with These Hands (Ss) (2002) (17 page)

"Say, what the devil's the matter with you? Got the willies? You're not buyin' this hype?" Deke Hayes demanded.

But the voice from the radio interrupted just then, and they fell silent, listening.

"They're in the center of the ring now, folks, getting their instructions," the excited announcer said. "The Tiger Man in his tiger-skin robe, and Bronski in the old red sweater he always wears. The Tiger is younger, but Bronski has the experience, and-man, this is going to be a battle!" the announcer exclaimed.

The bell clanged. "There they go, folks! Bronski jabs a left and the Tiger slips it! Bronski jabs again, and again, and again! The Tiger isn't doing anything now, just circling around. Bronski jabs again, crosses a right to the jaw.

"He's getting confident now, folks, and-there, he's stepping in with a volley of punches! Left, right, left, right-but the Tiger is standing his ground, just slipping them!

"Wow!" the radio voice hit the ceiling.

"Bronski's down! The Battler led a left, and quick as a flash the Tiger dropped into a crouch, snapped a terrific, jolting right to the heart, and hooked a bone-crushing left to the jaw! Bronski went down like he was shot, and hasn't even wiggled!

"There's the count, folks!-eight-nine-ten! He's out, and the Tiger wins again! Boyoboy, a first-round knockout!

"Wait a minute, folks, maybe I can get the Tiger to say something for you! He never talks, but we might be lucky this time. Here, say something to the radio fans, Tiger!" the announcer begged.

"He won't do it," McKeown said confidently. "He never talks to nobody!"

Suddenly, a cold, harsh voice spoke from the radio, a voice bitter and incisive, but then dropping almost to a growl at the end.

"I'm ready now. I want to fight the champion. Come on, Deke Hayes! I'll kill you!"

In a cold sweat Hayes snapped erect, face deathly pale.

His mouth hung slack; his eyes were ghastly, staring.

"My God ... that voice!" he mumbled, really scared for the first time in his life.

McKeown stared strangely at Hayes, his own face white. "Who's punchy now? You look like you've seen a ghost!"

Hayes sagged back in his chair, his eyes narrowed. "No.

I ain't seen one. I heard one!" he declared enigmatically.

Ruby Ryan, veteran trainer and handler of fighters, looked across the hotel room. The Tiger was sitting silent, as always, staring out the window.

For six months Ryan had been with the Tiger, day in and day out, and yet he knew almost nothing about him.

Sometimes he wondered, as others did, if the Tiger was quite human. Definitely he was an odd duck, and Ruby Ryan, so-called because of his flaming hair, had known them all.

Jeffries, Fitzsimmons, Ketchell, Dempsey. But he had seen nothing to compare with the animal-like ferocity of the Tiger. Through all the months that had passed since Ryan received that strange wire from Calcutta, India, he had wondered about this man....

Who sent the cablegram Ruby Ryan didn't know. Who was the Tiger? Where had he come from? Where had he learned his skill? He didn't know that, either. He only knew that one night some six months before, he had been loafing in Doc Hanley's place with some of the boys, when a messenger had hurried to him with a cablegram. It had been short, to the point-and unsigned.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO HANDLE NEXT HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION

STOP READ CALCUTTA AND BOMBAY NEWS REPORTS

FOR VERIFICATION STOP EXPENSES GUARANTEED STOP

COME AT ONCE.

*

Ryan had hurried out and bought the papers. The notes were strange, yet they fascinated the fight manager with their possibilities. Ever alert for promising material, this had been almost too good to be true.

The news reports told of a strange heavyweight-a white man with skin burnt to a deep bronze. A slim, broadshouldered giant, with a robe of tiger-skins and the scars of many claws upon his body, who fought with the cold fury of a jungle beast.

The China Clipper carried Ruby Ryan to the Far East. He found his man in Bombay, India. In Calcutta, the Tiger Man had knocked out Kid Balotti in the first round, and in Bombay, Guardsman Dirk had lasted until the third by getting on his bicycle.

Balotti was a former top-notcher, now on the downgrade, but still a capable workman with his fists. He had been unconscious four hours after the knockout administered by the Tiger.

In Bombay, the Tiger, a Hercules done in bronze, had floored Guardsman Dirk in the first round, and it had required all the latter's skill to last through the second heat and one minute of the third. Then, he, too, had gone down to crushing defeat.

Ruby Ryan found the Tiger sitting in a darkened hotel room, waiting. The big man wore faded khakis and around his neck was the necklace of tiger claws Ryan had heard of.

The Tiger stood up. He was well over six feet tall and well muscled but he had a startling leanness and coiled intensity to his body. Looking at him, Ryan thought of Tarzan come to life. There was something catlike about the man, something jungle-bred. One felt the terrific strength that was in him, and knew instantly why he was billed as "The Tiger."

"We go to Capetown, South Africa. We fight Danny Kilgart there," the man said bluntly. "In Johannesburg, we fight somebody-anybody. If you want to come on you get forty percent of the take. I want the championship within a year. You do the talking, you sign the papers; I'll fight."

That was all. The man knew what he wanted and had a good idea of how to get it.

Danny Kilgart, a good, tough heavyweight with a wallop, went down in the second under the most blistering, two-fisted attack Ruby Ryan had ever seen. The next victim, the Boer Bomber, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, lasted just forty-three seconds... that had been in Johannesburg.

The Tiger didn't speak three words to Ruby Ryan in three weeks. But Ryan knew what he was looking at-that potentially, the Tiger was a coming champion. Of course it was unlikely that he was good enough to beat Deke Hayes. Hayes was the greatest heavyweight of all time, a master boxer with a brain-jolting wallop. And Hayes trained scientifically and thoroughly for every fight; Ryan's Tiger Man was, to push the allusion too far, an animal. Brutally strong, unbelievably aggressive, but he hadn't been in the ring daily with the best fighters in the world.... The Tiger wasn't just a slugger, he was better than that, but it was unlikely that he had the skill of the champ.

In Port Said, Egypt, accompanied by an internationally famous newspaper correspondent, Ryan and the Tiger had been set upon by bandits. The Tiger killed two of them with his bare hands and maimed another before they fled.

The news stories that followed set the world agog with amazement, and brought an offer from Berlin, Germany, to go fifteen rounds with Karl Schaumberg, the Blond Giant of Bavaria.

Schaumberg, considered by many a fit opponent for the champion himself, lasted three and a half rounds. Fearfully battered, he was carried from the arena, while the Tiger Man, mad with killing fury, paced the ring like a wild beast.

Paris, France, had seen Francois Chandel go down in two minutes and fifteen seconds, and in London the Tiger had duplicated Jeffries' feat of whipping the three best heavyweights in England in one night.

Offered a fight in Madison Square Garden, the Tiger Man had refused the battle unless given three successive opponents, as in England. They agreed-and he whipped them all! One of them was unfortunate-he had lasted into the second round, and took a terrific pounding.

Then had followed a tour across the country. The best heavyweights that could be brought against the mystery fighter were carried from the ring, one after the other.

Delighted and intoxicated by the Tiger Man's color and copy value, sportswriters filled their papers with glowing stories of his prowess, of his ferocity, and of the tiger-skin robe he wore. The story was that the skins were reputed to have been taken with his bare hands.

Ruby Ryan, after the Bronski fight, was as puzzled as ever. He had his hands on the gimmick fighter of the century, a boxer who made his own press, packed stadiums, and had launched himself into the imagination of the public like a character from the movies. The Tiger Man had created a public relations machine beyond anything Ryan had ever seen but what bothered the old trainer to no end was that he wasn't in on the joke. His fighter played the part every hour of the day. He was good at it, so good that you'd swear the vague stories were real.

Ryan, however, knew no more about his man than the average kid on the street-and sometimes thought he knew less.

Ryan drank the last of his coffee and turned to the man seated in the window.

"Well, Tiger, we've come a long way. If we get the breaks, the next fight will be for the title. It's a big if, though; Hayes is good, and he knows it. But McKeown won't let him fight you yet, if he can help it. I think we've ; got McKeown scared. I know that guy!" j "He'll fight. When he does I'll beat him so badly he'll never come back to the game ... maybe I'll kill him." i The Tiger got up then, squeezed Ryan's shoulder with a ; powerful hand, and walked into the bedroom. f Ruby Ryan stared after him. His red face was puzzled _ and his eyes narrowed as he shook his head in wonderment. !

Finally, he got up and called Beck, his valet-handyman, to > clear the table. |

"I got an idea," Ryan told himself, "that that Tiger is a j damned good egg underneath. I wonder what he's got it j in for the champ for?"

Ruby Ryan shook himself with the thought. "Holy jj mackerel! I'd hate to be the champ when my Tiger comes }| out of his corner!" \ j Beck came in and handed the manager a telegram. Ryan \ i ripped it open, glanced at it briefly, and swore. He stepped into the Tiger's room and handed him the message.

COMMISSION RULES TIGER MUST FIGHT TOM NOBLE STOP

WINNER TO MEET CHAMPION.

"Now that's some of Tom McKeown's work!" Ruby exclaimed, eyes narrow. "They've ducked that guy for five years and now they shove him off on us!"

"Okay," the Tiger said harshly. "We'll fight him. If Hayes is afraid of him, I want him! I want him right away!"

Ruby Ryan started to speak, then shrugged. Tiger walked out, and in a few minutes the pounding of the fast bag could be heard from the hotel gym.

The canvas glared under the white light overhead. In his corner, Tom Noble rubbed his feet in the resin. Under the lights, his black body glistened like polished ebony. This was his night, he was certain.

For years the best heavyweights had dodged him. They had drawn the "color line" to keep from fighting big, courageous Tom Noble. His record was an unbroken string of victories and yet even the fearless Deke Hayes had never met him.

A fast, clever boxer, Noble was a pile-driving puncher with either hand, and most dangerous when hurt. He weighed two hundred and forty pounds; forty pounds heavier than the slim, hard-bodied Tiger.

The Tiger Man crawled through the ropes, throwing his black and orange robe over the top rope, and crouched in his corner like an animal, shifting uneasily, as if restless for the kill.

If he won tonight, he would meet the champion. Meet Deke Hayes! Even the thought made his muscles tense with eagerness. It had been a long time. A lifetime ... in some ways it had almost been a lifetime.

The Tiger stirred restlessly, staring at the canvas. He remembered every detail of that last day of his old life. How Deke and himself, on an around-the-world athletic tour nine years before, had decided to visit Tiger Island.

Rumor had it there were more tigers on the island than in all Sumatra, perhaps in all the Dutch East Indies. The hunting was the best in the world but they had been warned; the big cats were fierce, and they were hungry.

The greatest of care had to be taken on Tiger Island . . . more than one hunter had died.

Deke Hayes, however, had insisted. And Bart Malone- who was later to become the feared Tiger Man-had gone willingly enough.

For years the two had been friends. They had often trained together, and had boxed on the same card together.

The two were evenly, perfectly matched in both skill and stamina. Toward the end, as they had risen in the rankings, Bart Malone had seemed to get a little better.

Then two things happened: both men were booked on an exhibition tour that was to take them around the world, and Margot had come into the picture. From the beginning she had seemed to favor Bart.

They had been in a tree stand, waiting fifty yards from the body of a pig they had killed to bait the tigers. Suddenly, Hayes discovered the ammunition he was to have brought had been forgotten.

Despite Bart Malone's protests, he had gone back to the boat after it. A tiger had come along, and Malone had killed it. But as the sound of the shot died away, he heard the distant roar of a motor.

At first Malone wouldn't believe it. In the morning, when he could leave the tree with safety, he had gone down to the beach. The motorboat that had brought them over from Batavia was gone. On the beach was a little food, a hunting knife, and an axe.

Deke Hayes had never expected him to live, but he had reckoned without the strength, the adaptability, the sheer energy of Bart Malone. With but six cartridges remaining, Malone had made a spear, built a shelter, and declared war on the tigers.