The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (37 page)

Now Flash Moran got up on his toes and began to box. He boxed neatly and fast. He piled up points. He kept the Soldier off balance and rocked him with a couple of stiff right hands.

For two and a half minutes of the ninth round, he outboxed the Soldier and piled up points. Barnaby had taken the eighth by a clear margin. The two knockdowns had seen to that.

As for himself, Moran knew he had won the first round and the seventh, while the Soldier had taken the second, third, and fourth. The fifth and sixth were even. It left the Soldier with a margin toward the decision; those knockdowns would stick in the judges’ minds.

Moran stabbed in with a left, crossed a right, and then suddenly spotted a beautiful shot for the chin.

He let it go—right down the groove!

And then something smashed against his jaw like the concussion of a six-inch shell. Again he went down, hard.

The first thing he heard was five. Someone was saying “five.” No, it was six…seven…eight…

Moran did a push-up with his hands and lunged forward like the starter in a hundred-yard dash.

The Soldier was ready. He set himself, and Flash could see the fist coming. It had to miss, had to miss, had to—miss!

He brought up hard against the Soldier’s body, tied him up, and smashed two solid rights to Barnaby’s midsection as the round ended.

He wheeled, ran to his corner, and sat down. As he sat he saw a small, wiry man sitting next to McKracken get up and slip out along the aisle.

A moment later the little man was in the Soldier’s corner.

Flash Moran sat up. He shook his head, felt the blast of the smelling salts under his nose and the coolness of the water on the back of his neck. Dan Kelly wasn’t talking. He was looking at Moran. Then he spoke.

“All right, kid? Got enough?”

Moran grinned suddenly.

“I’m just getting started! I’m going to stop this lug!”

He went out fast at the bell, feinted a left and crossed a solid right to the head. He hooked a left, and the Soldier clinched.

“To the devil with it, kid!” Barnaby said in his ear. “I’m going into the tank. Marollo will kill me if I don’t!”

Flash Moran fought bitterly, swapping punches in the clinch with the Soldier, then the referee broke them apart. Suddenly, Flash Moran knew what Barnaby had said couldn’t be true. The Soldier was too good a man. What if Barnaby had tried to double-cross him? What if—he stabbed a left to the Soldier’s mouth, smashed both hands to the body, and then went inside and clinched.

“You dive and I squeal the whole thing!” he muttered. “I won’t let you dive! I’ll talk right here, from the ring. If you go out during the round, I’ll spill it right here.”

“Marollo would kill you, too!” Barnaby snarled. They broke, sparred at long range, and Flash Moran let go with a right. Even as the punch started, he knew the Soldier was going to take it. The punch was partially blocked, and Barnaby began to wilt.

Like a streak Moran closed in and clinched, heaving him back against the ropes.

“I told you!” Moran muttered. “Fight, you yellow skunk! Real fighters don’t dive!”

Barnaby broke loose, his eyes cold. He stabbed a left to the mouth, crossed a right, and Flash went inside with both hands to the body. He staggered Barnaby with a left, and knocked him into the ropes. As they rolled along the ropes, the Soldier tried to fall again, but Flash brought him up with a left just as the bell sounded. At this moment, Moran looked over the Soldier’s shoulder right into Marollo’s eyes.

B
LACKIE
M
AROLLO WAS
looking like a very sick man. McKracken, his big, swarthy face yellow, was also sagging. Instantly, Moran knew what had happened. They had overbet and they wouldn’t be able to pay up!

The bell clanged again, and the referee broke the two fighters and they went to their corners.

The eleventh was quieter. Flash knew nothing would happen in the eleventh. Marollo had frightened the Soldier into trying to dive in the tenth, but the Soldier’s money was bet on a dive in the twelfth round.

Flash Moran walked in and feinted to the head, then uppercut hard with a left to the liver. He stepped in a bit more and brought up his right under the Soldier’s heart. He landed two more punches to the body in a clinch and they broke. Moran was body punching now. He slipped a left and rapped a right over Barnaby’s heart, then hooked a left. He landed twice more to the body as the bell rang.

The twelfth opened fast. Both men walked to the center of the ring and Moran got in the first punch, a left that started the blood from the Soldier’s mouth. As he slipped a left, they began to slug, fighting hard. They battered each other from corner to corner of the ring for two solid minutes. There was no letup. This was hard, bitter, slam-bang fighting. Suddenly, Barnaby caught a high right and started to fall.

Moran rushed him into the ropes before he could hit the canvas and smashed a right to the head. Angry, Barnaby jerked his head away from a second punch, and slugged Flash Moran in the wind. Moran’s mouth fell open as he gasped for breath. As he staggered back, all the fighter in Barnaby came back with a rush. This was victory! He could win!

Seeing a big title fight just ahead of him, Barnaby came in slugging!

Half covered, Moran reeled under the storm of blows and went down. He staggered up at ten, and went down again. Just before the bell rang, he straightened up. They clinched.

“You played possum, blast you!” Barnaby snarled.

“Sure! I always liked a fight!” Moran said and let go with a left that narrowly missed the Soldier and slid by him, almost landing on the face of the referee. The referee jerked back like he’d been shot at, and glared at Moran.

“Naughty, naughty!” Barnaby said with a grin.

The bell rang.

When they came out for the thirteenth, they came out fast.

“All right!” Barnaby snapped. “You wanted a fight. Well you’re gonna get one!”

He ducked a left and slammed a wicked right to Moran’s middle. Moran gasped with pain and Barnaby crowded on in, driving Moran back into the ropes with a flurry of wicked punches. A steaming right caught Flash on the chin, but he set himself and smashed a right to the body, a left to the head, and a right to the body.

Slugging like a couple of madmen, they circled the ring. Flash hung the Soldier on the ropes and smashed a left to the chin. The Soldier came off the ropes, ran into a stiff left, and went to his knees. He came up slugging and, toe-to-toe, the two men slugged it out for a full thirty seconds. Then Moran threw a left to the Soldier’s mouth and the blood started again.

Barnaby broke away from a clinch, hooked a high right to the head, and followed it up with a stiff left to the wind. They battered each other across the ring and Barnaby split Moran’s lip with a left. The Soldier moved in and knocked Moran reeling with another left. Following it up, he dropped Moran to his knees.

There was a taste of blood in Moran’s mouth and a wild buzzing in his head as he waited out the count. He could smell the rosin and the crowd and the familiar smell of sweat and the thick, sweetish taste of blood. Then he was up.

But now he had that smoky taste again and he knew he was going to win. The bell rang. Wheeling, they both trotted back to their corners and the whole arena was a bedlam of roaring sound.

T
HE FOURTEENTH ROUND WAS
three minutes of insanity, sheer madness on the part of two born fighters, wild with the lust of battle. Bloody and savage, they were each berserk with the desire to win.

Every one of the spectators was on his feet, screeching with excitement. Even the pale and staring Marollo sat as though entranced as he watched the two pugilists amid the standing figures around him.

The Soldier dropped, got up, and Moran went down. It was bloody, brutal, sickening yet splendid. All thought of money was gone. For Moran and Barnaby there was no crowd, no bets, no arena. They were just two men, fighting it out for the glory of the contest and of winning.

The fifteenth opened with the sound unabated. There was a continual roar now, as of breakers on a great reef. The two men came together and touched gloves and then, impelled by driving fury, Flash Moran waded in, slugging with both hands.

Barnaby lunged and Moran hit him with a right that shook him to his heels. The Soldier started a left and again Flash brushed it aside and brought up his own left into Barnaby’s wind.

Then the Soldier backed off and jabbed twice. After the first jab, he dropped his left before jabbing again. Louis had done that in his first fight with Schmeling. He was tiring now and falling back on habits that were unconscious yet predictable.

Flash Moran backed off and waited. Then that left flickered out. Moran took the jab and it shook him to his heels. But he saw the left drop before the second jab. In that brief instant, he threw his right and he put the works on it.

He felt the wet and sodden glove smash into Barnaby’s jaw and saw the Soldier’s knees buckling. He went in with a left and a right to the head. The Soldier hit the canvas and rolled over on his face and was counted out.

It was over! Flash Moran turned and walked to his corner. In a blur of exhaustion, he felt the referee lift his right hand, and then he slumped on the stool. They put his robe around him and he was half lifted from the stool and as he stepped down to the floor, he saw Ruth and with her was a tall, gray-haired man who was smiling.

“Great fight, son—a great fight. We’d heard Barnaby was to quit in the twelfth. Glad the rumor was wrong, it would have ruined fighting in this state.”

Flash Moran smiled.

“He wouldn’t quit, sir. Soldier Barnaby’s a great fighter.”

Moran turned his head then and saw the Soldier looking at him, a flicker of wry humor in his swollen eyes.

The older man was speaking again.

“My name is Rutgers, Moran,” he said. “I’m the district attorney, you know. This is my niece, Ruth Connor. But then I believe you’ve met.”

“That’s right,” Flash said. “And we’ll meet again, tomorrow night? Can we do that, Ruth?”

“Of course,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be at Gow’s place—waiting.”

Gloves for a Tiger

T
he radio announcer’s voice sounded clearly in the silent room, and “Deke” Hayes scowled as he listened.

“Boyoboy, what a crowd! Almost fifty thousand, folks! Think of that! It’s the biggest crowd on record, and it should be a great battle.

“This is the acid test for the ‘Tiger Man,’ the jungle killer who blasted his way up from nowhere to become the leading contender for the world’s heavyweight boxing championship in only six months!

“Tonight he faces Battling Bronski, the Scranton Coal Miner. You all know Bronski. He went nine rounds with the champ in a terrific battle, and he is the only white fighter among the top contenders who has dared to meet the great Tom Noble.

“It’ll be a grand battle either way it goes, and Bronski will be in there fighting until the last bell. But the Tiger has twenty-six straight knockouts, he’s dynamite in both hands, with a chin like a chunk of granite! Here he comes now, folks! The Tiger Man!”

Deke Hayes, champion of the world, leaned back in the chair in his hotel room and glanced over at his manager. “Toronto Tom” McKeown was one of the shrewdest fight managers in the country. Now he sat frowning at the radio and his eyes were hard.

“Don’t take it so hard, Tom,” Deke laughed. “Think of the gate he’ll draw. It’s all ballyhoo, and one of the best jobs ever done. I didn’t think old Ryan had it in him. I believe you’re actually worried yourself!”

“You ain’t never seen this mug go,” McKeown insisted. “Well, I have! I’m telling you, Deke, he’s the damnedest fighter you ever saw. Talk about killer instinct!

“There ain’t a man who ever saw him fight who would be surprised if he jumped onto some guy and started tearing with his teeth. This Tiger Man stuff may sound like ballyhoo but he’s good, I tell you!”

“As good as me?” Deke Hayes put in slyly.

“No, I guess not,” his manager admitted judiciously. “They rate you one of the best heavyweights the game ever saw, Deke. But we know, a damned sight better than the sportswriters, that you’ve really never had a battle yet, not with a fighter who was your equal.

“That Bronski thing looked good because you let it. But don’t kid yourself, this guy isn’t any sap. He’s different. Sometimes I doubt if this guy’s even human.”

Toronto Tom McKeown tried to speak casually. “I talked to Joe Howard, Deke, Joe was his sparrin’ partner for this brawl. That Tiger guy never says anything to anybody! He just eats and sleeps, and he walks around at night a lot, just…well, just like a cat! When he ain’t workin’ out, he stays by himself, and nobody ever gets near him.”

“Say, what the devil’s the matter with you? Got the willies? You’re not buyin’ this hype?” Deke Hayes demanded.

But the voice from the radio interrupted just then, and they fell silent, listening.

“They’re in the center of the ring now, folks, getting their instructions,” the excited announcer said. “The Tiger Man in his tiger-skin robe, and Bronski in the old red sweater he always wears. The Tiger is younger, but Bronski has the experience, and—man, this is going to be a battle!” the announcer exclaimed.

The bell clanged. “There they go, folks! Bronski jabs a left and the Tiger slips it! Bronski jabs again, and again, and again! The Tiger isn’t doing anything now, just circling around. Bronski jabs again, crosses a right to the jaw.

“He’s getting confident now, folks, and—there, he’s stepping in with a volley of punches! Left, right, left, right—but the Tiger is standing his ground, just slipping them!

“Wow!” the radio voice hit the ceiling.

“Bronski’s down! The Battler led a left, and quick as a flash the Tiger dropped into a crouch, snapped a terrific, jolting right to the heart, and hooked a bone-crushing left to the jaw! Bronski went down like he was shot, and hasn’t even wiggled!

“There’s the count, folks!—eight—nine—ten! He’s out, and the Tiger wins again! Boyoboy, a first-round knockout!

“Wait a minute, folks, maybe I can get the Tiger to say something for you! He never talks, but we might be lucky this time. Here, say something to the radio fans, Tiger!” the announcer begged.

“He won’t do it,” McKeown said confidently. “He never talks to nobody!”

Suddenly, a cold, harsh voice spoke from the radio, a voice bitter and incisive, but then dropping almost to a growl at the end.

“I’m ready now. I want to fight the champion. Come on, Deke Hayes! I’ll kill you!”

In a cold sweat Hayes snapped erect, face deathly pale. His mouth hung slack; his eyes were ghastly, staring.

“My God…that voice!” he mumbled, really scared for the first time in his life.

McKeown stared strangely at Hayes, his own face white. “Who’s punchy now? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

Hayes sagged back in his chair, his eyes narrowed. “No. I ain’t seen one. I heard one!” he declared enigmatically.

R
UBY
R
YAN
, veteran trainer and handler of fighters, looked across the hotel room. The Tiger was sitting silent, as always, staring out the window.

For six months Ryan had been with the Tiger, day in and day out, and yet he knew almost nothing about him. Sometimes he wondered, as others did, if the Tiger was quite human. Definitely he was an odd duck, and Ruby Ryan, so-called because of his flaming hair, had known them all.

Jeffries, Fitzsimmons, Ketchell, Dempsey. But he had seen nothing to compare with the animal-like ferocity of the Tiger. Through all the months that had passed since Ryan received that strange wire from Calcutta, India, he had wondered about this man….

Who sent the cablegram Ruby Ryan didn’t know. Who was the Tiger? Where had he come from? Where had he learned his skill? He didn’t know that, either. He only knew that one night some six months before, he had been loafing in Doc Hanley’s place with some of the boys, when a messenger had hurried to him with a cablegram. It had been short, to the point—and unsigned.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO HANDLE NEXT HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION STOP READ CALCUTTA AND BOMBAY NEWS REPORTS FOR VERIFICATION STOP EXPENSES GUARANTEED STOP COME AT ONCE.

Ryan had hurried out and bought the papers. The notes were strange, yet they fascinated the fight manager with their possibilities. Ever alert for promising material, this had been almost too good to be true.

The news reports told of a strange heavyweight—a white man with skin burnt to a deep bronze. A slim, broad-shouldered giant, with a robe of tiger-skins and the scars of many claws upon his body, who fought with the cold fury of a jungle beast.

The
China Clipper
carried Ruby Ryan to the Far East. He found his man in Bombay, India. In Calcutta, the Tiger Man had knocked out Kid Balotti in the first round, and in Bombay, Guardsman Dirk had lasted until the third by getting on his bicycle.

Balotti was a former top-notcher, now on the downgrade, but still a capable workman with his fists. He had been unconscious four hours after the knockout administered by the Tiger.

In Bombay, the Tiger, a Hercules done in bronze, had floored Guardsman Dirk in the first round, and it had required all the latter’s skill to last through the second heat and one minute of the third. Then, he, too, had gone down to crushing defeat.

Ruby Ryan found the Tiger sitting in a darkened hotel room, waiting. The big man wore faded khakis and around his neck was the necklace of tiger claws Ryan had heard of.

The Tiger stood up. He was well over six feet tall and well muscled but he had a startling leanness and coiled intensity to his body. Looking at him, Ryan thought of Tarzan come to life. There
was
something catlike about the man, something jungle-bred. One felt the terrific strength that was in him, and knew instantly why he was billed as “The Tiger.”

“We go to Capetown, South Africa. We fight Danny Kilgart there,” the man said bluntly. “In Johannesburg, we fight somebody—anybody. If you want to come on you get forty percent of the take. I want the championship within a year. You do the talking, you sign the papers; I’ll fight.”

That was all. The man knew what he wanted and had a good idea of how to get it.

Danny Kilgart, a good, tough heavyweight with a wallop, went down in the second under the most blistering, two-fisted attack Ruby Ryan had ever seen. The next victim, the Boer Bomber, weighing two hundred and fifty pounds, lasted just forty-three seconds…that had been in Johannesburg.

T
HE
T
IGER DIDN’T SPEAK
three words to Ruby Ryan in three weeks. But Ryan knew what he was looking at—that potentially, the Tiger was a coming champion. Of course it was unlikely that he was good enough to beat Deke Hayes. Hayes was the greatest heavyweight of all time, a master boxer with a brain-jolting wallop. And Hayes trained scientifically and thoroughly for every fight; Ryan’s Tiger Man was, to push the allusion too far, an animal. Brutally strong, unbelievably aggressive, but he hadn’t been in the ring daily with the best fighters in the world…. The Tigerwasn’t just a slugger, he was better than that, but it was unlikely that he had the skill of the champ.

I
N
P
ORT
S
AID
, Egypt, accompanied by an internationally famous newspaper correspondent, Ryan and the Tiger had been set upon by bandits. The Tiger killed two of them with his bare hands and maimed another before they fled.

The news stories that followed set the world agog with amazement, and brought an offer from Berlin, Germany, to go fifteen rounds with Karl Schaumberg, the Blond Giant of Bavaria.

Schaumberg, considered by many a fit opponent for the champion himself, lasted three and a half rounds. Fearfully battered, he was carried from the arena, while the Tiger Man, mad with killing fury, paced the ring like a wild beast.

Paris, France, had seen François Chandel go down in two minutes and fifteen seconds, and in London the Tiger had duplicated Jeffries’s feat of whipping the three best heavyweights in England in one night.

Offered a fight in Madison Square Garden, the Tiger Man had refused the battle unless given three successive opponents, as in England. They agreed—and he whipped them all! One of them was unfortunate—he had lasted into the second round, and took a terrific pounding.

Then had followed a tour across the country. The best heavyweights that could be brought against the mystery fighter were carried from the ring, one after the other.

Delighted and intoxicated by the Tiger Man’s color and copy value, sportswriters filled their papers with glowing stories of his prowess, of his ferocity, and of the tiger-skin robe he wore. The story was that the skins were reputed to have been taken with his bare hands.

Ruby Ryan, after the Bronski fight, was as puzzled as ever. He had his hands on the gimmick fighter of the century, a boxer who made his own press, packed stadiums, and had launched himself into the imagination of the public like a character from the movies. The Tiger Man had created a public relations machine beyond anything Ryan had ever seen but what bothered the old trainer to no end was that he wasn’t in on the joke. His fighter played the part every hour of the day. He was good at it, so good that you’d swear the vague stories were real. Ryan, however, knew no more about his man than the average kid on the street—and sometimes thought he knew less.

Ryan drank the last of his coffee and turned to the man seated in the window.

“Well, Tiger, we’ve come a long way. If we get the breaks, the next fight will be for the title. It’s a big if, though; Hayes is good, and he knows it. But McKeown won’t let him fight you yet, if he can help it. I think we’ve got McKeown scared. I know that guy!”

“He’ll fight. When he does I’ll beat him so badly he’ll never come back to the game…maybe I’ll kill him.”

The Tiger got up then, squeezed Ryan’s shoulder with a powerful hand, and walked into the bedroom.

Ruby Ryan stared after him. His red face was puzzled and his eyes narrowed as he shook his head in wonderment. Finally, he got up and called Beck, his valet-handyman, to clear the table.

“I got an idea,” Ryan told himself, “that that Tiger is a damned good egg underneath. I wonder what he’s got it in for the champ for?”

Ruby Ryan shook himself with the thought. “Holy mackerel! I’d hate to be the champ when my Tiger comes out of his corner!”

Beck came in and handed the manager a telegram. Ryan ripped it open, glanced at it briefly, and swore. He stepped into the Tiger’s room and handed him the message.

COMMISSION RULES TIGER MUST FIGHT TOM NOBLE STOP WINNER TO MEET CHAMPION.

“Now
that’s
some of Tom McKeown’s work!” Ruby exclaimed, eyes narrow. “They’ve ducked that guy for five years and now they shove him off on us!”

“Okay,” the Tiger said harshly. “We’ll fight him. If Hayes is afraid of him, I want him! I want him right away!”

Ruby Ryan started to speak, then shrugged. Tiger walked out, and in a few minutes the pounding of the fast bag could be heard from the hotel gym.

T
HE CANVAS GLARED
under the white light overhead. In his corner, Tom Noble rubbed his feet in the resin. Under the lights, his black body glistened like polished ebony. This was his night, he was certain.

For years the best heavyweights had dodged him. They had drawn the “color line” to keep from fighting big, courageous Tom Noble. His record was an unbroken string of victories and yet even the fearless Deke Hayes had never met him.

A fast, clever boxer, Noble was a pile-driving puncher with either hand, and most dangerous when hurt. He weighed two hundred and forty pounds; forty pounds heavier than the slim, hard-bodied Tiger.

The Tiger Man crawled through the ropes, throwing his black and orange robe over the top rope, and crouched in his corner like an animal, shifting uneasily, as if restless for the kill.

If he won tonight, he would meet the champion. Meet Deke Hayes! Even the thought made his muscles tense with eagerness. It had been a long time. A lifetime…in some ways it had almost been a lifetime.