The Boss's Boy

by Roy F. Chandler

  Matt said, "So, Klubber and I will act just like you're describing, and the gamblers will agree, but to collect one hundred dollars I will have to put up my own money and some of the company's—which my father and uncle will take out of my hide when they find out, but how do I fight him, China?"

  Smith nodded understanding. "This is my scheme, so I will put up what you don't have, Matt. We'll stay clear of the company's cash." He grinned almost evilly. "We don't want your uncle having some sort of brain collapse."

  They moved around back to where Matt's punching bags hung from tree limbs and where the ground had been leveled and packed by their shuffling feet.

  At China's direction, Matt took his stance. Left foot forward, balanced evenly on both feet, hands held high, both fists tightly clenched.

  China got in front of him. He stood square facing Matt straight on. He crouched and ducked his chin onto his chest. He bent forward at the waist and held his fists alongside his face peering at Matt's knees between them.

  He said, "Now this is all you'll ever see of Van Horn except when he throws punches. What he does is charge forward, keeping his hands right where they are until he's almost against you, then he lets fly like a windmill. He never looks up, and he bobs up and down so that hitting what little you can see gets even harder.

  "That's a tough system to fight against, but Boots got his nickname by carrying his charge right on through whoever he was fighting. He drives them backwards and off their feet. He likes to sort of accidentally stomp on feet and hands or anything else he can reach. If he can, Van Horn will also lean down and punch at his man's head before the referee gets him off."

  Matt started to speak, but China was not finished. "You want to remember that bullet head of his when he charges. He will aim it right at your throat. If he gets in under your chin, he will keep butting and pounding away with both fists. Van Horn is smart enough to punch at your middle then go over the top of your arms to land along your head. All the time he will keep pushing, and if you get back on your heels you can't hit hard enough to break a cracker."

  From behind his crouch Smith looked at his student. "How does that sound, Boss's Boy?"

  Chapter 14

  It was not easy. Matt and Klubber Cole put on their show for the gamblers. Matt demonstrated his skills punching the air from a leaned back stance with his front leg stiffened and his weight on his rear foot. He held his chin high, as though keeping it out of the way, and he could almost taste the gamblers' satisfaction as they visualized Bootsy Van Horn's block-like skull jamming underneath while his sledging blows ripped into Matt's body.

  Klubber proved unexpectedly skilled at convincing the gamblers of his underhanded interest in Van Horn's almost certain win and the extra betting money he could collect if the experienced fighter met the Boss's Boy instead of McFee.

  There were two gamblers managing Van Horn's traveling fights. They moved ahead to set up bouts and secure the purses before their fighter appeared. The gamblers were not yet interested in individual wagering. Those smaller bets would be picked up shortly before the fights. The front money came as a combined wager from all sources interested. In McFee's case, the bettors included members of his working gang called Morgan's Men, and a horde of others who labored along the canals.

  More than a few Petersburg residents who enjoyed rougher entertainments chipped in. All of those funds and the gamblers' matching money were placed in the hands of a Harrisburg banker who had served in a payout capacity before, and who guaranteed his appearance at the match with the cash for immediate payment to the winning party.

  Because he had laid the bet and delivered the purse, the gamblers had no qualms about Klubber Cole changing the game, provided the changes were to their advantage, which always meant to their monetary profit.

  These were careful men, however, and they chose to investigate. When Klubber and Matt drove their carriage back to Petersburg, they were accompanied by one of the gamblers. The man spent an evening asking around about the Boss's Boy.

  The answers were truthful—to the best of the teller's knowledge. Young Matt Miller had fought a few local youths and had done well, but he had no professional fights.

  McFee? The Irish Hurricane, was discussed, and there was amused whispering among the locals about how Mickey was faking a hand injury hoping to deceive his opponent and perhaps gain an advantage.

  Where was McFee? Why he had gone off with China Smith, the old fighter, and was training hard under Smith's tutelage. China, they believed, had some secret techniques to help beat the snot out of this Percy Horn. China Smith used another name for Horn and claimed to know him from way back, but it would not matter.

  The mention of China Smith lit anxiety in the gambler. Everybody in the game knew about Smith, and he did fight in ways that no one else had mastered. It seemed clear that fighting the Boss's Boy could be safer than risking China's tricks.

  Then, there was the money. A hundred extra dollars were not to be scoffed at. Boots Van Horn often fought for purses as small as twenty dollars with only small bets on the side

  Even when they found out who Percy Horn really was, some of the woodsy muckers and choppers could be persuaded that an old pug like Van Horn was beatable. The locals were always wrong, but that news did not travel far, and the team of fighter and gamblers profited nicely from their small town bouts and steady betting with almost no chance of losing.

  The gambler shook Klubber's hand almost eagerly, and the Van Horn versus the Boss's Boy fight was a deal. Explaining to the major backers who had raised the purse for McFee to fight was arduous, but when it was understood that McFee's hand really was broken and that it was Matt Miller or forfeit their money, most agreed—except perhaps Mickey McFee, but he had been handled as smoothly as an ox led to the slaughter.

  Alex Donovan had said, "McFee, with only one hand you're of no use around here, and Klubber wants you out of the way while he works something out on that fight we are all going to lose money on. You're to go with the survey party that's already started out. You can hold a stake or run a chain or anything else that'll pay your feed. Plan on being gone for nearly a month."

  The headman had scratched at a bristly jaw and gone on. "If I was you, McFee, I'd try to learn something about surveying. Could be your mitt will never be good again, and the Boss will have to let you go. It'd be to your advantage to be able to do something other than swing a pick or carry a heavy load."

  McFee had gone without complaint. Almost any other company would have already dropped him. No work, no pay, was the rule.

  Losing fighting money would hurt. Mickey's regular pay was small and was most of what the McFee's lived on. The sideline of leather-patching worn knees and the seats of cloth work pants by his mother and sister helped more than a little, but even by putting all of their money and the goods they managed to barter into the pot, the McFees were struggling.

  Mickey wondered a little about Matt keeping him on, but in his heart, he had suspected that the Boss's Boy would do just that. Now, why would he expect such a thing? McFee guessed that he and young Matt sort of liked each other—or something.

  Mickey McFee planned on doing what the head bull had suggested. Surveying might be interesting, and although he had great faith in China Smith's wrappings, he could see that knuckle fighting wasn't all that he had once thought it might be.

  A fist fighter needed a day free of training before a difficult match, so China had only four days to drive into young Matt all that he had to know. The Boss's Boy had to practice, and he had to drill until he could automatically adjust to the brutal assaults China believed were coming.

  Then, there was the secret move that Smith planned, and as China had claimed, it was as mean as anything Matt had ever heard of.

  China left no doubt about its use.

  "You will do this, and you will do it exactly right with everything you've got, Matt, or I am quits on the deal right now, and you can take your chances on your own.

  "I'll te
ll you one more time that this is not a sporting match. What you are into is a war. Van Horn will foul you every way he can. He will do his best to hurt you, and if he could, he would tear your head clean off your shoulders—and it would not bother his next meal."

  Most of the words after that concerned making Matt move better, but the instructions were continual.

  "The most important thing is that you don't get caught by Van Horn's charges, but if caught, you must do your best to tie him up by wrapping his arms within yours and dumping the both of you onto the ground.

  "Hold him tight even after you are down. Watch his knees and even his feet, which he will try to rake along your shins. Jam your head tight into his neck and keep it there because he will slam his thick Dutch skull against your ear or nose or whatever he can reach. Don't let go until the referee pushes between you and him, and when you get up, come up fighting because he will be swinging before his knees leave the ground.

  "You are young and he isn't, so you should be on your feet before he is, but do not change your game in any way. Fight the way we are practicing, and never do anything else no matter how safe or smart it looks.

  "Boots Van Horn has fought every kind of man there is, Matt, and he has a bag of tricks to sucker you into doing something that he wants. Do what you are learning to do now and only that."

  Then China grinned, "Well, maybe he hasn't fought anybody quite like me, and he won't be ready for what you are going to do. We are counting on that because if you fail, your fight will be terribly long and very brutal. Even winning, you will lose because a slugger like Van Horn cannot be held off completely, and when he breaks through, he will make up for all of the times you got away from him."

  China fought like Van Horn. He weaved his way ahead holding his fists tight to his temples, and Matt tried to keep him away. The first trick was for Matt to keep his open left hand against Van Horn's forehead with his arm straight. As long as it was there, the short-armed Boots could not reach him.

  The second trick depended on Van Horn getting tired of the hand on his head and trying to sweep it away.

  China said, "That's when you strike, Matt. You know to stay balanced on both feet so that you can drop your right shoulder and come up with your right uppercut with everything you've got behind it. Aim for his throat, although it will be tucked behind his jaw. You do not want to land high on his head. That is a hand breaker.

  "Now Matt, you hit once, and then you run. Do not wait to see how you did. Hit and get out. You will not knock him cold. Van Horn has been hit hard a thousand times. He will come back like a tiger. Do not be close to him. Get your hand on his head and be ready to move.

  "Never move straight away from him or he will charge and drive you into the crowd where his short arms will work best. Move left or right, and mix them up—always with your hand on his head and the right fist ready.

  "Your first right hand gave it everything you had, and he will remember it, but from then on, stay on balance and tag him when you can but do not take a chance on setting down and blasting him again. He will be waiting. What you must do is keep threatening his chin while you wear him down.

  "Make him turn with your sideward movements and if he is slow, slide in from an angle and slug him as hard as you can hit. He will swing at you, and then he will backhand; if you are still near enough, you will get hit. If you can get behind him a little, punch him in the low ribs or in a kidney.

  "When you come in from the side, punch once and get out because he will try to grab you. Get that hand back on his head with your arm straight. Drive him crazy with that hand. If he looks at you, stick your thumb in his eye. Not likely that he will, but that hand is going to bother him.

  "Maneuver him, Matt. Remember that all you are doing is setting him up for a one-shot finish. Either you make it work, or you settle down to the longest evening of your life—unless he knocks you colder than an ice block."

  They practiced, and it was hard. China left openings that Matt ached to try for, but he held off, and kept his left hand on Smith's bobbing head. China had footwork that Van Horn could never have, and he used it to get though Matt's guard. Then, the Boss's Boy had to grab frantically and battle to trip them both to the ground. Smith had no mercy for Matt's ribs and almost anything else he could reach. When he went over the top, however, he made his blows light, but they drilled home on Matt's head with more regularity than either would have liked.

  "Tie me up, Matt. Smother my arms. Get your hands behind my elbows. Press tighter against me. Bury your head where I can't get to it.

  "Watch your crotch, you are spraddle-legged!

  "Slide to the left or right as you clinch. Don't stay in front of me. Heave me around. Tangle your foot behind mine, and when we go down, hang on and try to land on top. All right, we are down; now fight while we are on the ground. Get nasty, Matt, worse than Van Horn. Get him before he gets you."

  The struggling was graceless and seemed endless, but Matt began to learn, and his successes became frequent.

  China explained, "Sometimes, you will want your arms inside of Van Horn's. You do that so that you can throw him easier, and with your elbows blocking his punches, he will have no leverage, but you have to stay tight to him. We will try that for a while, and then we will mix clinching inside and outside together."

  China said, "Don't let it happen if you can help it, but he could make you duck. What you do then is ram your front shoulder up and into him jamming with all your leg strength to throw him backward. Really slam him, Matt. Don't let him have his feet on the ground or be in balance when you are close in." They practiced shoulder slams.

  Printed broadsides were appearing on trees up and down the Susquehanna River announcing the battle royal to be waged between the suddenly "almost champion" Boots Van Horn and The Boss's Boy—the pride of Perry County and points east. Percy Horn seemed to have vanished, and The Boss's Boy was said to be a powerful hitter who had leveled the best brought against him.

  Matt joked, "I didn't know I was that good."

  China was dour. "You aren't. You have to be smarter, with your plan always in the front of your mind. He will tag you more than once. You have to keep maneuvering him and control your hunger to hammer back."

  China sighed, "I've said that so often I don't want to hear it again, but there are a few more things.

  "The first is that this fight will be using the Attack system. This kind of fighting has come over from England and is getting popular. Some over here call it Round fighting.

  "You will each toe a line in the center of the square, and on the referee's command you will fight until somebody rings a cowbell. When you hear the bell, back aside. Not straight back, and move away, Matt, with your hands up and ready to hit.

  "Sometimes, men in the crowd clatter their own cowbells hoping one or more of the fighters will relax. The referee will be slow, they always are, and Van Horn will pay no attention to the bell until later rounds when he'll be tired and pleased to hear it. Let's hope you end it before then.

  "After about a minute's rest, you'll be called out to toe the line and go at it again. Go out with your hands up because Van Horn may not wait for a starting signal. Move fast and sideward out of his range. If Van Horn tries to cut you off or press you into a corner or against the crowd, go the other way, and get your hand back on his head. Never get cornered. You can get beaten into mush in a corner."

  Matt's big question was, "When do I hit with my left, China?"

  "In this fight, only when you have to, Matt. I know we've worked on left jabs and hooks and all of the usual punches and blocks, but this time do only what I am telling you. Keep busy turning him until the right moment comes. Then you know what to do," and they practiced the what-to-do many times.

  Saturday was clear and warm. Work was slowed and some men were given the afternoon off. Most planned to attend the evening fights, and families would be coming for the festivities—although the ladies would retire before the fighting part began. That was s
ensible because it would also remove them before serious drunkenness, wild gambling, and foul language occurred.

  Matt and China went in early to examine the grassy arena where Matt would fight. Someone had scythed the grass short, and the four posts had been moved closer to the river drop-off, so spectators could not endanger themselves by gathering on that side. Concerned citizens had suggested and finally demanded the change claiming fear that innocents would be injured by being knocked or simply falling over the bank and onto the rocks below.

  Matt said, "It is a large square, China."

  Smith agreed. "It is, and that is good for us. You can move, but Bootsy is old and heavy. A big square will help wear him out."

  Vendors were already hawking wares. Gamblers had games of chance atop barrels, and a plank thrown across two barrels could constitute either a bar or a serving counter for foodstuffs and various liquors. A ladies' group was offering quilts and others displayed crocheted and knitted goods for sale.

  The Petersburg cornet band was in evidence, and its warming flourishes added to a rising carnival-like din. The band's banner now read "The Duncannon Cornet Band" in expectation and support of the town's renaming.

  A preacher, notorious for his endless sermonizing was flourishing his bible from atop a large packing box and exhorting passers-by to avoid the brutal goings-on and the godless rum and whiskey that was already beginning to flow.

  A church ladies' organization planned to parade against the many evils exposed by the disgusting fist fighting. A convoy of four wagons had come from the county seat at Bloomfield, and the sheriff had ridden along, but only to observe—which was encouraging, because law officers often interfered with pugilistic performances in the name of peace and tranquility.

  A small cannon was occasionally fired from the cliff above the river, and at each explosion the crowd cheered lustily.

  There were wagons on the roads, and a few hopeful rakes pranced their horses where the town sports often raced their mounts. It was clear that the fine weather and excitement of prizefighting were turning the day into a memorable outing.