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

by Robert E. Howard

  But that don’t mean I was happy as I sot in my corner whilst my handler squirted lemon juice in my eye, trying to moisten my lips, and give me a long, refreshing drink of iodine in his brainless efforts to daub a cut on my chin. I was thinking of Mike, and a chill trickled down my spine as I wondered what them devils which stole him wouldst do to him if the money wasn’t in the tin can at exactly eleven-thirty.

  “What time is it?” I demanded, and my handler hauled out his watch and said, “Five minutes after ten.”

  “That’s what you said before!” I howled in exasperation. “Gimme that can!”

  I grabbed it and glared, and then I shook it. It wasn’t running. It didn’t even sound like they was any works inside of it. Stricken by a premonishun, I yelled to the referee, “What time is it?”

  He glanced at his watch. “Seconds out!” he said, and then: “Fifteen minutes after eleven!”

  Fifteen minutes to go! Cold sweat bust out all over me, and I jumped up offa my stool so suddenly my handler fell backwards through the ropes. Fifteen minutes! I couldn’t take no five or six rounds to lick Willoughby! I had to do it in this round if winning was going to do me any good.

  I throwed all my plans to the winds. I was trembling in every limb and glaring across at Willoughby, and when he met the glare in my eyes he stiffened and his muscles tensed. He sensed the change in me, though he couldn’t know why; he knowed the battle was to be to the death.

  The gong whanged and I tore out of my corner like a typhoon, to kill or be killed. I’m always a fighter of the iron-man type. When I’m nerved up like I was then, the man ain’t born which can stop me. There wasn’t no plan or plot or science about that round — it was just raw, naked, primitive manhood, sweat and blood and fists flailing like mallets without a second’s let-up.

  I tore in, swinging like a madman, and in a second Willoughby was fighting for his life. The blood spattered and the crowd roared and things got dim and red, and all I seen was the white figger in front of me, and all I knowed was to hit and hit and keep hitting till the world ended.

  I dunno how many times I was on the canvas.

  Every time he landed solid with that awful right I went down like a butchered ox. But every time I come up again and tore into him more furious than ever. I was crazy with fear, like a man in a nightmare, thinking of Mike and the minutes that was slipping past.

  His right was the concentrated essence of hell. Every time it found my jaw I felt like my skull was caved in and every vertebrae of my spine was dislocated. But I’m used to them sensations. They’re part of the slugger’s game. Let these here classy dancing-masters quit when their bones begins to melt like wax, and their brains feels like they was being jolted loose from their skull. A slugger lowers his head and wades in again. That’s his game. His ribs may be splintered in on his vitals, and his guts may be mashed outa place, and his ears may be streaming blood from veins busted inside his skull, but them things don’t matter; the important thing is winning.

  No white man ever hit me harder’n Torpedo Willoughby hit me, but I was landing too, and every time I sunk a mauler under his heart or smashed one against his temple, I seen him wilt. If he could of took it like he handed it out, he’d been champeen. But at last I seen his pale face before me with his lips open wide as he gulped for air, and I knowed I had him, though I was hanging to the ropes and the crowd was yelling for the kill. They couldn’t see the muscles in his calves quivering, nor his belly heaving, nor the glaze in his eyes. They couldn’t understand that he’d hammered me till his shoulder muscles was dead and his gloves was like they was weighted with lead, and the heart was gone out of him. All they couldst see was me, battered and bloody, clinging to the ropes, and him cocking his right for the finisher.

  It come over, slow and ponderous, and glanced from my shoulder as I lurched off the ropes. And my own right smashed like a caulking mallet against his jaw, and down he went, face-first in the resin.

  When they fall like that, they don’t get up. I didn’t even wait to hear the referee count him out. I run across the ring, getting stronger at every step, tore off my gloves and held out my hand for my bathrobe. My gaping handler put the sponge in it.

  I throwed it in his face with a roar of irritation, and he fell outa the ring headfirst into a water bucket, which put the crowd in such a rare good humor that they even cheered as I run down the aisle, and not over a dozen empty beer bottles was throwed at me.

  Bisly was waiting in the corridor, and I grabbed the fifty bucks outa his hand as I went by on the run. He follered me into the dressing-room and offered to help me put on my clothes, but knowing he hoped to steal my wad whilst helping me, I throwed him out bodily, jerked on my street clothes, and sallied forth at top speed.

  The Bristol Bar was a low-class dive down on the edge of the native quarters. It took me maybe five minutes to get there, and a clock behind the bar showed me that it lacked about a minute and a fraction of eleven-thirty.

  “Tony,” I panted to the bartender, who gaped at my bruised and bloody face, “I want the back room to myself. See that nobody disturbs me.”

  I run to the back door and throwed it open. It was dark in the alley, but I seen a empty tobacco tin setting close to the door. I quickly wadded the money into it, stepped into the room and shut the door. I reckon somebody was hiding in the alley watching, because as soon as I shut the door, I heard a stirring around out there. I didn’t look. I wasn’t taking no chances on them doing anything to Mike.

  I heard the tin scrape against the stones, and they was silence whilst I hurriedly counted up to a hundred. Then I jerked open the door, and joyfully yelled: “Mike!” They was no reply. The tin can was gone, but Mike wasn’t there.

  Cold, clammy sweat bust out all over me, and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I rushed down the alley like a wild man, and just before I reached the street, where a dim street-lamp shone, I fell over something warm and yielding which groaned and said: “Oh, my head!”

  I grabbed it and dragged it into the light, and it was Smoky Jones. He had a lump on his head and the tin can in his hand, but it was empty.

  I must of went kinda crazy then. Next thing I knowed I had Smoky by the throat, shaking him till his eyes crossed, and I was mouthing, “What you done with Mike, you dirty gutter rat? Where is he?”

  His hands were waving around, and I seen he couldn’t talk. His face was purple and his eyes and tongue stuck out remarkable. So I eased up a bit, and he gurgled, “I dunno!”

  “You do know!” I roared, digging my thumbs into his unwashed neck. “You was the one which stole him. You wanted that fifty bucks to bet on a horse. I see it all, now. It’s so plain even a dumb mutt like me can figure it out. You got the money — where’s Mike?”

  “I’ll tell you everything,” he gasped. “Lemme up, Steve. You’re chockin’ me to death. Lissen — it was me which stole Mike. I snuck in and doped him and packed him off in a sack. But I didn’t aim to hurt him. All I wanted was the fifty. I figgered you could raise it if you had to... I’d taken Mike to Li Yun’s house, to hide him. We put him in a cage before he come to — that there dog is worse’n a tiger... I was to hide in the alley till you put out the dough, and meanwhile one of Li Yun’s Chinees was to bring Mike in a auto, and wait at the mouth of the alley till I got the money. Then, if everything was OK, we was going to let the dog out into the alley and beat it in the car... Well, whilst I hid in the alley I seen the Chinee drive up and park in the shadows like we’d agreed, so I signalled him and went on after the dough. But as I come up the alley with the money, wham! that double- crossin’ heathen riz up out of the dark and whacked me with a blackjack. And now he’s gone and the auto’s gone and the fifty bucks is gone!”

  “And where’s Mike?” I demanded.

  “I dunno,” he said. “I doubt if that Chinee ever brung him here at all. Oh, my head!” he said, holding onto his skull.

  “That ain’t a scratch to what I’m goin’ to do to you when you get recove
red,” I promised him. “Where at does Li Yun live at?”

  “In that old warehouse down near the wharf the natives call the Dragon Pier,” said Smoky. “He’s fixed up some rooms for livin’ quarters, and—”

  That was all I wanted to know. The next second I was headed for the Dragon Pier. I run down alleys, crossed dark courts, turned off the narrer side street that runs to the wharf, ducked through a winding alley, and come to the back of the warehouse I was looking for. As I approached, I seen a back door hanging open; and a light shining through.

  I didn’t hesitate, but bust through with both fists cocked. Then I stopped short. They was nobody there. It was a great big room, electrically lighted, with a switch on the wall, and purty well fixed up generally. Leastways it had been. But now it was littered with busted tables and splintered chairs, and there was blood and pieces of silk on the floor. They had been some kind of a awful fight in there, and my heart was in my mouth when I seen a couple of empty cages. There was white dog hair scattered on the floor, and some thick darkish hair in big tufts that couldn’t of come from nothing but a gorilla.

  I looked at the cages. One was a bamboo cage, and some of the bars had been gnawed in two. The lock on the steel cage was busted from the inside. It didn’t take no detective to figger out what had happened. Mike had gnawed his way out of the bamboo cage and the gorilla had busted out of his cage to get at him. But where was they now? Was the Chinees and their gorilla chasing poor old Mike down them dark alleys, or had they took his body off to dispose of it after the gorilla had finished him?

  I felt weak and sick and helpless; Mike is about the only friend I got. Then things begun to swim red around me again. They was one table in that room yet unbusted. I attended to that. They was no human for me to lay hands on, and I had to wreck something.

  Then a inner door opened and a fat white man with a cigar in his mouth stuck his head in and stared at me.

  “What was that racket?” he said. “Hey, who are you? Where’s Li Yun?”

  “That’s what I want to know,” I snarled. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Wells, if it’s any of your business,” he said, coming on into the room. His belly bulged out his checked vest, and his swagger put my teeth on edge.

  “What a mess!” he said, flicking the ashes offa his cigar in a way which made me want to kill him. It’s the little things in life which causes murder. “Where the devil is Li Yun? The crowd’s gettin’ impatient.”

  “Crowd?” I interrogated. As I spoke, it seemed like I did hear a hum up towards the front of the building.

  “Why,” he said, “the crowd which has come to watch the battle between Li Yun’s gorilla and the fightin’ bull-dog.”

  “Huh?” I gawped.

  “Sure,” he said. “Don’t you know about it? It’s time to start now. I’m Li Yun’s partner. I finances these shows. I’ve been up at the front of the buildin’, sellin’ tickets. Thought I heard a awful racket back here awhile ago, but was too busy haulin’ in the dough to come back and see. What’s happened, anyhow? Where’s the Chinees and the animals? Huh?”

  I give a harsh, rasping laugh that made him jump. “I see now,” I said betwixt my teeth. “Li Yun wanted Mike for his dirty fights. He seen a chance to make fifty bucks and stage a show too. So he double-crossed Smoky, and—”

  “Go find Li Yun!” snapped Wells, biting off the end of another cigar. “That crowd out there is gettin’ mad, and they’re the scrapin’s off the docks. Hurry up, and I’ll give you half a buck—”

  I then went berserk. All the grief and fury which had been seething in me exploded and surged over like hot lava out of a volcano. I give one yell, and went into action.

  “Halp!” hollered Wells. “He’s gone crazy!” He grabbed for a gun, but before he could draw I caught him on the whiskers with a looping haymaker and he done a classy cart-wheel head-on into the wall. The back of his skull hit the light-switch so hard it jolted it clean outa the brackets, and the whole building was instantly plunged in darkness. I felt around till my groping hands located a door, and I ripped it open and plunged recklessly down a narrer corridor till I hit another door with my head so hard I split the panels. I jerked it open and lunged through.

  I couldn’t see nothing, but I felt the presence of a lot of people. They was a confused noise going up, a babble of Chinese and Malay and Hindu, and some loud cussing in English and German. Somebody bawled, “Who turned out them lights? Turn on the lights! How can we see the scrap without no lights?”

  Somebody else hollered, “They’ve turned the animals into the cage! I hear ‘em!”

  Everybody begun to cuss and yell for lights, and I groped forward until I was stopped by iron bars. Then I knowed where I was. That corridor I’d come through served as a kind of chute or runway into the big cage where the fights was fit. I reached through the bars, groped around and found a key sticking in the lock of the cage door. I give a yell of exultation which riz above the clamor, turned the key, throwed open the door and come plunging out. Them rats enjoyed a fight, hey? Well, I aimed they shouldn’t be disappointed. Two men fighting for money, of their own free will, is one thing. Making a couple of inoffensive animals butcher each other just for the amusement of a gang of wharf rats is another’n.

  I came out of that cage crazy-mad and flailing with both fists. Somebody grunted and dropped, and somebody else yelled, “Hey, who hit me?” and then the whole crowd began to mill and holler and strike out wild at random, not knowing what it was all about. It was a regular bedlam, with me swinging in the dark and dropping a man at each slam, and then a window got busted, and as I moved across a dim beam of light which come through, one guy give a frantic yell, “Run! Run! The griller’s loose!”

  At that, hell bust loose. Everybody stampeded, screaming and hollering and cussing and running over each other, and me in the middle of ‘em, slugging right and left.

  “You all wants a fight, does you?” I howled. “Well, here’s some to tote home with you!”

  They hit the door like a herd of steers and splintered it and went storming through, them which was able to storm. Some had been stomped in the rush, and plenty had stopped my iron fists in the dark. I come ravin’ after ‘em. Just because them rats wanted to see gore spilt — by somebody else — Mike, my only friend in the Orient, had to be sacrificed. I could of kilt ’em all.

  Well, they streamed off down the street in full cry, and as I emerged, I fell over a innocent passerby which had been knocked down by the stampede. By the time I riz, they was out of my reach, though the sounds of their flight come back to me.

  The fire of my rage died down to ashes. I felt old and sick and worn out. I wasn’t young no more, and Mike was gone. I stooped to pick up the man I had fell over, idly noticing that he was a English captain whose ship was tied up at a nearby wharf, discharging cargo.

  “Say,” he said, gasping to get his breath back, “aren’t you Steve Costigan?”

  “Yeah,” I admitted, without enthusiasm.

  “Good!” he said. “I was looking for you. They told me it was your dog.”

  I sighed. “Yeah,” I said. “A white bulldog that answered to the name of Mike. Where’d you find his body?”

  “Body?” he said. “My word! The bally brute has been pursuing four Chinamen and a bloody gorilla up and down the docks for half an hour, and now he has them treed in the rigging of my ship, and I want you to come and call him off. Can’t have that, you know!”

  “Good old Mike!” I whooped, jumping straight into the air with joy and exultation. “Still the fightin’est dog in the Asiatics! Lead on, matey! I craves words with his victims. I got nothin’ against the griller, but them Chinees has got fifty bucks belongin’ to me and Mike!”

  * * *

  GENERAL IRONFIST

  First published in Jack Dempsey’s Fight Magazine, June 1934

  AS I clumb into the ring that night in the Pleasure Palace Fight Club, on the Hong Kong waterfront, I was low in my mind. I’d co
me to Hong Kong looking for a former shipmate of mine. I’d come on from Tainan as fast as I could, even leaving my bulldog Mike aboard the Sea Girl, which wasn’t due to touch at Hong Kong for a couple of weeks yet.

  But Soapy Jackson, the feller I was looking for, had just dropped plumb out of sight. Nobody’d saw him for weeks, or knowed what had become of him. Meanwhile my dough was all gone, so I accepted a bout with a big Chinese fighter they called the Yeller Typhoon.

  He was a favorite with the sporting crowd and the Palace was jammed with both white men and Chineses that night, some very high class. I noticed one Chinee in particular, whilst setting in my corner waiting for the bell, because his European clothes was so swell, and because he seemed to take such a burning interest in the goings on. But I didn’t pay much attention to the crowd; I was impatient to get the battle over with.

  The Yeller Typhoon weighed three hundred pounds and he was a head taller’n me; but most of his weight was around his waist-line, and he didn’t have the kind of arms and shoulders that makes a hitter. And it don’t make no difference how big a Chinaman is, he can’t take it.

  I wasn’t in no mood for classy boxing that night. I just walked into him, let him flail away with both hands till I seen a opening, and then let go my right. He shook the ring when he hit the boards, and the brawl was over.

  Paying no heed to the howls of the dumbfounded multitude, I hastened to my dressing-room, donned my duds, and then hauled a letter from my britches pocket and studied it like I’d done a hundred times before.

  It was addressed to Mr. Soapy Jackson, American Bar, Tainan, Taiwan, and was from a San Francisco law firm. After Soapy left the Sea Girl, he tended bar at the American, but he’d been gone a month when the Sea Girl docked at Tainan again, and the proprietor showed me that letter which had just come for him. He said Soapy had went to Hong Kong, but he didn’t know his address, so I took the letter and come on alone to find him, because I had a idea it was important. Maybe he’d been left a fortune.