Broken Vows (20 page)

      
The action began to fall into the pattern Blackie had envisioned as the fight progressed, with Rory circling to his right, then moving in like a mongoose baiting a cobra, drawing the champ's left jab. Most often, he was quick enough to get under it and slam his right into Poole's ribs, then follow with a stiff left. Although the left jabs to the jaw were often as not slipped or blocked by the old pro, the body blows began to do their inexorable work.

      
Poole became slower of foot and began carrying his left hand lower. Then, Rory ended his last body attack with a wicked right to the left side of the champion's face. Poole dropped down to one knee, signaling the end of the first round. By London Prize Ring rules, only when a man went down did a round end, regardless of how long or short a period that might be. The older man stumbled back to his corner for a blessed thirty seconds of rest. As the process repeated itself a dozen more times in the next half hour, the crowd began to grow restive and catcalls at Archimedes echoed from around the tightly massed wall of humanity encircling the ring.

      
“Whatsamatter, you limey—gonna let a mickey beatcha?”

      
“A good Irishman's worth a dozen Sassenach in my book!”

      
“Poole needs so many rest periods, I think the Kid there oughta give him a permanent one. Knock him cold, Kilkenny!”

      
As he sat in his corner during the round break, Madigan looked at the “old man,” whose left side was now covered with ugly red welts turning to purple in the flickering torchlight. The left side of his face was grotesquely bloated, and his left eye swollen almost closed, but Rory, too, had paid a price. The ex-champ had landed enough blows to cut his left eye at the corner. Blackie worked quickly to stanch the trickle of blood from it. Rory had a troublesome “mouse” swelling beneath his right eye and his right hand, with which he had so effectively battered Poole, was almost totally numb. When he tried to unclench his fist, Drago quickly covered it and held it closed.

      
“Don't try it, boyo, until the fight's over. It's too swollen to open now. I'll use ice on it when this night's work is done.”

      
“The old fox is a game one,” Rory said with respect as he watched Poole.

      
“Aye, you been bangin' his ribs and the side of his head like a Salvation Army bass drum, but he's lettin' his neck muscles go limp and rolling with those overhand rights of yours.”

      
“Get him to come to you,” Beau interjected. “Punch him while he's moving into you.”

      
“Aye, he's right, bucko. Without using his own forward momentum to get some extra power, you'll never keep him down.”

      
Just then the thirty-second bell rang and Rory approached his nemesis, thinking about what his corner men had said. Suddenly, pain like fire seared his brain and lights went off like July Fourth fireworks inside his skull. As the crowd roared, he crashed to the dirt and rolled onto his side, terrified. What had happened? Seizing the rope, he tried to pull himself up but fell partway through instead. Three ringside parties, yelling encouragement, shoved him back into the ring and Beau half carried him to his corner.

      
“Jasus, he used his right.” Rory shook his head, desperately trying to clear it.

      
“No. You walked into his left jab. Remember Gentleman Henry Harlow? But you've gone and cut a hog in the ass now, boyo,” Blackie said with a wink. “He's comin' to you right enough. Slip some ice swabs up his nose quick, Beau.” He slapped Rory on the back as the bell rang. “Practice runnin' backward until yer head clears.”

      
Rory swore as he rose, muttering, “Don't hit me any more than that tough old bastard already has.” He wobbled out of his corner and attempted to smother Poole's flurry of punches by grappling with the heavier man. The champion kept up his punishing barrage as Rory backed away. Then, when they locked in a clench, Madigan emulated what the crafty old fighter had done so often and dropped to one knee, ending the round. Beau rushed out to help him back to his corner.

      
“Stand in front of me, Beau, and fan me with the towel,” Rory commanded in a surprisingly clear voice. “Blackie, give me a sip of water. Did you boys see what I saw?”

      
“What, stars?” Beau asked wryly, already kissing goodbye to his thousand-dollar bet and his hope of paying off the livery.

      
Rory smiled, a grotesque parody on his battered face. “No. My head's cleared up—enough to see that the old boy's dropped that right hand. He's cocked it, ready to throw his famous straight-right Sunday punch. Now, if I can—”

      
The bell sounded, cutting short Rory's words. He got up and wobbled out to the center of the ring. Poole snapped out his left jab. Instead of slipping away from it as he had done all during the earlier rounds, Rory acted addled and leaned away, exposing his chin. The consummate pro, Poole gave nothing away when he saw the opening, but moved forward, dropping his right shoulder to throw his killing Sunday punch. But just as he leaned forward to unleash it, Rory suddenly crouched, twisted to his own right, and drove a left hook at the oncoming champion.

      
The collision between Rory's left fist and the big man's jaw produced a sickening crack that was heard over the roar of the crowd. Poole stepped forward on his right leg, which simply crumpled beneath him. Fists falling to his waist, he toppled forward on his face—stone-cold unconscious.

      
For an instant, the crowd seemed to collectively hold its breath before erupting into wild cheers for the Kilkenny Kid. Madigan walked back to his corner and sank down on the stool Jenson slid through the ropes as Blackie shook his head sadly. “The end of an era, boyo, when a man like Archimedes Poole goes down. No offense to yerself. Rory.”

      
“None taken,” Rory replied through split, bleeding lips, still seeing Poole's scarred face when he had entered the ring to the triumphant cheers of the fickle crowd. “I take no pride in any of this. On my parents' graves, I swear I'll never box again—not for all the gold between Cherry Creek and the Comstock.”

      
“Let me help you, Kilkenny,” Junie Killian said. The big, brassy redhead climbed through the ropes and took the chunk of ice from Beau's hands. She began to stem the bleeding over Rory's eye by applying it with practiced skill. “Me da was a prizefighter. I used to do this for him.”

      
“You used to do lots of things, Junie, but I think the boyo here already has someone to tend him—waitin' back in Nevada,” Blackie said to the handsome madam who ran his bordello above the Bucket of Blood.

      
She ignored him and continued working on Rory's bloodied face, inspecting it with a practiced eye. “Nothing busted that won't heal.”

      
“It'll take time. I don't want to return to Wellsville looking like this,” Rory replied distractedly. The tremendous surges of adrenaline that had sustained him through the fight were gone now, but the pain from his beating had not yet set in. He was briefly, blessedly numb.

      
“I'll see to collectin' our winnin's while Junie here tends you,” Blackie said with a wink.

      
“Rory, I can't stay in Denver,” Beau interjected as the crowd surged noisily around them. “I got a livery to tend and a new racer due to run next Saturday at the track.”

      
“I understand, Beau. You collect your winnings and head out. I'll be along once I don't look so polecat ugly.”

      
“Even beat up, you ain't ugly, darlin',” Junie purred.

      
“I appreciate your help, Junie, but I think what I need to do right now is go back to my room and sleep—for about a week.” He stood up and clapped Beau Jenson on the back. “I owe you, Beau, for getting me this opportunity.”

      
“I reckon everything worked out for the best. You got you a real good stake now. What y'all figger on doin' with it?”

      
“Buying a piece of land up in the Truckee Valley. I might even be interested in some of your racing stock.” Rory grinned through cracked lips. “I'd shake on that, but neither hand will unfist until I soak them.”

      
Jenson thumped him on his shoulder. “I take it that means I done lost me the best horse handler I ever had.”

      
“That it does, Beau, but I'll always be grateful that you gave me that job.”

      
“You done earned every cent I paid you, son. Why don't y'all head back to the saloon? I'll see what's keepin' Blackie.” Jenson waded into the crowd of well-wishers who began to cluster around their new hero, while Poole's handlers dragged him, semiconscious, out of the ring.

      
“The end of an era,” the Kilkenny Kid said softly to himself as he saluted his fallen foe.

* * * *

      
“Nearly ten thousand between yer purse and the side bets,” Blackie said, shoving a stack of bills in front of Rory as they sat around the big walnut table in his private apartment. The din of the celebrating crowd downstairs was muted by the thick carpets and heavy paneled walls. Blackie Drago was a man of the people, a saloon owner and political boss; but he had acquired refined tastes over the years. He poured a round of excellent cognac and raised his crystal snifter in a toast.

      
“To new beginnings.”

      
Jenson swallowed the aromatic brandy and coughed. Rory held his cognac gingerly between two badly swollen hands.

      
Soaking and ice had finally enabled him to unclench his fists, but they were badly hurt. He sipped the brandy cautiously through his sore lips, grimacing at the sting of the alcohol.

      
“Keep my prize money in your safe, Blackie. As soon as I can hold a pen, I'll write a letter to my lady in Wellsville, but I don't think it'll be any time in the next few days. Every nerve and muscle in my body is starting to ache like a bitch. Think I'll turn in now,” he said, finishing the cognac and setting down the glass. He turned to Jenson. “I'll not be up to see you off tomorrow. Safe trip, Beau.”

      
“Same to you 'n all the luck of the Irish, Rory,” the beefy-faced older man replied as Blackie refilled his snifter.

      
“I've already had all the luck one man can ask for in this lifetime—even an Irishman.” He left the two men and headed down the hall toward his room. The raucous sounds of celebration from below made him grin inwardly. Once, he would have been down there in the thick of the crowd, swilling cheap liquor with a girl on either side and a deck of cards in his hand. Now, all he could think of was getting back to Rebekah.

      
Engrossed in his own thoughts, Rory did not see Junie in the dark hallway. She unfolded her lush curves from her doorway as he walked past and placed her hand on his arm. “Need someone to rub yer sore muscles, darlin'?” She insinuated herself closer, rubbing one nearly bare breast against his chest. “I know boxers are in need of some relief after a fight—they kinda hold everythin' in before.” She wet her carmined lips with the tip of her tongue and smiled at him.

      
“I appreciate the offer, Junie, but all the relief I can handle right now is to fall sound asleep,” he replied, gently disengaging himself from her fulsome charms.

      
He watched in mild amusement as she pouted and ran one·hand down the curve of her satin-clad hip onto the black fishnet stocking revealed in the slit up the side of her costume—what little there was of it. Her hair was hennaed a harsh dark red that clashed with the vivid pink rouge on her cheeks. Her eyelids were weighed down with kohl, giving her dark eyes a slumberous, sly look. All in all, she was the kind of woman he was used to spending time with, nothing like the slender, delicate beauty of his quiet Rebekah. Pausing at his door, he gave her a brief nod good night and slipped inside. She stomped downstairs in her high-heeled satin mules to join the celebration.

      
In her snit, Junie did not pay any attention to the two men who watched the exchange from the bottom of the steps. “Glad thet whore didn't go ta bed with him,” Chicken Thief Charlie Pritkin said, spitting in the general direction of the cuspidor. “I'd hate to cut a fine-lookin' piece like her.”

      
“Madigan's enough ta handle by hisself. Just be glad we ain't got no screamin' female to distract us,” Bart Slocum replied.

      
“Let's git it done,” Pritkin replied, starting for the stairs.

      
“Shit! Give him some time to fall asleep first.”

      
“You afraid o' thet mickey?” Pritkin scoffed.

      
Slocum's face darkened. “Hell, no, but I got sense. He jist beat a prize ring champ unconscious, remember?”

      
“I wuz there. He took lots o' raps hisself. He'll be asleep quick enough.”

      
“At least we can use the window. He's probably locked his door,” Slocum said, eyeing the side door to the saloon.

      
A crafty glint came into Chicken Thief s eyes. “Ain't no lock I cain't pick,” he replied, chuckling.

      
Rory was just drifting off to sleep. He rolled onto his left side, brushing the stitches over his eye that Doc Eisner had so carefully sewn after the fight. Pain lanced through his skull and he flopped flat on his back, gritting his teeth. Then he heard it—a soft click, the sound of a door latch snapping open. He turned his head and peered through the darkness at a slit of light widening as the door to his room slowly opened. Two figures slipped stealthily inside. Rory caught the gleam of a knife before the door closed silently.