by J. T. Edson
Shortly after the departure of the conspirators, Town Marshal Tune Collier and Counselor Aloysius P. Scrope had arrived together in what was clearly haste. Asking the blonde to discuss the matter with them in her private office, she had agreed. Once there, they had expressed their concern over the situation in which she had allowed herself to become involved. This had gone beyond the damaging of the good impression she had been creating amongst many of her former critics.
While nothing was known about the participation of Good, the woman hired to clean and cook at the house by Maxwell Higgins also served in the former capacity for the attorney. She had told him of Wanda’s activities in the simply equipped gymnasium, and he had found the description of the specially made punching bag most significant. Knowing she would never take so much trouble merely for the sake of harmless—if health-ensuring—exercise, he had suspected her intentions with regards to Viola Grant. Mentioning this to the peace officer, they had concluded her hatred was now being directed against the woman for whom they had formed a liking and respect.
Admitting everything she had been told was correct, Madam had pointed out the adverse effect a refusal of the challenge would have had upon her. Conceding this was the case, her visitors had repeated the warning of the possible repercussions whether she won or lost. However, on the matter being raised by the marshal, Scrope had asserted there was no legislation to prevent the participation of women in a prize fight and it could not be cancelled on legal grounds.
The declaration by the lawyer had helped Collier to justify his inability to prevent the bout, when visited by an irate delegation from the Ladies Guild For Civic Betterment, as soon as he arrived at the jailhouse on Thursday morning. This had not been the news they hoped for and he was left in no doubt that Madam Bulldog had lost whatever improved feelings she might have developed amongst them by her behavior up to that day.
However, the marshal had found himself faced with another problem relating to the forthcoming fight!
It too had defied refusal!
Learning that Rudolph Schanz was having the boxing ring taken and erected between the blacksmith’s shop and Pegler’s livery barn, Collier had gone to find out why this was being done. He was told there was already so much interest aroused that the crowd wishing to attend could not be accommodated in the Barnhof Saloon and the bout was to be held in the open. Accepting that to do otherwise might lead to trouble between those inside the building, and others unable to gain admission, the marshal had also conceded the danger and fire hazard which would be created by packing the building to capacity, even disregarding other contingencies.
Receiving a grudging acquiescence from the peace officer, Schanz had had every man he could persuade working on the erection of stands of seats for the expected crowd. By keeping them at it all day, long into the night and throughout Friday morning, he had achieved his purpose and the precaution had proved justifiable. Despite Collier’s hope that inclement weather would cause the cancellation of the fight, the day was fine and not too warm. By three o’clock, every stand was full. Men were also standing on the roof of the blacksmith’s shop and in the hay loft of the livery barn.
Watching what was happening from the rear of the assembled throng, the marshal had told Deputy Marshal Herman ‘Pockets’ Hoscroft there were only two things for which they might be grateful. As yet, everybody was in good spirits and there had been no trouble. Furthermore, the location of the ring ensured nothing happening in it could be seen from the frontage of Vernon Street in general and the Square in particular.
Leaning against the hard turnbuckle of the corner to which she had been assigned, with Wallace and Good waiting to act as her seconds, Wanda Higgins considered she was presenting a sight to please the most demanding male member of the audience. She was clad in a white satin version of the man’s undershirt, except it was far more daring in cut and showed all too clearly there was no other garment underneath, black tights and white pumps. Ever an exhibitionist, she had offered to fight bare to the waist, but was advised this would offer the marshal a reason for banning the bout. On her hands were black six ounce gloves. These had been selected by her trainer, instead of the smaller variety she had used for practice, as being somewhat less damaging. He pointed out that it was likely her opponent would land at least some hits on her so that the precaution was worthwhile.
All in all, the red head was feeling a deep sense of satisfaction and little apprehension. After the earlier setbacks to her desire to regain control of the lucrative business lost by her husband, she was satisfied that everything was finally going her way.. Nor, despite the buxom blonde having agreed to the bout far more readily than was anticipated, did she experience any anxiety. Regardless of how tough the other had proved since arriving, or even if she had some skill with boxing gloves, there were arrangements made to ensure she would be put at a disadvantage.
For her part, Madam Bulldog seemed just as much at ease. Like Wanda, she had had her hair bound back to form what a later generation would call a “pony tail”. Albeit somewhat more demurely her attire was almost identical to that of the red head, although it was still far from being decorous and gave just as many indications that it was the only covering above the waist. Nothing of her thoughts showed, but she knew she was in for a rough time no matter what the result. However, she had overcome one pitfall placed in her path. The local medical practitioner had been prevented from acting as her second, but she had Marvin Eldridge ‘Doc’ Leroy assisting Greta Kusin. Having seen him attend to and, according to Connel, save the life of her servant, then deal with the wounds of the would be robbers, she had complete confidence in his ability to administer to her needs.
An expectant hush fell over the crowd as the doctor, clad in a black shirt, Levi pants and moccasins, called the women to join him at the center of the ring. Although aware that trying to end the fight by awarding a disqualification would in all probability be futile, he told them what kind of conduct was or was not permissible. Then he ordered them to shake hands, return to their corners and come out fighting on the bell. Madam extended her right hand, but Wanda knocked it aside and walked away. Giving a shrug, the blonde returned to her corner.
Seated at the side of the ring, with a stop watch, brass gong and the two small bags containing the four thousand dollars ‘purse’ on his small table, Schanz was acting as timekeeper. Setting the watch for three minutes, he banged the gong with its brass hammer to signal the commencement of the round. Having had gum-shields slipped into their mouths, the two women began to cross to the center of the ring. Studying Madam’s posture, Wanda concluded she knew at least the basics of boxing. The summation was mutual, although the blonde had suspected such to be the case from the moment the challenge was uttered.
As the women converged in the center, regardless of the way in which her offer to shake hands had been treated, instinct caused Madam to extend her gloves for the already accepted convention of touching those of her opponent to signify the commencement of the first round. Her sporting action was ignored, being greeted by a swift left jab to the face which jolted back her head. Angered by the violation of her sporting gesture, she could not prevent herself retaliating with a roundhouse swing of the right hand. It was, she realized just too late to halt the movement, ill advised.
Justifying the realization, Wanda dodged the blow by bending at the waist and retaining her balance by keeping her feet in the places from which she had delivered the jab. Remaining in the crouch after the blow passed harmlessly over her head, she rammed her own right deep into Madam’s unguarded navel. Although most of the air was driven from her lungs and her senses started to swim, instinct caused the blonde to collapse against and wrap her arms around the red head. Straightening from the evasion, Wanda was ensnared before she could get clear. Nor could she burst free of the embrace which was pinioning her arms.
‘Break!’ Connel ordered.
Having gained a brief and badly needed respite, Madam obeyed. Opening her arms suddenly, she thrust hers
elf away in the hope of getting clear to man oeuvre. Aware of the chance she had made, Wanda threw a left hook to Madam’s head with all her power. It was a blow which could have put her opponent in severe difficulty, but it failed to connect. Adequately recovered during the short clinch, the blonde avoided it and retaliated with a straight and jolting left to the jaw of the red head. Dazed by the blow, Wanda was wide open for the right cross which caught her nose. While it did not draw blood, it was sufficiently painful to cause her to cover up and retire across the ring.
Still feeling the effects of the body blow, Madam did not follow up on the advantage she had gained immediately. Instead, she concentrated upon replenishing her lungs despite knowing the other woman would also be recovering. This proved to be the case and, when they moved forward, they began to circle warily. Each was waiting, feeling the other out with probing left or right jabs, alert for any opportunity to initiate another telling and damaging attack. Remembering what she had been told, Wanda concentrated upon trying to keep her opponent facing the livery barn.
Having arrived early, to acquire the point of vantage selected by Good when the open air venue was organized, one of the contingent from Garnett had a small window to himself in the hay loft. Carrying out the instructions given by Wallace, to whom he had been sent by County Sheriff Lloyd Bowman, he slipped a small mirror from his jacket pocket. Having glanced around to make sure he was not observed, he began to direct the reflection from the afternoon sun towards the ring. After only a couple of attempts, he achieved his purpose.
Caught in the face by the unexpected glare, Madam was dazzled and she faltered in her movements. Alert for this, Wanda hurled a left hook upwards to catch her full beneath her jutting right breast. Gasping in pain, she stumbled backwards and desperately went into a protective crouch. Following her, the red head pounded at her shoulders and arms in an attempt to get through to her head. Herded into a corner, she managed to slip on to her knees and the referee ordered her assailant to move away. On the count reaching eight, the blonde regained her feet; but her eyes were still blinking and raw agony beat from the point she had been struck. Believing nothing other than a chance reflection from a window had caused her misfortune, she went warily to meet the eagerly approaching Wanda after her gloves had been wiped clean by Connel.
Having heard comments leading him to assume foul play was contemplated, while playing poker at the Barnhof Saloon the previous evening, Joseph Brambile had informed the other gamblers invited by Madam. They were positioned around the ring, alert for any eventuality. Seeing the flashing light and its aftermath, Poker Alice left her seat and headed for the livery barn. No man could have got through the crowd of spectators so quickly, but they made for the beautiful Englishwoman.
By the window, delighted with the success he had achieved, the man was waiting for another opportunity Either by chance or design, the blonde did not present it so readily. However, at last the red head managed to bring her to face his position. He was preparing to align the mirror when something hard was pushed between his spread apart legs.
“Despite being raised a lady,’ said a gentle feminine voice, yet chilling in its implied menace, to the accompaniment of the unmistakable sound of a firearm being cocked. ‘I intend to try and blow your balls out of the top of your head if you so much as quiver!’
‘Wha – Who’ the man croaked, realizing there was every chance of the threat being put into effect.
‘I’ll take the mirror,’ the speaker declared, reaching with her free hand to do so. Stepping swiftly beyond grabbing distance, she went on, ‘Now light a shuck, as you colonials put it. If you’re still around when Madam has thrashed that red haired person as soundly as she deserves, I would hate to be in your shoes.
Sidling away from Poker Alice, with his eyes fixed on the Remington Double Derringer she was holding, the man scuttled to the ladder by which he had gained admission to the loft and disappeared down it. Returning the pistol to her reticule, she took his place at the window. Watching Madam and Wanda continuing their boxing, a smile came to her face as she saw the chance she was seeking. Putting the mirror and sun to the same use, she had a different objective.
Affected by the light as the blonde had been, Wanda came off somewhat worse. She was caught first in the solar plexus by a solid left, then a right to the temple as she retreated, and she began to fold at the middle and go down onto her hands and knees. Shaking her head and gasping, she remained there for a count of eight. Still showing the effects as she regained her feet, she was saved from further punishment by the gong being sounded by Schanz—slightly ahead of time—to bring the round to an end.
‘What the “something” happened?’ the red head demanded furiously, on reaching her corner and sitting on the stool placed for her by Good. ‘That bastard in the loft blinded me the second time.’
‘The stupid ba—!’ Wallace began, gazing at the livery barn. ‘Hell’s fire!’
‘What’s up?’ Good growled, looking in the same direction. ‘Hot damn!’
Duplicating the action of her seconds, Wanda saw to her consternation that Poker Alice was standing at the window instead of the man from Garnett. After waving it in admonition, the Englishwoman tossed the mirror to the ground.
‘That “mother-something” Limey’s on to us!’ the red head breathed.
‘Don’t worry,’ Good replied. ‘We’ve got other things’s she can’t get at and stop!’
‘Hey, Marshal Collier!’
Hearing his named called in a young voice, the peace officer turned his attention from discussing the first round with his deputy. Looking around, he nodded a greeting to the fourteen year old son of the mayor.
‘Howdy, Billy. Why all the rush?’
‘Momma’s sent me to fetch you, daddy, the banker and Lawyer Scrope,’ the boy replied. ‘Whee-dogie, is she in a tizz?’
‘Why’d that be?’ Collier asked, always having regarded Mrs. Olivia Tyler as one of the more responsible members of the Ladies Guild For Civic Betterment.
‘A deputy from Garnett’s just fogged in,’ Billy explained. ‘Says he’s been sent by the sheriff to tell us Stanton Howard’s coming and’ll hit town around four o’clock.’
‘Four?’ the marshal growled, taking out and consulting his watch. ‘Hell, it’s coming up to twenty to now. Go get the mayor and the others, Pockets!’
‘Well, isn’t that the damned, all-fired most awkward thing?’ Hebert Tyler declared, after the order was obeyed and the news delivered via Billy was passed on by Collier. He jerked his head towards where the second round was being commenced and continued, ‘We can’t let Howard know this’s going on!’
‘There’ll be a riot if it’s stopped,’ the marshal estimated grimly. ‘Which we don’t want him to see either. What else did your momma say, Billy?’
‘She’ll have all the ladies waiting to meet him in the Square,’ the boy replied. ‘And she reckons it’d be best was you-all on hand’s well.’
‘Smart figuring,’ Collier declared, deciding his confidence in the wife of the mayor had not been betrayed. ‘We’ll take him straight into the Fortescue Hotel and that’ll keep him out of the way until the fight’s over. Happen we’re lucky, he’ll not get to know what’s been going on.’
Seventeen – Fight Fire With Fire
‘All right, god damn it, what’s that “mother- something” son-of-a-bitch with the bean-shooter holding back for?’ Wanda Higgins gasped, sinking tiredly on to the stool placed for her in the red corner by her seconds at the end of the sixth round. Pushing aside the wet sponge with which Stephen Good was preparing to wipe away the blood running from her swollen nose, she continued in a voice of close to breathless fury. ‘I’ve had Bulldog against the ropes where he could have hit her at least half a dozen times, but he just sits on his fat ass like he was turned to stone.’
‘Don’t I know it?’ Leo Wallace growled, the tirade having been directed chiefly towards him, applying a pad of cloth soaked in cold water to the badly p
uffed left eye of his half-sister with the intention of reducing, if not stopping, further swelling which would close it. ‘Every time I look at the bastard, he just stares back like a sick cow!’
‘Hey!’ the trainer ejaculated. ‘Madame Mustache’s sat just behind him. Maybe it’s something she’s doing!’
As he was to discover later, Good had made an accurate summation!
However, putting aside thoughts on why another ploy intended to give an advantage to the red head was failing to materialize, the two men set about the task of reviving her as much as possible ready for when the gong was sounded to resume the fighting.
From the commencement of the second round, Wanda had been given further confirmation that she was in contention against a competent and dangerous opponent. One, moreover, possessing sufficient skill to offset the benefits the red head might otherwise have expected to accrue from her extra size, weight and length of reach. Therefore, it had been a bitter and closely contested fight with no quarter being offered or anticipated.
Many were the power packed punches traded by the two women!
Hooks, jabs, uppercuts, cross punches and even roundhouse swings were employed with complete impartiality, to be blocked, deflected, dodged, or accepted as was directed by ability and chance. Time after time, the hard packed six ounce boxing gloves made contact against the head, face, solar plexus and stomach, above the level of the tights; or below it when Wanda had seen a chance to do so without detection by Doctor Henry Connel. Although also against the rules, she had deliberately attacked the kidney region during clinches.
However, by far the worst suffering was being inflicted upon each bosom. Offered not the slightest protection by the mutually flimsy coverings, both sizeable pairs of breasts were assailed at every chance until the torment caused to the virtually unsupported mounds by unavoidable movements, as well as further blows, was close to purgatory. Between the rounds, inspections carried out upon their principals by Greta Kusin and Good had disclosed this most vulnerable portion of the feminine anatomy was becoming mottled by bruises, but the pain being caused was impossible to counteract and had to be endured.
