by Jack Tunney
They were all getting riled up and out for blood and I couldn't blame 'em. Hell, I was keen on a little retribution too. But it was Tommy who spoke.
“We can't do that,” he said.
“Why the Hell not!” Killer Ken demanded. “He's got it coming to him.”
“Because we were lucky no one was hurt last night. What if someone got caught up in the fire we set? Sure, Sanderson has got it coming, but it's between us and Sanderson. Not the townsfolk, or anyone who comes to see a show.”
Everyone agreed. Calm and reason had been restored. For a moment at least. But the moment didn't last long.
Ginny screamed. She was the first to see him. Everybody turned. Jaffa Teasdale staggered towards us with his shirt covered in blood and his face looking like pummeled hamburger. Someone had worked him over, and done it hard.
“I got a message from Sanderson,” Jaffa said, although the words were slurred. “He wants us to pack up and get out of town.”
“That's it,” Wheeler snorted. “I have had enough of this.” He ducked into his caravan and came out a second later with a short clawed jemmy bar in his hand. He turned to Tommy. “Yeah, you're right, Tommy. We cannot go over to Sanderson's tonight because of the innocent people. But there ain't no innocent people over there right now. And that's where I'm going.”
“I'm with you, Mr. Wheeler,” Killer Ken said.
And then the rest joined in. We were all with Wheeler and we were heading over there to set things right.
* * * * *
All ten of us marched through town like some kinda military unit. Jaffa too, although I had to practically hold him up. The townsfolk in the main street stepped aside as we marched through, the anger in our eyes and implements in our hands signaled our intentions. We were not to be messed with.
Up ahead on the other side of town was Sanderson's tent. It was twice the size of ours and a lot newer. It was green and gold, and had a huge marquee over the entrance adorned with a picture of the boxing kangaroo.
Sanderson's men knew we were coming. Once word got around, all his boys spilled out the front of his tent. Some of them were holding jemmys, crowbars, and other implements for fighting. Iron Bar, Tommy's opponent from the previous evening was even holding a sledgehammer. There were about twenty of them. Most looked like they could take care of themselves.
One thing was for sure. This wasn't gonna be Marquis of Queensbury rules. I couldn't see Sanderson himself, though. That'd be right. He'd never have the guts to fight his own battles.
About ten yards separated us from Sanderson's boys when Wheeler called us to a halt.
“Where's Sanderson?” Wheeler demanded.
“I am right here, Mr. Wheeler,” Sanderson said as he appeared from the entrance flap to his tent. He was dressed sharply, and between his pudgy fingers he was twirling an unlit cigar. “What can I do for you today?” He did not move out from behind his men. He was happy to lurk safely in the background.
“I believe you owe me a new tent,” Wheeler said.
“How so?”
“Everybody knows it was your boys who set fire to my tent last night.”
“I don't know what you're talking about. Can you prove anything?” Sanderson raised the cigar to his lips, and then crossed his arms defiantly.
Then something strange happened. Iron Bar, who was lined up with the rest of Sanderson's men and was holding the sledgehammer, stepped forward. He moved slowly and languidly, the hammer hanging loosely at his side. When he was halfway to us, he dropped the sledgehammer and kept walking straight over to Tommy.
Iron Bar held out his hand and said, “Good fight last night. The better man won.” He then turned and faced Sanderson, standing side by side with Tommy King.
“Mr Sanderson,” Iron Bar yelled, adopting a mock posh accent. “I do hereby tender my resignation from Arnold Sanderson's Boxing Show – active forthwith.”
That got a laugh from our boys. However Sanderson didn't see the funny side of it.
“You're a fool,” Sanderson spat.
“And you're a liar. Tell them how you burned down Wheeler's tent last night. Tell them how you set it alight while I was in it, fighting for you.”
“You're nothing, Iron Bar! You think you got brains, but you're just another two bit pug. There's a hundred out here just like you.”
Sanderson felt angered and betrayed, but the numbers were still on his side. Iron Bar's mini rebellion, didn't lead to wholesale mutiny. His boys stood fast. Sanderson drew his lighter from his pocket and finally lit the cigar that had been dangling from his mouth for the best part of a minute. He drew back on the thing, exhaling a plume of blue smoke.
“Run these boys out of town. I am sick of looking at them,” he said. The thing was, the mongrel didn't even stay to watch the fight. He turned and walked into his tent. I guessed he was worried about gettin' some blood on his suit.
His boys charged at us, and we charged at them. It wasn't pretty. The two gangs collided with force, and Tommy had knocked two down already. He was about to swat a third when a tire iron whistled overhead. Tommy ducked and punched the guy who had swung it right on the button. The guy's knees went from under him and he fell to the ground, sending up a cloud of red dust.
Iron Bar proved his change of allegiance wasn't just a stunt. He sidled up to two of his former tent mates and smacked their skulls together like coconuts. The bums dropped liked stunned mullets. He stomped over them and moved on to the next challenge.
I wasn't doin' so good, though. A guy had pinged me hard to the face, and I had fallen to the ground. The fella was on top of me tryin' ta throw a few wild punches. I blocked them easy enough, but from my position on my back, I couldn't get any power in my punches. I tagged him on the chin a couple of times, but he just shook them off. I got a reprieve when Killer Ken kicked the aggressor off me.
I scrambled to my feet as quick as I could, but instantly another two were on me, and I was dragged back down onto the ground. One fella threw a wild uppercut that got me good, splitting open my lip. Warm blood ran down my chin. Iron Bar proved his value again by taking that guy out with a roundhouse right. I nodded my appreciation, but in seconds another was on me.
* * * * *
While I was being torn apart by Sanderson's thugs, Ginny and Jaffa had sneaked away from the group and were now out the back of Sanderson's tent. Jaffa was still pretty shaky from his ordeal in the morning, but Ginny was focused and had a plan.
“Just keep an eye out for trouble,” she said.
“What are you doing?” Jaffa asked. Although through his swollen mouth, recognizing his words as English was a stretch.
Ginny just shushed him and continued moving around the outside of the tent. She knew that Sanderson's mascot kangaroo had to be caged up somewhere during the day. She figured most likely it would be around the back. With Sanderson's men otherwise occupied with the fight, it was the perfect time for her to search. Up ahead she spied some crates, and what looked like a cage, half covered with a canvas tarpaulin.
“This way,” she said as she moved to the cage.
Inside, huddled in the corner, was Sanderson's mascot, the boxing kangaroo. Ginny pried open the bolt and stepped into the cage. The ’roo was nervous and bounded back. If she still had claws in her hind legs, she might have tried to fight her way out, but the fight had long since been beaten out of her. Ginny calmly started to talk to the beast in words Jaffa didn't understand. He guessed it was some Aboriginal dialect.
However, her words were having the desired effect. The ’roo started to calm down and slowly made her way to the center of the cage beside Ginny. Ginny gently rubbed her nose and stroked her between the ears. She seemed to like that.
Around the kangaroo's neck was a collar. Ginny attached a lead that had been clipped to the cage, and gently led the kangaroo out. Ginny kept up the soothing dialogue with the beast. The words seem to calm her down.
“C'mon. Let's go,” Ginny said, leading the ’roo away. Jaffa
just followed along, bemused. He didn't know what the hell was going on, but he was sure it would rile Sanderson. And that alone made all this worth the trouble.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, I had been saved by Tommy – twice – and was now locked in a tussle with a bald guy who was swingin' a mop. When it came to choosin' weapons, he didn't get the best deal. Nonetheless, the mop head, as it thudded into my ear, stung like a mongrel.
I roared in pain and then charged at the guy, knocking him to the ground. Then I let him have it. A punch like the old days – like when I was back in my fighting prime – not the broken down bit meanness that I was today. I twisted my hip, and drew back, putting everything into the punch, from the ground up through my whole body. Just the way Father Tim had taught me.
The guy's head snapped back, and I swear I lifted him offa the ground. He went out like a light. I turned and had to duck as a wild haymaker sailed over head. I didn’t know where that one came from. I spun around and saw a mountain of a man in front of me. I was sizing him up for a combination when he collapsed to his knees before me. I spotted Killer Ken with a cricket bat in his hands and figured that had something to do with cutting this monster down to size. The man was still on his knees, though, and I put him down for good with a left jab and a right cross.
Old Man Wheeler was in trouble with another couple of Sanderson's goons workin' away on him. One of them, Straw, was holdin' him while the other did the poundin'. As the poundin' goon drew back to serve up another dish of pain, I crooked him in the elbow and turned him side on. He continued with the punch. But now I was the target.
I ducked under the blow and punched away at this guy's ribs. The wind rushed out of him and he doubled over. With two hands joined, I clubbed him about the back of the neck and he fell to the ground. I thought 'bout layin' the boot in, but figured he had had enough.
With a rippin' crack on the jaw, Tommy finished off Straw, who had been holding Wheeler. Straw dropped to his knees, shaking his head. If the fella had any sense, he shoulda learned from his last tussle with Tommy. Some people just gotta learn the hard way.
That was it really. There wasn't much fight left in any of us, on either side. We stood there eyeballin' each other while catching our breath.
“This isn't the last of it,” Wheeler spat as he lowered his head and rested his hands on his knees. “Tell Sanderson, this isn't the last of it.”
“Yeah, yeah – keep punching, old man,” Straw taunted, even though he was still on his knees.
They were done too. Sanderson's boys turned and walked back to their tent. Well, those that were able to walk. Some had to be carried, and some needed a bit of help. But I didn't gloat. We didn't come off any better. Kevin Day's nose had blood streaming from it like a tap. And Killer Ken didn't look much better. His right eye was so swollen he could barely see out of it.
But the man who took the worst beatin' was Limehouse. He wasn't a fighter, and he had been set upon by one of the fellas with a crowbar. Limehouse didn't move fast enough, and his arm was busted cleanly. Bone was pokin' though the bloody flesh. I went over to him and helped 'im up.
“Let's get back and I'll see if I can set that arm,” I said.
Like some crippled version of an ANZAC day parade, we made our way back to the sports field. Ten of us had headed out but eleven returned. It turned out Iron Bar was lookin' for a spot of work. Of course, Wheeler didn't promise anything ’cos we didn't have a proper tent.
Oh, and we had a kangaroo too. I didn't know what we were gonna do with the thing, but Ginny seemed to think it was the right thing to do. And well, if it was good enough for her, then it was good enough for me.
ROUND SEVEN
Sanderson was flamin' furious when he found out his mascot had been stolen. And that made me happy. He was around first thing next morning, arriving in a fire engine red tourer with the top down. Straw was at the wheel, sportin' a shiner. Sanderson's usually slicked back hair had been mussed by the wind as he was driven over and now looked like a bird's nest. They looked like some comedy duo.
“Where's Wheeler?” Sanderson demanded as he stepped down from the sideboard. His face was as red as his car, and he looked set to explode.
No one gave him the time of day.
“Where's Wheeler?” he repeated, swatting away a fly buzzing around his face and focusing on me.
I ignored him, and turned my back. This just made him more angry. He couldn't see it, but I had a grin from ear to ear.
“Wheeler! Wheeler!” he yelled. “We have to talk.”
Everyone from our troupe stopped what they were doing and came around for a look-see. Tommy and Ginny came and stood by me.
“Where's the kangaroo?” I whispered.
“Safe,” she said.
Wheeler stepped out of his caravan, slapping on a battered fedora as he walked into the sun. Of course, he had a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
“What do you want?” Wheeler asked.
“You have something of mine and I want it back.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“The kangaroo.”
Ginny gasped. I knew she didn't want to give up the kangaroo. Sanderson had mistreated her something fierce. Ginny would have gone into battle herself to protect the ’roo. I gently put my hand on her shoulder to calm her down.
“It'll be alright,” I whispered reassuringly. I knew Wheeler wouldn't give her up.
“Well?” Sanderson demanded.
A puzzled look swept over Wheeler's face. “Kangaroo?” he queried.
“Your people took it yesterday.”
“Says who? Sanderson, you're just wasting my time. I think it is time for you to leave.”
“Now, listen here, Wheeler. That kangaroo is mine and I need it back.”
“Yeah, and I need a new boxing tent, but you don't know anything about that though, do you? Anyway, I've had enough of your yammerin'. Good day to you.”
Wheeler turned his back and began walking back to his van.
Sanderson waddled after him.
“Look, I want my mascot back and you want your tent back. The thing is, I think we've both come too far to strike a suitable compromise, so I'll tell you what I'll do. As we are both betting men, and are both in the fight game, I think we should have a winner take all contest. Your best fighter against my best fighter. If your guy wins, I'll let you have my tent, and I'll pack up and leave. But if my guys wins, I get the kangaroo back, and you give up the business. What do you say?”
Sanderson must have really needed that kangaroo back. I wondered why. What was so important about a kangaroo? One thing was for certain, while we had it, we had leverage.
However, despite my concerns over Sanderson's motives, the offer was too good to refuse. The deal was enough to stop Wheeler in his tracks. He turned and faced Sanderson.
“What did you have in mind?” Wheeler asked.
“Like I said, winner take all match. I'll put up my tent against the kangaroo.”
“Winner take all, eh?”
“Winner take all. You get a tent or I get my kangaroo back.”
Wheeler looked over at me and Tommy, as if asking permission. I thought it was worth a shot. Tommy nodded his consent. Wheeler then took a large drag on his cigarette, then removed it from his mouth while blowing out an acrid stream of smoke. I was glad I wasn't close. I knew how bad those things stunk. Sanderson didn't seem to mind.
Finally Wheeler said, “Mr. Sanderson, you have yourself a deal!”
Both men shook hands.
“Where and when will this pugilistic spectacular take place?” Wheeler queried, returning the cigarette to his mouth.
“Why here, of course, in Birdsville. Two weeks from now. It will give each of our boys time to heal and train.”
“Who is your man?” Wheeler queried.
“I don't think you know him. His name is Jack Douglas.”
“Never heard of him.”
“And I t
ake it your fighter will be Tommy King?”
“You betcha. That boy will take anyone you can throw at him.”
Both men smiled as if they were, and had been, best friends for life. I thought it was worth a shot. I believed Sanderson had to be taught a lesson, and Tommy, with his fists, was just the man to do it. But what I didn't get was why the kangaroo was so important. It didn't seem like a fair bet.
And that had me worried. You know that old saying, when something seems too good to be true, it probably is. Well that was what was goin' through my mind.
ROUND EIGHT
Two weeks to train was virtually unheard of in the life of a tent fighter. Usually, the boys were expected to face up again maybe one or two days after their last bout. A professional fighter would usually get a minimum of four weeks between bouts, even more. But our boys had to shape up and be ready when we hit a new town. It didn't matter if they were injured. They had to carry it. But two weeks to heal and train was a slice of luxury.
I had Tommy sparring with Tiny Johnson. Tiny was not our strongest or fastest, but was sizable and, in his own way, formidable. As a training exercise I had him cornering Tommy, cutting off the ring. Tommy had to learn alternately to cover up and defend, and punch his way out of there.
I remembered the lessons from my childhood. I couldn't have been more than ten years old, and I was in the ring, in the basement of St Vincent's. We'd nicknamed the Asylum, “Our Lady of the Glass Jaw.” The nuns didn't like it none, but we all thought it was a hoot, and Father Tim let us get away with it.
I remembered in the ring, Father Tim had me set up in a corner, and had blocked me in there. I'd tried to punch my way out, but I couldn't get past Father Tim's quick hands. Petulantly, I had given up and lowered my gloves. I might have only been a boy, but Father Tim let me have one right on the nose. Of course, he didn't put everything into the punch. It was more of a lesson than a punch.
“What are you doing?” Father Tim asked.
