The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (79 page)

“Crabapples!” Socks scoffed. “Why, you couldn’t—!”

“Listen, pantywaist,” Temple growled. “D’you suppose I’d ever have let you an’ Muggs on that field if I didn’t know you could do it? Don’t you suppose I knew you an’ him were down behind that barn every night? What d’you suppose I kicked him off the field for? I knew you were so confounded contrary you’d get busy an’ work with him just to show me up!”

“Well,” Socks grinned, “it wasn’t you who got showed up. It was Hanover.”

“Yeah,” Temple agreed, “so go put that in the
Lantern.
And you, Kulowski. You get out for practice, you hear?”

“Okay,” Kulowski said. Then he grinned. “But first I got to write an article for the
Lantern
.”

Coach Temple’s eyes narrowed and his face grew brick red.

“You? Writing for the
Lantern
? What about?”

“Coaching methods at Eastern,” Kulowski said, and laughed.

He was still laughing as he walked toward the field house with his arm across Barnaby’s shoulders.

Moran of the Tigers

F
lash Moran took the ball on the Rangers’ thirty yard line, running with his head up, eyes alert. He was a money player, and a ground gainer who took the openings where he found them.

The play was called for off tackle. Murphy had the hole open for him, and Flash put his head down and went through, running like a madman. He hit a two-hundred-pound tackle in the midriff and set him back ten feet and plowed on for nine yards before he was downed.

Higgins called for a pass and Flash dropped back and took the ball. Swindler went around end fast and was cutting over when Flash rifled the ball to him with a pass that fairly smoked. He took it without slowing and started for the end zone. Weaving, a big Ranger lineman missed him, and he went on to be downed on the two yard line by a Ranger named Fenton, a wiry lad new in pro football.

“All right, Flash,” Higgins said as they trotted back. “I’m sending you right through the middle for this one.”

Flash nodded. The ball was snapped, and as Higgins wheeled and shoved it into his middle, he turned sharply and went through the line with a crash of leather that could be heard in the top rows. He went through and he was downed safely in the end zone. He got up as the whistle shrilled, and grinned at Higgins. “Well, there’s another one for Pop. If we can keep this up, the Old Man will be in the money again.”

“Right.” Tom Higgins was limping a little, but grinning. “It’s lucky for him he’s got a loyal bunch. Not a man offered to back out when he laid his cards on the table.”

“No,” Flash agreed, “but I’m worried. Lon Cramp has been after some of the boys. He’s got money, and he’s willing to pay anything to get in there with a championship team. He’s already got Johnny Hill from the Rangers, doubled his salary, and he got Kowalski from the Brewers. He hasn’t started on us, but I’m expecting it.”

“It’ll be you he’s after,” Tom Higgins said, glancing at the big halfback. “You were the biggest ground gainer in the league last year, and a triple-threat man.”

“Maybe. But there’s others, too. Hagan, for instance. And he needs the money with all those operations for his wife. He’s the best tackle in pro football.”

P
OP
D
OLAN WAS
standing in the dressing room grinning when they came in. “Thanks, boys,” he said, “I can’t tell you what this means to me. I don’t mean the winning, so much as the loyalty.”

Flash Moran sat down and began to unlace his shoes. Pop Dolan had started in pro football on a shoestring and a lot of goodwill. He had made it pay. His first two years had been successful beyond anybody’s expectations, but Pop hadn’t banked all the money; he had split a good third of the take with the team, over and above their salaries. “You earned it,” he said simply. “When I make money, we all make it.”

Well, Flash thought, he’s losing now, and if we take the winnings we’ve got to take the punishment. Yet how many of the players felt that way? Tom Higgins, yes. Dolan had discovered Tom in the mines of Colorado. He had coached him through college, and the two were close as father and son. Hagan?

He didn’t know. Butch Hagan was the mainstay of the big line. An intercollegiate heavyweight wrestling champ, he had drive and power to spare. Ken Martin? The handsome Tiger tailback, famous college star and glamour boy of pro football, was another doubtful one. He was practically engaged to “Micky” Dolan, Pop’s flame-haired daughter, so that would probably keep him in line.

Flash dressed and walked outside, then turned and strolled away toward the line of cabs that stood waiting.

A slender, sallow-faced man was standing by a black car as he approached, and he looked up at Flash, smiling. “Hi, Moran!” He thrust out a cold limp hand. “Want a ride uptown?”

Flash looked at him, then shrugged. It wasn’t unusual. Lots of sports fans liked to talk to athletes, and the ride would save him the cab fare, as his car was in the shop. He got in.

“You live at the Metropole, don’t you?” the stranger asked. “How about dropping by the Parkway for a steak? I want to talk a little. My name is Rossaro. Jinx Rossaro.”

“A steak? Well, why not?” They rode on in silence until the car swung into the drive of the Parkway. It was a twenty-story apartment hotel, and quite a place. The kind of place Flash Moran couldn’t afford. He was wondering, now…Jinx Rossaro…The name sounded familiar but he couldn’t place it. He shrugged. Well, what the devil? He wasn’t any high-school girl who had to be careful about pickups.

The dining room was spotless and the hush that prevailed was broken only by the tinkle of glass and silver. Somewhere, beyond the range of his eyes, an orchestra played a waltz by Strauss. They did things well here, he reflected. This Rossaro—

Another man was approaching their table. A short, square man who looked all soft and silky, until you saw his eyes. Then he looked hard. He walked up and held out his hand. “How are you, Jinx? And this is the great Flash Moran?”

There was no sarcasm in the man. His hard little eyes spanned Moran’s shoulders and took in his lean, hard two hundred pounds. “I’m happy to meet you. My name is Cramp, Lon Cramp.”

Flash had risen to acknowledge the introduction. His eyes narrowed a little as they often did when he saw an opposing tackler start toward him.

They sat down and he looked across at Cramp. “If the occasion is purely social, Mr. Cramp, I’m going to enjoy it. If you got me here to offer me a job, I’m not interested.”

Cramp smiled. “How much money do you make, Mr. Moran?”

“You probably know as well as I do. I’m getting fifteen thousand for the season.”

“If you get paid. To pay you Dolan must make money. He’s broke now, and he won’t win any more games. I think, Moran, you’d better listen to what I have to say.”

“I wouldn’t think of leaving Pop,” Flash said quietly. “I’m not a college boy. I came off a cow ranch to the Marines. After the Marines, where I played some football in training, Pop found me and gave me all the real coaching I had, so I owe a lot to him.”

“Of course,” Cramp smiled, then he leaned forward, “but you owe something to yourself, too. You haven’t long, no man has, in professional football. You have to get what you can when you can get it. Pop’s through. We know that, and you must realize it yourself. You can’t help him.”

“I’m not a rat. If the ship sinks I’ll go down with it.”

“Very noble. But impractical. And,” Cramp leaned forward again, “it isn’t as if you would have to leave Dolan.”

Flash straightened. “Just what do you mean?”

“My friend, we are businessmen. I want the professional championship. You would be infinitely more valuable on Dolan’s team than on mine—if you were on my payroll, too.”

“You mean—?” Flash’s face was tight, his eyes hard.

“That you play badly? Certainly not! You play your best game, until, shall we say, the critical moment. Then, perhaps a fumble, a bad kick—you understand?” Cramp smiled smoothly.

Flash pushed back his chair, then he leaned forward. “I understand very well. You’re not a sportsman, you’re a crook! I not only won’t do your dirty work, but I’ll see nobody else does!”

Cramp’s eyes were deadly. “Those were hard words, Moran. Reconsider when your temper cools, and my offer stands. For two days only. Then—watch yourself!”

Moran wheeled and walked out. He was mad, and mad clear through, yet underneath his anger there was a cool, hardheaded reasoning that told him this was something Dolan couldn’t buck. Dolan was honest. Cramp had the money to spend…if Flash wouldn’t cooperate, there were others.

There was Hagan, who needed money. Hagan who could fail to open a hole, who could let a tackler by him, who could run too slowly and block out one of his own players. Would Butch do it? Flash shook his head. He wouldn’t—usually. Now his wife was ill and he was broke as they all were….

Higgins? He would stand by. Most of the others would, too. Flash walked back to his room, and lay down on the bed. He did not even open his eyes when Higgins came in, undressed, and turned in.

D
OLAN MET HIM
in the coffee shop for breakfast. He looked bad, dark circles under his eyes, and he showed lack of sleep. Tom Higgins was with him, so was Ken Martin. Ken, looking tall and bronzed and strong, beside him, Micky.

Flash felt a sharp pang. He was in love with Micky Dolan. He had never deceived himself about that. Yet it was always the handsome Martin who was with her, always the sharp-looking former All-American.

“Well, it’s happened!” Pop said suddenly. “Cramp raided me yesterday. He got Wilson and Krakoff.”

Moran felt himself go sick. Krakoff was their big center. He had been with the team for three years. None of them were working under contract this year, not in the strictest sense. Pop leaned over backwards in being fair. Any agreement could be terminated if the player wished. Krakoff at twenty-two was a power in the line. Wilson had been a substitute back, but a good one. They had been shorthanded before this happened.

Martin looked at Flash thoughtfully. “Didn’t I see you going off the field with Rossaro?”

Moran looked up and said quietly, “Rossaro met me with an offer to drive me home. When we got up to dinner, Cramp was there. He made me an offer.”

Micky was looking at him, her eyes very steady. “I told him nothing doing.”

Ken Martin was still staring at him. So was Micky, but neither of them said a word.

I
T WASN’T
until they met the Shippers on Friday that the extent of the damage was visible. The Shippers were big and rough. Dolan’s Tigers had beaten them a month before in a hard-fought game, but hadn’t beaten them decisively. Now it was different.

Jalkan, the big Shipper fullback, carried the ball through the middle on the first play. He went right through where Krakoff had stopped him cold a month before. He went for five yards, then Higgins nailed him.

They lined up, and Jalkan came right through again for four yards. Then on a fake, Duffy got away for fourteen, and the Shippers really began to march. They rolled down the field and nothing the Tigers could do would stop them. Duffy got away again and made twenty yards around end before Moran angled downfield and hit him hard on the eight yard line.

But it was only a momentary setback, for Jalkan came through the middle again, nearly wrecking Burgess, a husky Tiger guard, in the process. He was downed by Martin on the two yard line, but went over on the next play.

Then they repeated. Duffy got in the clear and took a pass from Jalkan and made twenty yards before he was doomed by Martin. The Tigers lined up and began to battle, but they weren’t clicking. Even Flash, fighting with everything he had, could see that. Krakoff had left a big hole at center, a hole that Worth, the substitute, could never begin to fill. Burgess, the right guard, was badly hurt. They were working him, deliberately, it seemed to Moran. The center of the line was awfully soft.

At the half, the score was twenty to nothing, and the team trooped into the dressing room, tired and battered. Burgess had taken a fearful beating. Dolan looked at him, and shook his head. “No use you going out there again, Bud,” he said. “We’ll let Noble go in.”

Ken Martin looked up, and then his eyes shifted to Flash. They all knew what that meant. Noble was big and strong, but he was slower than Burgess. That hole at center was going to be awfully weak.

“We’ll be taking the kick,” Dolan said simply, “let’s get that ball and get on down the field.”

M
ORAN TOOK THE KICK
and started down the field. Every yard counted now, and he was making time. He was crossing their own forty yard line when Jalkan cut in toward him. He cross-stepped quickly, in an effort to get away, and smacked into a heavy shoulder. Thrown off balance, he was knocked squarely into Jalkan’s path and the big Shipper hit him like a piledriver with a thud they could hear high in the stands.

Rolling over and over, Flash was suddenly stopped when the pile-up came. He got slowly to his feet, badly shaken. Martin stared at him. “What did you run into me for? You could have gotten away from Jalkan!”

“What?” Puzzled, he stared at Martin. Then he noticed Butch Hagan looking at him queerly. Frowning, he trotted back into position. Higgins called for twenty-two, and that meant Flash was to go around the end for a pass, and he went fast. He got down the field, saw Ken drop back with the ball, and then it came whistling over!

He glanced over his shoulder and saw with wild panic that he was never going to make it. It was leading him too much. Hurling every ounce of speed he had, he threw himself at the ball, missed, it hit the ground and was recovered by the Shipper tailback.

Schaumberg, the rangy Tiger end, glanced at him. “What’s the matter?” he asked sharply. “Cramp got to you, too?”

His answer froze on his lips. Hot words would do no good at this time. He started to reply, but Schaumberg was trotting away. His head down, Flash rounded into position. He noticed Higgins glance at him, and Ken Martin was smiling cynically.