by Jack Tunney
"But that's not any concern now," he said casually. "Beating Buoy is. But before you can beat him, you and Maggie need to work this out. I know your mind hasn't been focused on your training as much as it should be, and Martin has confirmed it. I know things ain't been right with Maggie, but if you don't get it straightened out before the fight, we're all done for."
Mr. Freeman walked off slow, his head held low.
I stepped into the ring, bounced on my toes, and threw a few phantom jabs to get the blood flowing again. Martin stood with the practice pads. I went through the motions, hitting them. Somewhere in the mush between my ears, I could hear Martin telling me what to do, hit harder, punch from the floor up, use your whole body. I went through the motions, lulled by the sound of slapping leather.
I didn't see the smack hit me alongside my head, but I felt it, and I felt the canvas come up and hit me a second later.
Martin yelled at me as he tore off the practice pads. "If I can do that to you, Buoy's gonna kill you!"
I struggled to get to my knees. My legs were like rubber and barely responded. Hell, I'd had more feeling in my legs when I'd been falling down drunk. I'd never run away from anything in my life, but I almost felt like running now. Facing Buoy weighed on my shoulders, and the thought of failing Maggie turned my legs to mush. Put those together and the weight of the world would have been easy to shoulder.
In my days at the orphanage, I went to Father Tim only a few times to ask for advice. He always gave cryptic answer, and occasionally used references from the Bible. In the end what usually came out was something like, "God helps those who help themselves," and what did that mean to an eight year old kid who had to stand up to a bully, or wanted to know why his parents died and his grandparents sent him away to an orphanage?
I never got the answers I wanted, but I wished I could talk to him now. He was easy to talk to, hard to understand, and always fair. I pondered what he would say to me for a time, and then attempted to think about unraveling the Gordian knot he with which her would most assuredly have left me.
***
The smell of cooking was in full force as I walked into the kitchen. Maggie had her hair pulled back and kept out of her face by a scarf. She punched the dough like a boxer looking for a knockout.
"Maggie," I said getting her attention. "We need to talk."
"Can't you see I'm busy?" she said hurriedly. "Besides, if I already said my piece and I don't care to beat the air between us anymore."
I'm not a man to hit or harm a woman in anyway, particularly the woman who was wrenching my stomach one way and another, keeping me up at night. So, I surprised myself when I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder like a caveman picking out his bride. Bowls and plates clattered as the kitchen staff dropped what they held.
Maggie screamed, pounded my back, and kicked as wildly as a mule stung by a bee. She didn't stop as I stomped out across the field. But at this point, I was done tired of all the pussyfooting around, and I'd made up my mind to have it out with Maggie Freeman.
"You idiot," she screamed as I plunked her down in the shade of an oak tree. "What kind of gorilla are you, to come in and throw me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes? I've got work to do, and I don't want to talk with you any more than I have to."
She turned to leave, but I put myself in front of her and wouldn't allow her to move before I said what I came to say.
"Sure, I came here with Benson, to find the gold," I started full of gusto. "But that gold doesn't exist, and you can't hold me responsible for what I might have done or not done. The other thing is for betting your share of the mine in the fight. I shouldn't have done it. I truly realize my mistake, and I'm very sorry. I cannot take it back or change it, but I can't say the result would have been any different had I never opened my mouth."
Maggie's face calmed for the first time in two weeks before she said a word. "You treated me like nothing more than a dog with only a mind to follow his master. Well, that isn't me. I make my own decisions and can look after myself. And I can’t bear the thought of you being hurt or killed in the ring.” Her eyes started to water, and I could hear the tears choked back in her throat.
"I'm sorry, I really am, I have" I said trudging into an area better left to guys who knew how to talk to women. "I never wanted to hurt you, or treat you in any way less than what you deserve."
"I was beginning to think you were different from every other man I'd ever been around in my life – only concerned about making it rich or wanting me to stand behind them and be quiet. I'm not a quiet little woman who is going to sit back and let the man take the lead. Understand me well, Mr. O'Quinn, before we take another step."
"You're something special," I said as a smile slowly starting to filter across my face. "You're going to be a handful for Buoy once you two are married."
"I'm not going to marry that big egotistical, backwards gorilla," she said shaking her head frantically.
"Are you going to back out on your agreement?" I responded. "Because the shape I'm in now, I know he's gonna floor me."
Maggie looked as if a ghost hovered across the field and sat down to have a picnic. "You've got to win."
She grabbed me by the face so quickly I didn't know what was happening. Suddenly, her face was pressed against mine, and she had her lips planted on me. As soon as I relaxed and began to enjoy myself, she let go and bounded off across the field like a deer.
***
A week of focused training and I felt solid, hard and ready. I struck the practice gloves with a speed and power I never knew existed. Martin had given up hitting me with cheap shots, since he couldn't get the pads on me. I could feel every inch of the ring, the ropes the turn buckles, the rosined floor. It was mine and I was its master.
Martin called time, and stopped the practice with a whistle. "Great work this week, O'Quinn. No workouts tomorrow, so take the day off and go to Sonora. Catch a movie and relax. The next week, you focus on boxing, one hundred percent."
Maggie walked up as Martin was leaving. "Are you finished for the day?" she asked.
"I have tomorrow off," I said happily. "Do you want to go to Sonora with me and see a movie?"
"I'd love to," she said.
***
I borrowed the Dodge from Benson, and Maggie and I drove up to Sonora. The afternoon was warm and clear. Much as it had been during my entire stay. The movie house was playing a new science fiction movie, and we agreed to take it in.
I didn't know what to expect and wasn't much of a fan of science fiction, but I liked the huge robot, named Gort, that shot a ray beam out of his head. Gort looked about the size of Buoy, and in the movie nothing messed with Gort, not even tanks. But fighting Buoy wasn't a movie and in a week, I wasn't going to be fighting a robot. The guy was flesh and blood like me.
After the movie, we walked down Main Street. I took the chance to hold Maggie's hand and she didn't pull away. She looked up at me with a face like she was gazing at a brilliant spring morning. My stomach turned at the thought of ever having to hurt her, or of hurting her again. And nagging in the back of my mind was the question: What was I going to do?
I felt the bump on my shoulder like I'd ran into the middle of the road, and just got clipped by a truck. "Hey, fella," I shouted.
Looking down at me with piercing blue eyes was Buoy. He smiled maliciously, and chuckled to himself.
"Looks like we got ourselves a little miner away from his buddies," said Buoy as he stumbled back. "And you're out with my future wife."
The booze wafted from him, like a speakeasy just opened its door. All along Main Street were the remnants of old gin joints from Prohibition days, still selling liquor at all hours of the day or night with no hassle from the cops.
"You're drunk," said Maggie. She moved to put herself between us, which I quickly stopped. "And I'm not going to be your wife."
"I says you are," slurred Buoy. "So, why don't we settle it right here and now, O'Quinn?"
; His handlers came into calm him down and move him away, but he shot out a quick jab that I slapped away. I held my hands up ready for another shot, and Buoy was quick to follow. Coming from the drunk they were easy to deflect.
"Hey, O'Quinn," said one of Buoy’s boys. "We ain't gonna let you take advantage of him because he's drunk. You ain’t going to hurt him before the fight."
Two other guys grabbed me by the shoulders and Maggie screamed. I pulled and fought to break free, getting my head tapped twice by jabs from Buoy in the process. I was struggling to pull free when they ran me into the side of the wall, shoulder first. Pain shot down my arm, and up my neck. The two guys let me go, and walked down the street laughing as they pushed the drunken Buoy in front of them.
"Are you alright?" asked Maggie. Her voice was full of concern.
"I felt something pull and pop," I said through clenched teeth. "Let's get back to the camp."
***
Martin and Benson both looked my shoulder over. They moved it around, which caused a considerable amount of pain. They concluded I hadn't broken anything, but I had damaged something. What a wonderful bunch of brain surgeons they were, I could have told them that.
About the time they finished seeing if they could cause any more damage, the doctor arrived. He put me through the same drill and came to much of the same conclusion. However, he was a little more complete in his assessment. He diagnosed I’d torn the ligaments in my shoulder. It would take weeks to mend, and I shouldn't fight.
"I'll ask for a different date for the fight," said Mr. Freeman. "Mr. Parsons will have to go for it. It was his boys who caused this."
Mr. Freeman left the tent. He was on a mission to make good a new fight date, but I didn't have any allusions about what would happen. The date was already agreed on. They'd just consider this a fortunate event in their favor.
Maggie replaced the ice packs on the front and back of my shoulder and set up camp on the stool next to my rack.
"You don't need to stay here," I said.
"That’s for sure, Miss Freeman," said Benson eagerly. "I can take care of him as good as anyone."
"I'll only stay a few hours, then he's all yours," she said with a sly smile. "And I expect you to take care of him. Keep him from doing anything foolish, like trying to train or work out."
Maggie sat with me and talked for the next few hours. For the most part, she tried to assure me her father would get the fight moved to a different day. But when that line was exhausted, she started asking questions about San Francisco – the big city. She had never been there, but had always wanted to see the Golden Gate Bridge.
***
The next morning, the camp was quiet as they mulled over the news the fight would go on as scheduled. I took the news in stride, having not believed anything different from the start. My arm felt better, but it was still sore. I went to the field where our training equipment was set up. Martin was there picking things up.
"You could always run away," he said as I approached.
"Ha," I said with a laugh. "You know I never would."
"What do you owe this group of miners anyway?" he asked.
"Not a thing," I said.
"Then what’s keeping you?"
"I gave them my word," I said. "And I never run from a fight. Never have and never will."
Martin chewed his mouth like he’d bitten something sour. He stared at the surroundings like he was searching for an answer or some divine inspiration.
"Well, if you want to go on with this, we need to change the way you fight," he said. He moved to the center of the ring. "It’s your right shoulder that’s out of commission, so you’re gonna have to fight southpaw. How are you at that?"
I laughed. "Almost as good as I am fighting orthodox. But Buffalo tried that and it didn't work so well. Buoy picked up on it and it almost cost him his life."
"I know where he went wrong," said Martin.
I stepped in the ring and we started training.
ROUND 7
I woke up in my cot, after covering up with a wool blanket. Sun filtered through the tent on the clear cool morning. My shoulder ached. I'd slept on it again. I stuck my head out of the tent to fill my lungs with air, and saw the big fluffy clouds rolling in from the west. I took it as if a little bit of San Francisco Bay fog had made the long trip up to the foothills, maybe to wish me luck.
Maggie stomped the ground and threw her arms around while Martin stood with his arms crossed and a face chiseled in stone. All I caught was Martin saying, "Keep away from him until after the fight."
The miners were quiet, when the lumberjacks started rolling in. The whooping and hollering that accompanied the guests quickly died out as the stern faces riddled about the camp. The sight of picks, shovels, and sledge hammers sitting around within easy reach was not lost on the lumberjacks. Several fingers pointed out the plethora of makeshift weapons. Tension filled the camp like a deep snow in winter, cold and dangerous.
Buoy appeared to a few muted claps and cheers. As he quietly made his way to the ring, his expression was crestfallen by the lack of a boisterous welcome.
I approached the ring hidden in an old blanket. Maggie had sewn it into a boxing robe, complete with my name on the back. From the look of it, I was the number one contender at the top of the fight card. I took the ring, and was met by a thunderous round of cheers. All about the ring stood the miners screaming their support. Attempts by the lumberjacks to quell the chorus, was quickly stifled by a round of even louder cheers.
The referee, different than the last, was a judge from Sonora. He held a megaphone in his hand and bellowed over the bedlam, calling Buoy and me to the center of the ring. Given our instruction for a clean fight, we hit our gloves together and retreated to our corners.
The bell rang and we stalked each other to the center. I stood southpaw, and kept myself just outside his reach. This didn't help me at all because I was fully outside my range. I knew the reach this guy had and it wasn't going to be easy to get inside it.
Buoy snapped a couple jabs, followed by a left cross and right hook that whiffed air.
The crowd was quiet, holding their breath, waiting for the first punch to make contact.
I shuffled in fast, my chin tucked tight, and threw two quick jabs with my bum right, landing both on the button, the twinge of pain filled my arm like a phantom, not completely real but enough to notice. I faked a right cross and hit him hard with a left hook. It caught his jaw and dazed him. He took a few steps back to gain his balance, and threw a couple jabs. I batted them away easily and stepped in close. He covered his face and I went to work on his body, hitting hard with my left and testing the strength of my right. My arm felt strong, and didn't hurt too much, but I needed to hold it back in reserve. I couldn't blow it out this early in the fight.
I slammed him inside with my left, punching with everything I could put behind the effort. From the canvas and up through my fist, I put energy and torque into my left handed body blows – trying to push my fist all the way through his body, like a bullet.
He pushed me back, dancing away and keeping me at a distance. It was the same thing he did against Buffalo. If Buoy could keep me away, and pick me off a lucky punch, he could come in quick and finish the fight. The chess match had begun, so I threw out a few pawns to see how he'd react. From the looks of things we were in for a long bout.
***
At the end of the sixth round, I was covered in sweat. A mouse swelled up under my left eye, and my hearing still ranged from a dirty shot to the ear. My face looked like it had been worked over with sandpaper from the number of times Buoy had racked his laces across my face. However, all his dirty fighting hadn't helped him with the referee. He had been given his warnings, and would lose the bout if he continued.
Martin sat close and talked in my ear while the others in my corner poured water on me and fanned me with a towel in order to get my temperature down. Across from me, Buoy sat slumped and sucked down water like a came
l until his manager refused to let him have anymore.
The bell rang and I again met him at the center of the ring. I stepped inside his range. A haymaker came whipping from his left hand. I ducked under it and plowed my fist straight into his heart. He doubled over, with a gush of air leaving his mouth like a gale off the coast. He stepped back, his mouthpiece threatening to fall out, arms drooping low, as he shuffled with little energy.
I waded in, covering up, letting the blows bounce off my body and arms. The sting was out of his punches, they lacked any snap. I came in hard and went to work on his body, hard lefts and tentative rights. Suddenly a flying elbow cut me across the cheek and pushed me back.
Blood poured to the canvas from the gash. The audience was a mixture of cheers and boos. Martin was screaming in my corner. I looked up through a quickly swelling eye to see Buoy hovering above me. The ref pushed himself between us, sent me to my corner and shouted at Buoy.
"The ref didn't see the cheap shot," shouted Martin.
Buoy stood aggressively, panting to get back in the fight. My sight was getting blurry, as my right eye quickly swelled shut. The ref brought his hands together, and the fury of the lumberjack raced toward me – vengeance and hatred burning in his eyes.
I danced awkwardly away from the onslaught, but was caught by the juggernaut. Buoy came in quick, and bobbed to my blind side. Punches rang off the side of my head and jaw, until I frantically put up my right to defend, against the unseen assailants. A strong left caught my right shoulder and sent shockwaves of pain across my body. A sledgehammer couldn't have done worse damage. My arm was numb, useless from the shoulder down.
I bounced off the ropes and threw a left that wrapped around his neck. We must have looked like the most awkward dancing couple in the world, as I struggled to hang on, until he spun to throw me off.
