Novel 1973 - The Man From Skibbereen (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  “I am going, McClean,” Haney said. “Will you join me?”

  “Of course. And I hope Mayo wins. I owe him a great deal.”

  Barda McClean heard the news from the woman who brought her supper. Crispin Mayo was going to fight! Odd, he had never mentioned being a fighter. (Barda had not overheard his conversation with Rep on that subject.) He had talked a little of Ireland, but nothing of what he did beyond that he was recently over, and had expected to be laying track for the U.P. by now. What had changed his mind?

  She combed her hair for an unusually long time that night, thinking about Cris. When her father came in she went to him. “Papa, we should do something for Crispin Mayo. He was so brave, and so quick to help, and he saved my life and helped to save yours. We’ve never even thanked him properly.”

  “What would you suggest?”

  “First, we might ask him to dinner. Then we could find out what he intends to do. Maybe we could help him.”

  “We might,” he admitted. “But the fellow is a prizefighter, Barda. There may come a time when that will not be held against a man, but most of them are toughs, associated with gamblers and all manner of low people.”

  “But he seemed such a gentleman!”

  “Many men seem so. I do not wish to be unfair, but he is a stranger. If I alone were involved, it would be different; but I have a young, impressionable daughter.”

  She laughed. “Not so impressionable, papa! And remember! I was alone with him, night and day, while we looked for you. He’s not a stranger to me. He was always a gentleman, thoughtful and kind, and very brave.”

  “By the way,” he said suddenly, “we’ve been invited on a buffalo hunt. General Grant said I was to bring you if you wished to come.”

  “Of course. I’d love to. I’ve never even seen one of the beasts up close.”

  Chapter 12

  MORNING, THE DAY of the fight, dawned with a clear sky. Cris rolled out of the bed in which he had spent two long nights recouping his strength; he stretched, dressed, and went outside into the crisp clear air. It was very early and no one was about.

  He walked along the single street, his footsteps echoing hollowly against the walls. The street was muddy from the last raining, the holes still contained water but the mud was hardening.

  Brennan’s place was closed, and nothing else seemed to have opened. He felt good. “And I’d better!” he told himself. For he was under no illusions. Confident as he was, he knew he had never met a fighting man of Sam Calkins’ experience, nor was there any certain way to judge his ability, for they had fought no one in common. That the man was good, he was sure.

  He was also sure that today he faced his big chance. He had won a few friends here, but he had no money, and well enough he knew that without money a man could do nothing. The fight was his first and best chance; besides, he did not like Calkins.

  If the weather held, the generals would have a fine day for their hunt tomorrow, too. He envied them none at all, The only hunting he had ever done was for meat for his own table … well, to be honest, it had been partly for the sport of tricking the gamekeepers. He thought of the coming fight. He must pace himself wisely. Calkins was experienced, so Calkins would try to make him do most of the work in the early rounds. Cris must save himself, move not too much, and be careful not to be caught flat-footed.

  He paused by the corner of a building, looking at a horse across the street at the hitching rail. It was a compact bay with a black mane and tail, and it bore a brand that he had seen before. Cris knew nothing about reading brands, only that he had seen this one by clear moonlight and it had belonged to one of the horses he had helped drive away from Justin Parley’s camp.

  What was it doing here? One of Parley’s men still in town? This was certainly the horse he remembered. It was tied not far from Brennan’s.

  He hung around for several minutes, but nobody came near the horse, so he walked back to the hotel and stretched out on the bed. It was not long before there was a knock at the door and he opened it to Reppato Pratt and Trooper Halloran.

  “How do you feel?” they asked in unison.

  “Fine,” he said. “I walked out and stretched my legs. Are you ready to eat?”

  Halloran had eaten at the fort, but they walked together to the tent. The big cook came out and slammed down several trays on the table. He glanced sharply at Cris. “You the one who’s to fight Calkins?”

  “I am.”

  “Watch his left. He’s good with it, and he hits almighty hard.”

  “You’ve seen him fight?”

  “Seen him? I done fit him! He whupped me, whupped me good. He’s mean, no two ways about it. You’ll know, this time tomorrow. An’ watch him for gougin’. He’ll do it. He’ll have both your eyes out if you ain’t careful.”

  They ate in silence. Cris Mayo had forgotten about the bay horse and Justin Parley. Back at the hotel time seemed to hold still. Cris paced the floor restlessly, irritably.

  About half an hour before fight time, Brennan came around. He looked sharply at Cris. “You’re ready, then?”

  “I am.”

  “Come along, I’ve a carriage outside.”

  “It’s only a few hundred yards. I can—”

  “Shut up and get in.” In the carriage, which was an old stagecoach, Cris leaned back against the hard cushion, Owen Brennan opposite him. “There’s a lot of money bet on this,” the saloon keeper said. “I’ve got three thousand on you myself.”

  Cris blinked. “Three thousand? Dollars?”

  “That’s right, and there’s plenty more been bet. Colonel McClean has bet five hundred.” Brennan smiled. “The odds are three to one. I am hoping to get down another thousand at four or five to one before time is called.”

  Halloran had brought Cris a suit of blue tights of waist length and a pair of good, flat-soled leather shoes of light construction, such as fighters wore. He went into the walled tent saloon and put them on.

  A ring had been set up in an open space behind Brennan’s Belle of the West, and seats had been tiered against the corral with the highest row along the top rail of the corral itself.

  A crowd had already gathered, and on a balcony over the back awning of the saloon a row of chairs had been placed. Two officers in blue already sat there, giving them the best view of all.

  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 bro
ader.

  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, battered 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.
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  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 13

  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.”