The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (32 page)

Mullaney had warned him that he must be careful with Carter. The fighter could punch, and while it was in the bag for him to dive, Carter might slip over a couple of hard ones. A cut eye now would do Finn no good.

The second and third went by swiftly, with Finn working with care. He missed punches, and seemed clumsy, and at times was clumsy, despite his efforts, yet his hard work had done him more good than he had realized.

In the fourth round he came out fast, and Carter moved around him, then led a left. Downey went under it and smashed that right to the ribs again, then followed it into a clinch behind two trip-hammer blows to the wind. Carter looked pale, and he glared at Finn.

“What’s the matter, kid? Ain’t it enough to win?”

Downey broke before the referee reached them, jabbed a left that caught Carter high on the head, then stepped in, feinting a right to the body and throwing it high and hard. It caught Webb on the cheekbone, and his face went white and his lips looked numb. He went into a clinch.

“You take it easy, kid,” he growled, “or I’ll lower the boom on you!”

“Anytime you’re ready!” Finn snapped back.

Carter jerked free and smashed a right to Downey’s head that made his knees wobble. Then he plunged in throwing them with both hands. Sensing a rally, the crowd came to its feet, and Finn, instead of yielding before the storm of blows, walked right into it, swinging with both hands.

Webb stabbed a left to Finn’s mouth that made him taste blood, and Finn slid under another left and jammed a right to the heart, then a left to the wind and a right to the ear. He pushed Carter away, took a light punch going in, and smashed both hands to the body, throwing the hooks with his hip behind them.

The fifth round was a slugfest, with the fans on their chairs screaming themselves hoarse. In the sixth, as Carter came out of his corner, Finn moved in, feinted a left, and smashed a high hard right to the head. This was the round for Carter’s dive, but Finn had no intention of letting him take it, and the right made Carter give ground. Finn pressed him back, weaving in under Carter’s punches and winging them into the other fighter’s body with all the power he had.

He broke clean and backed away, looking Carter over. There was amazed respect in Webb Carter’s eyes. Finn circled, then feinted, and Carter threw a right. Downey countered with a lifting right to the solar plexus that stood Carter on his tiptoes, and before Webb realized what had happened, a whistling left hook cracked on his chin and he hit the canvas on his face, out cold!

Finn trotted back to his corner, and Bernie held up his robe, staring at Carter. Finn leaned close.

“Boy!” he whispered. “He made it look good! Better than Gilman! He stuck his chin into that punch and just let go!”

“Yeah,” Bernie agreed dolefully. “Yeah, it almost fooled me!”

I
T WAS AFTER THE END
of the fight that Finn Downey saw Pamela Gurney and her brother. They were only a few seats from his corner. Pamela’s face was cold, but there was a hard, curious light in Glen’s eyes.

Finn didn’t show that he noticed them, but he knew that Gurney wasn’t fooled. The champ knew that knockout was the McCoy. And it would puzzle him.

Well, let it! The only one Finn was worried about was Cat, but when the gambler came into his dressing room he grinned at Downey.

“Nice going, kid! That was good!”

Evidently, Spelvin knew little about fighting. He didn’t know an honest knockout when he saw it.

In the month that followed, Finn spent at least four days a week in the basement gym with Mullaney. They were not training sessions. Finn just listened to Jimmy and practiced punches on the heavy bag. When he went to the regular gym for his workout, he was the same as ever. In ring sessions he worked carefully, never showing too much, but with occasional flashes of form and boxing skill. His right, always a devastating punch, was traveling less distance now, and he was hitting even harder.

In that month he had two fights, and both opponents went into the tank, but not until after a brisk, hard workout. In each fight he knew he could have stopped the man had the fight been on the level.

Now he and Jimmy had a problem, for a return match with Gilman was to be scheduled in a short time.

“They’ll figure to get me this time,” Finn agreed with Mullaney. “I’ve been scoring knockouts right and left, and Gilman has only fought once, and looked bad. The boys are saying he’s through, so the betting should be at least two to one that I repeat my kayo. Cat will figure to clean up.”

The writer of a sports column, a man named Van Bergen, offered the judgment of most of the sportswriters:

Tony Gilman is seeking a return match with young Finn Downey, the hard-socking battler who stopped him two months ago. If Gilman is wise he will hang them up while he has all his buttons. In his last two fights, Tony showed that he was through. Formerly a hard-hitting, tough middleweight, Gilman lacked all of the fire and dash that characterized his earlier fights. He may never be his old self again.

Downey continues to come along. After his surprise knockout over Gilman, he went on to stop tough Webb Carter, and since has followed with knockout wins over Danny Ebro and Joey Collins.

If the match is made, Downey should stop Gilman within six rounds.

Cat Spelvin called Downey in on a Tuesday morning. He was all smiles.

“Well, kid, one more fight, then I think we can get Gurney for you. The fans still like Gilman, so we’ll feed him to you again. From there on, you walk right into the title.”

Finn grinned back at him. “Well, I’ve got you to thank for it, Cat. If you hadn’t helped, I’d probably still be fighting prelims.”

Cat lit a cigar. “Just take it easy, kid. Gilman will be a setup for you!”

Bernie and Nick Lessack walked outside with Downey.

“Let’s go get a beer,” Bernie suggested. “No use killin’ yourself workin’ for fights that are in the bag.”

“Yeah.” Secretly, Finn ground his teeth. They thought he was so stupid they weren’t even going to try to buy him off.

I
N HIS GYM WORKOUTS
, he fooled along. At times, when he worked hard in the ring, he told Bernie or Nick: “I’ve got to look good here! If the sportswriters thought I was stalling, they might smell something!”

This was reported to Cat and he chuckled. “The kid’s right!” he said. “We want him to look good in the gym! The higher the odds, the better!”

In the gym in Joe’s basement, Finn worked harder than ever. Then, three days before the battle, he met Pamela again. She was riding the sorrel and started to ride on by, but when he spoke, she stopped.

“Hello, Pam,” he said softly.

She looked down at him, his face flushed from running, his dark hair rumpled. He looked hard and capable, yet somehow very young.

“I shouldn’t think you’d train so hard,” she said coolly. “Your fights don’t seem to give you much trouble.”

“Maybe they don’t,” he said, “and maybe they give me more than you think.”

“You know,” she said, “what you said about Glen’s fights was untrue. Everything Glen won, he fought for.”

“I know,” he admitted. “I took too much for granted, I guess.” He hesitated. “Don’t you make the same mistake.”

Their eyes held, and it was suddenly hard for her to believe what her brother had said—that Cat Spelvin was framing Finn Downey’s fights. He looked too honest.

“If I did take a few the easy way,” he said, “you couldn’t blame me. My sis never had clothes like yours in her life, but she’s goin’ to have them, because I’m goin’ to see she does—ahh, you wouldn’t understand how we feel.”

“Wouldn’t I?” She smiled at him suddenly. “Finn, I like you. But don’t start feeling sorry for yourself or making excuses. Glen never did.”

“Glen!” Finn growled. “All I hear is Glen! I’d like to get in there with him sometime! Glen never felt sorry for himself or made excuses! Why should he?”

“Finn Downey,” Pamela said quietly, “I hope you never get in the ring with Glen. If you do, he’ll give you such a beating as you never saw! But before this goes any further, I want to show you something. Will you go for a ride with me this afternoon?”

He stared at her for a moment.

“No, I won’t,” he said. He looked away angrily because he was feeling such a strange emotion that something came into his eyes and into his throat when he looked at her. “I won’t go for a ride with you because I think about you all the time now. I’m just a boxer from the wrong side of town. If I was to be around you too much it would tear my heart out. You’d never take a guy like me seriously, and I can’t see why you should.”

Pamela shook her head. “Finn, my brother is a fighter. I’ve nothing against fighters, it’s just the kind of fighters they are. I like fighters that win their fights in the ring, not in some smoke-filled back room with a lot of fat-faced men talking about it.” Her face grew grave. “You see, something’s going on. I shouldn’t mention it to you, but it’s some sort of an investigation. It started over your fight with Gilman. One of the sportswriters, Pat Skehan, didn’t like it. I don’t know much, but if you should be mixed up in it, it will come out.”

“So you’re warning me. Why?”

“Because I like you. Maybe because I understand how you feel about your sister, about clothes and money and things.”

And then, before he could say another word, she had cantered away.

J
IMMY
M
ULLANEY WAS
in a ringside seat when Finn Downey crawled through the ropes for his return bout with Tony Gilman. Jimmy was where they had planned for him to be. His eyes were roving over the other ringsiders with a curious glint in them. Jimmy had been around for a long time and he knew pretty much what was happening tonight.

Glen Gurney had come in, and with him were his sister, Pamela, Pat Skehan, the sportswriter, and another man. When Jimmy saw him, he began to whistle softly, for the man was Walt McKeon—and in certain quarters his name meant much.

Cat Spelvin and Nick Lessack were there, too. Every few minutes Norm Hunter would come up to Cat and whisper in his ear. Spelvin would nod thoughtfully, sometimes making a notation on a pad. Jimmy understood that, too.

Two hours before, the odds quoted on the fight had been three to one, with Finn a strong favorite, and thirty minutes before, the odds had fallen, under a series of carefully placed bets, to six to five. Norm Hunter was one of Cat’s legmen, and he had been actively placing bets.

Finn felt good. He was in the best shape of his life, but he also knew he was facing the fight of his life. Regardless of the fact that he had been told Gilman was going to take a dive tonight, that had never been Spelvin’s plan. Tonight he was going to cash in by betting against Finn Downey. Gilman had never liked taking that dive for him, and he was going to get even if he could by giving Finn a thorough beating. Downey understood that clearly enough. He also knew that Tony Gilman was a fighting fool, a much better fighter than any he had ever faced. Even in that previous match when Tony had been under wraps, he had made a monkey out of Finn most of the way.

Bernie Ledsham leaned on the ropes and grinned at Finn, but the grin was malicious.

“You going to take him, kid?”

Downey grinned back at him. “You can bet your last dime I am!”

The bell sounded suddenly, and Finn went out fast. The very look of Tony Gilman told him what he already knew. Gilman was out to win! Tony lanced a left to the head that jarred Finn to his heels, then crossed a whistling right that Finn slipped by a hair. Finn went in with a left and right to the body.

“All right, you pantywaist,” Gilman hissed in his ear. “I’m goin’ to tear you apart!”

Downey chuckled and broke free, clipping Gilman with a quick left as they moved together again. Gilman slammed a right to the body and they circled, trading lefts. Gilman rushed, throwing both hands, and the punches hurt. Finn went back to the ropes, but slid away and put a fast left to Gilman’s face. He circled, watching Tony.

Gilman was anxious to get him; he was a tough scrapper who liked to fight and who was angry. He ripped into Downey, landing a hard left to the head, then a jolting right that smashed home twice before Finn could get into a clinch. His mouth felt sore and he could taste blood. Tony shook him off, feinted a left, then hooked with it. The fist clipped Finn flush on the chin, and his knees wobbled.

The crowd broke into cheers, expecting an upset, but the bell rang.

R
ETURNING TO HIS CORNER
, Finn Downey saw the fat, satisfied smile on Spelvin’s face. He dropped on the stool. For the first time he was doubtful. He had known Tony was good, but Gilman was driven by anger now and the desire for revenge, and he was even better than Finn had suspected.

The second round was a brannigan from bell to bell. Both men went out for blood and both got it. Finn took a stabbing left that sent his mouthpiece sailing. The next left cut his lips, then he took a solid right to the head that drove him to the ropes.

He came off them with a lunge and drove a smashing right to Gilman’s ribs. Tony wrestled in the clinches and tried to butt, but Finn twisted free, then stepped in with a quick, short hook to the chin that shook Gilman to his heels.

In a clinch in the third round, after a wicked slugfest, Downey whispered to Gilman: “What’s the matter? Can’t you dish it out any better than that?”

Gilman broke away from him. His blue eyes were ugly now, and his face hard. He moved in behind a straight left that Finn couldn’t seem to get away from until he had taken three on his sore mouth. Then he did get inside and drove Gilman back.

He could taste blood and there was the sting of salty sweat in the cuts on his face, and beyond the ropes there was a blur of faces. He ripped into Gilman with a savage two-fisted attack that blasted the older fighter across the ring.

“Thought I was a sap, huh? You win this one, bud, you fight for it!”

Gilman smashed him with a right cross that knocked him back on his heels. Before he could get set, Tony was on him with two wicked hooks, and the first thing he knew he had hit the canvas flat on his back!