Target Practice (Stout, Rex)

by Rex Stout

  The families of Jone Simmons and Peter Boley, which included only themselves and wives, since neither had any children, went together in the grocer’s five-passenger gasoline runabout. Boley had already made the trip half a dozen times since six o’clock that morning, carrying sundry paraphernalia for the entertainments and games of the afternoon.

  Among them was a clothesline from his own back yard, which, stretched around four stakes driven in the ground to form a square, was to inclose the “ring” for the unique and principal event of the day. Jone Simmons, as he sat on the driver’s seat beside the grocer, held on his knees a carefully wrapped parcel, which contained two sponges, four towels, a set of boxing gloves and his own costume for the encounter.

  The costume had been much admired by the two or three select friends who had been permitted a glimpse of it. It had been made by the fair hands of Mrs. Simmons herself from red silk and white-and-blue muslin, and it was an exact replica of the one worn by Jess Willard in his triumph over Jack Johnson, having been copied from a picture discovered by Slim Pearl, the barber, in an old number of the Police Gazette.

  Jone Simmons was the center of all eyes that morning at Wellman’s Grove. Farmers from all over the country, some of whom he had never seen before, sought him out and started conversation. Young country girls, fresh-faced and laughing as they strolled past in groups, would glance at him with shyly interested eyes, giving Jone a curiously pleasurable thrill that he had not experienced for years.

  As the sun reached the top of the heavens and the grove filled with its hundreds of pleasure seekers, parties were formed to make excursions down the little river, shady and sparkling, that wound its way between grassy banks at one end of the grove, and here and there a group of young men and girls would start some country game.

  Jone was surprised out of speech when one such group broke up at his approach and ran to ask him to join the fun in “drop the handkerchief.” It was their tribute to a fighting man.

  Among the men there was only one topic of conversation. Politics and crops were put aside for once to discuss the great event of the afternoon, and more often than not the discussions warmed into arguments. Slim Pearl, the barber, having witnessed several professional prize fights in Cincinnati, suddenly assumed a new importance, being called upon to settle endless disputes on some nice point or other of the technicalities of pugilism. As far as the outcome of the match was concerned, opinion was pretty much one way; nearly everybody favored the chances of Simmons as against the newcomer from Columbus, and there was very little betting.

  It was well toward noon before Simmons caught his first glimpse that day of his opponent. He had approached a group of men who appeared to be in the midst of an animated discussion, and suddenly, in the center of the group, he saw a medium-sized, bare-headed man with a little bristly mustache and sharp gray eyes.

  It was Mr. Notter. He was talking in a half-bored, half-lively sort of manner with the farmers and village men who had garnered about him.

  “He looks mighty cheerful,” muttered Simmons to himself, turning hastily away before Mr. Notter should see him.

  It is time now to admit that Simmons himself was far from being cheerful. It would be unjust perhaps to say that he had any feeling of fear, but he was at least mentally uncomfortable.

  As he walked away from the group which contained

  Mr. Notter toward the other end of the grove, where preparations were in progress for the picnic feast, a feeling of indignation mounted slowly and steadily within him. What did Peter Boley mean by dragging him into this thing, anyway? Of course, he thought bitterly, it meant nothing to Peter; it meant nothing to all these people, gathered together from a morbid curiosity to see the flowing of blood; they weren’t going to stand roped in a ten-foot ring and let an ex-champion of Columbus smash them in the face! He hated them.

  How absurd it was, anyway, for two grown men to deliberately set about punching each other! Perfectly silly. Oh, what an awful fool he had been to let it go so far as this! The scorn of the whole country would fall on his head if he should back out now. He gritted his teeth. He would have to see it through!

  What an ugly look there was about that fellow Notter’s eyes … Sort of bestial … Perhaps he had been a professional! …

  These were the thoughts that coursed through Simmons’s head throughout the picnic feast, to which all were soon summoned by the jangling of a string of cowbells. He couldn’t eat, and he hated the others for eating. How utterly heartless they seemed, laughing and talking and munching their sandwiches and pickles and cake! Didn’t they realize the seriousness of a fistic contest between two trained men? Didn’t they know that a full swing on the jaw, scientifically delivered, was very apt to prove fatal?

  After the feast the program of amusements began. There was a potato race and a bag race and other games and contests peculiar to the country. Simmons stood aside, leaning against a tree, trying to remain unnoticed. He felt faint, as though if he didn’t lean against something he would be unable to stand. Really, he didn’t feel well.

  He was telling himself fiercely that he was no coward. It wasn’t that. He just thought it was silly, and anyway he shouldn’t be expected to fight an ex-champion. Probably Mr. Notter knew just how to land a blow so as to knock a man out.

  Suddenly he heard Peter Boley’s stentorian tones calling out:

  “This way, entries for the greased pig contest! This way, entries for the greased pig contest!”

  Simmons felt an immense lump rise in his throat. The greased pig contest! According to the program of the Entertainment Committee, the boxing match was to follow that. The hour had come!

  He heard his name pronounced from behind. He turned and saw Harry Vawter, the druggist.

  “Come on, Jonas, you’d better get ready while they’re running down the pig. Here’s your stuff. Peter told me to help you. We’ve got the ring all fixed, buckets and towels and sponges and everything. Slim Pearl’s putting down the sawdust now.”

  Simmons got himself clear of the tree. Over toward the middle of the grove he saw the ring on a raised platform, surrounded by a crowd of the curious, not to be pulled away even by anything so exciting as a greased pig contest. And people were standing around, looking at him.

  “Where’s Mr. Notter?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  “He’s gone over to the shanty to get ready,” replied Vawter. “Come on, here’s your stuff. You can dress over in the tent.”

  “All right; but I’m going down to the creek first.”

  “You’ll have to hurry.”

  “I’ll be back in a minute. Go on over to the tent and wait for me. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Simmons had been seized by panic. Was the ghastly thing really going to happen? He must have a minute to think.

  He walked down toward the little river. The path there was almost deserted, since the greased pig contest was on the other side of the grove. He reached the bank and stood looking down at the clear, rippling water. Vawter had said he would have to hurry—the time had actually come—in twenty minutes now, maybe fifteen, he would be standing in that roped-off ring, with that brutal Notter facing him, waiting for a chance to land a fatal blow—

  He looked around. There was nobody in sight. He sneaked slowly down the bank of the creek, away from the grove. He began to walk faster, glancing back over his shoulder. Still there was nobody in sight.

  He broke into a run.

  He ran with short, jerky steps, on his tiptoes, almost noiselessly, and every minute he ran faster. Soon he left the bank of the creek, for that was dangerous—some of the picnickers might be rowing and see him—and broke into the woods to the left. Then he left caution behind and went forward in great, broad leaps, like a startled jackrabbit. He stumbled over logs and was scratched in the face by low-hanging branches, but he paid no attention to these things. He dashed blindly on.

  At length, figuring that he had left the grove and the roped ring at least a mile behind, he
came to a halt in the midst of a tiny clearing surrounded by trees and shrubbery. He glanced warily in every direction, and for a full minute he stood perfectly still, listening intently. The only sound was the cry of blackbirds from above the woods. Exhausted, panting, he sank down on the grass and stretched himself out to rest and think.

  He had ran away. All right, he said to himself fiercely, what of it? What was anybody going to do about it? Of course he had ran away. Who wouldn’t? If everybody was so anxious to see a fight, why didn’t they fight themselves? They’d laugh at him, would they? Well, they wouldn’t laugh very long. He’d leave Holtville, that’s what he’d do. He’d never liked the town very well, anyhow.

  One thing, he’d like to hear anybody say he was a coward. He’d just like to hear ’em. He’d smash their face, that’s what he’d do. In fact, if he was back there right now he’d walk up to Mr. Notter and smash his face. That was different from letting ’em rope you in a ring. That’s what he should have done in the first place.

  The day Peter Boley came and told him that Bill Ogilvy’s new clerk had said he’d box him at the Annual Picnic he should have gone right down to Bill Ogilvy’s store and walked up to Mr. Notter and said to him, “So you want to fight me, do you?” and smashed him in the face. That would have been—

  At this point the course of Simmons’s thoughts was abruptly halted. He heard a noise somewhere to the right—no, the left. A sound of something moving.

  Instantly he was on the alert. He rose cautiously to his hands and knees and crawled across the grass to the shrubbery. Noiselessly pulling a branch aside, he looked through—

  And found himself face to face with Mr. Notter!

  Simmons stopped short, squatting there on his hands and knees, gazing into Mr. Notter’s eyes not three feet away. Mr. Notter, too, appeared to be startled out of speech. He had forced his way half through the shrubbery, when the apparition of Simmons burst suddenly upon him, and now he stood there, surrounded by the leaves and branches, with a stupid, amazed stare in his usually keen eyes, like a steer that has just been felled with an ax.

  For several seconds the two men gazed at each other, silent and motionless. Suddenly a new look flashed into the eyes of each; a look of comprehension, of mutual understanding.

  “Hello,” said Jone Simmons weakly.

  Mr. Notter nodded. Then he removed his eyes from the other’s face to glance hastily behind him, as though he contemplated retreat. But appearing to think better of it, he moved forward instead, pushed his way through the tangled shrubbery and stood within the clearing. Simultaneously Simmons backed in again and rose to his feet.

  “Hello,” said Mr. Notter then, as though he had just remembered that he had not returned the other’s greeting.

  Simmons nodded. There was a silence. Suddenly a grin appeared on Mr. Notter’s face. He looked about him for a nice grassy spot, selected one near the trunk of a tree at the edge of the clearing and deliberately sat down on it, stretching his legs out comfortably and leaning against the tree.

  “Very nice here,” he observed pleasantly.

  Simmons felt that he didn’t want to sit down. He thought that he would feel silly if he sat down, and he tried to think of something else to do. No go. He couldn’t very well stand there like a man ready to run.

  So he sat down, somewhat abruptly, a little distance away. He was trying to decide whether he ought to reply to Mr. Notter’s observations. After all, there was no reason why he shouldn’t.

  “Nice and shady,” he declared, plucking a blade of grass and placing it between his teeth.

  All at once a great burst of laughter came from Mr. Notter. He kicked up his heels and roared. He rocked to and fro, shaking all over, reveling in mirth, waking the forest.

  “What you laughin’ at?” Simmons demanded.

  “Oh, all them people,” the other managed to get out between gasps.

  “All what people?”

  “Why, back there waitin’ and lookin’ for us. Waitin’ to see a bloody nose. And here we sit, laughin’ at ’em!”

  “Well, if you’re going to make so much noise they’ll soon find us,” Simmons observed. But he grinned in spite of himself. It was funny. He could see Peter Boley and Slim Pearl and the rest running around like chickens with their heads cut off.

  “It’s queer we should both come to the same spot,” observed Mr. Notter presently. “One of life’s calm incidents.”

  That was the way Simmons understood it at first, then he realized that the other had meant to say “coincidences.” He nodded in agreement. But another thought was occupying his mind, and after a moment he gave it speech.

  “You know,” he said abruptly, “if I was an ex-champion I think I’d just as soon fight as not.”

  “So would I,” chuckled Mr. Notter.

  “But you are,” Simmons objected in surprise.

  “You mean what I told old Boley,” the other grinned. “I was just stringin’ him. I used to belong to an athletic club, all right. Up in Columbus.”

  “Then you wasn’t a fighter?”

  “Not so as you could notice it.”

  Silence. Simmons cursed himself mentally. This was the kind of man he had run away from! A liar and braggart! A bag of wind! He, Jone Simmons, man of science, absolute master of the punching bag, had run away from this little, white-faced city dry-goods clerk!

  “Of course,” he said contemptuously, “then it’s not much wonder you was afraid to fight.”

  “I didn’t say I was afraid,” returned Mr. Notter, glancing at him. “I just didn’t want to.”

  “Well, it’s easy enough to see why you didn’t want to.”

  “I don’t know whether it is or not.”

  “I do.”

  “I don’t.”

  Simmons opened his mouth to say “I do” again, but reflected that the remark would seem pointless on repetition. He substituted another—

  “Anyhow, you run away.”

  “I suppose you didn’t,’ retorted Mr. Notter sarcastically.

  “That’s my business.”

  “And mine’s mine.”

  “If I did come away it wasn’t because I was afraid of you, I tell you that!”

  Mr. Notter laughed coldly. “No,” he returned, “I suppose you was afraid of the greased pig.”

  Simmons rose to his knees, trembling a little. “Are you lookin’ for trouble?” he demanded.

  “What if I am?” retorted the other crushingly.

  “I say, are you lookin’ for trouble?”

  “And I say what if I am?”

  “You coward, you, are you looki’ for trouble?”

  Mr. Notter’s face grew suddenly red. “I’m a coward, am I?” His voice was raised hoarsely. “That’s a lie!”

  There was a silence. A tense, pendent silence, while the two men, glaring at each other, breathed heavily. And then, surprising even himself by the suddenness of it, Jone Simmons lunged forward and swung at Mr. Notter’s jaw. A vicious, full swing, and it nearly hit him.

  “You would, would you?” Mr. Notter cried furiously, leaping to his feet. Simmons followed him. But before he could get set for another blow Mr. Notter had reached out and grasped his hair with both hands, jerking with all his strength.

  “Wow!” screamed Simmons, tears of pain starting to his eyes. He drew back his right foot and delivered a well-placed-kick on the other’s shin. It had the desired effect. He felt the grasp on his hair loosen.

  The next moment he had jumped forward to throw his arms around Mr. Notter’s neck, and together the two men went to the ground in a savage embrace.

  They landed with Simmons on top, but Mr. Notter somehow got hold of his ear and pulled him beneath, wriggling out from under. Both were kicking frantically, and Simmons managed to get a hand fastened in the other’s hair. He was at a disadvantage there, for Mr. Notter’s scalp was not sensitive.

  Over and over they rolled on the grass from one side of the clearing to the other and back again, pull
ing hair, scratching, kicking, both boiling with rage. Once they rolled against a tree, knocking Simmons’s head against the trunk, and he thought the other had hit him.

  “You damn coward!” he yelled.

  He released his hold around his opponent’s neck, doubled his fists and pushed them savagely against Mr. Notter’s nose. That brought first blood for Simmons, and moved Mr. Notter, wild with fury, to superhuman efforts. He wriggled on top and pinned Simmons down with his knees, and began raining blows all over his face.

  More blood. Simmons felt it on his face and thought he was being killed. With a sudden mighty upheaving of his body he unseated his opponent and sent him tumbling to one side, and then rolled over on top of him.

  Again they closed in an embrace, each with his fingers fastened in the other’s hair.

  “Leggo my hair!” screamed Simmons in agony.

  “You leggo mine!” yelled Mr. Notter in return.

  Simmons pulled harder, but it was quite evident even to his frenzied brain that his opponent’s scalp was the toughest part of him. Accordingly, he released his hold on Mr. Notter’s hair and gripped his nose instead. He clutched the nose, sore and bleeding, with the fingers of both hands, and jerked it savagely from right to left and back again.

  Mr. Notter emitted a fearful yell, but pulled harder on the hair, rolling over meantime so that he was on top. In desperate fury Simmons let go of the nose and closed his fingers around the other’s throat.

  “Let go my hair!” he screamed again, blinded with tears.

  Mr. Notter began to gurgle, and his grasp weakened. They began to roll again, first one on top and then the other, mad with frenzy. Simmons got his knuckles against Mr. Notter’s eye and bored in with them, twisting his fist from side to side. Mr. Notter jerked away and butted his forehead against Simmons’s nose, causing the blood to spurt afresh.

  Simmons let out an awful oath and began pounding his opponent’s face with both fists—his eyes, his nose, his mouth. They rolled over once, twice, toward a tree at the edge of the clearing, Mr. Notter coming out on top.

  They were both about exhausted by that time, and the end would have come soon in any event, but the chance of their rolling close to the tree hastened it.