The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (23 page)

She smiled nervously and asked, “What can I get for you?”

Tandy jerked a thumb at Gus. “Ask him,” he said, and stared down at his knuckles. He was confused for there had been something in the girl’s eyes that touched him. It made him feel scared and he hated it.

She looked from Gus to Briggs. “Who is this guy?” she asked. “Can’t he order for himself? What do you do, poke it to him with a stick?”

Tandy looked up, his eyes full of sullen anger. That closed-in feeling was back. Gus dropped a hand on his arm.

“She’s ribbin’ you, kid. Forget it.” He glanced down at the menu and then looked up. “A steak for him, an’ make it rare. And just coffee for us.”

When she turned away, Tandy looked around and said, low-voiced, “Gus, that’ll take all the dough we’ve got! You guys eat, too. I don’t need that steak.”

“You fight tonight, not us,” Gus replied, grinning. “All we ask is that you get in there and throw them.”

The waitress came back with their coffee. She had caught the word “fight.”

“You’re fighting tonight?” she asked Tandy.

He did not look up. “Yeah,” he said.

“You’d not be bad-looking,” she said, “if you’d shave.” She waited for a response, then glanced over at Gus, smiling. “Is he always like this?”

“He’s a good kid,” Gus said.

She went off to take another order but was back in a moment and, glancing around cautiously, slid a baked potato onto his plate. “Here’s one on the house. Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

He didn’t know how to reply so he mumbled thanks and started to eat. She stood there watching him, the tag on her uniform said “Dorinda.”

“Come back and tell me about it.” She looked at Tandy. “If you’re able,” she added.

“I’ll be able!” he retorted. Their eyes met, and he felt something stir down deep within him. She was young, not over nineteen, and had brown hair and blue eyes. He looked at her again. “I’ll come,” he said, and flushed.

When they finished dinner, they walked around the block a couple of times to start warming up, then headed for the dressing room.

A
N HOUR
and a half later Gus Coe taped up Tandy’s hands. He looked at the young man carefully.

“Listen, kid, you watch yourself in there. This guy Al Joiner can box and he can punch. I would’ve got you something easier for your first fight, but they wanted somebody for this Joiner. He’s a big favorite in town, very popular with the Norskies.”

He cleared his throat and continued.

“We’re broke, see? We get fifteen bucks more out of this fight; that’s all. It was just twenty-five for our end, and we got ten of it in advance. If we win, we’ll get another fight. That means we’ll be a few bucks ahead of the game.

“I ain’t goin’ to kid you; you ain’t ready. But you can punch, and you might win.

“You’re hungry, kid. You’re hungry for things that money can buy, an’ you’re mad.” His eyes bored into Tandy’s. “Maybe you’ve been mad all your life. Well, tonight you can fight back. Dempsey, Ketchell, lots of hungry boys did it in there. You can, too!”

Tandy looked down at Gus’s big, gnarled hands. He knew the kindly face of the man who spoke to him, knew the worn shirt collar and the frayed cuffs. Gus had laundered their clothes these last days, using a borrowed iron for pressing.

Suddenly he felt very sorry for this big man who stood over him, and he felt something stirring within him that he had never known before. It struck him suddenly that he had a friend. Two of them.

“Sure,” he said. “Okay, Gus.”

I
N THE CENTER
of the ring, he did not look at Joiner. He saw only a pair of slim white legs and blue boxing trunks. He trotted back to his corner, and looked down at his feet in their borrowed canvas shoes.

Then the bell rang and he turned, glaring across the ring from under his heavy brows and moving out, swift and ready.

Al Joiner was taller than he was with wide, powerful shoulders. His eyes were sharp and ready, his lips clenched over the mouthpiece. They moved toward each other, Joiner on his toes, Tandy shuffling, almost flat-footed.

Al’s left was a darting snake. It landed, sharp and hard, on his brow. Tandy moved in and Al moved around him, the left darting. A dozen times the left landed, but Tandy lunged close, swinging a looping, roundhouse right.

The punch was too wide and too high, but Joiner was careless. It caught him on the side of the head like a falling sledge and his feet flew up and he hit the canvas, an expression of dazed astonishment on his face. At seven he was on his feet and moving more carefully.

He faded away from Tandy’s wild, reckless punches. Faded away, jabbing. The bell sounded with Tandy still coming in, a welt over his left eye and a blue mouse under the right.

“Watch your chance an’ use that left you used on me,” Gus suggested. “That’ll slow this guy down. He’s even faster than I thought.”

The bell sounded and Tandy walked out to meet a Joiner who was now boxing beautifully, and no matter where Tandy turned, Joiner’s left met him. His lips were cut and bleeding, punches thudded on his jaw. He lost the second round by an enormous margin.

The third opened the same way, but now Joiner began to force the fighting. He mixed the lefts with hard right crosses, and Tandy, his eyes blurred with blood, moved in, his hands cocked and ready. Al boxed carefully, aware of those dynamite-laden fists.

The fourth started fast. Tandy went out, saw the left move and threw his right, and the next thing he knew he was flat on his back with a roaring in his head and the referee was saying “Six!”

T
ANDY CAME OFF
the canvas with a lunge of startled fury. A growl exploded from him as he swept into the other fighter, smashing past that left hand and driving him to the ropes. His right swung for Joiner’s head and Al ducked, and Tandy lifted a short, wicked left to the liver and stood Joiner on his tiptoes.

Tandy stabbed a left at Joiner’s face, then swung a powerful right. Joiner tried to duck and took the punch full on the ear. His knees sagged and he pitched forward on his face.

The referee made the count, then turned and lifted Tandy’s hand. The fighter on the floor hadn’t moved.

In the dressing room, Tandy stared bleakly at his battered face. “For this I get twenty-five bucks!” he said, grinning with swollen lips.

“Don’t worry, kid!” Gus grinned back at him. “When you hit me with your left that day in the woods, I knew you had it. It showed you could think on your feet. You’ll do!”

When they came out of the dressing room suddenly Gus stopped and his hand on Tandy’s arm tightened. Two men were standing there, a small man with a tight white face and a big cigar, and a big younger man.

“Hello, Gus,” the man with the cigar said, contempt in his voice. “I see you’ve got yourself another punk!”

Tandy’s left snaked out and smashed the cigar into the small man’s teeth, knocking him sprawling into the wall, and then he whirled on the big man, a brawny blond whose eyes were blazing with astonishment.

“Now, you!” he snarled. His right whipped over like an arrow, but the big man stepped back swiftly and the right missed. Then, he started to step in, but Briggs stopped him.

“Back up, Stan!” he said coldly. “Back up unless you want lead for your supper! Lift that scum off the floor. It’s lucky the kid didn’t kill him!”

Stan Reiser stooped and lifted his manager from the floor. The black cigar was mashed into the blood of his split lips and his face was white and shocked, but his eyes blazed with murderous fury.

“I’ll get you for this, Coe!” His voice was low and vicious. “You an’ that S.O.—” His voice broke off sharply as Tandy Moore stepped toward him.

Moore glanced at Reiser. “Shut him up, Stan. I don’t like guys who call me names!”

Reiser looked curiously at Tandy. “I know you from somewhere,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ll remember…”

Tandy’s face was stiff and cold. “Go ahead!” he said quietly. “It will be a bad day for both of us when you do!”

O
UTSIDE ON THE STREET
, Gus shook his head. “What the hell is up with you?” he asked. “You shouldn’t have done it, but nothin’ ever did me so much good as watchin’ you hit that snake. I don’t believe anybody ever had nerve enough to sock him before, he’s been king of the roost so long.” Both Gus and Briggs looked at him quizzically.

“It’s my business,” Tandy growled and would say no more.

He said nothing but he was thinking. Now they had met again, and he did not know if he was afraid or not. Yet he knew that deep within him, there was still that memory and the hatred he had stifled so long, it was a feeling that demanded he face Reiser, to smash him, to break him.

“How would I do with Reiser?” he asked suddenly.

Gus looked astonished. “Kid, you sure don’t know the fight game or you’d never ask a question like that. Stan is a contender for the heavyweight title.”

Tandy nodded slowly. “I guess I’ve got plenty to learn,” he said.

Gus nodded. “When you know that, kid, you’ve already learned the toughest part.”

III

Three weeks later, after conniving and borrowing and scraping by on little food, Tandy Moore was ready for his second fight. This one was with a rough slugger known as Benny Baker.

The day of the fight, Tandy walked toward the hotel. There would be no steak today, for they simply hadn’t money enough. Yet he had been thinking of Dorinda, and wondering where she was and what she was doing.

She was coming out of the restaurant door as he walked by. Her eyes brightened quickly.

“Why, hello!” she greeted him. “I wondered what had happened to you. Why don’t you ever come in and see me?”

He shoved his hands in the pockets of the shabby trousers. “Looking like this? Anyway, I can’t afford to eat in there. I don’t make enough money. In fact”—he grinned, his face flushing—“I haven’t any money at all!”

She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t let it bother you, Tandy. You’ll do all right.” She looked away, then back at him. “You’re fighting again, aren’t you?”

“Tonight. It’s a preliminary.” His eyes took in the softness of her cheek, the lights in her dark brown hair. “Come and see it. Would you?”

“I’m going to be there. I’ll be sure to be there early to see your fight.”

He looked at her suddenly. “Where are you going now? Let’s take a walk.”

Dorinda hesitated only an instant. “All right.”

They walked along, neither of them saying much, until they stopped at a rail and looked down the sloping streets to the confusion of canneries and lumber wharves along the riverfront. Off to the northwest the sun slanted through the clouds and threw a silver light on the river, silhouetting a steam schooner inbound from the rough water out where the Columbia met the Pacific.

“You worked here long?” he asked suddenly.

“No, only about two months. I was headed to Portland but I couldn’t find a job. I came from Arizona. My father has a ranch out there, but I thought I’d like to try singing. So I was going to go to school at night, and study voice in my spare time.”

“That’s funny, you being from Arizona,” he said. “I just came from there!”

“You did?” She laughed. “One place is all sun, the other all rain.”

“Well, I grew up here. In St. John’s, over near Portland. My dad worked at a box-shuck factory there. You know, fruit boxes, plywood an’ all.”

“Is he still there”—she looked into his eyes—“in Portland?”

“No.” Tandy had to look away. “Not anymore.”

Dorinda suddenly glanced at her watch and gave a startled cry.

“Oh, we’ve got to go! I’m supposed to be back at work!”

They made their way along the street and down the hill. He left her at the door of the restaurant.

“I probably won’t get a chance to see you after the fight,” she said. “I’ve been invited to a party at the hotel.”

Quick jealousy touched him. “Who’s giving?” he demanded.

“The fellow who is taking me, Stan Reiser.”

He stared at her, shocked and still. “Oh…”

He blinked, then turned swiftly and walked away, trembling inside. Everywhere he turned it was Stan Reiser. He heard her call after him, heard her take a few running steps toward him, but he did not stop or turn his head.

H
E WAS BURNING
with that old deep fury in the ring that night. Gus looked at him curiously as he stood in the corner rubbing his feet in the resin. In a ringside seat were Dorinda and Reiser, but Gus had not seen them yet. Briggs had. Briggs never missed anything.

“All right, kid,” Gus said quietly, “you know more this time, and this guy ain’t smart. But he can punch, so don’t take any you can miss.”

The bell sounded and Tandy Moore whirled like a cat. Benny Baker was fifteen pounds heavier and a blocky man, noted as a slugger. Tandy walked out fast and Benny sprang at him, throwing both hands.

Almost of its own volition, Tandy’s left sprang from his shoulder. It was a jab, and a short one, but it smashed Benny Baker on the nose and stopped him in his tracks. Tandy jabbed again, then feinted, and when Baker lunged he drilled a short right to the slugger’s chin.

Benny Baker hit the canvas on the seat of his pants, his eyes dazed. He floundered around and got up at six, turning to meet Tandy. Baker looked white around the mouth, and he tried to clinch, but Tandy stepped back and whipped up a powerful right uppercut and then swung a looping left to the jaw.

Baker hit the canvas on his shoulder blades. At the count of ten, he had not even wiggled a toe.

Tandy Moore turned then and avoiding Dorinda’s eyes looked squarely at Reiser. It was only a look that held an instant, but Stan’s face went dark and he started half to his feet, then slumped down.

“Go back to Albina Street, you weasel,” Tandy said. “I’ll be coming for you!” Then he slipped through the ropes and walked away.

Gus Coe watched the interchange. The big ex-fighter took his cigar from his mouth and looked at Stan thoughtfully. There was something between those two. But what?

W
ITH THEIR WINNINGS
as a stake they took to the road. The following week, at the armory in Klamath Falls, Tandy Moore stopped Joe Burns in one round, and thereafter in successive weeks at Baker City and Eugene he took Glen Hayes in two, Rolph Williams in one, Pedro Sarmineto in five, and Chuck Goslin in three.