Fight Card Presents: Battling Mahoney & Other Stories

by Jack Tunney

  “Six!”

  Kowalski fell back on his face, and everybody knew the fight was over.

  “Seven!”

  Mahoney raised both his hands in the air, and soldiers from the 15th Regiment rushed the ring.

  “Eight!”

  The M.Ps at ringside took out their billy-clubs and looked at each other fearfully as the 15th Regiment charged.

  “Nine!”

  The men of the 15th Regiment swarmed over the M.P.s and climbed onto the ring apron.

  “Ten, and you’re out!”

  The referee’s hand sliced decisively through the air, and the 15th Regiment poured into the ring. Mahoney held his two fists high as they lifted him into the air. He screamed victoriously at the top of his lungs, blood dripping down his face.

  “You did it, Sarge – you did it!” Cranepool yelled, jumping up and down in the bedlam that the ring had become.

  McGhee danced around the ring and waved his hands in the air. “I don’t know how he did it – but he did it!”

  The sergeant from Special Services tried to get into the ring with his microphone. “Hey – all you guys get out of here!”

  A Pfc. from Fox Company of the 2nd Battalion cold-cocked him, and the sergeant from Special Services went down for the count. The men from the 15th Regiment carried Mahoney round and round the ring and Mahoney shook his fists at the sky, cheering and swearing, and trying to estimate how much money he’d win at ten-to-one odds.

  Maybe I’ll turn pro when the war is over, Mahoney thought, wiping blood from his nose. I wonder if that Joe Louis is really as good as they say he is.

  Battling Mahoney is an excerpt from The Sergeant #4: The Liberation of Paris by Len Levinson published by Piccadilly Publishing.

  LEN LEVINSON

  Born in New Bedford, Massachusetts, Len Levinson served on active duty in the U.S. Army from 1954-1957, and graduated from Michigan State University with a BA in Social Science. He relocated to NYC that year and worked as an advertising copywriter and public relations executive before becoming a full-time novelist.

  Len has had over eighty titles published and has created and wrote a number of series, including The Apache Wars Saga, The Pecos Kid, The Rat Bastards, and The Sergeant.

  After many years in NYC, Len moved to a small town (pop. 3100) in rural Illinois, where he is now surrounded by corn and soybean fields...a peaceful, ideal location for a writer.

  His pseudonyms include, John Mackie, J. Farragut Jones, Gordon Davis, and Clay Dawson.

  ON THE WEB:

  https://www.facebook.com/LenLevinson

  ROUND 2

  THE BANDERA BRAWL:

  A JUDGE EARL STARK STORY

  JAMES REASONER

  Court was adjourned, and all Stark wanted to do was ride on west to Ozona where he had another trial scheduled. But he made the mistake of deciding to have a drink first, and that was when the trouble started.

  He was on his way to the Red Top Saloon with Marshal Simon Judd, Bandera's lawman, when a man crashed outward through the batwings, flew off the boardwalk, and landed in the street. Stark and Judd stopped short a few feet away as a roar came from inside the saloon.

  “Who's next? I'll take on any of you! Hell, I'll take you all on at the same time!”

  Stark looked over at the tall, spare, white-mustached Marshal Judd and asked, “Does this happen very often?”

  “First time,” Judd replied. He put his hand on the butt of his holstered revolver. “Reckon I'd better get in there and see what's goin' on.”

  “I'll come with you,” Stark said.

  He was a stocky, middle-aged man with thinning dark hair under his cream-colored Stetson and a close-cropped, salt-and-pepper beard. At the moment he wore the sober black suit of a circuit judge, but there had been a time when he'd worn a duster and carried a shotgun as Big Earl Stark, the toughest stagecoach guard in West Texas.

  Those days were quite a while in the past, but Stark could still be plenty tough when he needed to be. As he followed Judd into the Red Top, he brushed his coat aside so he could reach the LeMat on his right hip in a hurry if necessary.

  The man standing in the middle of the saloon floor with clenched fists continued to roar his challenge to any and all comers. He was big, towering over everyone else in the place, with long, brawny arms and shoulders slabbed with muscle that seemed to threaten the fabric of his suit. A thatch of black hair topped his red, wind- and sun-burned face.

  “Come on,” he bellowed as he lifted both fists and shook them in front of him. “Ain't there any of you man enough to try me?”

  A little man at the bar said, “After the way you walloped that fella, nobody's fool enough to go up against you, mister.”

  The big man plastered an arrogant grin on his face. “That just goes to prove what I said, then. Bandera's full of nothin' but cowards.”

  Stark saw several of the local men tense as if they were about to step forward, but Marshal Judd said sharply, “Hold on there. There's not gonna be any more fightin'. The peace has already been disturbed enough.”

  The big man sneered at him and asked, “You gonna arrest me, Marshal?”

  “That depends.” Judd's voice was mild now—deceptively so, thought Stark. “Who threw the first punch?”

  He looked at the bartender as he asked the question. The apron shrugged and said, “That'd be Danny Bell, Marshal. He took offense to what this stranger was saying. But there were only two punches. Danny's missed.” The bartender sighed. “This fella's didn't.”

  Stark said, “I suppose that's Danny Bell lying unconscious out in the street?”

  “Yeah,” Judd said. He jerked a thumb toward the batwings. “Some of you fellas go see about him. Carry him over to Doc Carson's.”

  Three of the locals left the saloon. Judd looked at the stranger, having to tip his head back a little to do so, and went on, “What's your name, mister?”

  “Delevan,” the big man replied. “Amos Delevan.”

  “I'm not going to arrest you, Mr. Delevan, even though it sounds like you provoked this fight. But the other man swung first, so that makes it self-defense.”

  “I always let the other fella have the first punch,” Delevan smirked. “But I've never been beaten yet. Thirty-seven bouts, and I'm undefeated.”

  Stark said, “You're a prizefighter.”

  “That's right.” Delevan looked at the judge and didn't seem to be impressed. “You've heard of me?”

  “Can't say as I have,” Stark replied coolly.

  “You would if you knew anything about boxing,” Delevan snapped.

  Judd asked, “What are you doing here in Bandera?”

  “Passing through. On my way to El Paso for a bout.”

  Judd nodded. “Then you'll be moving on soon. Quit trying to stir up a ruckus and catch the stage that'll come through in the morning.”

  “Is that your way of tellin' me to get out of town, Marshal?” Delevan emphasized the question by poking Judd in the chest with a long, blunt finger.

  “I thought it was pretty clear. And if you touch me again, you will go to jail.”

  Delevan laughed. “I ain't sure you got what it takes to arrest me.”

  “I do,” Stark said. “This gun I've got my hand on is a LeMat revolver. Nine rounds in the cylinder and an extra barrel that fires a .63 caliber shotgun shell. That'll cut a man down to size mighty quick...even one as big as you.”

  The icy menace in Stark's voice seemed to cut through Delevan's blustery shell. The prizefighter said, “All right, take it easy, mister. Are you a lawman, too?”

  It was Judd's turn to laugh. “You could say that. This is Judge Earl Stark. He's a circuit court judge, travels all over the Southwest.”

  Delevan frowned and said, “Hell, I didn't know that. Sorry, Judge.” He looked at Judd. “I'll settle down, Marshal.”

  “See that you do. There are no charges against you now, and I'd like to keep it that way.”

  Delevan grunted and said, “You
and me both.”

  Stark and Judd turned to leave, but before they could step out of the saloon, the little man at the bar who had spoken up earlier said, “Is it true, Mr. Delevan? You're really a prizefighter?”

  “Yeah,” Delevan said. “What's it to you?”

  “I was just thinking...maybe you could have a boxing match right here in Bandera! You against the local champion.” The little man looked around eagerly at the saloon's other customers. “What do you say, gents? Surely there's somebody around here you could match against Mr. Delevan to defend the honor of your town.”

  The bartender leaned over the hardwood and asked with a frown, “What business is that of yours, mister?”

  The little man raised his hands, palms out, and said quickly, “None at all, none at all. I just happen to enjoy a good boxing match, that's all. As a matter of fact, I have heard of Mr. Delevan. I just never expected to run into him. I saw your bout against Mauler McCormick in Dallas, Mr. Delevan. What a fight that was!” He held out a hand. “I'm Jasper Gordon, by the way. I'd like to buy you a drink.”

  Delevan looked like he wasn't going to shake, but then his ham-like hand enveloped Gordon's much smaller one. Gordon turned pale and visibly tried not to wince at the pressure.

  “I've got better things to do than beat up on some yokel,” Delevan said, “but if you want to buy me a drink, that'll be all right.”

  One of the townsmen said, “Hold on there. A few minutes ago you were bellerin' like a calf stuck in the mud about how you wanted somebody else to fight. I'll bet there's somebody around here who could whip you.”

  Delevan let out a contemptuous snort. “No way in hell.”

  “Sure there is,” another of Bandera's citizens said. He looked around at the other men in the saloon, several of whom nodded. “Buddy Whitson. He could beat you.”

  Jasper Gordon had signaled to the bartender to bring Delevan a drink. The big man picked up the glass, threw back the liquor, and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “Never in a million years,” he said.

  The townsman who had mentioned Buddy Whitson's name got an angry, stubborn look on his face. He declared, “I've got twenty bucks says he could!”

  That was all it took to break the dam. Suddenly most of the men who were crowded into the saloon were shouting their support for this Whitson fella and announcing that they would back it up with cold, hard cash.

  Stark looked over at Judd and asked, “Who's Buddy Whitson?”

  “Our blacksmith,” the marshal replied with a worried look on his face. “These fellas are wasting their time, though. He won't fight.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he hasn't lifted a hand in anger to anybody since he killed Leon Powell.”

  ***

  “You might say Leon had it coming,” Judd told Stark a short time later as they sat in the marshal's office. “He was always pickin' on folks, and he was big enough to get his own way most of the time. But then one day, he started kicking a stray dog out in the street, and he happened to be in front of Buddy's blacksmith shop when he did it. Buddy came out and told him to stop. Leon lost his head and jumped him, and Buddy hit him once. No question it was self-defense. But it snapped Leon's neck and dropped him dead right there in the street. That tore up Buddy something fierce inside. He's gone out of his way to avoid trouble ever since.” Judd shook his head. “Nope, he won't fight Delevan. I'm sure of it.”

  “Sort of a shame,” Stark mused. “I wouldn't mind seeing Delevan get put in his place, if you think this Whitson could do it.”

  “It'd be a battle to see, all right,” Judd admitted with a slight smile. “Those two are about of a size, and working the forge has made Buddy a pretty strong hombre.” The marshal cocked his head to the side. “Say, I thought you were headin' on over to Ozona, Judge.”

  “I was,” Stark said, “but the trial can't start until I get there, and I'm a little intrigued by what's going on here. From the sound of it, that Jasper Gordon was really trying to work up a boxing match. Do you know him, by the way?”

  Judd shook his head. “No, he's a stranger in town, too. Looked like a drummer, from the way he was dressed.”

  “That's what I thought—”

  Before Stark could say anything else, the office door opened and a well-dressed man with a round face and sleek brown hair hurried in. He said, “Marshal, you've got to help me.”

  “What is it, Mayor?” Judd asked. He glanced at Stark. “You know Mayor Kendall?”

  “We've met,” Stark said with a nod for the newcomer, who owned the hotel in addition to being the mayor of Bandera.

  “I need you to have a talk with Buddy Whitson, Simon,” Kendall said to the marshal.

  Judd frowned and asked, “What's the problem with Buddy? Judge Stark and I were just talking about him.”

  “You've got to make him be reasonable and fight that Delevan fellow. The honor of the town depends on it.”

  Judd sat up straighter and said, “Now hold on a minute. Is there actually going to be a boxing match?”

  “Jasper Gordon's got the whole town stirred up about it.” Kendall pulled a bandanna from his coat pocket and mopped his face with it. “People are making bets right and left. I, uh, I put down a small wager myself. We just need Buddy to agree, and the bout will be on.”

  “But without him, there won't be a fight.”

  “Well, of course not! No one else around here would have a chance against a bruiser like Amos Delevan!”

  Judd put his hands on the desk and shook his head. “I can't force Buddy to fight, Mayor. You know that.”

  “But you can talk to him,” Kendall insisted. “He'll listen to you, Simon. He respects you, you know that.”

  Judd rubbed his lean jaw and said, “Well, maybe...But I'm not sure I want him to fight. You know how hard that whole business with Leon Powell was on him.”

  “That was a long time ago!”

  “Two years. Not really that long.”

  “Buddy's a good citizen. If he knows the town is depending on him, he won't let us down.”

  Judd narrowed his eyes and asked, “Just how much money do you have ridin' on this, Mayor?”

  Kendall looked like he didn't want to answer, but after a second he said, “I bet two hundred dollars on Buddy.”

  Judd whistled. “That's a lot of money, all right. But if Buddy won't fight, you won't lose the money. All bets will be off, right?”

  “Yes, of course. But it'll be humiliating for the town.”

  Judd looked over at Stark and said, “What do you think, Judge?”

  Stark answered with a question of his own. “Who's holding the bets?”

  “Harvey Dupont,” Mayor Kendall replied.

  “The man who owns the saloon?”

  “That's right.”

  Stark considered for a long moment, then said, “Like I told you, Marshal, I'd sort of like to see this fight. In fact, I'll volunteer to serve as referee.”

  “You see?” Kendall said excitedly. “Now you have to help us, Simon, if Judge Stark is going along with it.”

  Judd sighed and gave Stark a somewhat disappointed look, then heaved himself to his feet and said, “All right. I'll go talk to Buddy. But I can't make any promises.”

  “I'll come with you,” said Stark. “If he won't listen to a judge and a marshal, I don't reckon he'll listen to anybody.”

  ***

  Buddy Whitson shook his head and said, “No...I won't do it.”

  “That's what I thought you'd say, Buddy,” Judd said, “but Judge Stark here seems to think it's a good idea.”

  “It's none of his business,” Whitson said as he scowled at Stark.

  That was a pretty intimidating look, too, thought Stark, because Bandera's blacksmith was as big as a mountain. Not literally, of course, but he seemed that way. He was a huge, barrel-chested man with arms like tree trunks that seemed at odds with his open, friendly face and wispy fair hair.

  “I under
stand why you feel that way, Mr. Whitson,” Stark said. “It isn't my business, not really. But I have friends here in Bandera, and I know how much they're depending on you. In fact, if you were to defeat Amos Delevan, I'm sure I could persuade the townspeople to donate some of their winnings to the school.”

  Whitson's eyes, deep-set in pits of gristle, narrowed in thought. “Really?” he said.

  Stark nodded solemnly and said, “I believe so. What do you think, Marshal?”

  “I could sure take it up with 'em,” Judd promised.

  On the way over here to the blacksmith shop, Stark had gotten the marshal to tell him a little about Buddy Whitson, and one of the things Judd had said was that Whitson was sweet on Emily Thompson, who taught at Bandera's one-room schoolhouse. Stark felt a little bad about using the blacksmith's emotions to manipulate him, but he wanted to see that boxing match take place.

  Whitson rubbed his jaw, which looked about as hard as a granite boulder, and said, “The schoolhouse could sure use some repairs, and more supplies, too. One thing, though...If I was to do this, you'd have to promise not to tell Miss Emily why everybody was donatin' money. I promised her I wouldn't fight no more.”

  “You don't think she'd find out about it?” Judd asked.

  “She's down in San Antonio visitin' her folks right now. If everybody was willin' to keep their mouths shut about it...”

  “We'll make that a condition of the bout,” Stark said, although he didn't see how such a requirement could ever be enforced. Someone was bound to say something about it in Emily Thompson's hearing sooner or later. But by then, Stark hoped, it wouldn't really matter.

  “I'm really not sure about this...” Whitson said. He heaved a huge sigh. “But if the town wants it...and if it'd be good for the school...I reckon I can give it a try. One more thing, though. You got to promise me that the town'll fix up the schoolhouse, even if I lose.”

  Judd said, “I don't know I can get them to go along with—”

  “Done,” Stark interrupted. “It's a deal, Mr. Whitson.”

  He ignored the warning frown Judd directed at him. He had his own reasons for wanting this fight to go ahead.