A Moment in the Sun (111 page)

Now this Sturdevant I know from the cow town of Pueblo, Col., a feedlot operator and promoter of contests of skill and science who owns half interest in a sporting club and has parlayed his status in that burg into a position of military importance. As a captain he has his detractors, consisting principally of those of a rank either higher or lower than his own, though I am told he is well regarded by his peers, the fellow captains of Companies A through H. I myself do not personally care for the gent, as he is the one who seconded a certain lieutenant’s pegging me as a runt not worthy to risk his hide next to the other stalwart sons of the Centennial State, forcing me to cast my lot in with the Minnesota delegation, who upon arrival in Googooland were made, of all the undignified possibilities, military coppers in charge of the deportment of both American fighting men and slant-eyed denizens of our newly acquired Walled City and its surroundings.

The captain suggests very forcefully that we separate the combatants, and it takes three of our huskier squarehead volunteers to drag the Chief back onto the reservation. I decline to participate, judging that after being blackballed from one outfit and wangling my way into the other I have done my share of volunteering and no more is necessary, as they can always find something to keep you busy whether it needs doing or not.

The aggrieved parties stand drilling holes into each other with their glimmers while Captain Sturdevant struts back and forth in between them, which is his specialty. I personally have never seen an officer could hold a candle to Sturdevant in the strutting department, slapping his little swagger stick against his leg and clearing his throat over and over which is the sign he is about to issue a pronouncement.

Since you two cannot comport yourselfs as soldiers, is how he says to them, perhaps you would prefer to settle it in the ring.

This comes as no surprise, knowing myself that the captain has been a steadfast voice to make prizefighting legal in our fair state, staging many of what are loosely termed exhibitions of the manly art in order to prepare our citizens for that happy day and give the sporting men among them practice in the art of the wager, from which he extracts a generous percentage. Plus he already prescribes the same remedy for a couple goldbricks from B Company who were carrying a grudge, on which occasion I am set to make a bundle only the bout is called when one of the stiffs begins to pour blood out of his beezer and the mental defectives in his corner cannot stop it. I myself have only seen so much of the red stuff one time when Private Gustavson and I interrupt a pair of googoo sports carving each other up on the Escolta.

If you do not feature a contest of skill and science, the captain adds, there is always lodgings available back in the Bilibid Prison.

The Dagoes who rule the roost here before our arrival built this accommodation, with little thought to the finer amenities, such as air circulation or plumbing. Atkins is the first to speak up.

I will fight this heathen bastard, is how he puts it, any time and any place.

This promotes a hearty cheer from both the Colorados and the Minnesotas, as we are retired from the googoo-hunting business now and there is not much to occupy our attention until a suitable bucket can be shanghaied to haul us back home.

The captain struts over to the Indian then, gives him a once-over, and asks if he is game for the proposition.

The Chief never lifts his glimmers off Atkins. If this bird should fail to step out of the ring alive, he informs the captain, let it be on your conscience.

Sturdevant’s kisser goes from cream to crimson in a second, either because the Chief did not tack a “sir” onto this statement or at the suggestion that a captain of volunteers possesses a conscience for something to weigh upon. He turns and shows both of them the back of his neck, calling out that all will be settled in the riding ring tomorrow night.

This promotes another round of approval from the ranks, the ones in charge of holding back the two opponents forgetting their mission, but Atkins and the Chief once unleashed only shoot a last skull-splitter look at each other and take a powder in opposite directions, Atkins wearing most of our supper on his back.

Runt! the boys are immediately shouting, Runt! for although in civilian life I go by Alfie this is the moniker they hang on me. Tell us Runt, they query, what is the tilt on this contest?

Now this Atkins has got arms like hawser cables, the kind of grabbers your hard-rock miners often carry, but this is one large Indian he is set to tangle with. The redskins I know from Pueblo, mostly characters from Little Raven’s aggregation, are middling-sized and, since they are frequenting the same type of establishments I am, likely to be overly fond of belting the barleycorn. But this Chief is no Arapaho, instead issuing from some tribe of titans in the north woods, and has never once been observed, at least by my searching peepers, to sample the local
beeno
. A sober Indian is difficult to factor in.

I will hold your wagers, I tell my fellow volunteers, because I am known as a reliable hand in matters concerning cards, dice, or creatures that race on four legs, and am expected to do something. But I cannot yet assess the odds.

There is not much time for the rumors to percolate, but I hear some ripe ones in the day that precedes the bout.

The Red Man in general is known for his thick skull, it is said by one expert, and for his weak chin. The Indian has not been born who can take a pop on the kisser without his knees go to water.

On the other hand, counters a different enthusiast, this redskin has caused the demise, through his superior marksmanship, of more rebel googoos than any one-striper in all the volunteer outfits. He is a natural man-killer.

And it is also common knowledge, adds another, that the rock-knocker calling himself Atkins is only just now bounced from solitary and before that the clap shack and has picked up a nail that cannot be pried loose, being presently on death’s front door and shot full of arsenic by the croakers.

But do not forget, confides another, from the same company as the combatants and therefore privy to superior dope, that this is the Atkins who goes toe-to-toe with Joe Choynski in the Yukon and lives to tell the tale before he causes the sudden demise of some Swede in a barroom with a single punch and is forced to don the khaki and blue to make his escape.

Rumors feed action, and there is soon a throng rattling their coins and waving their paper in my kisser. I refuse all markers, pointing out that as the smallest member of the regiment I am the last person able to strongarm a welsher. Cash only, I inform them, and scribe each wager in a notebook purloined from the company clerk as the cocoanuts pile up, the action on one slugger instantly covered by the action on the other, there being a balance between the believers in the White Man’s Destiny versus the believers in if you get hit by a guy as big as a shunt locomotive, no matter what color hide he wears, you will eat the canvas. I am of the second religion.

There is not much percentage in such a role when the odds are so close, so I extract a Mexican silver peso per transaction as banker, which keeps the pikers and small-change artists at bay, and inform the multitudes that wagering will continue during the contest at odds adjusted for the circumstances. This gives me what I judge will be less than three rounds to snag, before their champion is pounded into jelly, the last of those who profess their inability to bet against a fellow Anglo-Saxon. I am not an individual prone to take risks when hunches of a sporting nature are being wagered upon a contest, but am not opposed to it when the conclusion is of the forgone variety.

In business dealings of this sort one must be firm and fearless, but I am mildly ruffled when the rock-knocker comes to me the morning of the event and wishes to lay down a bundle the size of which will choke an Army mule.

On himself.

To win.

Save your cocoanuts, I say to him, and protect your chin.

Alfie, he comes back to me, calling me thus because we are acquaintances from before the Runt moniker is applied, Alfie, he says, I need to improve my financial standing in the world. While the rest of you are feeding the fish over the side of the bucket that takes you home, I may remain back here with other ones to fry.

Now most of the boys have been faithful visitors to the knock shops and sporting houses that we of the Provost are charged to regulate, and a few have lined up permanent Margaritas for themselves, fronting the scratch for improved lodgings or the latest rags and perfumes, but the brass give us the glare about it and it is greatly discouraged to get in any deeper with these dolls. A little jiggy-jiggy is one matter, shipping a googoo in a grass skirt with a gold link on her pointer back to Mom and Dad in Prairie Junction is another. And so it grieves me to see Atkins standing before me with a wad in his mitt, hinting he will throw it away for the sake of some yellow frail looking for a meal ticket.

Private Atkins, I say, calling him this because in business it is best to remain formal even with acquaintances who know your real handle, Private Atkins, I say, if that scalp-lifter hits you a clean punch he will not only kill you but do serious harm to your friends and relations in the far off hills of the Treasure State. You can knock a hole through the side of Admiral Dewey’s big white bucket sooner than you will put a dent in that redskin.

I understand, he says to me, and hangs his head a little like he is already reading his own obituaries. I understand, which is why I am hoping you can give me odds.

Here I am forced to confess to a certain amount of guilt, being the party who steers Atkins and some of the other boys to one of the knock shops we have recently regulated, and while I am laying about slightly poleaxed by a few glasses of the high-class Spanish
beeno
they keep on hand in such establishments, Atkins picks up the nail that sends him into the clap shack and the clutches of this china doll he is currently attempting to blow all his cocoanuts on.

Odds? I say. Nobody is getting odds.

As you suggest, he replies, all puppy-eyed and resigned to his fate, I do not hold the chance of a snowball in Hell in this contest, but if some miracle should happen could you cover me at two to one?

If you were the favorite, I commiserate, you could profit by a plunge into the tank. However, unless the Indian is willing to—

Do not mention the name of that heathen savage to me again, says Atkins. I mean to whip him on the fair and square.

Guilt, like the clap, is extremely difficult to shake loose of, so I accept his entire bundle and write it into the notebook at two to one. I judge that he is tossing his bankroll to the wind anyhow, so he may as well believe the payoff is worth the risk.

On the evening of the contest my sergeant, who is of the Swedish persuasion and is monikered the Blond Bear, comes to me with a further proposition.

Runyon you sorry sack of shit, he informs me, always one to forgo nicknames and use the proper address, Captain Sturdevant from the Colorados wants you in the riding ring. Put your worthless backside in motion.

It seems that somebody has fingered me to the captain as wise to the fight game, and he enlists me to help supervise the wrapping of the mitts, each man and his second peeping the process to make sure there is no plaster in the bandages or roll of Liberty Head dimes clutched in anyone’s pointers to better bash the skull of their opponent with. It all looks jake to me and I share this opinion with the captain, who is serving as referee and both judges for the scrap.

No need to keep track of points, says he. This one lasts till one of the sluggers does not return to his feet.

A platform is built in the middle of the old indoor riding ring where in earlier times the Dago cavalry prance their nags and the brass practice their swordwork, for all the good it does them when Uncle Sammy’s boys come strolling up the beach. There is canvas underfoot and real ropes and turnbuckles the captain ships over from Denver that I can tell have seen some action by the blood dried black on them, and wood bleachers are thrown up all around for everybody in the two outfits not on duty to park their keisters. The brass wander in last and plop down on rattan sitters in the front and one of the regimental bands bangs out
Marching Through Georgia
and there is a considerable racket when the sluggers step out between the bleachers and climb up on potato crates to duck under the ropes and take their corners. The band stops then and the racket dips into the kind of mumble you only hear after fatal house fires and lynchings, as none of the assembled throng besides myself and the other characters in the dressing room has seen the Indian’s naked torso before. He does not resemble the cigar-store variety so much as something along the Greek model, chiseled in stone, Hercules or Atlas or some such personality with shoulders you could hitch a wheat thrasher to and legs like pillars of oak. They do not feature any follicles on the chest, your noble savage, which adds to the Chief’s sculptured appearance, and his neck is just as wide as his hat-holder, a phenomenon seen in large bears and squarehead sergeants. I am surrounded by volunteers wishing to hedge their bets.

That will be an American eagle per wager, I say to them, doubling the ante, and the tilt is no longer even. Just to cover the play I start at three to two for the Indian, and by the time the crowd thins I am up at five to one with only the most diehard of Anglo-Saxons still taking the miner without a hedge.

The boys begin to stomp their feet for action, quieting only when Captain Sturdevant struts to the middle of the squared circle, looking raw without his swagger stick, and raises his mitts for silence.

It goes dead quiet, only Atkins’s boxing brogans, also shipped from Denver by the captain and a size too big for the rock-knocker’s feet, shuffling nervous on the canvas while he throws little jabs and rolls his shoulders in preparation of having his block knocked off of them, molesting the silence. The Chief stands with his knuckles dragging on the floor, still as a mountain and nearly as big.