Harry roared out: ‘Not so Goddam fast. Let’s get the money comin’ in. Place your bets, gentlemen. Who’ll match a hunred on the champeen? Anybody shoutin’ a hunred?’
Men began making bets all round. A cattleman rushed forward to match Harry’s hundred. McAllister stood amazed. He had never seen money move so fast in such amounts in his life. The marshal had out his notebook and was taking money as quick as he could move as stakeholder. McAllister took a hundred dollars from his clothes and found that the odds were heavily against him, a fact that pleased him fine. He started laying bets left, right and center. He kept his ears and eyes open and as far as he could tell the only man who put money on him was Frank Deblon. Then Frank was the only man who knew him. Finally, the hubbub started to die down and Frank Deblon started clearing a circle. McAllister ran to the livery stable and exchanged his boots for the Cheyenne moccasins in his saddlebags. When he reached the scene of the fight again, there was Billy Gage ready for him, stripped to the waist, smiling, looking fresh and strong. McAllister reckoned he was going to have his work cut out.
‘Now, Rem,’ Frank said, ‘the rules around here say you have to hold your man down for a count of ten. Or you can knock him out. But no using your fists.’
‘How the hell do I knock him out, then?’
‘Use your forearm.’
McAllister frowned. He had never heard of this kind of fighting and it sounded crazy to him. But he was willing to give it a whirl. He had to—he had staked most of his money on his winning. He peeled off his new shirt, took off his gun and handed it to a bystander.
‘Best out of three throws,’ Frank said.
‘You makin’ the rules up as you go along?’ McAllister demanded.
Frank scowled.
‘Ready?’
‘Sure.’
‘Ready, Billy?’
Gage grinned and nodded, he advanced across the open space made for them and held out his hand. McAllister shook it and stepped back hastily in case it was a trick. It wasn’t. Gage circled him, his grin now reduced to a steady smile. McAllister inspected his deep chest, flat belly and developed biceps and wondered if he was as fast as he was strong. He rather hoped not and hoped that the tricks the Cheyenne had taught him would work on this man.
Two
Gage held out his hand, but McAllister didn’t reckon it was for another handshake. He gripped it, put a great pressure on it, found that it did not give and suddenly threw his whole weight backward. Gage came forward easily, too easily, passed him and whirled McAllister from his feet. To say that the big man was surprised would be to put the case mildly, but he was not too surprised to land light as a feather, to roll and come easily to his feet. He was impressed by Gage, Gage was impressed by the way he had fallen and recovered. They both respected each other from the start.
McAllister decided to go ahead with some caution, though he intended to take the fight to the other man, it not being in his character to believe that defense could bring victory. He sprang in on his opponent, Indian fashion and feinted for a hold. Suddenly Gage seemed to take fright and stepped back. McAllister went after him. Gage went back till he was almost on the toes of the onlookers, then launched himself incredibly feet-first through the air so that his feet smashed into McAllister’s face before the big man could duck. He was knocked backward hard, hit the ground hard and lay almost stunned.
Woozily he got to his feet, hazily surprised that Gage had not followed through and dropped on him.
‘I thought,’ he said indistinctly, ‘that kicking wasn’t allowed.’
‘I’m real sorry, Rem,’ Frank said apologetically. ‘I forgot to tell you. That’s a drop-kick. That’s allowed.’
‘Hell,’ McAllister said. ‘If there’re any more rules, tell me now—like, is he goin’ to use a knife or a club on me.’
That brought a howl of delight from the onlookers. They put him down as a green hand at fighting and the betting started up again, but there were few willing to bet on McAllister. He was the real outsider now. But Frank wasn’t put off and, although acting as referee, took another bet for fifty dollars on McAllister with the man Harry.
McAllister was shaken, but his confidence was still intact. He just felt as if his jaw had been kicked by a mule. He advanced on Gage, got into a hand grip with him, broke it with a use of strength and speed, got a grip on the back of the man’s head and under his jaw and hurled him across the open space. He bounced once and went into the crowd. They threw him back in and yelled at him. He got to his feet, looking a little ruffled. His fine golden body was covered with dust and he was spitting the stuff out of his mouth. He gave McAllister a little grin and came back into the fight looking a little cautious. McAllister waded in. Gage hit him in the face with his right forearm with a force that rattled his teeth, got a lock on his arm, rolled him over his left thigh, turned him and landed him on the ground on his back. In a second he had him spreadeagled and his shoulders on the ground.
Frank started to count: ‘One … two … three …’
McAllister got his right arm free, darted his hand under Gage’s leg and pinched him on the soft flesh of his inner thigh with all his strength. Gage made a sound like a scream, tried to escape, McAllister rolled and threw him free. Gage fell on his back and McAllister dropped both knees into his belly. The sound he got out was like a dying church organ.
‘That’s against the rules,’ Frank shouted.
McAllister got to his feet and roared: ‘I’ve had all the rules I can Goddam well swallow. Let’s git on with the fight.’ The crowd was baying loudly now. Gage got to his feet looking slightly sick. McAllister hit him in the belly with a forearm and felt very virtuous and law-abiding by so doing. Gage doubled with a look of distant amazement in his eyes. McAllister took him by the left wrist, whirled him off his feet and hurled him into the crowd again. The crowd threw him back. Gage lay there for a moment and Frank started counting again. Gage didn’t get to his feet by six. He rose slowly on eight. He looked dazed and as if he would like to part with his breakfast.
McAllister advanced for the kill.
Gage exploded in front of his eyes, got an arm around McAllister’s neck and tossed him across the ring as if he weighed no more than a child of two. McAllister landed well, bounced to his feet, came back in, didn’t get a grip and was thrown again. This time he didn’t land too well and got to his feet, slower, chastened and not so full of fight. The men with their money on Gage, and that was most of them, howled their triumph, telling Gage to get in there and kill the bastard. Frank looked a little anxious.
McAllister came in slowly, backed up from a couple of tries from Gage and then Gage tried another kick to the face. He almost made contact, but McAllister moved just in time and Gage measured his length on the ground. This time he didn’t land well and got to his feet looking as if he had quarreled with a Kentucky mule. McAllister hit him a couple of times in the face with a hard forearm to keep him dazed, performed an adequate flying-mare, dropped both knees into his belly and knelt on Gage’s shoulders as he had seen Gage try to do to him. He guessed that was the proper thing by the rules Frank hadn’t told him. Gage fought him muscle against muscle and McAllister knew then just how strong a boy he had there. He knew he couldn’t hold him. So he rose slowly as though tired. Gage also started to his feet, slowly. McAllister drove his right knee into Gage’s face, knocking him flat on the ground again and once more dropped on both knees on the man’s belly. This time it was easier to hold his shoulders down.
Frank started counting.
He didn’t stop till he got to ten. He told McAllister to get off and back up. McAllister did as he was told. The crowd looked as if it would like to maim him. Harry looked as if he would like to cut his throat. McAllister looked pleased with himself and strutted around a little.
Harry got Gage to his feet and poured a bucket of water over him. Then he gave Gage a drink of water. McAllister took a bottle of whiskey from an onlooker and took a good swig from it. Then ma
n didn’t object.
‘Start fightin’,’ Frank said.
McAllister felt good now. The two men advanced on each other, got hand grips and started to strain. To McAllister’s surprise Gage was in full strength. His surprise must have showed because Gage gave him a quick grin, forced him to his knees, broke the grip, hit him in the throat with a flat hand, kneed him in the face and tried to get a strangle hold on him with his arms from behind. McAllister, straining every rawhide muscle in his hard body, bore the man to his feet, threw himself backward and tried to break the hold that way. But he didn’t succeed. When his sight started to go under the terrible pressure he started to worry a little. He drove his elbows into the man’s belly, but that didn’t get him anywhere. When he had almost blacked out, Gage did something he didn’t understand and he found himself flat on his back with Gage kneeling on his shoulders.
Frank started to count.
‘One … two … three …’
The crowd went berserk.
McAllister threw himself this way and that, failed to get free that way, then got his legs after a supreme physical effort around Gage’s neck and threw him clear. He got to his feet as fast as he could, but shakily, but Gage hurled himself back into the attack and in half a second flat had him on the ground again and Frank started to count once more. By now the sweat was pouring off McAllister and he could feel his strength leaving him. He tried everything he knew, but he couldn’t dislodge the man astride him.
Frank counted to ten.
They both got to their feet. Gage was grinning widely and he shook his clasped hands above his head. The crowd cheered and Harry danced a little dance of pure joy. Gage had more cold water on his face and drank a little. McAllister found the man with the whiskey bottle and took a large gulp. That made him feel a little better.
‘Lay off that stuff if you want to win,’ Frank told him angrily.
‘What do you mean “want to win”?’ McAllister demanded. ‘I’m goin’ to win.’
Frank looked doubtful. He was starting to hate McAllister. He had put a lot of money on him.
Gage started to soften McAllister up for the kill. He threw him six different ways, one after the other, and each time McAllister got to his feet looking worse. The crowd started to jeer him. He swore tiredly back at them. Once he managed to throw Gage, but the professional hit him in the throat with a flat hand and nearly knocked him out. By now McAllister looked a mess. When he got to his feet, he looked around for a bit before he found his foe. The crowd thought that was great; they slapped their thighs and kiyacked. They were loving every minute of it.
Gage threw him into the crowd, they tossed him back. He got to his hands and knees and looked up at Gage through black matted hair. The end wasn’t far off.
He climbed to his feet and Gage advanced on him. He backed up and this time a flicker of fear went across his face. The crowd were demanding for Gage to kill him again. Gage threw him again and this time he didn’t land too badly and came to his feet fairly well.
Then suddenly, he erupted.
Body parallel to the ground, his feet smashed into Gage’s face, catching him on the point of the jaw. The crowd heard the impact and were stilled to a man.
The professional went over as if he had been pole-axed.
McAllister landed lightly and was on his feet in one moment.
Frank started counting.
Harry was yelling for Gage not to act like a Goddam woman and to get on his feet and fight, he had a fortune on him and if he lost it for him he’d take it out of his hide. Gage made a supreme effort to rise, raised himself on stiff arms that quivered uncontrollably with the effort and fell on his face in the dust.
Frank reached seven.
The crowd was frantic, like Harry it danced and raved. Like Harry it saw itself losing a lot of money on the fight. McAllister was mentally counting his profit.
Frank reached nine.
Harry rushed across the ring and leaned over Gage, yelling furiously for him to get up and quit fooling. Gage didn’t stir.
Frank reached ten.
McAllister said: ‘It was that water you give him to drink. A man can’t fight on water.’ He reached out for the whiskey bottle, took it from nerveless fingers (the owner had lost twenty-five dollars on the fight) and drank deep. He and Frank started to collect the money owing to them. Harry threw another bucket of water over the defeated champion; the big blond man stirred slightly. Harry rolled him over and started to slap his face. He put a lot of energy into it. McAllister was stuffing money into his pockets. The crowd started to break up. Frank came over, grinning all over his face.
‘Time we had that drink,’ he said.
Gage sat up and looked like a house had fallen on him. McAllister heaved him to his feet. The blond man’s good-xsnature was still with him. He gave McAllister a battered grin and said: ‘That sure was a lulu. Where’d you learn to fight like that?’ He had difficulty in using his jaw.
‘The Cheyenne,’ McAllister told him. ‘They sure do like to rassle.’
Harry yelled: ‘What got into you? What the hell come over you? You know how much I got on you? You just ruined me. That’s all you just did—you ruined me.’
‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ Gage said, genuine regret on his open face. ‘I’m real sorry. Let’s hope we don’t meet up with this hellion again.’
‘Bein’ sorry don’t do nothin’ about the money I lost.’
McAllister said: ‘Harry, you give me a pain. Why don’t you git the hell outa here?’
The man stopped dead. The anger washed from his face and he looked at McAllister with pure hatred.
Gage said: ‘Now, boys, don’t let’s have no bad feelin’. Harry’s upset and I guess that’s understandable. I’d be if I’d bet heavily on a feller an’ lost. Come on, McAllister, I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘I thought you didn’t drink.’
‘I’ll have a sarsaparilla.’
They pulled on their shirts and walked with Frank Deblon to the Bull’s Head. They left Harry paying out and swearing. In the saloon there were a few more men than earlier. McAllister walked up to the bar and said: ‘Whiskey, two glasses an’ a sarsaparilla an’ if you so much as smile when you pour it I’ll decorate my saddle with your ears.’
The man didn’t smile. He’d seen McAllister in action and lost ten dollars on him. The whiskey and the sarsaparilla came. They drank. They found a table and talked. Gage told them about himself. Harry Shultz had found him in New York and seen him fight and had offered to manage him. Gage was no businessman so he’d liked the idea. Now they were touring the West taking on all-comers. They made four challenges in one go: fist-fighting, running, putting the weight and wrestling. So far Billy Gage had never been beaten and they were making money. It was a good life and would continue to be if some more McAllisters didn’t appear on the scene.
Frank Deblon and McAllister got several whiskeys under their belts and they talked. Billy Gage was a nice fellow and McAllister like him. Gage said again how grateful he was that McAllister had saved him out on the prairie and he couldn’t say how sorry he was that he hadn’t stopped to help McAllister, but business was business and he had to win the race. McAllister said don’t give it a thought. He and Frank drank some more. They were feeling good because they had won a lot of money. Frank said it beat being a marshal any day of the week. Gage stayed sober as a judge and it was a bit embarrassing having him sitting there clear-eyed and clear-headed.
Harry Shultz came in, gave McAllister a savage look and went to the bar for a drink. Billy Gage made some excuses for him—Harry was feeling bad. He had every reason to, he’d lost a lot of money and a man had reason to be mad when he’d done that, didn’t they think so? They reckoned Billy was about right.
Where was Billy headed for next? McAllister asked. They were going west to the next town, Clanton. Why, if that wasn’t a coincidence, McAllister exclaimed. He had some friends someplace north of Clanton and he was on his way to visit with them
.
‘Say, that’s great,’ Gage told him, his honest face beaming, ‘we could meet up in Clanton. You could see me compete. They have a good boy over there and the town is puttin’ up a lot against me.’
‘You mean there’s a local champion?’
‘Yeah. This feller claims he can out-run and out-fight and out-jump me. His old man’s backing him to a tune of something like a thousand dollars.’
McAllister and Deblon whistled their appreciation of such a princely sum. If that was the stake of one man, what would all the accumulated bets amount to? Their respect for Billy Gage heightened. He told them about the Clanton champion. Young fellow about his own age and with a local reputation for toughness and wildness. His old man was the big auger in the country. He could control a cattle empire and an army of riders, but he couldn’t do nothing with his own son. They nodded. It was often the way. McAllister was enthusiastic. He’d sure like to see Gage take this boy on.
‘My money’ll be on you, son,’ he told Billy. ‘I seen you run and I’ve felt how you can fight.’
They all laughed.
Harry Shultz came up. He was mad all through still and his eyes snapped angrily. It was time Gage took a bath and a rub down. He couldn’t lounge around like other folk. He was a champion in training. He’d taken a beating from McAllister and that showed that Shultz would have to tighten up. He hauled Gage out of there and the big blond man went meek as a lamb.
McAllister looked after them. He felt a little sorry for Gage. The boy was nothing better than a performing bear. Then he forgot about him. He and Frank got to drinking in earnest, swapping yarns and talking of old times, such as when they had been town marshals together down in Fort Griffin, Texas. That sure had been a wild town. These northern cowtowns were nothing more than kindergartens compared with them. Why, do you remember the time when …? It went on like that for a long time. They laughed, they slapped each other on the back, they demanded another bottle, it came and they shrank its contents a little more than slightly.
Blood on Mcallister Page 2
