamblers and all manner of low people."

  "But he seemed such a gentleman!"

  "Many men seem so. I do not wish to be unfair, but he is a stranger. If I alone were involved, it would be different; but I have a young, impressionable daughter."

  She laughed. "Not so impressionable, papa! And remember! I was alone with him, night and day, while we looked for you. He's not a stranger to me. He was always a gentleman, thoughtful and kind, and very brave."

  "By the way," he said suddenly, "we've been invited on a buffalo hunt. General Grant said I was to bring you if you wished to come."

  "Of course. I'd love to. I've never even seen one of the beasts up close."

  Chapter Twelve

  Morning, the day of the fight, dawned with a clear sky. Cris rolled out of the bed in which he had spent two long nights recouping his strength; he stretched, dressed, and went outside into the crisp clear air. It was very early and no one was about.

  He walked along the single street, his footsteps echoing hollowly against the walls. The street was muddy from the last raining, the holes still contained water but the mud was hardening.

  Brennan's place was closed, and nothing else seemed to have opened. He felt good. "And I'd better!" he told himself. For he was under no illusions. Confident as he was, he knew he had never met a fighting man of Sam Calkins' experience, nor was there any certain way to judge his ability, for they had fought no one in common. That the man was good, he was sure.

  He was also sure that today he faced his big chance. He had won a few friends here, but he had no money, and well enough he knew that without money a man could do nothing. The fight was his first and best chance; besides, he did not like Calkins.

  If the weather held, the generals would have a fine day for their hunt tomorrow, too. He envied them none at all. The only hunting he had ever done was for meat for his own table... well, to be honest, it had been partly for the sport of tricking the gamekeepers. He thought of the coming fight. He must pace himself wisely. Calkins was experienced, so Calkins would try to make him do most of the work in the early rounds. Cris must save himself, move not too much, and be careful not to be caught flat--footed.

  He paused by the corner of a building, looking at a horse across the street at the hitching rail. It was a compact bay with a black mane and tail, and it bore a brand that he had seen before. Cris knew nothing about reading brands, only that he had seen this one by clear moonlight and it had belonged to one of the horses he had helped drive away from Justin Parley's camp.

  What was it doing here? One of Parley's men still in town? This was certainly the horse he remembered. It was tied not far from Brennan's.

  He hung around for several minutes, but nobody came near the horse, so he walked back to the hotel and stretched out on the bed. It was not long before there was a knock at the door and he opened it to Reppato Pratt and Trooper Halloran.

 
; "How do you feel?" they asked in unison.

  "Fine," he said. "I walked out and stretched my legs. Are you ready to eat?"

  Halloran had eaten at the fort, but they walked together to the tent. The big cook came out and slammed down several trays on the table. He glanced sharply at Cris. "You the one who's to fight Calkins?"

  "I am."

  "Watch his left. He's good with it, and he hits almighty hard."

  "You've seen him fight?"

  "Seen him? I done fit him! He whupped me, whupped me good. He's mean, no two ways about it You'll know, this time tomorrow. An' watch him for gougin'. He'll do it. He'll have both your eyes out if you ain't careful."

  They ate in silence. Cris Mayo had forgotten about the bay horse and Justin Parley. Back at the hotel time seemed to hold still. Cris paced the floor restlessly, irritably.

  About half an hour before fight time, Brennan came around. He looked sharply at Cris. "You're ready, then?"

  "I am."

  "Come along, I've a carriage outside."

  "It's only a few hundred yards. I can--"

  "Shut up and get in." In the carriage, which was an old stagecoach, Cris leaned back against the hard cushion, Owen Brennan opposite him. "There's a lot of money bet on this," the saloon keeper said. "I've got three thousand on you myself."

  Cris blinked. "Three thousand? Dollars?"

  "That's right, and there's plenty more been bet. Colonel McClean has bet five hundred." Brennan smiled. "The odds are three to one. I am hoping to get down another thousand at four or five to one before time is called."

  Halloran had brought Cris a suit of blue tights of waist length and a pair of good, flat--soled leather shoes of light construction, such as fighters wore. He went into the walled tent saloon and put them on.

  A ring had been set up in an open space behind Brennan's Belle of the West, and seats had been tiered against the corral with the highest row along the top rail of the corral itself.

  A crowd had already gathered, and on a balcony over the back awning of the saloon a row of chairs had been placed. Two officers in blue already sat there, giving them the best view of all.