the Man from Skibbereen (1973) (14 page)

"Nor am I a wrestler by any manner of preference. I wrestled because that was what Crogan did."

Brennan glanced at Cris' knuckles. "It seems to me you've been busy already."

Cris shrugged. "It was not that kind of fight. There was a man named Murray, one of Parley's outfit, and he had Barda McClean, the colonel's daughter. It was a bad thing he had done, and I wished to take the girl to her father. Murray objected."

"I expect he would." Brennan watched Cris with cold, curious attention. "You took her from Murray?"

"I did that."

"Be careful, then. Murray is a vengeful man and he'll be coming for you with a gun."

"Not for a few days, I'm thinkin'. He'll have trouble breathing with a broken nose and caved--in ribs."

Brennan took up his cigar. "Do you think you can beat Calkins?"

"I do."

"Have you ever seen him fight?"

"I have not. It is a feeling I have. I can beat him."

"All right, then. I will arrange it, but if you welsh on me I'll have you killed."

Cris looked into the cold eyes and had no doubt of it. "I'll not welsh, and I'll beat him."

He started to turn away, but Brennan's voice stopped him. "You'll need eating money." He placed a twenty--dollar gold piece on the counter, then his eyes slanted to Reppato Pratt. "I know you, Pratt. Are you a friend of his?"

"You could say that, I reckon. Cris is all right."

"Then stand by him and keep your gun handy. Calkins has some rough friends who'll back him in a fight. I'll arrange it for the day after tomorrow, when Calkins is in town from his run."

They walked away. "We will eat now," Cris said, "and then we will relax a bit."

"Do you know what you let yourself in for?" Pratt asked, drily. "Sam Calkins is a pure terror with his fists, and he got no use for you. He'll be out to tear you apart."

"He can try."

Pratt glanced at him. "Maybe you are good," he said. "I'd ruther you was. Calkins needs a whuppin'; you give it to him an' you'll have friends about. But I dread the man's fists. I can use a gun or an Arkansas toothpick, but fists ain't for me."

There was a tent with a sign MEALS across the front, and they went in. A long plank table stretched down the center of the tent, benches lined either side. It was past the hour, but a dozen men were scattered along the table eating from high--piled platters of buffalo and venison steaks, bowls of beans, and a big pot of coffee.

They paid twenty--five cents to a burly man with immense forearms and rolled--up sleeves, and they loaded their plates. "This here's not much of a genteel town. Cock--fightin's the thing, dog--fightin', too. Onct they matched a bear an' a bull... bear won. They'll be wantin' a fight, not no fancy stuff, and Sam Calkins knows it. You know any dirty fightin'?" Rep inquired doubtfully.

"I do."

"You'll be needin' it, then. Sam knows ever' trick there be."

Maybe he did and maybe he didn't, but Irish farmers and fishermen were rough men, and the fighting at county fairs had been nothing like a pink tea party. And of course, when it came to really dirty fighting, he'd learned that along the waterfronts and aboard the sailing ship.

"What about your hand?"

Cris glanced at it. He'd have to tape that little finger. Bandage it good. When he had started off with a fight in mind he had forgotten that finger, but they were broke and he knew no other way of getting money quickly. Now for the first time he considered the finger. The bleeding had been stopped long since, and he thought maybe the finger was in good enough shape. And there were two more days for it to heal.

Brennan was not interested only in a fight. He was a betting man and if his protege could beat Calkins... over the bar he was giving it thought. He liked the look of Cris Mayo. A tough young Irishman strong enough to throw Bully Crogan might whip Calkins. Brennan remembered Crogan well, a rough man, powerful, brutal and sadistic. He would have liked fighting a clean--cut youngster like Mayo, would have enjoyed beating him down.

He scowled suddenly. Suppose it was a put--up job? Mayo admitted he had met Calkins, had come in on Calkins' train... suppose they had conspired to take his money?

He liked the look of Mayo, but who was altogether honest? He glanced around the room and recognized a tall young cavalryman, a man who he was quite sure had been one of the guard for Colonel McClean.

"You!" he called. "Come here a minute!" The young man got up from his table and walked over, beer in hand. "Do you want a drink? A better drink than that?"

"I'm satisfied. What's on your mind?"

"Were you with that train? The one that picked up McClean and his daughter?"

"Sure was. I was on the train when he was taken, too, and they'd put me up at the front and there was no time to do anything. We heard nothing, saw nothing until there was no proper signal at the station, and then we stopped and found the colonel was taken. It was a nervy thing."

"What about this Mayo fellow? What did he have to do with it?"

Briefly, the young cavalryman explained, then added, "He's a tough one. He faced right up to Calkins, who didn't like it one bit."

"They are going to fight."

"Fight?" It dawned on the boy suddenly. "You mean in the ring? I want to see that!"

"How did he look to you? Mayo, I mean."

The calvaryman considered that. "He's well set--up. I'd say he is heavier than he looks. Wider shoulders than most, a slim waist, and he's strong. He put down that ramp all by himself when he took the horses off. It usually takes four men, though two very strong ones might do it."

Brennan took the empty beer glass and slid it down the bar. "Fill it up!" he said, and then casually, "He and Calkins talk much?"

The calvaryman laughed. "Not so you could notice it Sam tried to run over him and he got just nowhere." He looked up quickly. "If you're thinking this might be arranged, forget it. I was there. Nothing tricky about it, and I'll bet Mayo is hell on wheels in any kind of a fight."

"Thanks," Brennan said. "And have another beer."

"Two's plenty. Mr. Brennan, I want to see that fight I want very much to see it. I am Tom Halloran."

Brennan was startled. "You? Halloran, the foot racer?"

"I was, until I joined the Army. Unfortunately, I may not be able to come. I'm one of the escort for the generals. They're going on a buffalo hunt."

Brennan brushed out his cigar. He was thinking rapidly. He knew all about Halloran: Irish blood, of good family, a college man. He was a foot racer who had begun to run in contests in the East at a time when foot racing was a focal point for gamblers. More money was wagered on foot racing than on fighting, and in some areas, more than on horse racing. Many a sprinter was drifting about the country, passing himself off as some country bumpkin until he could find men to bet against him.

Halloran had run a number of times... then there had been a shooting. He remembered that. "You're a good man," Brennan said quietly, "and Mayo will need such a man in his corner, one who understands physical conditioning."

"I've worked behind a number of fighters," Halloran said, "but it will depend on two things: the possibility of my being free from duty, and the certainty that you want Mayo to win. I'll have no part of a fix."

"That's why I want you," Brennan said quietly. "How many here know who you are?"

The trooper chuckled. "I am Trooper Halloran, that's all."

"Keep it so," Brennan said.

As Halloran left, Brennan lit another cigar and leaned his forearms on the bar. Rolling the cigar in his teeth, he considered the situation. Sam Calkins had numerous backers who were close friends of Sam's and believed him unbeatable. Brennan, who knew most things happening along the right--of--way of the Union Pacific, frowned thoughtfully. Sam Calkins had curious associates, but for a man who was a pugilist as well as a railroader, that was not surprising. Having told himself that, he took the cigar from his mouth, regarded it with sudden distaste that had nothing to do with the cigar, and placed it on the bar's edge.

Owen Brennan had come to America as a laborer, had given himself a modest education through reading, beginning with a day--to--day study of the newspapers in order to acquaint himself with current beliefs, opinions, and affairs. He saved cuttings from the papers and soon had a file on politicians, sports figures, and military men, as well as a scattering of those in business.

His purpose was simple. He wished to know what was going on and who was making it go, in order to plan his own affairs. Soon he had won a place as a policeman in New York and followed that as a contractor in road building. Not long thereafter he owned a dozen teams and fresnos, those two--handled scoops for the moving of earth that were drawn by horses.

The building of the Union Pacific enabled him to get some right--of--way contracts as well as a chance to do some freighting. The saloon had been an afterthought, but a profitable one that moved westward with the tracks, and besides the selling of much drink it provided a convenient listening post.

Tom Halloran was to be one of the escort for the generals' buffalo hunt. Well, Brennan knew the lad's first sergeant. He could get him out of that.

Chapter
Eleven

Cris Mayo finished his meal and refilled his cup. Reppato Pratt sat beside him, lean, tough and watchful. "I don't like it," he muttered after awhile.

Cris, busy with his own thoughts, asked, "What do you not like?"

"Justin Parley an' them. They'd ruther die than quit. They're a murderous lot, an' they want Gen'l Sherman's scalp so bad they can taste it. Fair's that goes, they'd like to kill the whole passel o' them high officers."

"Parley missed the chance. They are all here now, at Fort Sanders, with troops gathered about like bees on a hive."

"I know. But it is a worrisome thing, an' I don't believe that lot'll give up so easy. I lived among 'em, an' the most is a tough, vicious lot. I never could figure what Silver Dick was after. He's the smartest one, maybe smarter than Parley. Del Robb, he's been huntin' trouble since he was a least youngster. These folks'd be renegades in their own land, stirrin' trouble there if not here, and most of them were druv out o' wherever 'tis they come from. Until you've seen 'em in action you've no idea how mean folks can git."

"They'll be far from here," Cris said, "they'll be afraid of the cavalry."

"Not much, they won't. They'll fight any small bunch, and they'll stay shy of the patrols big enough to fight them even or better. And the Army has to think of Injuns, too."

Halloran came in and sat down across the table from them. "I just left Brennan," he told them. "He wants me to work in your corner, Mayo. You may recall me from the train. I'm Halloran."

"Howdy," Pratt said. "Don't Brennan reckon I'm good enough?"

"Yes, but he wants you to be around with a gun handy. I have some experience at this sort of thing. Handling athletes, I mean." He looked at Cris. "What kind of shape are you in? Can you go a long fight?"

"I can." He put out his unbandaged left hand. The finger had scabbed over. "Murray shot that off. It might start to bleed. Stop it if you can, when it does."

Startled, Halloran stared. "You'd go into a fight with that?"

"I would." Cris glanced at the hand and said, "A man has so much to put up with in his life. I came here to make a fortune and I won't do it sitting about crying because I got scratched.

"I came into this town without money, and I must live. Rep here is in the same boat. I figured with the two hundred dollars I'd win, we'd have enough to tide us over until there is a way to a better living."

"Don't take Sam Calkins lightly. He is heavier than you, very strong. He's a tough, boring--in fighter who's won nine or ten fights against some of the best bareknuckle battlers around. I believe he will try to wear you down. Very few men can fight more than two or three minutes without running out of steam. If he can do that he'll have you helpless."

"He cannot. I will last as long as any man."

"He tries to work in close. He likes the uppercut. Do you know the blow?"

"I know it."

Halloran was not satisfied. Mayo seemed confident, which was good, but it might be the confidence of ignorance. To a man who has never boxed or fought with a skilled professional, it is easy to believe that only strength and aggressiveness are important. A professional is just as skillful at his trade as is a master cabinetmaker. The beginner can no more do one job as well as the master than he can do the other.

There is nothing fancy about the professional boxer.

He wastes no motions, his every move is timed, his distances are judged, the knowledge of what you can do is in his mind, and he knows that when a punch has been thrown certain portions of the head or body are exposed. He knows how to feint another fighter into exposing the areas where he wishes his blows to land, and he knows how to avoid blows by a hair, moving no more than is necessary. He knows how to work in close so that when a blow is thrown he remains within punching distance.

He knows that the feet should be placed in a certain way for the maximum punching power, and that certain combinations of punches can be thrown to take advantage of his opponents' efforts, and that if the punches are thrown in sequence the openings will be there when the fists arrive.