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

by Robert E. Howard

  Well, in Bulawayo’s office me and Bucko now set and glared at each other, and what we was thinking probably wasn’t printable.

  “Tell you what, boys,” said Bulawayo, “I’ll let you fight ten rounds as soon as the main event’s over with. I’ll put up five pounds and the winner gets it all.”

  “Good enough for me,” growled Bucko.

  “Make it six pounds and it’s a go,” said I.

  “Done!” said Bulawayo, who realized what a break he was getting, having me fight for him for thirty dollars.

  Bucko give me a nasty grin.

  “At last, you blasted Yank,” said he, “I got you where I want you. They’ll be no poop deck for me to slip and fall off this time. And you can’t hit me with no hand spike.”

  “A fine bird you are, talkin’ about hand spikes,” I snarled, “after tryin’ to tear off a section of the main-rail to sock me with.”

  “Belay!” hastily interrupted Bulawayo. “Preserve your ire for the ring.”

  “Is they any Sea Girl men out front?” I asked. “I want a handler to see that none of this thug’s henchmen don’t dope my water bottle.”

  “Strangely enough, Steve,” said Bulawayo, “I ain’t seen a Sea Girl bloke tonight. But I’ll get a handler for you.”

  Well, the main event went the limit. It seemed like it never would get over with and I cussed to myself at the idea of a couple of dubs like them was delaying the performance of a man like me. At last, however, the referee called it a draw and kicked the both of them outa the ring.

  Bulawayo hopped through the ropes and stopped the folks who’d started to go, by telling them he was offering a free and added attraction — Sailor Costigan and Bucko Brent in a impromptu grudge bout. This was good business for Bulawayo. It tickled the crowd who’d seen both of us fight, though not ag’in each other, of course. They cheered Bulawayo to the echo and settled back with whoops of delight.

  Bulawayo was right — not a Sea Girl man in the house. All drunk or in jail or something, I suppose. They was quite a number of thugs there from the Nagpur — Brent’s present ship — and they all rose as one and gimme the razz. Sailors is funny. I know that Brent hazed the liver outa them, yet they was rooting for him like he was their brother or something.

  I made no reply to their jeers, maintaining a dignified and aloof silence only except to tell them that I was going to tear their pet mate apart and strew the fragments to the four winds, and also to warn them not to try no monkey-shines behind my back, otherwise I wouldst let Mike chaw their legs off. They greeted my brief observations with loud, raucous bellerings, but looked at Mike with considerable awe.

  The referee was an Englishman whose name I forget, but he hadn’t been outa the old country very long, and had evidently got his experience in the polite athletic clubs of London. He says: “Now understand this, you blighters, w’en H’I says break, H’I wants no bally nonsense. Remember as long as H’I’m in ‘ere, this is a blinkin’ gentleman’s gyme.”

  But he got in the ring with us, American style.

  Bucko is one of these long, rangy, lean fellers, kinda pale and rawboned. He’s got a thin hatchet face and mean light eyes. He’s a bad actor and that ain’t no lie. I’m six feet and weigh one ninety. He’s a inch and three-quarters taller’n me, and he weighed then, maybe, a pound less’n me.

  Bucko come out stabbing with his left, but I was watching his right. I knowed he packed his T.N.T. there and he was pretty classy with it.

  In about ten seconds he nailed me with that right and I seen stars. I went back on my heels and he was on top of me in a second, hammering hard with both hands, wild for a knockout. He battered me back across the ring. I wasn’t really hurt, though he thought I was. Friends of his which had seen me perform before was yelling for him to be careful, but he paid no heed.

  With my back against the ropes I failed to block his right to the body and he rocked my head back with a hard left hook.

  “You’re not so tough, you lousy mick—” he sneered, shooting for my jaw. Wham! I ripped a slungshot right uppercut up inside his left and tagged him flush on the button. It lifted him clean offa his feet and dropped him on the seat of his trunks, where he set looking up at the referee with a goofy and glassy-eyed stare, whilst his friends jumped up and down and cussed and howled: “We told you to be careful with that gorilla, you conceited jassack!”

  But Bucko was tough. He kind of assembled hisself and was up at the count of “Nine,” groggy but full of fight and plenty mad. I come in wide open to finish him, and run square into that deadly right. I thought for a instant the top of my head was tore off, but rallied and shook Bucko from stem to stern with a left hook under the heart. He tin-canned in a hurry, covering his retreat with his sharp-shooting left. The gong found me vainly follering him around the ring.

  The next round started with the fans which was betting on Bucko urging him to keep away from me and box me. Them that had put money on me was yelling for him to take a chance and mix it with me.

  But he was plenty cagey. He kept his right bent across his midriff, his chin tucked behind his shoulder and his left out to fend me off. He landed repeatedly with that left and brung a trickle of blood from my lips, but I paid no attention. The left ain’t made that can keep me off forever. Toward the end of the round he suddenly let go with that right again and I took it square in the face to get in a right to his ribs.

  Blood spattered when his right landed. The crowd leaped up, yelling, not noticing the short-armed smash I ripped in under his heart. But he noticed it, you bet, and broke ground in a hurry, gasping, much to the astonishment of the crowd, which yelled for him to go in and finish the blawsted Yankee.

  Crowds don’t see much of what’s going on in the ring before their eyes, after all. They see the wild swings and haymakers but they miss most of the real punishing blows — the short, quick smashes landed in close.

  Well, I went right after Brent, concentrating on his body. He was too kind of long and rangy to take much there. I hunched my shoulders, sunk my head on my hairy chest and bulled in, letting him pound my ears and the top of my head, while I slugged away with both hands for his heart and belly.

  A left hook square under the liver made him gasp and sway like a mast in a high wind, but he desperately ripped in a right uppercut that caught me on the chin and kinda dizzied me for a instant. The gong found us fighting out of a clinch along the ropes.

  My handler was highly enthusiastic, having bet a pound on me to win by a knockout. He nearly flattened a innocent ringsider showing me how to put over what he called “The Fitzsimmons Smoker.” I never heered of the punch.

  Well, Bucko was good and mad and musta decided he couldn’t keep me away anyhow, so he come out of his corner like a bounding kangaroo, and swarmed all over me before I realized he’d changed his tactics. In a wild mix-up a fast, clever boxer can make a slugger look bad at his own game for a few seconds, being as the cleverer man can land quicker and oftener, but the catch is, he can’t keep up the pace. And the smashes the slugger lands are the ones which really counts.

  The crowd went clean crazy when Bucko tore into me, ripping both hands to head and body as fast as he couldst heave one after the other. It looked like I was clean swamped, but them that knowed me tripled their bets. Brent wasn’t hurting me none — cutting me up a little, but he was hitting too fast to be putting much weight behind his smacks.

  Purty soon I drove a glove through the flurry of his punches. His grunt was plainly heered all over the house. He shot both hands to my head and I come back with a looping left to the body which sunk in nearly up to the wrist.

  It was kinda like a bull fighting a tiger, I reckon. He swarmed all over me, hitting fast as a cat claws, whilst I kept my head down and gored him in the belly occasionally. Them body punches was rapidly taking the steam outa him, together with the pace he was setting for hisself. His punches was getting more like slaps and when I seen his knees suddenly tremble, I shifted and crashed my right to h
is jaw with everything I had behind it. It was a bit high or he’d been out till yet.

  Anyway, he done a nose dive and hadn’t scarcely quivered at “Nine,” when the gong sounded. Most of the crowd was howling lunatics. It looked to them like a chance blow, swung by a desperate, losing man, hadst dropped Bucko just when he was winning in a walk.

  But the old-timers knowed better. I couldst see ’em lean back and wink at each other and nod like they was saying: “See, what did I tell you, huh?”

  Bucko’s merry men worked over him and brung him up in time for the fourth round. In fact, they done a lot of work over him. They clustered around him till you couldn’t see what they was doing.

  Well, he come out fairly fresh. He had good recuperating powers. He come out cautious, with his left hand stuck out. I noticed that they’d evidently spilt a lot of water on his glove; it was wet.

  I glided in fast and he pawed at my face with that left. I didn’t pay no attention to it. Then when it was a inch from my eyes I smelt a peculiar, pungent kind of smell! I ducked wildly, but not quick enough. The next instant my eyes felt like somebody’d throwed fire into ‘em. Turpentine! His left glove was soaked with it!

  I’d caught at his wrist when I ducked. And now with a roar of rage, whilst I could still see a little, I grabbed his elbow with the other hand and, ignoring the smash he gimme on the ear with his right, I bent his arm back and rubbed his own glove in his own face.

  He give a most ear-splitting shriek. The crowd bellered with bewilderment and astonishment and the referee rushed in to find out what was happening.

  “I say!” he squawked, grabbing hold of us, as we was all tangled up by then. “Wot’s going on ‘ere? I say, it’s disgryceful — OW!”

  By some mischance or other, Bucko, thinking it was me, or swinging blind, hit the referee right smack between the eyes with that turpentine-soaked glove.

  Losing touch with my enemy, I got scared that he’d creep up on me and sock me from behind. I was clean blind by now and I didn’t know whether he was or not. So I put my head down and started swinging wild and reckless with both hands, on a chance I’d connect.

  Meanwhile, as I heered afterward, Bucko, being as blind as I was, was doing the same identical thing. And the referee was going around the ring like a race horse, yelling for the cops, the army, the navy or what have you!

  The crowd was clean off its nut, having no idee as to what it all meant.

  “That blawsted blighter Brent!” howled the cavorting referee in response to the inquiring screams of the maniacal crowd. “‘E threw vitriol in me blawsted h’eyes!”

  “Cheer up, cull!” bawled some thug. “Both of ‘em’s blind too!”

  “‘Ow can H’I h’officiate in this condition?” howled the referee, jumping up and down. “Wot’s tyking plyce in the bally ring?”

  “Bucko’s just flattened one of his handlers which was climbin’ into the ring, with a blind swing!” the crowd whooped hilariously. “The Sailor’s gone into a clinch with a ring post!”

  Hearing this, I released what I had thought was Brent, with some annoyance. Some object bumping into me at this instant, I took it to be Bucko and knocked it head over heels. The delirious howls of the multitude informed me of my mistake. Maddened, I plunged forward, swinging, and felt my left hook around a human neck. As the referee was on the canvas this must be Bucko, I thought, dragging him toward me, and he proved it by sinking a glove to the wrist in my belly.

  I ignored this discourteous gesture, and, maintaining my grip on his neck, I hooked over a right with all I had. Having hold of his neck, I knowed about where his jaw oughta be, and I figgered right. I knocked Bucko clean outa my grasp and from the noise he made hitting the canvas I knowed that in the ordinary course of events, he was through for the night.

  I groped into a corner and clawed some of the turpentine outa my eyes. The referee had staggered up and was yelling: “‘Ow in the blinkin’ ‘Ades can a man referee in such a mad-’ouse? Wot’s ‘ere, wot’s ‘ere?”

  “Bucko’s down!” the crowd screamed. “Count him out!”

  “W’ere is ‘e?” bawled the referee, blundering around the ring.

  “Three p’ints off yer port bow!” they yelled and he tacked and fell over the vaguely writhing figger of Bucko. He scrambled up with a howl of triumph and begun to count with the most vindictive voice I ever heered. With each count he’d kick Bucko in the ribs.

  “ — H’eight! Nine! Ten! H’and you’re h’out, you blawsted, blinkin’ blightin’, bally h’assassinatin’ pirate!” whooped the referee, with one last tremendjous kick.

  I climb over the ropes and my handler showed me which way was my dressing- room. Ever have turpentine rubbed in your eyes? Jerusha! I don’t know of nothing more painful. You can easy go blind for good.

  But after my handler hadst washed my eyes out good, I was all right. Collecting my earnings from Bulawayo, I set sail for the American Seamen’s Bar, where I was to meet Shifty Kerren and give him the money to pay Delrano’s fine with.

  It was quite a bit past the time I’d set to meet Shifty, and he wasn’t nowhere to be seen. I asked the barkeep if he’d been there and the barkeep, who knowed Shifty, said he’d waited about half an hour and then hoisted anchor. I ast the barkeep if he knowed where he lived and he said he did and told me. So I ast him would he keep Mike till I got back and he said he would. Mike despises Delrano so utterly I was afraid I couldn’t keep him away from the Kid’s throat, if we saw him, and I figgered on going down to the jail with Shifty.

  Well, I went to the place the bartender told me and went upstairs to the room the landlady said Shifty had, and started to knock when I heard men talking inside. Sounded like the Kid’s voice, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying so I knocked and somebody said: “Come in.”

  I opened the door. Three men was sitting there playing pinochle. They was Shifty, Bill Slane, the Kid’s sparring partner, and the Kid hisself.

  “Howdy, Steve,” said Shifty with a smirk, kinda furtive eyed, “whatcha doin’ away up here?”

  “Why,” said I, kinda took aback, “I brung the dough for the Kid’s fine, but I see he don’t need it, bein’ as he’s out.”

  Delrano hadst been craning his neck to see if Mike was with me, and now he says, with a nasty sneer: “What’s the matter with your face, Costigan? Some street kid poke you on the nose?”

  “If you wanta know,” I growled, “I got these marks on your account. Shifty told me you was in stir, and I was broke, so I fought down at The South African to get fine-money.”

  At that the Kid and Slane bust out into loud and jeering laughter — not the kind you like to hear. Shifty joined in, kinda nervous-like.

  “Whatcha laughin’ at?” I snarled. “Think I’m lyin’?”

  “Naw, you ain’t lyin’,” mocked the Kid. “You ain’t got sense enough to. You’re just the kind of a dub that would do somethin’ like that.”

  “You see, Steve,” said Shifty, “the Kid—”

  “Aw shut up, Shifty!” snapped Delrano. “Let the big sap know he’s been took for a ride. I’m goin’ to tell him what a sucker he’s been. He ain’t got his blasted bulldog with him. He can’t do nothin’ to the three of us.”

  Delrano got up and stuck his sneering, pasty white face up close to mine.

  “Of all the dumb, soft, boneheaded boobs I ever knew,” said he, and his tone cut like a whip lash, “you’re the limit. Get this, Costigan, I ain’t broke and I ain’t been in jail! You want to know why Shifty spilt you that line? Because I bet him ten dollars that much as you hate me and him, we could hand you a hard luck tale and gyp you outa your last cent.

  “Well, it worked! And to think that you been fightin’ for the dough to give me! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! You big chump! You’re a natural born sucker! You fall for anything anybody tells you. You’ll never get nowheres. Look at me — I wouldn’t give a blind man a penny if he was starvin’ and my brother besides. But you — oh, what a sap!

  “If
Shifty hadn’t been so anxious to win that ten bucks that he wouldn’t wait down at the bar, we’d had your dough, too. But this is good enough. I’m plenty satisfied just to know how hard you fell for our graft, and to see how you got beat up gettin’ money to pay myfine! Ha-ha-ha!”

  By this time I was seeing them through a red mist. My huge fists was clenched till the knuckles was white, and when I spoke it didn’t hardly sound like my voice at all, it was so strangled with rage.

  “They’s rats in every country,” I ground out. “If you’d of picked my pockets or slugged me for my dough, I coulda understood it. If you’d worked a cold deck or crooked dice on me, I wouldn’ta kicked. But you appealed to my better nature, ‘stead of my worst.

  “You brung up a plea of patriotism and national fellership which no decent man woulda refused. You appealed to my natural pride of blood and nationality. It wasn’t for you I done it — it wasn’t for you I spilt my blood and risked my eyesight. It was for the principles and ideals you’ve mocked and tromped into the muck — the honor of our country and the fellership of Americans the world over.

  “You dirty swine! You ain’t fitten to be called Americans. Thank gosh, for everyone like you, they’s ten thousand decent men like me. And if it’s bein’ a sucker to help out a countryman when he’s in a jam in a foreign land, then I thanks the Lord I am a sucker. But I ain’t all softness and mush — feel this here for a change!”

  And I closed the Kid’s eye with a smashing left hander. He give a howl of surprise and rage and come back with a left to the jaw. But he didn’t have a chance. He’d licked me in the ring, but he couldn’t lick me bare-handed, in a small room where he couldn’t keep away from my hooks, not even with two men to help him. I was blind mad and I just kind of gored and tossed him like a charging bull.

  If he hit at all after that first punch I don’t remember it. I know I crashed him clean across the room with a regular whirlwind of smashes, and left him sprawled out in the ruins of three or four chairs with both eyes punched shut and his arm broke. I then turned on his cohorts and hit Bill Slane on the jaw, knocking him stiff as a wedge. Shifty broke for the door, but I pounced on him and spilled him on his neck in a corner with a open-handed slap.