Delphi Works of Robert E. Howard (Illustrated) (Series Four)

by Robert E. Howard

  Other boxer-protagonists include Kid Allison and the happy-go-lucky black boxer Ace Jessel, who stars in an unusual cross between the boxing story and the ghost story.

  Many of Howard’s boxing stories appeared in the pulp magazine ‘Fight Stories’

  As a young man, Howard (pictured) was himself a keen amateur boxer

  Howard boxing with his friend Dave Lee

  Howard, c. 1929

  SAILOR STEVE COSTIGAN

  CONTENTS

  THE PIT OF THE SERPENT; OR, MANILA MANSLAUGHTER

  THE BULL-DOG BREED; OR, YOU GOT TO KILL A BULLDOG

  SAILOR’S GRUDGE; OR, COSTIGAN VS. KID CAMERA

  FIST AND FANG; OR, CANNIBAL FISTS

  THE IRON MAN; OR, FALL GUY; IRON MEN

  WINNER TAKE ALL; OR, SUCKER FIGHT

  WATERFRONT FISTS; OR, STAND UP AND SLUG!

  CHAMP OF THE FORECASTLE; OR, CHAMP OF THE SEVEN SEAS

  ALLEYS OF PERIL; OR, LEATHER LIGHTNING

  THE TNT PUNCH; OR, WATERFRONT LAW; THE WATERFRONT WALLOP

  TEXAS FISTS; OR, SHANGHIED MITTS

  THE SIGN OF THE SNAKE

  BLOW THE CHINKS DOWN!; OR, THE HOUSE OF PERIL

  BREED OF BATTLE; OR, THE FIGHTIN’EST PAIR; SAMPSON HAD A SOFT SPOT

  CIRCUS FISTS; OR, SLUGGER BAIT

  DARK SHANGHAI; OR, ONE SHANGHAI NIGHT

  VIKINGS OF THE GLOVES; OR, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN!

  NIGHT OF BATTLE; OR, SHORE LEAVE FOR A SLUGGER

  THE SLUGGER’S GAME

  GENERAL IRONFIST

  SLUGGERS OF THE BEACH

  THE PIT OF THE SERPENT; OR, MANILA MANSLAUGHTER

  First published in Fight Stories, July 1929

  THE minute I stepped ashore from the Sea Girl, merchantman, I had a hunch that there would be trouble. This hunch was caused by seeing some of the crew of the Dauntless. The men on the Dauntless have disliked the Sea Girl’s crew ever since our skipper took their captain to a cleaning on the wharfs of Zanzibar — them being narrow-minded that way. They claimed that the old man had a knuckle-duster on his right, which is ridiculous and a dirty lie. He had it on his left.

  Seeing these roughnecks in Manila, I had no illusions about them, but I was not looking for no trouble. I am heavyweight champion of the Sea Girl, and before you make any wisecracks about the non-importance of that title, I want you to come down to the forecastle and look over Mushy Hansen and One-Round Grannigan and Flat-Face O’Toole and Swede Hjonning and the rest of the man-killers that make up the Sea Girl’s crew. But for all that, no one can never accuse me of being quarrelsome, and so instead of following my natural instinct and knocking seven or eight of these bezarks for a row, just to be ornery, I avoided them and went to the nearest American bar.

  After a while I found myself in a dance hall, and while it is kind of hazy just how I got there, I assure you I had not no great amount of liquor under my belt — some beer, a few whiskeys, a little brandy, and maybe a slug of wine for a chaser like. No, I was the perfect chevalier in all my actions, as was proven when I found myself dancing with the prettiest girl I have yet to see in Manila or elsewhere. She had red lips and black hair, and oh, what a face!

  “Say, miss,” said I, the soul of politeness, “where have you been all my life?”

  “Oooh, la!” said she, with a silvery ripple of laughter. “You Americans say such theengs. Oooh, so huge and strong you are, senyor!”

  I let her feel of my biceps, and she give squeals of surprise and pleasure, clapping her little white hands just like a child what has found a new pretty.

  “Oooh! You could just snatch little me oop and walk away weeth me, couldn’t you, senyor?”

  “You needn’t not be afraid,” said I, kindly. “I am the soul of politeness around frails, and never pull no rough stuff. I have never soaked a woman in my life, not even that dame in Suez that throwed a knife at me. Baby, has anybody ever give you a hint about what knockouts your eyes is?”

  “Ah, go ‘long,” said she, coyly— “Ouch!”

  “Did somebody step on your foot?” I ask, looking about for somebody to crown.

  “Yes — let’s sit theese one out, senyor. Where did you learn to dance?”

  “It comes natural, I reckon,” I admitted modestly. “I never knew I could till now. This is the first time I ever tried.”

  From the foregoing you will see that I am carrying on a quiet conversation, not starting nothing with nobody. It is not my fault, what happened.

  Me and this girl, whose name is Raquel La Costa, her being Spanish that way, are sitting peacefully at a table and I am just beginning to get started good telling her how her eyes are like dark pools of night (pretty hot, that one; I got it offa Mushy Hansen, who is all poetical like), when I notice her looking over my shoulder at somebody. This irritates me slightly, but I ignore it, and having forgotten what I was saying, my mind being slightly hazy for some reason, I continue:

  “Listen, cutey — hey, who are you winkin’ at? Oh, somethin’ in your eye, you say? All right, as I was sayin’, we got a feller named Hansen on board the Sea Girl what writes po’try. Listen to this:

  “Oh, the road to glory lay

  Over old Manila Bay.

  Where the Irish whipped the Spanish

  On a sultry summer day.”

  At this moment some bezark came barging up to our table and, ignoring me, leaned over and leered engagingly at my girl.

  “Let’s shake a hoof, baby,” said this skate, whom I recognized instantly as Bat Slade, champion box fighter of the Dauntless.

  Miss La Costa said nothing, and I arose and shoved Slade back from the table.

  “The lady is engaged at present, stupid,” says I, poking my jaw out. “If you got any business, you better ‘tend to it.”

  “Don’t get gay with me, Costigan,” says he, nastily. “Since when is dames choosin’ gorillas instead of humans?”

  By this time quite a crowd had formed, and I restrained my natural indignation and said, “Listen, bird, take that map outa my line uh vision before I bust it.”

  Bat is a handsome galoot who has a way with the dames, and I knew if he danced one dance with my girl he would figure out some way to do me dirt. I did not see any more of the Dauntless men; on the other hand, I was the only one of the Sea Girl’s crew in the joint.

  “Suppose we let the lady choose between us,” said Bat. Can you beat that for nerve? Him butting in that way and then giving himself equal rights with me. That was too much. With a bellow, I started my left from the hip, but somehow he wasn’t there — the shifty crook! I miss by a yard, and he slams me with a left to the nose that knocks me over a chair.

  My brain instantly cleared, and I realized that I had been slightly lit. I arose with an irritated roar, but before hostilities could be renewed, Miss La Costa stepped between us.

  “Zut,” said she, tapping us with her fan. “Zut! What is theese? Am I a common girl to be so insult’ by two great tramps who make fight over me in public? Bah! Eef you wanta fight, go out in ze woods or some place where no one make scandal, and wham each other all you want. May ze best man win! I will not be fight over in public, no sir!”

  ANd with that she turned back and walked away. At the same time, up came an oily-looking fellow, rubbing his hands together. I mistrust a bird what goes around rubbing his hands together like he was in a state of perpetual self-satisfaction.

  “Now, now, boys,” said this bezark, “le’s do this right! You boys wanta fight. Tut! Tut! Too bad, too bad! But if you gotta fight, le’s do it right, that’s what I say! Let fellers live together in peace and enmity if they can, but if they gotta fight, let it be did right!”

  “Gi’ me leeway — and I’ll do this blankety-blank right,” says I, fairly shaking with rage. It always irritates me to be hit on the nose without a return and in front of ladies.

  “Oh, will you?” said Bat, putting up his mitts. “Let’s see you get goin’, you—”

  “Now, now, boys,” said the oily bi
rd, “le’s do this right! Costigan, will you and Slade fight for me in my club?”

  “Anywheres!” I roar. “Bare-knuckles, gloves, or marlin-spikes!”

  “Fine,” says the oily bird, rubbing his hands worse than ever. “Ah, fine! Ah — um — ah, Costigan, will you fight Slade in the pit of the serpent?”

  Now, I should have noticed that he didn’t ask Slade if he’d fight, and I saw Slade grin quietly, but I was too crazy with rage to think straight.

  “I’ll fight him in the pit of Hades with the devil for a referee!” I roared. “Bring on your fight club — ring, deck, or whatever! Let’s get goin’.”

  “That’s the way to talk!” says the oily bird. “Come on.”

  He turned around and started for the exit, and me and Slade and a few more followed him. Had I of thought, I would have seen right off that this was all working too smooth to have happened impromptu, as it were. But I was still seething with rage and in no shape to think properly.

  Howthesomever, I did give a few thoughts as to the chances I had against Slade. As for size, I had the advantage. I’m six feet, and Slade is two inches shorter; I am also a few pounds heavier but not enough to make much difference, us being heavyweights that way. But Slade, I knew, was the shiftiest, trickiest leather-slinger in the whole merchant marine. I had never met him for the simple reason that no match-maker in any port would stage a bout between a Sea Girl man and a Dauntless tramp, since that night in Singapore when the bout between Slade and One-Round Grannigan started a free-for-all that plumb wrecked the Wharfside A. C. Slade knocked Grannigan out that night, and Grannigan was then champion slugger aboard the Sea Girl. Later, I beat Grannigan.

  As for dope, you couldn’t tell much, as usual. I’d won a decision over Boatswain Hagney, the champion of the British Asiatic naval fleet, who’d knocked Slade out in Hong Kong, but on the other hand, Slade had knocked out Mike Leary of the Blue Whale, who’d given me a terrible beating at Bombay.

  These cogitations was interrupted at that minute by the oily bird. We had come out of the joint and was standing on the curb. Several autos was parked there, and the crowd piled into them. The oily bird motioned me to get in one, and I done so.

  Next, we was speeding through the streets, where the lights was beginning to glow, and I asked no questions, even when we left the business section behind and then went right on through the suburbs and out on a road which didn’t appear to be used very much. I said nothing, however.

  At last we stopped at a large building some distance outside the city, which looked more like an ex-palace than anything else. All the crowd alighted, and I done likewise, though I was completely mystified. There was no other houses near, trees grew dense on all sides, the house itself was dark and gloomy-looking. All together I did not like the looks of things but would not let on, with Bat Slade gazing at me in his supercilious way. Anyway, I thought, they are not intending to assassinate me because Slade ain’t that crooked, though he would stop at nothing else.

  We went up the walk, lined on each side by tropical trees, and into the house. There the oily bird struck a light and we went down in the basement. This was a large, roomy affair, with a concrete floor, and in the center was a pit about seven feet deep, and about ten by eight in dimensions. I did not pay no great attention to it at that time, but I did later, I want to tell you.

  “Say,” I says, “I’m in no mood for foolishness. What you bring me away out here for? Where’s your arena?”

  “This here’s it,” said the oily bird.

  “Huh! Where’s the ring? Where do we fight?”

  “Down in there,” says the oily bird, pointing at the pit.

  “What!” I yell. “What are you tryin’ to hand me?”

  “Aw, pipe down,” interrupted Bat Slade. “Didn’t you agree to fight me in the serpent pit? Stop grouchin’ and get your duds off.”

  “All right,” I says, plumb burned up by this deal. “I don’t know what you’re tryin’ to put over, but lemme get that handsome map in front of my right and that’s all I want!”

  “Grahhh!” snarled Slade, and started toward the other end of the pit. He had a couple of yeggs with him as handlers. Shows his caliber, how he always knows some thug; no matter how crooked the crowd may be, he’s never without acquaintances. I looked around and recognized a pickpocket I used to know in Cuba, and asked him to handle me. He said he would, though, he added, they wasn’t much a handler could do under the circumstances.

  “What kind of a deal have I got into?” I asked him as I stripped. “What kind of a joint is this?”

  “This house used to be owned by a crazy Spaniard with more mazuma than brains,” said the dip, helping me undress. “He yearned for bull fightin’ and the like, and he thought up a brand new one. He rigged up this pit and had his servants go out and bring in all kinds of snakes. He’d put two snakes in the pit and let ’em fight till they killed each other.”

  “What! I got to fight in a snake den?”

  “Aw, don’t worry. They ain’t been no snakes in there for years. The Spaniard got killed, and the old place went to ruin. They held cock fights here and a few years ago the fellow that’s stagin’ this bout got the idea of buyin’ the house and stagin’ grudge fights.”

  “How’s he make any money? I didn’t see nobody buyin’ tickets, and they ain’t more’n thirty or forty here.”

  “Aw, he didn’t have no time to work it up. He’ll make his money bettin’. He never picks a loser! And he always referees himself. He knows your ship sails tomorrow, and he didn’t have no time for ballyhooin’. This fight club is just for a select few who is too sated or too vicious to enjoy a ordinary legitimate prize fight. They ain’t but a few in the know — all this is illegal, of course — just a few sports which don’t mind payin’ for their pleasure. The night Slade fought Sailor Handler they was forty-five men here, each payin’ a hundred and twenty-five dollars for admission. Figure it out for yourself.”

  “Has Slade fought here before?” I ask, beginning to see a light.

  “Sure. He’s the champion of the pit. Only last month he knocked out Sailor Handler in nine rounds.”

  Gerusha! And only a few months ago me and the Sailor — who stood six-four and weighed two-twenty — had done everything but knife each other in a twenty-round draw.

  “Ho! So that’s the way it is,” said I. “Slade deliberately come and started trouble with me, knowin’ I wouldn’t get a square deal here, him bein’ the favorite and—”

  “No,” said the dip, “I don’t think so. He just fell for that Spanish frail. Had they been any malice aforethought, word would have circulated among the wealthy sports of the town. As it is, the fellow that owns the joint is throwin’ the party free of charge. He didn’t have time to work it up. Figure it out — he ain’t losing nothin’. Here’s two tough sailors wanting to fight a grudge fight — willin’ to fight for nothin’. It costs him nothin’ to stage the riot. It’s a great boost for his club, and he’ll win plenty on bets.”

  The confidence with which the dip said that last gave me cold shivers.

  “And who will he bet on?” I asked.

  “Slade, of course. Ain’t he the pit champion?”

  While I was considering this cheering piece of information, Bat Slade yelled at me from the other end of the pit:

  “Hey, you blankey dash-dot-blank, ain’t you ready yet?”

  He was in his socks, shoes and underpants, and no gloves on his hands.

  “Where’s the gloves?” I asked. “Ain’t we goin’ to tape our hands?”

  “They ain’t no gloves,” said Slade, with a satisfied grin. “This little riot is goin’ to be a bare-knuckle affair. Don’t you know the rules of the pit?”

  “You see, Costigan,” says the oily bird, kinda nervous, “in the fights we put on here, the fighters don’t wear no gloves — regular he-man grudge stuff, see?”

  “Aw, get goin’!” the crowd began to bellow, having paid nothing to get in and wanting their mo
ney’s worth. “Lessee some action! What do you think this is? Start somethin’!”

  “Shut up!” I ordered, cowing them with one menacing look. “What kind of a deal am I getting here, anyhow?”

  “Didn’t you agree to fight Slade in the serpent pit?”

  “Yes but—”

  “Tryin’ to back out,” said Slade nastily, as usual. “That’s like you Sea Girl tramps, you—”

  “Blank, exclamation point, and asterisk!” I roared, tearing off my undershirt and bounding into the pit. “Get down in here you blank-blank semicolon, and I’ll make you look like the last rose of summer, you—”

  Slade hopped down into the pit at the other end, and the crowd began to fight for places at the edge. It was a cinch that some of them was not going to get to see all of it. The sides of the pit were hard and rough, and the floor was the same way, like you’d expect a pit in a concrete floor to be. Of course they was no stools or anything.

  “Now then,” says the oily bird, “this is a finish fight between Steve Costigan of the Sea Girl, weight one-eighty-eight, and Battling Slade, one-seventy-nine, of the Dauntless, bare-knuckle champion of the Philippine Islands, in as far as he’s proved it in this here pit. They will fight three-minute rounds, one minute rest, no limit to the number of rounds. There will be no decision. They will fight till one of ’em goes out. Referee, me.

  “The rules is, nothing barred except hittin’ below the belt — in the way of punches, I mean. Break when I say so, and hit on the breakaway if you wanta. Seconds will kindly refrain from hittin’ the other man with the water bucket. Ready?”