by Jack Tunney
The steak sitting in front of me no longer looked appetizing.
"So, you and Benson thought you were going to come up here and strike it rich?"
"Yep," I said hollowly. "That was the plan."
"What will you do now?" she asked.
"We'll probably go back to San Francisco and get jobs working on the docks if we can."
She looked disappointed angry. Our conversation faltered and we had little to do other than eat as quickly as possible and get out of the place. The ride back to the mine was quiet.
Unsettled clouds had drifted down from the higher peaks where a summer thunderstorm had erupted. The chill was palpable, but it wasn't the first hints of autumn that forced my skin to turn to goose bumps, it was the suddenly cool relationship.
ROUND 5
Benson's face fell, his shoulders dropped and he sat heavy on the cot when I told him the news about the treasure. The news hit him hard even though, while I was out, he had sneaked into the dynamite locker and done his own snooping. As a result, he was already beginning to reach the conclusion the treasure had been found. However, the confirmation from me still stung. Sometimes, even just the glimmer of hope is enough to keep a man’s dreams going, but when that glimmer is extinguished completely, utter reality can be an incredibly harsh herald.
Maggie had little to do with me after that weekend. I struggled with the feelings I had for her, which were growing in me like a seed forgotten from the season before. Benson was ready to go back to San Francisco, but I wanted to stay.
For Benson the decision was easy. He didn't particularly like the outdoors, saying it reminded him too much of the Army. I wanted to at least stay for the fight, which suddenly became a big deal after the boss announced to everyone he had a challenger for Balthazar "Buoy" Magnusson.
The mine was alive with activity, the faces of the miners glowed with unkempt anticipation. When Karsten brought Gil "Buffalo" Smith over and introduced him to the miners, a shout went up like they had all struck it rich.
***
The day before the fight, we erected a ring in the field a short distance away from camp. Benson's enthusiasm for work, or anything other than going back to San Francisco, was down for the count. I tried cheering him up as best I could, but he was pained by the loss of a dream, and worried about returning to the docks.
I shared his concern about returning to the city. Could we get our jobs back? Or were we wanted by the police? What news we were able to get from the local paper, only said the whole fire at the docks was still under investigation.
But then fight day was upon us and my worrying had to be set aside.
The lumberjacks and lumberyard workers arrived in cars, piled high in the backs of trucks, and on the odd motorcycle. Buoy arrived, sitting tall in the back of a convertible, to the thunderous shouts from the lumberjacks. The miners barely put forth a showing with their boos and catcalls.
I hoped when the fight started things would change, as sometimes the crowd was the deciding factor in a fight. Although we had a pro, I was still worried since I had never seen Buoy fight before.
***
The bell rang and the two fighters put their fists up and approached each other slowly in the middle of the ring. Buoy's long jab struck out, and just glanced off Buffalo's gloves. But the distance was incredible, he had at least an eighty inch reach. Buffalo was going to be in trouble unless he could get inside.
Buffalo covered up and plowed in like a tank breaking through a battle line, straight forward. His jab struck like a snake as he pushed through Buoy's defenses to stand in the relative calm inside his reach. He started punching away at Buoy's midsection like he was chopping down trees, short power packed punches set to wear down the lumberjack.
The crowd erupted with activity. Lumberjack or miner, they all yelled with gusto at the onslaught Buffalo let loose on Buoy. With wide shoulders and a bull neck, Buffalo looked like his namesake locked in battle with a reckless matador.
Buoy pushed Buffalo back with all his strength and sent him into the middle of the ring. Buffalo looked confident and lowered his arms, just before turning southpaw on Buoy. He came in quick and led with a series of sizzling jabs, and landed a strong uppercut, sending Buoy back into the ropes.
Dazed by the hit, Buoy held his hands up and tried to set up a jab, but the quick hits from Buffalo easily made it through. Buoy’s face was bloody and red from the blows, his mouth was hanging open and he was trying to grasp any air he could. Buffalo pushed him around the ring for the rest of the round, punishing his body relentlessly with brawling muscle packed power.
When the bell rang, Buoy walked tiredly to his corner, and plopped onto his stool.
Maggie stood behind the assembled group of men. Few other women were in attendance, just the wives or girlfriends of the men. Most just sat with one another and looked at the fight with disdain. Maggie studied both fighters like a general looking for a flaw in a battle plan.
"How’re you doing, Maggie?" I asked, coming up beside her.
Startled, she jumped a little. "I thought you and Benson would be gone by now?"
"I wanted to see how the fight turned out," I said honestly. "I like Buffalo. He’s a good fighter and a good guy."
"I heard you’ve been sparring with him," she said, glancing my way for a moment. "Does he have a chance?"
"I think so," I said apprehensively. "I just don't know very much about Buoy. He’s big and has some skill with his mitts. If he gets his body behind a good hit, the guy he hits is going down, pro or not."
"Well, for my pa’s sake, I hope Buffalo can pull it off. I just found out Pa bet the mine and all the money we had left with the owner of the lumberyard, Mr. Parsons."
I was looking at Maggie like a fool with my mouth hanging open when the bell rang for round two.
Buoy came out looking stronger than at the end of the first. His face was cleaned up as his corner men had managed to stop the flow of blood from a cut above his eye.
Buffalo still looked strong and settled. He went in southpaw and jabbed. Buoy was ready for it this time, covering up instead of leaving his paw out in front of him like a lance. He let the combinations fall on his arms and gloves, then sneaked out a jab of his own to push Buffalo back into the danger zone. Buoy started striking with jabs keeping Buffalo back. He kept moving him until Buffalo hit the ropes with his back and got stuck in the corner.
My eyes went wide, and I pushed my way ringside to Buffalo's corner. By time I got there, Buoy was beating Buffalo senseless with a barrage of strikes. Buffalo couldn't escape from the long armed behemoth who kept him cornered. I shouted for him to cover up and get out, to bull his way to the center where he could fight his own fight, but he couldn't hear me over the crushing sound of the crowd. Being the brawler, he probably thought he could take it.
Buffalo, shot a quick combination of jabs, covered his face and charged to the left of Buoy to escape the onslaught. Buoy bent his knees and hit Buffalo with an uppercut that easily went through his arms and caught him on the chin. Buffalo's arms dropped and his eyes swam in their sockets.
Fists of granite, that was what Buoy had. He cocked his right arm back and held his left up to measure the distance. Buffalo was fumbling to get his arms up, not sure how they worked, when the right-cross slammed into his face, followed by a left like a locomotive crashing into a wall. Blood burst from his face, and Buffalo's nose turned to mush.
Buoy pounded him hard to the body and head. Buffalo fell against the ropes. He was out on his feet. The ref stood dumbfounded at the spectacle, eyes glazed like animal transfixed with fear. Martin scrambled frantically, yelling to stop the fight. As the crowd watched, Buffalo was being beaten to death by a now berserk boxer.
I saw Buffalo's head flopping back and forth like a speed bag, and I jumped through the ropes. Racing across the ring, I tied my arms around Buffalo to pull him away and protect him.
He fell hard to the canvas, and I hovered over him, like a protecting ang
el, while the crowed railed and screamed for blood. But they didn’t want just blood, they were screaming, “kill him,” and that’s just what they wanted Buoy to do. The blood thirsty bastards were caught in the moment and forgot about the sport. I held Buffalo, completely appalled at the reaction of those in the audience, especially by those miners who were cheering on the onslaught.
Buoy spit out his mouthpiece. "Get back, little man, so I can finish this," he said, sneering.
"It's already finished," I bellowed.
A doctor came into the ring to care for Buffalo. The doctor quickly called for a group of men with a stretcher. They carried Buffalo to a waiting truck filling in as an ambulance.
Mr. Parsons, a tall gangly individual with a dark, closely cropped, beard and shaved cheeks, resembled a walking stick as he bent himself to enter the ring with Mr. Freeman. Mr. Freeman held the deed to the mine, his body looked as if he had just fought the battle, and was ready to sit down somewhere and die. Mr. Parsons had his hand held out and an eager eye on the piece of paper, with little care for the life of the boxer who had just been carried away. He had his prize in sight.
"You can't take the mine," shouted Maggie, fighting her way between the ropes and into the ring. "You don't have legal right to it. My name is on the title, and I didn't make a bet with you."
"Well, Miss Freeman, that may be true, but I don't think you'll find an attorney to take your case," said Parsons with a chuckle in his voice, appealing to the crowd gathered around the ring.
Parsons and Buoy laughed at Maggie. I could tell by the set of her jaw she was not going to let anyone tell her she didn't have claim to the property.
The doctor came over to talk to Mr. Freeman, and while the two spoke in hushed tones, a gray pallor spread across Mr. Freeman's sun darkened face and his knees looked as if they would give out any moment.
"What is it, Mr. Freeman?" I asked, as I pulled him to the side along with Maggie.
He spoke quietly and very carefully. "Buffalo will most likely die unless he gets treated. And they are going to let him die, unless I will offer a security for the bill."
"But, Pa, the only security we had was the deed to the mine," said Maggie, the first hints of tears beginning to choke her throat.
I jumped up and approached Mr. Parsons and spoke loud enough for all to hear. "Mr. Parsons, I'll fight Buoy for the mine."
"You forget I already own the mine," he said smugly.
I spoke quickly. "Only half. If you accept my offer, Maggie will give up her rights to her half."
The bounding bustle of energy was worse than hitting a hornets’ nest.
"Who do you think you are speaking for me?" shouted Maggie, full of indignation.
"It's the only way," I said quietly.
The slow pink tinged color of resignation spread across her face and she shook her head.
"Very well," said Mr. Parsons in a businesslike manner. "You will fight Buoy."
Buoy broke into the conversation. "Nobody asked me if I agreed."
"I'm sorry, Buoy," said Parsons in a placating manner. "Will you agree to fight this gentleman?"
"No," was the only response he gave. He then crossed his huge arms across his massive chest as if set in stone.
Mr. Parsons’s face was ashen at the response from Buoy. Pain circulated around his features as if he were a rat frantically searching for a way out of a maze.
"Not unless Maggie agrees to marry me when I win," Buoy said with a smile.
All eyes were on Maggie. She stepped from side to side, looking like she wanted to run. "Very well," she said a voice I'd never heard come from her before, meek and scared. "I agree."
ROUND 6
After the crowd left and Mr. Freeman secured Buffalo's treatment with the deed to the mine, I was left alone in the ring. The afternoon was still hot but the crowd of rowdy men was gone. Like the silence following a squall, the field was quiet and still. The smell of beer hung in the air, slowly being replaced by the scent of pine. Next time I saw Benson I would tell him to leave for San Francisco any time he wanted and not to worry about me. I would make it back after the fight. I knew he was awful homesick, and didn't care for staying up here in the woods.
With the fight a month away, I needed to start training, if I was to even last a second in the round with Buoy. They guy was able to take out a professional, and he made it look easy. I was impressed with the big lumberjack; he had some talent, made adjustments on the fly, and bested a brawler. The guy could be one heck of a heavyweight if he took the sweet science seriously.
***
Benson picked up the newspaper out of San Francisco on the Monday following the fight, and the headline shook us to our core. "Two Fugitives Sought in Connection with Wharf Fire."
We scanned the article as quickly as possible, but apart from the headline, we couldn't gather any information. The article only said the fugitives were associated with the dock, it didn't say if they worked there or not.
"Do ya think they're after us, Conall?" asked Benson solemnly.
"I don't know," I said, rubbing my hand over the top of my head as if I could force a solution the problem from my brain. "It doesn't mention anyone by name, or any description, just that two individuals are sought as persons of interest. What the hell is a person of interest anyway?"
"I hate to say it, but I think we need to stay here a little longer," said Benson, as if his world was crashing down around him.
"I already have a commitment," I said. I put a towel around my shoulders. "I'm late for my workout with Martin, and he'll give me more hill sprints if I'm late one second. I've never had a trainer like him. He’s a beast."
***
Two weeks of hard training were showing. I was bigger and stronger. Long forgotten skills were coming back, as if they had always been there and just needed dusting off, while new skills took root in a solid foundation.
Martin stayed on to train me. He felt responsible for what happened to Buffalo, plus he wanted the chance to get back at Buoy. Karsten couldn't afford the warehouse in Sonora any longer, so the day after the disaster with Buffalo, we moved the entire contents to the camp at the mine. I started working out that afternoon. My job was to train and to train as hard as possible – Martin never let me forget it.
Maggie took over the chore of feeding me. After spending years feeding a camp full of men, she knew how to make a little go a long way. She had even read a book or two about nutrition. The diet she laid out for me was to put on muscle weight quickly. In order to do it, I was eating every two hours, starting at five o'clock in the morning and going until nine at night. So far, she was doing an excellent job. I had already packed on at least twenty pounds of muscle despite all my physical exertions. In another week, she would change the regiment so I could cut my weight just a little to pick up speed.
"Another ten seconds," shouted Martin, "push it, push it, and stop."
I was winded from the grueling heaving bag workout. My arms felt like mush, and my legs were wobbly. It was the last session of the day, and today had been harder than the last. Martin had punched up the intervals by fifteen seconds, and the weight by fifteen pounds.
I shrugged over to the water bucket and took a long drink. The heat of this place hadn't diminished and I’d come to the realization I was drinking my weight in water each day only to sweat it out.
Maggie walked up in the manner she had adopted after I put up her portion of the mine for the bet. Her lips were pursed tightly together, and her arms appeared like coiled springs ready to snap
"I'm going to cut your calories next week," she said in a matter of fact way. "You'll start eating every three hours instead of two."
"With the training I'm doing," I said feeling my stomach touch my spine, "I'll drop too much weight for the fight."
"I've already talked with Martin," Maggie said. "We discussed what training he has planned for you and how much weight he wants you to drop. The plan I’ve set out will put you on track, so don't go
sneaking anything on the side.”
She turned to go, but I stopped her by gently setting my wrapped hand on her shoulder.
"Are you going to talk to me," I said slowly, "about anything more than just food?"
"We don't have anything to talk about," she said, pulling away with a jerk of her body. "Besides, you’re the one who was planning to leave once you found the gold you thought was here. What were you going to do? Run away like a thief in the night?"
"I wasn't going to take the gold and run," I said in my most placating manner. "I thought we could split it."
Her face looked like a sunrise during the fall, full of orange and red. Her eyes grew large and the whites shown clear. But it quickly subsided and a slight smile lifted the corner of her mouth.
“Split it?” she said “why would I want to split something that was already rightfully mine. But I guess you just didn’t realize that my Pa and I own everything that comes out of the ground here.”
"I'm sorry," I said holding my hands up. "You’re right. My eyes were full of lost treasure, treasure that was free for the taking, to whoever found it. It never occurred to me that you would be the owners."
“Well Mr. O’Quinn, I hope you have better ring sense, because you lake horse sense.” With that she spun on her heel and marched across the field like a tornado.
"You know she doesn't share that side of herself with everyone," said Mr. Freeman. In the exchange Maggie and I were having, I hadn't noticed him walk up behind me. "She generally only screams at the people she cares about. Which I think is only you and me."
"She has a funny way of showing she cares," I said stepping into the ring. "But I can't say I'm not at fault. Did she tell you Benson and I came up here to find the lost gold?"
"That she did," he said, kicking his feet on the edge of the ring. "And I can't say I blame you. A couple guys find a treasure map and go in search of riches and adventure. You scarcely think of those already staked out on the claim.
