The Iron Wagon (9 page)

Paul Brockman was doing well in his high school boxing, and as March came, he was undefeated with heavyweights in other schools within fifty miles of Denver. His parents and his sisters had attended all of Paul’s boxing matches at Denver High School. Ginny and Meggie let it be known to Paul and their parents that they had bragged on their brother’s boxing skills and victories all over the school. Paul was touched by his sisters’ loyalty and adoration, though he did gently ask them not to brag about him but rather to thank the Lord for the joy they have in appreciating each other’s talents.

One day in mid-March, Chief Brockman was walking along the boardwalk of one of Denver’s downtown streets and came upon two husky men in their late twenties who were verbally giving a man in his sixties a hard time. John knew the silver-haired man. Truman Richardson was a carpenter who worked for one of Denver’s construction companies.

As John was drawing near, one of the husky men punched Truman on the jaw, knocking him down. The man then began kicking him, and his friend encouraged him to kick even harder.

Anger flared inside John, and he dashed to the spot. People on the street gathered around as John skidded to a halt. “Hey! Stop that right now!”

The kicker’s partner had not noticed the badge on John’s
chest. Speaking in a British accent, he growled at John, “Mind your own business, mate!” He swung a punch at John, who dodged the fist and countered with a cracking left-handed punch, followed swiftly with a powerful right-handed blow, knocking him down and out.

With fury written on his face, the man who had been kicking Truman stomped up to John and noticed the badge on his chest. Snarling wickedly, he bellowed in his British accent, “Since you’re a lawman, you had no business pounding on my friend with your fists!”

The chief U.S. marshal snapped, “I was given no choice!”

The kicker looked at John with blazing eyes. “My name is George Clive, mister lawman! Do you know who I am?”

“No, I don’t.”

The Briton moved a half step closer to John. “At the moment I am one of the contenders in England for the heavyweight boxing championship!”

Some of the people in the crowd gasped and began whispering to each other.

“If you weren’t so old,” George said, “I’d take you on barefisted right now!”

John squared his jaw. “I’m forty-three. That may be old for a boxer, but I’m telling you right now, Clive, to shut your mouth. Pick up your unconscious pal. You’re both under arrest for beating up Truman Richardson. You can carry your pal to the county jail, which is only a few blocks away. You’re both going to be locked up.”

The eyes of the people in the crowd bulged as George Clive
made a swift move toward the chief U.S. marshal. “I’m gonna put you down, bloke!” He swung a big fist at the marshal.

John adeptly dodged the fist and countered with a jarring punch, catching the big professional boxer with his mouth open. His teeth clicked like a steel trap. He cried out in pain, blood spurting from his mouth. Staggering toward the chief, he swung both fists.

John ducked them and swiftly caught him with a sledgehammer blow that whipped his head back and dropped him to the ground, out cold.

Both Brits lay unconscious on the ground.

John looked around at a couple of burly men standing together close by in the crowd. “Hector … Eldon … would you fellas mind helping me carry these two guys to the jail?”

“Be glad to,” said Eldon.

“Sure will.” Hector nodded.

Eldon noted that the first man John had put down was beginning to regain consciousness and pointed to him. “Guess he can walk to the jail, Chief.”

John nodded.

Suddenly, people in the crowd began calling out, commending the chief U.S. marshal for taking out the two bullies—especially the one who was a professional boxer.

One man said, “Chief Brockman, the way you handled these guys, especially the professional boxer, I figure your son, Paul, must have taught you how to fight!”

John chuckled. “Paul indeed has taught me well.”

The crowd laughed.

By this time, Truman Richardson was on his feet, rubbing his ribs that had been kicked by George Clive. He stepped up to John. “Chief Brockman, thank you for coming to my aid.”

As John was telling him he was glad to do it, two other husky men stepped up, and one of them said, “Chief, the two of us will help Eldon and Hector get these two British bullies to the jail.”

John nodded. “I appreciate that.” He then looked back at Truman and frowned. “Are you hurt bad?”

Truman shook his head. “No sir. A bit bruised, but I’m okay.”

John saw the reporter from the
Rocky Mountain News
as he was stepping up to him from the crowd and said, “Hello, Bart.”

“Howdy, Chief,” Bart Gilmore said. “I happened to be coming along the street when this trouble started. I saw the whole thing. There will be an article about it on the front page in tomorrow’s edition of the
News
telling exactly what happened here.”

Two county deputy sheriffs arrived to help get the two British men to the jail. George Clive, now conscious, struggled to stand. The crowd watched as the two Britons were taken toward the county jail at gunpoint by the two deputy sheriffs and the four husky volunteers.

March in Colorado could be one of its snowiest months, and that was proving true in 1889. That next evening the Brockman
family gathered around the supper table as the wind howled outside and fiercely blowing snow fell from the sky.

After John led the family in prayer, they passed the food around the table. A powerful gust of wind slapped the side of the house and set the kitchen windows to rattling.

Paul glanced at the snow beating against the kitchen window. “Boy, this is one bad storm.” Before taking his first bite of food, he continued. “Mama … Ginny … Meggie … I guess none of you have looked at today’s edition of the
Rocky Mountain News.”

“Guess we haven’t, son,” Breanna replied. “None of us have had time. Why? Something special in the paper?”

Paul nodded, glanced at his father, then looked back at his mother. He could feel his sisters’ eyes on him as he said, “Before my teacher started math class this morning, he said to me in front of the whole class, ‘Paul, you must be very proud of your father for what he did yesterday.’ I didn’t know what he meant, but he was holding today’s issue of the
Rocky Mountain News
in his hand.”

Everyone at the table noticed that John was blushing.

Paul gave his mother and sisters the whole story that was in the article. Breanna and the girls were astonished.

“Honey, why haven’t you told us about it?” Breanna asked.

John’s face was still flushed with embarrassment as he replied, “Well, I was sure that you and the children would hear about the incident, but if I had been the one to tell you, it would appear that I was bragging, since one of them is a contender for
the heavyweight championship of England. So I refrained from telling any of you.”

A smile spread over Breanna’s lovely face. “Darling, you are something else. Most men would have been bragging all over town of the notable deed you accomplished. But you take it all in stride and give God the glory for the great strength and outstanding ability you have with your fists.”

“That’s right, Papa!” said Paul. “Mama’s got it right!” Both girls verbally agreed.

Smiling shyly, John ran his gaze over the faces of his dear ones. “It is by God’s grace that I’m even still alive after the life I have lived and the characters I’ve met and had to deal with. He alone is my Protector, my wisdom, and my strength.”

“You always know exactly what to say, my love.” Breanna squeezed his hand. “Thank you for letting the Lord lead in your life, as you then lead our lives as husband and father.”

After a few seconds of silence, Paul said, “Papa, I commend you for knocking out both of those British bullies. I sure hope that by the time I become one of your deputy U.S. marshals, I’ll be as tough and as good with my fists as
you
are.”

“I hope so too, big brother.” Ginny smiled at Paul.

“Me too!” Meggie squealed.

John chuckled. “Oh, you’ll be
tougher
and
better
with your fists than I am, Paul.”

The next day, Judge Dexter sentenced the two British bullies to six months in the county jail for what they had done to Truman Richardson.

Two weeks later, the area high school boxing championship matches took place in the Denver High School gymnasium.

In his final fight of the season, Paul Brockman’s opponent was Bret Watson, a senior from Golden High School in Golden, Colorado. The rugged-looking Bret outweighed Paul by almost thirty pounds.

Paul’s parents and sisters were there, as well as Pastor and Mary Bayless and Whip and Annabeth Langford.

The heavyweight fight was the last to take place that evening. When the bell rang for the first round in Paul’s fight with Bret, both fighters went at it, swinging fast and hard.

It seemed pretty much an even match during rounds one and two, but in the third round, Paul got in an extra powerful left cross to Bret’s jaw, staggering him. As Paul came after him, Bret tried to clinch to give himself time to clear his head, but Paul speedily evaded the clinch and hooked a mighty right hook to the jaw and jarred his bigger opponent to his heels.

Bursting with rage, Bret rushed back, swinging both fists as hard as he could. Paul dodged the fists and popped him hard on the nose, sending him into another stagger. Bret attempted to retaliate but could get no power into his blows.

Paul squared his jaw, drawing every ounce of strength he could into his shoulders and, transferring the strength into his arms, pounded his opponent with four exploding blows, knocking him against the ropes.

Bret hit the ropes hard, bounced back, stumbling over his own feet, and fell facedown on the canvas floor of the ring. He was out cold.

The referee counted him out. Cheers from all over the gymnasium rang out as the referee raised Paul’s right hand into the air, stating emphatically that he was the winner by a knockout. The cheers grew even louder when he also declared Paul Brockman the heavyweight champion of the Central Colorado High School League.

While conversations took place all over the gymnasium, the boxers went to the locker rooms to change their clothes. When Paul reentered the gymnasium in his regular clothes, he saw that Bret Watson was still in the ring. He was now on his feet, but a doctor from Mile High Hospital was examining him to make sure he was all right.

Paul’s parents and sisters stood nearby talking to the Baylesses and the Langfords. Paul headed toward them, but he was quickly stopped by some of his schoolmates who were full of admiration for him.

The boys were congratulating Paul on winning the heavyweight championship when Paul noticed a husky man stomping toward him, anger blazing in his eyes and on his reddened face. Bret Watson looked like him. He had to Bret’s father, who was the owner of Watson Feed and Grain Company in Golden.

Gus Watson drew up, glaring at Paul, the hostility in his eyes like the flare of a lightning bolt. Baring his teeth, the big man roared, “You didn’t have to hit my son so hard, you thug!”

Paul felt his nerves twitching all over his body but kept a
level tone in his voice. “Mr. Watson, in order to win a fight, it takes hard punches.”

Gus, who was much heavier than Paul, angrily swung at him.

Paul dodged the punch and stepped back. “Sir, I don’t want to fight you. Boxing is a sport and should be treated as such. I only did what I had to do in order to win the match against your son. Anyone who saw the fight would agree it was a fair and honest match.”

“Bah! You didn’t have to hit Bret so hard!”

Not far away, John Brockman was talking to a small group of people, but he quickly picked up on the fury of the man speaking to his son and the consternation on Paul’s face. John excused himself and hurried toward his son, while a small group of high school boys looked on.

The big angry man charged at Paul, fists clenched. “I’m gonna beat you to a pulp for what you did to my boy!”

Paul dodged the first fist that came toward his face, then evaded the second one adeptly. He smashed Gus’s right jaw with a powerful left hook, which stopped the big man in his tracks. Paul closed in on him, whipping a powerful right hook into Watson’s midsection, causing him to double over, then followed with a dynamite left to the jaw. Watson went down hard on the gymnasium floor, out cold.

John moved in and laid a firm hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Don’t feel bad, son. You had to put him down. He gave you no choice.”

Paul looked at his father and nodded. “He sure didn’t, Papa.”

By this time, a crowd had gathered, including Breanna and her daughters, the Baylesses, and the Langfords. They had watched the whole brawl take place. Some of the school officials had heard and seen it too, and as Gus was regaining consciousness, they scolded him for what he had tried to do to Paul Brockman.

Gus did not even reply to them. He staggered to his feet, gave Paul a hateful glare, and then in a wobbly fashion, walked in the direction of the locker room to find his son.