The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (39 page)

But the Tiger danced away, boxing carefully for the first time. Hayes’s left flicked at the wounded eye, but was just short, and the Tiger slipped under it, and whipped both hands to the body as the round ended.

Deke Hayes came out fast for the second heat, and a right opened the cut over Tiger’s eye. Hayes sprang in and, punching like a demon, drove the Tiger across the ring, where he hung him on the ropes with a wicked right uppercut that jerked his head back and slammed him off balance into the hemp.

The Tiger staggered, and almost went down. He straightened and by a great effort of will, tried to clinch, but Deke Hayes shook him loose, floored him with a wicked left hook.

The crowd was on its feet now, in a yelling frenzy. Ryan sat in the corner, twisting the towel in his hands, chewing on the stump of a dead cigar. But even as the referee counted nine, the Tiger was up!

He tried to clinch, but Hayes shook him off. Confident now, he jabbed three fast lefts to the bad eye, then drove the Tiger to a corner with a volley of hooks, swings, and uppercuts. A short right hook put the Tiger down a second time—and then the bell rang!

The arena was a madhouse as the Tiger came out for the third round, his brain still buzzing. He couldn’t seem to get started. Hayes’s left flicked out again, resuming the torture. Hayes stepped in and the Tiger evaded a left, then clinched. He caught Hayes’s hands, hung on until the referee broke them, warning him for holding.

T
HROUGH THE FOURTH
, fifth, and sixth rounds, Hayes boxed like the marvel he was, but the Tiger kept on. In the clinches he hung on until the referee broke them; he slipped, ducked, and rode punches. He tried every trick he knew.

Only the terrific stamina of those long jungle years carried the Tiger through now; only the running, the diving, the swimming he had done, the fighting in the jungle, the bitter struggle to live, sustained him, kept him on his feet.

Strangely, as the seventh round opened, the Tiger felt better. His natural strength was asserting itself. Hayes came out, cocky, confident. The Tiger stepped in, but his feet were lighter. Some of the confusion seemed to have gone from his mind. Between rounds the blood from his cut eye had been stopped. He was getting his second wind.

Deke Hayes rushed into the fray, throwing both hands to the head, but the Tiger was ready this time. Dropping into a crouch, he whipped out a snapping left hook and dug a right into the solar plexus.

But the champion fired a left to the head that shook the Tiger to his heels, then threw a right that cracked against his jaw with the force of a thunderbolt. The Tiger went to one knee; but came up, fighting like a demon!

He ripped into the champion with the fury of an unleashed cyclone, battering him halfway across the ring. But when the champion caught himself, he drove the Tiger back onto his heels with a straight left, crossed a right, and then threw both hands to the body.

The Tiger took it. He stepped in, swapping blow for blow, taking the champion’s hardest punches with scarcely a wince. Deke Hayes backed off, jabbed a left, but was short, and then the Tiger was inside, tearing away at the other’s body with the fury of a Gatling gun. He ripped a mad tattoo of punches against Deke Hayes’s ribs; then, stepping back suddenly, he blocked Hayes’s left and hooked his own solid left to the head.

The champion staggered, and as the crowd roared like a typhoon in the China Sea, the Tiger tore in, punching furiously. There was no stopping now. Science was cast to the winds, it was the berserk brawling of two killers gone mad!

R
OUND AFTER ROUND
passed, and they slugged it out, two fighting fools filled with a deadly hatred of each other, fighting not to win but to kill!

Hayes, panic-stricken, was fighting the fight of his life, backed into a corner by Fate and the enemy he thought he had left behind for good—the man he had cheated and left to die.

Now that man was here, fighting him for the world’s title, and Hayes battled like a demon. Staggering, almost ready to go down, the champion whipped up a desperate right uppercut that blasted the Tiger’s mind into a flame of white-hot pain! But the Tiger set his teeth, and bored in.

Shifting quickly, he brought down a short overhand punch, and then deliberately stepped back. As the champion lunged forward instinctively, the Tiger Man knocked him flat with a straight right.

Then the champion was up again at the count of seven. Suddenly, with every ounce of strength at his command, he whipped up a mighty left to the Tiger’s groin—a deliberately foul blow! The crowd leaped to its feet, roaring with anger; cries of rage came from officials at the ringside.

The Tiger, tottering, collapsed to his face in the center of the ring—just as the bell rang. The referee angrily motioned the champion to his corner amid a thunder of boos, and the Tiger was helped up.

Even Tom McKeown looked in disgust at his fighter as he worked over him. The angry referee strode to the Tiger’s corner, and asked whether he could continue. The official, thoroughly enraged at the foul blow, was all for declaring the Tiger the winner, then and there.

But the Tiger, through his daze of pain, shook his head. “Not that way!” he gritted. “We fight…to the finish!” and the referee, cursing the champion, let the challenger have his way.

T
HEN THE BELL RANG
. But now it was different; and even the maddened crowd sensed that. Deke Hayes looked over at the slowly rising Tiger with real fear in his eyes. Why, the man wasn’t human! No one could take a blow like that and keep coming!

Eyes red with hatred, the Tiger came out in a steel-coiled crouch. Hayes, wary now, had come to the end, and he knew it. He advanced slowly to the center of the ring, and the Tiger met him—met him with a sudden, berserk rush that drove the now frightened champion to the ropes.

There he hung, while the Tiger ripped punch after vicious punch to his body, pounded his ears until they were swollen and torn, cut his eyebrows with lightning-like twists of hard, smashing gloves.

A bloody, beaten mess, marked for life, the champion slipped frantically away along the ropes. Trembling with fright, he set himself desperately, shot a steaming right for the Tiger’s chin.

But the Tiger beat him to the punch with an inside right cross that jerked Hayes back on his heels! Before the blood-covered champion could weave away, the Tiger—Bart Malone—whipped up a lethal left hook that started at his heels. Spinning completely around, the champion toppled to the canvas, out like a log, his jaw broken in three places!

The referee dismissed the formality of a count as the crowd went wild. Without a word, the referee raised the Tiger’s hand in victory, as the rafters shook with the roaring of thousands of frenzied voices.

Ruby Ryan was beside himself with joy. “You made it, kid!” he yelled. “You made it! I never saw such nerve in my life! The greatest fight I ever seen! Damn, how did you do it?”

The Tiger looked down at him, grinned, though his body was a throbbing pain from the punishment he had absorbed.

“Somethin’ I learned in the jungle,” he growled.

The Ghost Fighter

T
he bell clanged. The narrow-faced man tipped his chair away from the gym wall and sat suddenly forward. Had he not known it to be impossible, he would have sworn the husky young heavyweight in the black trunks was none other than “Bat” McGowan, the champion of the world!

Tall, bronzed, the fighter glided swiftly across the ring, stabbing a sharp left to his opponent’s head; then, slipping over a left hook, he whipped a steaming right to the heart.

“Salty” Burke staggered, and his hands dropped slightly. Quickly Barney Malone jabbed another left at his face, and then a terrific right cross to the jaw. The blow seemed to travel no more than six inches, yet it exploded upon the angle of Burke’s chin like a six-inch shell, and the big heavyweight crashed to the canvas, out cold!

R
UBY
R
YAN
, trainer of Bat McGowan, turned as “Rack” Hendryx relaxed and leaned back in his seat. His keen blue eyes were bright with excitement.

“See? What did I tell you? The kid’s got it. He can box an’ he can hit. He’s just what you want, Rack!”

“Yeah, that’s right. But he can’t take it….” Hendryx mused. “Well, he’s a ringer for the champ, that’s for sure. Hell, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that was him in there! Why, they could as well be twins!”

“Sure,” Ryan nodded wisely. “Stick the kid in an’ let him box these exhibitions as the champion, an’ nobody the wiser. You’ve heard of these ‘ghost writers,’ haven’t you? Well, Malone can be your ‘ghost fighter’! No reason why you should miss collecting just because that big lug wants to booze and raise hell. It’s a cinch.”

“Yeah,” Hendryx agreed. “As long as nobody taps that glass jaw of his…Okay, we’ll try it. This kid is good, an’ if he’s just a gym fighter, so much the better. We don’t want him gettin’ any ideas.”

T
HE NEXT NIGHT
three men loafed in the expensive suite at the Astor where Hendryx maintained an unofficial headquarters. Rack Hendryx did not confine himself merely to managing the heavyweight champion of the world. From behind a score of “fronts” he pulled the wires that directed a huge ring of vice and racketeering. Even Bat McGowan knew little of this, although he surmised a good deal. The three had become widely known figures: Bat McGowan, the champion; Rack Hendryx, his manager; and Tony Mada, Hendryx’s quiet, thin-lipped bodyguard.

“Say, when’s this punk going to show up?” McGowan growled irritably. “He hasn’t taken a powder on you, has he?”

“Not a chance. Ruby’s bringin’ him up the back way. We can’t have nobody gettin’ wise to this. Why, the damned papers would howl bloody murder about the fans payin’ to see the champ an’ only seein’ some punk gym fighter who can’t take it on the chin!” Hendryx laughed harshly.

“What about the guys that already seen him?” McGowan demanded.

“He’s from South Africa. An Irishman from Johannesburg. He only fought here once, and that was some little club in the sticks. Ruby Ryan also saw him in the gym.”

There was a sharp rap at the door, and when Mada swung it open, Ryan stepped in with Barney Malone at his heels. For a moment, there was silence while Malone and Bat McGowan stared at each other.

“Well, I’ll be—” McGowan exclaimed. “The punk sure does look like me, don’t he?” Then he walked over and looked Barney Malone up and down. “Don’t you wish you could fight like me, too?”

“Maybe I can,” Malone snapped, his eyes narrowing coldly.

McGowan sneered. “Yeah?” Quick as a flash he snapped a left hook to Malone’s head, a punch that caught the newcomer flush on the point of the chin. Without a sound the young fighter crumpled to the floor!

“Are you crazy?” Rack Hendryx grabbed McGowan by the arm and jerked him back, face livid. “What the hell d’you think you’re tryin’ to do, anyway? Crab the act?”

“Aw, what the hell—the punk was gettin’ wise with me. I might as well put him in his place now as later.”

Helped by Ruby Ryan, Malone was slowly getting to his feet, shaking his head to clear it. The old trainer’s Irish face was hard, and the light in his eyes when he looked at McGowan was not good to see.

“Now lay off, you big chump!” Hendryx snapped angrily. “What d’you think this is, an alley?”

Malone looked at McGowan, his eyes strange and bleak. “So you’re a champion?” he said coldly. McGowan stepped forward, his fist raised, but Hendryx and Mada intervened.

“You should know, lollypop.” Bat turned and picked up his hat, then looked back at Malone and laughed.

“Just another cream puff! Well, you can double for me, but don’t get any ideas, see, or I’ll beat you to jelly.” He turned and walked out.

“Forget that guy, Malone,” Hendryx broke in, noticing the gleam in the youngster’s eye. “Just let it slide. We got to talk business!”

“Nothing doing.” Barney Malone looked at Hendryx and shook his head. “Not for a guy like that!”

“Come on…Bat won’t be around much. He’ll be busy with the girls. An’ where can you lay your mitts on five hundred a week? Forget that guy; this is business.”

“All right,” Malone said. “But not for five hundred. I want five hundred, and ten percent of the take from all exhibitions I work as champion!”

“Not a chance!” Hendryx snapped angrily. “What you tryin’ to do, pull a Jesse James on me?”

“Then let me out of this joint,” Malone said grimly. “I’m through.”

For a half hour they argued, and finally Hendryx shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, Malone, you win. I’ll give it to you. But remember—one move that looks like a double cross and I give Tony the nod, see?”

Malone glanced at Tony Mada, and the little torpedo parted his lips in a nasty grin. Whatever else there was about the combination, there wasn’t any foolishness about Tony Mada. He was something cold and deadly.

A
MONTH
and nine exhibitions later, in the dressing room of the Adelphian Athletic Club, Barney Malone sat on the table, taping his hands. The champion’s silk robe over his broad shoulders set them off nicely. He looked fit and ready.

“This Porky Dobro is tough, see?” Ryan advised. “He’s tougher than we wanted right now, but we couldn’t dodge him. He knows McGowan, an’ has a grudge against him. You gotta be nasty with this guy, Barney. Get tough, heel your gloves, use your elbows and shoulders, butt him, hold and hit—everything! That’s the way the champ works; he was always dirty. This guy will expect it, so give him the works. But, no matter what, don’t let him near that jaw of yours…you can outbox him, so don’t try anything else.”

“That’s right, kid,” Hendryx agreed. “You been doin’ fine. But this Dobro isn’t like the others, he’s bad medicine—an’ he ain’t going to be scared!”

H
ENDRYX WALKED OUT
, with Mada at his heels. Malone watched them go, and then looked back at Ruby Ryan. The old Irishman was tightening a shoelace.

“How’d you happen to get mixed up with an outfit like that, Ruby?”

Ryan shrugged. “Same way you did, kid. A guy’s got to live. Rack knew I was a good trainer, an’ he hired me. I made McGowan champ. Now they both treat me like the dirt under their feet.”

They hurried down the aisle to the ring, where Porky Dobro was already waiting for them. He was a heavy-shouldered fighter with a square jaw and heavy brows. A typical slugger, and a tough one.

“All right, champ, box him now!” Ryan murmured as the bell sounded.

Dobro broke from his corner with a rush. He was a huge favorite locally, and it was the real thing for the hometown fans to see a local heavyweight in a grudge battle with the world’s champion.

Dobro rushed to close quarters but was stopped abruptly by a stiff left jab that set him back on his heels. Before he could regain his balance, Malone crossed a solid right to the head, and hooked two lefts to the body, in close. Dobro bored in, taking more blows. Bobbing and weaving, he tried to go under Malone’s left, but it followed him, cutting, stabbing, holding him off.

Then Barney’s left swung out a little, and Dobro managed to drive in close, where he clinched desperately, cursing. Malone tied him up calmly and pounded his body with a free hand. Ryan was signaling from his corner and, remembering, Malone jerked his shoulder up hard under Dobro’s chin. As the crowd booed, he calmly pushed Dobro away and peeled the hide from a cheekbone with the vicious heel of his glove.

The crowd booed again, and Dobro rushed, but brought up sharply on the end of a left that split his lips and started a stream of blood. Before he could set himself, Malone fired a volley of blows to his body. The bell sounded, and the crowd mingled cheers with the booing.

“Nice goin’, kid,” Ryan assured him. “You should be in the movies. You look so much like McGowan, I hate you myself! But keep up the rough stuff, that’s what we want.”

The clang of the bell had scarcely died when Dobro was across the ring, but again he met that snapping left. He plunged in again, and again the left swung a little wide, letting him in. Then Malone promptly tied him up.

As they broke, Dobro took a terrific swing at Malone’s jaw, slipped on some spilled water, and plunged forward, arms flailing. Stumbling, he tried to regain his balance, then plunged headfirst into a steel corner-post! He slumped, a dead weight upon the canvas, suddenly still.

Quickly, Malone bent over him, helping him to his feet, face white and worried. The referee and the man’s seconds crowded around, working madly over the fighter, who had struck with force enough to kill. Malone was suddenly conscious of a tugging at his arm, and looked up to find Ruby Ryan motioning him to the corner.

“He’s all right, kid,” Ryan assured him. “But if he came to and found you bent over him, worried like that, the shock would probably kill him! Remember, you’re supposed to hate him and everything about him.”

Finally, Dobro came around, but insisted on going on with the fight after a brief rest.

When the bell sounded again, Dobro came out fast, seemingly none the worse for his bump, but Malone stepped away, sparring carefully. Dobro plunged in close and slammed a couple of stiff punches to the body, then hooked a hard left to the head without a return. Malone stepped away, boxing carefully. He could still see Dobro’s white face and queer eyes as he lay on the canvas, and was afraid that a stiff punch might—

A jolting right suddenly caught him on the ear, knocking him across the ring into the ropes. He caught himself just in time to see Dobro plunging in, his eyes wild with killer’s fire. Malone ducked and clinched. As Dobro’s ear came close, he whispered:

“Take it easy, you clown, an’ I’ll let you ride awhile!”

Then the referee broke them, and Malone saw Dobro’s brow wrinkle with puzzlement. He realized instantly that he had overplayed his hand. Hesitant to batter Dobro after his fall, he had acted as Bat McGowan would never have acted. Dobro bored in, and Malone put a light left to his mouth, but passed up a good shot for his right. Suddenly, in close, his eye caught Dobro’s; Dobro went under a left and clinched.

“Say, what is this?” he growled. “You’re—”

Panic-stricken, Malone shoved him off with a left and hooked a terrific right to the chin that slammed Dobro to the canvas. But he was up at nine, boring in, still puzzled, conscious that something was wrong. Malone put two rapid lefts to the face, and then stepped back, feinting a left and then letting it swing wide again. But this time, as Dobro lunged to get in close, Malone caught him coming in with a short, vicious right cross to the chin that stopped him dead in his tracks. Dobro weaved and started to drop, already out cold, but before he could fall, Malone whipped in a steaming left hook that stretched him on the canvas, dead to the world.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Ruby Ryan walked into the room where Barney Malone was playing solitaire and handed him a paper.

“Take a gander at that, son. Looks like they’re eating it up; but just the same, I’m worried. Porky is dumb enough, but even a dumb guy can stumble into a smart play.”

On one side of the sport sheet, black headlines broadcast the fight of the previous evening:

MCGOWAN STOPS DOBRO IN SECOND

Champ Looks Great in Grudge Battle with Slugging Foe

But across the page, and in a column of comment, Malone read further:

How does he do it? In the past thirty days, Bat McGowan has flattened ten opponents in as clean-cut fashion as ever a champion did. But in the same space of time, he has been seen drunk and carousing no less than seven times. Even Harry Greb in his palmy days never displayed such form as the champion has of late, while at the same time burning the candle at both ends.

We have never cared for McGowan; the champion has been as consistently dirty, and as unnecessarily foul as any fighter we have ever seen. But last night with Porky Dobro, he intentionally coasted after the man had been injured by a fall. It was the act of a champion—but somehow, it wasn’t like McGowan as we have known him.

“Well, what do you think, kid?” Ryan looked at him curiously. “You’re making the champion a reputation as a good guy.”