The crowd was made up of railroad workers, town toughs, soldiers, gamblers, a few women of the louder sort, and a general gathering of townsmen, freighters and the like. Suddenly Colonel McClean appeared on the balcony.
"Gentlemen? Gentlemen!" The crowd turned to look. "I have instructed these men," he indicated two soldiers on either side of the balcony, both armed with rifles, "to shoot anyone who attempts to tear down the ring or lay hands on either of the fighters. I might add that each of these men is a sharpshooter."
There was a cheer from some, a raucous yell from others. He sat down.
Cris climbed into the ring, his coat over his bare shoulders.
Sam Calkins soon appeared. Cris knew when he came by the wild yells of his backers and a whispered word from Halloran, but he did not turn around or otherwise pay attention. "He'll be rough," Halloran said, "and he's great at backheeling."
"You've told me that forty times," said Cris.
The referee was a burly sergeant from the fort. He examined their fingernails and, amid loud complaints, ordered those of Calkins trimmed shorter.
Lifting his hands for silence he said, "London Prize Ring rules will hold here! A knockdown is the end of a round. Any part of the body other than the soles of the feet touching the ground is a down, and the round is ended."
He turned, glanced at the timekeeper, and at a signal from him shouted, "Time!"
Both men came up to the scratch and began to circle warily. Sam Calkins' body was hard with muscle, hairy, and obviously powerful. Cris Mayo's was smoother, whiter, and even more powerfully muscled in the biceps and shoulders, though Calkins was the broader.
Calkins stabbed out with a left but Mayo withdrew easily. Sam feinted, but Cris did not respond. Calkins was out to make him expend himself in the early rounds and although he had never tired during the early part of a fight, Cris was determined to make Calkins come to him. Calkins tried again with a feint, but Mayo circled away from it.
"Go get him, Sam!" somebody yelled. "He's scared."
Calkins worked in closer. He was quick. He suddenly moved forward and struck hard with a left and a right Cris made the left miss but was slow and the right caught him a jolting blow on the chest. It hurt him none at all, but did indicate that there was no joke about Calkins' punching power.
Cris stepped back, the crowd taunting and yelling, and Calkins suddenly rushed, punching hard with both hands. Cris went into him, ducking his head to miss the blows, and catching Calkins about the waist heaved him suddenly from the ground and dropped him.
Sam was too quick. It was an attempt to end the round, but the larger man landed easily on his feet and struck hard. The blow was completely unexpected. Cris had believed that the bigger man would go down into the dust and had stepped back as he let go, momentarily dropping his hands. The right Sam Calkins threw as he hit the ground flat on his feet caught Cris between the eyes and felled him in his tracks.
Wild yells came from the crowd and many cheers for Sam, who strutted back to his corner and sat down on the stool.
Cris walked back to his corner, shaking his head. The blow had dazed him, shaken him to his heels, and taught him not to take anything for granted.
A minute's rest and the bell rang, and Sam Calkins came out smiling, "This will be easy, Irish! Easy!" he said.
Cris feinted, then landed a jolting right to the ribs. It was the punch he wanted, and he ducked under a left and hooked a blow to the same spot. They closed, slugging viciously, toe to toe.
Neither gave ground and the crowd was roaring. Cris could feel his fists smashing home and suddenly his blood was up and he fell into a rhythm of punching, smashing blow after blow, he could feel himself taking punches but he did not care. He loved the fighting for the sake of it, gloried in the smash and drive of blows, the fierceness of the contest.
It was Calkins who gave ground first, and Cris drove on after him. Calkins suddenly grabbed him, backheeled him and again Cris hit the dust. He hit hard and there were taunting yells and cheers for Sam. The end of the second round.
The pace had been terrific but he felt great. The knockdown meant nothing, for this was no contest to be decided upon points. There could be only one end to this, when a man was down and unable to toe the scratch within the allotted time. And Cris felt good. He was warmed up, he was moving well, and Sam's hardest punches seemed to have only jolted him.
Sam Calkins moved in now, steadily. Cris circled to the left, away from Sam's vaunted left hand. Cris stabbed with a straight left to the mouth, but it was short. Instantly he tried the same punch, stepping in with it. The blow landed solidly, and there was a cheer from his backers as a tiny trickle of blood came from Calkins' mouth.
"First blood for Mayo!" someone shouted up on the balcony, and Calkins bulled in, landing two wicked punches to the body. He crowded Cris, landing on the body and again on the head. He smashed a right that cut Cris' ear, and Cris threw a left that all but missed, catching Sam only with the little--finger edge of his hand.
A vicious stab of pain went through him and he almost cried out. The crowd noticed and so did Sam Calkins, but neither knew what caused the pain, for Cris' maimed finger was tucked out of sight in his fist. Sam crowded in, hitting him with a right to the chin, then another right. Cris hooked a left to the ribs under the right hand, and then smashed three more to the same spot, trip--hammer style. Calkins backed off hurriedly and Cris followed him, catching him off balance with a right. It was not a hard punch but it came at the proper moment and Calkins went down in a sitting position.
Sam Calkins moved around, looking Cris over as the new round began. The idea that Cris might tire in the early rounds did not seem to be working out. Sam suddenly started in and Cris circled to the right, then stabbed a left that was short, but he kept on going in and slammed two hard rights to the ribs.
"You won't hurt me there, boy!" Sam taunted. He hit Cris with a short right that rocked him to his heels, then stabbed a left to the face and when they clinched, tried to gouge Cris' eye with a thumb. Cris smashed down with his skull on the bridge of Calkins' nose; when the bigger man drew back, he whipped over a right that staggered Calkins and sent him into the ropes.
Cris followed up and ran into a right fist that set him back on his heels and then he went on in, punching with both hands. Calkins fought back viciously; in another clinch, he backheeled Cris and as he started to fall Calkins hit hard with his right. Cris was falling away from the blow but it stunned him. He went to his knees and there was a call of "Time!"
Halloran came quickly to the center of the ring and helped Cris back to his stool.
"That's it! You got him, Sam! It's all over but the shoutin'!"
The next round came and Halloran, worried now, pushed Cris from his stool. Sam Calkins rushed in, swinging with both fists. Solid blows hit Cris, staggered him, buckled his knees, and he almost went down, then' he fell into Calkins and hit him in the ribs with another punch. Hanging on, Cris fought with sheer muscular power Sam's efforts to throw him to the ground.
He hung on, struggled, then pinned Calkins' left arm under his right and spun the bigger man forward, turning him so swiftly that Calkins went up on his tiptoes, fighting for balance. Cris gave him a solid smash to the body, and a blow that glanced off Sam's head as he ducked.
Cris held his chin low and circled, his hands milling slowly before him. Sam threw his left and Cris went under it with a solid smash to the ribs that made Sam wince; rolling at the hips, Cris threw his left into the belly, and then rolling back, a right to the head. Calkins staggered and was barely able to stay up.
Suddenly and for the first time Sam Calkins seemed to realize that this was one battle he might lose. The idea was shocking, and he ripped into Cris with both hands, staggering him, smashing him with an elbow that started the blood from a cut over the right eye, then digging a wicked left into Cris' midsection.
Mayo fought back, grimly, bitterly. The bigger man rode him with his extra weight, tripped him, batte
red him, drove him to the edge of the ring and burned his body by twisting him against the ropes. Mayo hooked to the ear, then burying his head on Calkins' chest he backed him up with a fury of driving punches.
Calkins, butting with his head, stabbing with his thumbs, finally tripped Mayo and sent him down again.
Both men went to their corners. "How you doin'?" Pratt asked.
"All right," Cris replied, and realized suddenly that what he said was true. He had been battered, harried and driven by Calkins' punches but he was still breathing with ease, and, although bloody, was in good shape.
He walked out quickly with the call of time. Calkins feinted a left, then followed through and the punch surprised Cris and he went down again.
As the new round began, Cris Mayo deliberately threw a punch high. Calkins ducked under it, bringing his chin down for Mayo's uppercut. This had been the punch he had been warned that Sam himself would use, and as it lifted Sam from his feet and he started to fall, running in on him Cris hit him a swinging left that dropped Calkins in a heap.
As the new round began, Calkins slammed down with right fist on Mayo's wounded hand. He had finally seen the maimed finger, then. Cris ground his teeth with pain; Sam laughed, then feinted and smashed a right to the wound, then another one. They wrestled in a clinch and looking past Sam Calkins' head, Mayo saw Murray standing in Calkins' corner, grinning. His nose was bandaged, the grin showed a long gap between his teeth that hadn't been there before, and he held himself stiffly because of the broken ribs. Obviously he had told Sam about the wound.
Calkins smashed down on the hand with his elbow and Mayo cringed with the pain of it. Suddenly, a terrible rage welled up from deep inside him and burst in a sudden flame in his skull. Maddened with pain, he smashed Calkins with a right, then put both hands to the pit of the stomach. Calkins backed up, his face gray, and Cris hit him again, a hard right this time that split the skin over his left eye, then a hook to the body, another smashing right. Sam started to fall but Cris moved in, catching him around the waist with his left hand.
He hooked three short, wicked blows to the head, then pushing Calkins away he threw a high hard right to the chin. Sam Calkins' eyes glazed and he fell, and in that instant, Murray's hand came up and there was a gun in it.
There was no place to hide, nor was Cris Mayo looking for one. The impetus of his blow had swung him half around as the gun lifted and he used that impetus to throw himself straight at Murray. Murray, suddenly seeing those dreaded fists coming for him, fired much too quickly. The bullet whipped by Cris' head and Cris' right hand swung over and down.
Men, jammed in and crowded close, shoved backwards at his sudden rush. The blow descended, caught Murray on the shoulder, and he dropped to the ground, losing his hold on his gun.
Soldiers rushed in, pushing spectators aside, and the two sharpshooters sprang forward, but somehow Murray slipped through the legs of the mob and was gone.
Cris Mayo turned to the ring, but Sam Calkins was down and he was not getting up.
Chapter Thirteen
Brennan was waiting for Cris when he returned to his corner. "A fine fight, Mayo, a fine fight." From his pocket he pulled two hundred dollars. "Winner take all, and you take it fair and square."
"Thanks, Mr. Brennan."
"Are you going to fight again?"
Cris shrugged. "I may, I'd not like to say I wouldn't; but with this I can get some kind of start. You've done well for yourself, Mr. Brennan, and maybe another Irishman can do as well."
"That brings me to something else," Owen Brennan said. "I won money on you today. A good bit of it. On such occasions it's my way to do as they often do in Ireland and England. I'll share my winnings with you. I won more than five thousand dollars... I won't tell you how much more... but I am adding one thousand dollars to your two hundred."
Cris was startled. "One thousand dollars?" It seemed too generous to be true.
"Come to my place tomorrow, I'll have it for you. But if I were you, I'd be careful. I've seen some of the Parley outfit in town; besides, that scum Murray that tried to gun you, he won't have gone far."
Reppato Pratt dropped a hand to his gun, loosening it in the holster. "You sure 'bout that? Parley's men here?"
"Well, they used to run with that crowd, and I haven't seen some of them around Laramie until the past few days."
"I'd like a chance at Murray," growled Rep. "Cris was right atween us an' I didn't dast shoot at the skunk. But he wants killin' real bad."
So Crispin Mayo now owned twelve hundred dollars, more money than he had seen in all the previous years of his life. To him it was a fabulous fortune, but the money brought caution. For too long he had been poor, and now this money opened doors that would otherwise be closed to him. Yet what to do, which door to choose? That needed careful thought.
Land, of course, but where? Also he must find the right horses, a good stallion and some mares. He would be wise to consult with Owen Brennan, who had come here in much the same condition as himself, and also with Colonel McClean who must know a lot about the available stock of horses in the country. If he did not know, he would be acquainted with those who would.
Cris walked back to the hotel with Reppato and Halloran. Once in their room, Pratt squatted on his heels against the wall. "Cris, you sit tight. I aim to sort of perambulate about an' see what I can uncover."
"You don't think Justin Parley has given up?" Cris asked.
"Ain't the type. He's sot in his ways, is Justin. I seen it when I was there. Silver Dick is cautious, but he's the planner too, though he don't let Parley realize it. Del Robb, well, you got to watch Del. Like Murray, he's apt to shoot most anybody for most anything."
Cris had heard this before, but he failed to see how it could matter to him now. Parley would certainly not raid the town, and when Cris left it would be to go west on the train. Barda McClean was with her father at the fort, hence safe.
He soaked his face in warm water after they had gone, holding a cloth against his swollen eye. That eye was nearly closed, and the cut above it was deep. His hands, too, were battered and swollen from the tremendous beating he had given them in pounding Calkins. The scab was knocked off the little finger, which required some rough bandaging.
Some boxing people were talking about gloves to protect a fighter's hands, and Cris was all for it. More often than not before a fight had gone far a fighter's hands were so swollen that he feared to hit as hard as possible. Gloves would certainly save a fighter's hands; what would happen to the opponent when a man need no longer worry about how hard he threw a punch was another thing. He had seen the kind of gloves they talked about, and some fighters were already using them in sparring sessions, and they did little if anything to save one's opponent. But they must help a fellow's hands.
It was nearly dark when he finally finished working on his battered carcass. He had found many sore places in his muscles, and more bruises than he had realized he was collecting during the fight. He had used up half a bottle of horse liniment and most of a tin of blue ointment that Rep had bought for him yesterday, and he was rather slippery and very fragrant. He lay down on the bed, hoping to catch a short nap before the others came back.
Halloran had been let off duty as one of the escort for the hunting party because of the fight, and someone was going tomorrow in his place. He could just as well have gone, Cris reflected, for the fight was over and his services were no longer required.
He was almost asleep when he thought of the bay horse. He must speak to Rep about that. He must find out whose horse it was. Anything to do with Parley was important.
He was awakened suddenly by a rapping on his door, and he opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling for a moment, trying to recall where he was. The rapping continued and he called out, "Just a minute!" and rolled off the bed.
He was stiff and sore. Outside the light was gray, and he suddenly realized that he must have slept all night He staggered to the door, only half awake. It was Rep,
and Trooper Halloran with him.
"How're y' doin' there, boy? Still alive?" Rep asked, grinning.
"Just barely. I've got sore bones such as I never felt before. That Calkins," he said, "he could really punch."
"I been gamblin' all night," said Rep, and looked abashed. "Lost both o' my horses, too, but had the sense to quit while I still had m' weepons."
Suddenly the thought came back that had bothered Cris as he was falling asleep. "Rep, while I'm thinking about it: which one of the Parley outfit owns a pretty bay horse with a black mane and tail? The brand is a straight line with another straight line above it, and three vertical lines rising from that."
"If you're going to stay out West, Cris, you better take a course in brand readin'. That's the Lazy E--Bar. Holly Barnes owns that horse, and I wish I did."
Halloran turned sharply. "Holly Barnes? That can't be. He's the guide for the generals' hunting party."
Crispin Mayo felt himself grow suddenly cold. His hands, feeling gingerly of his swollen face, stopped in their movement. The generals, all of them, going out to hunt buffalo with one of the Parley outfit for a guide. That could not be an accident.
"Hal," he asked, "how did that come about? Do you know?"
"Durrant arranged the party. You know, that railroad man who's in the dispute with Dodge over the right--of--way. Somebody told him of this Barnes who had been talking about seeing buffalo to the north near the creek, so Durrant sent a man to hire him to guide the party." Halloran stared at Rep, then Cris. "You say Barnes is one of the Parley gang? Who tried to kidnap Sherman, but got McClean?"
"That's right, Hal. Only now they have one of their men leadin' the whole outfit--Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Haney, Dodge, everyone--taking them right where Parley wants them."
"Holly might have quit Parley," Rep said slowly. "He might have."
"Would you bet on it?" Cris demanded.
"No, I surely wouldn't," Rep said. "Tell you what I found out, too: a lot more of Parley's old pals are in town. His crew has growed since we tangled with it."
the Man from Skibbereen (1973) Page 12
