the Mountain Valley War (1978) (21 page)

"Mine, too!" another miner said. "I'd rather you was a miner, but my money's on you even if you are nursin' cows!"

Kilkenny smiled at him. "Friend, I've swung a single or double jack in almost as many mines as you have, and dipped a pan in half the creeks in the country."

Bartlett interposed. "Look, this fight is for a thousand dollars, winner-take-all, the money put up by Mr. Hale, here. But if you'd like to make a side bet ..."

Kilkenny reached into his shirt pocket and took out a fat wad of bills. "I do want to bet," he said, "and I understand that Mr. Hale is giving odds of four to one. I have five thousand dollars here."

"That's more than I can cover," Bartlett said.

"It was my impression"--Kilkenny was purposely speaking a little louder--"that Hale was offering four-to-one odds and covering all bets."

Hale was angered and embarrassed. He was not a gambling man and had no intention of betting on the fight, but he had been trapped into one bet and now he was being led into another; to back out now would look like welshing, and the story would go all over the country.

Moreover, if he did bet and Kilkenny won, then Hale would scarcely dare order him killed, because all would believe it was revenge for his losses. Hale was no fool and was quick to see he had been trapped; nor at the moment could he see any clear way out of it except, of course, that Turner would win.

The thought brought relief. Of course Turner would win! And he would win, and this man called Trent would lose, and if he made more trouble, it would seem that he was doing so purely out of malice.

"I'm calling you, Hale. Five thousand dollars at your own odds, four to one. Put up or shut up."

Hale still hesitated, and all in the room were listening. Coldly furious, he started to speak, but Kilkenny spoke first.

"Backing down, Hale? Or don't you believe Turner can whip me? Have you decided the man who whipped you on your own ground can whip Turner, too?"

"No!" Hale spoke angrily. "I'm covering your bet, and no fence-crawling nester can talk to me that way! Win or lose, when the fight is over, you get out! Out! Do you hear me?"

A miner booed, and then the room did. Cub turned on them, his face white and angry. Seeing his face, Kilkenny had the sudden feeling that Cub Hale was insane. It was only a fleeting impression, but it left him cold and wary. He must be careful. Cub's reactions might not be those of a normal man.

Partly it was that King Bill had been top dog ever since Cub could remember. He had carried himself like a king, had owned or possessed vast acreage, and everyone spoke to him with respect. Cub had grown up with a sense of his father's unlimited power. His father's, and hence his own, as his father's surrogate.

Now that power had been challenged by men whom Cub saw as nothing more than the dirt beneath his feet.

When they were outside in the street, Parson Hatfield commented, "You made King Bill look mighty bad in there. You made some friends, too."

"We made friends. That's what's important. We've got to make more friends, Parson. Don't ever forget that the opinion of those people out there is what matters. People will tolerate such a man as Hale only so long, and if we get enough friends, we have a fighting chance.

"Hale can win only so long as he can make what he's doing seem right. He's painted our picture as rustlers and interlopers, people crowding on his land, although he never had claimed it and never explains how it came to be his.

"If it stopped right here and Hale had me killed or took my land there would be a lot of questions asked, and Hale would have to come up with answers. We've got to make friends in the areas around Cedar, places Hale can't touch. They'll remember what I said today.

"We've got something going for us. We're a few poor people bucking a powerful and a wealthy man. In this fight I am the underdog. I'm a cowhand and miner fighting a trained prizefighter with my fists, and a good part of that crowd is going to be with me. Some of them will be Hale's own people.

"Whenever a man becomes so arrogant, even many of those who work for him and take his money will dislike him. They dare say nothing, but I'd bet a little money that some of his own people will be wanting me to win."

O'Hara came up beside him. "We found a room where you can lie down an' rest up a bit," he said, "and you'd best do it That fight may last for hours.

"Back in 1856 in Australia James Kelly and Jack Smith fought for six hours and fifteen minutes."1

The room wasn't much, but the bed was a good one. O'Hara drew the blinds and left the room, and Kilkenny pulled off his boots, hung his gun belts over the back of a chair, and stretched out. He knew he could not sleep, but he did.

1In 1893 Andy Bowen and Jack Burke fought 110 rounds, in seven hours and nineteen minutes in New Orleans. It was called a draw when neither man could continue. But this was after the conversation above.

Chapter
17

It was midafternoon when Lance Kilkenny walked down to the ring. The balconies of the Crystal Palace and the Mecca were crowded, as were the rooftops and the top of the corral fence. The intervening space had been filled with chairs right to the ringside. The miners from Silver City were there in full strength, and others had come down by stage from Florence and some neighboring mining towns.

The bunting-decorated booth near the ring was empty and two men guarded it to keep interlopers out.

Kilkenny climbed into the ring and stripped to the waist. He had no trunks or tights so was wearing a pair of buckskin breeches and moccasins that fitted snugly. On hand he had a pair of skintight gloves ready to put on as soon as they could be examined by the opposing seconds to ascertain that they were not weighted or doctored in any way.

O'Hara draped an Indian blanket over Kilkenny's shoulders, and he sat down on the stool.

A roar from the gathered crowd told him that Tombull Turner was coming. Turner climbed through the ropes, never wasting a glance on Kilkenny. This was his business, and he was about to go about it. Who or what his opponent was made no difference. His job was to go out and get him with the least trouble possible.

"Lance?" It was Price Dixon. "I've had some experience as a handler, if you will trust a gambling man."

"We're all gamblers, more or less. I'd appreciate it, Price. O'Hara here knows a little, but he will be the first to tell you he's had no experience."

Kilkenny stood up to stretch his legs and look carefully around. Parson Hatfield and Runyon sat right behind his corner. Jesse and Saul Hatfield were, rifles in hand, one on the roof of the Palace, one the Mecca. Quince Hatfield sat behind Turner's corner.

Suddenly the crowd parted and King Bill Hale came striding to his box closely followed by Cub Hale with Wallace and Halloran. Behind them were Dunn and Ravitz.

Almost at the same time Nita Riordan came from the Palace accompanied by Jaime Brigo, and they joined Hale in his booth Brigo taking up a position behind it near the Gold Dust Twins.

John Bartlett walked across the ring to Kilkenny. "Look," he said, "we haven't been able to find a referee, and they've asked me. Now, I am associated with Turner, but I--"

"You've the reputation of being an honest man," Kilkenny said, "an honest man in a game where there have been too few. So why not?"

"Good! Come to the center of the ring, then."

Turner was thirty pounds heavier, taller, longer of arm. His arms and shoulders were heavy with muscle, almost too heavy for the kind of speed he would need, Kilkenny thought.

"London prize-ring rules," Bartlett said. "When a man goes down, that's the end of the round, whether he's knocked down, thrown down, or falls down. No hitting below the belt, no eye-gouging."

Tombull was big. And he was obviously in the best shape a man could be. His deltoid development was massive, his stomach was flat, his legs were columns of muscle.

Kilkenny was lean and dark. He had the strength of years of hard work with ax or rope, wrestling steers, riding wild broncs, felling timber, and using a crosscut saw. Actually he weighed two hundred pounds but was built so compactly that people regularly estimated his weight at twenty pounds less.

"All right," Bartlett said, "go to your corners, then come to scratch and go to fighting. Any man who fails to toe the scratch at the beginning of a round loses."

They turned away, and then Kilkenny stopped. "One thing, Bartlett, on your qualifications as a referee."

Bartlett stopped, surprised. Turner stopped, too, turning half-around and frowning.

"What's that?" Bartlett said sharply.

Kilkenny's expression was innocent. "Can you count up to ten, sir? In a loud enough tone so that Turner will hear it, even though half-conscious? I want Him to have every chance."

Bartlett smiled, glancing at Turner. "Don't worry about me. I always count loud!"

Turner was furious. He had turned toward his corner, but Kilkenny toed the scratch. "Come on, Turner, let's not keep them waiting!"

Turner wheeled and started back, and the timekeeper hurriedly shouted "Time!" as Turner threw his first punch. He was angry at this never-heard-of upstart and threw the punch too soon, and Kilkenny beat him to the punch with a jab to the mouth.

The speed and force of the punch startled the bigger man, and he stopped dead in his tracks just in time to catch a looping right to the ear. Turner crowded and grabbed Kilkenny with the intent of throwing him to the floor, but Kilkenny hooked hard to the head and Turner let him go, smashing away with both hands. For a moment the two men stood toe to toe and swapped punches, but Kilkenny broke off. Against a larger, stronger man, that was nonsense. If he won, or even stayed in, he must do so through skill, and nothing else.

Turner let go with a left that caught Kilkenny in the chest, knocking him into the ropes. Turner came after him, and Kilkenny got in close and landed twice to the body. If he won this fight, it would be just that way, and he knew it.

Turner came in, feinted a left, and caught Kilkenny with a right. Groggy and hurt, Kilkenny fell into the ropes, and Turner was on him at once, punching with both hands. Clinching, Lance hung on tight, then saw his chance and back-heeled Turner, flipping him to the floor, ending the round.

"He hits hard," he said grimly.

"Box him," Price said. "Don't try to mix it up with him." He sponged off Kilkenny's face. "Take your time out there, now. There's no hurry."

He was still dazed when they came to scratch for the second round, but as Turner came in, Lance struck quickly with a left that landed on the side of the neck. Turner took it corning in, clubbed Kilkenny with a right and left, pushed him off, and threw a hard right that Kilkenny slipped inside of, landing a right to the body.

Turner clubbed the right to the head again, and Kilkenny dug a left into the midsection and then a right to the heart. Turner caught him, spun him and hit him, then grabbed him suddenly and slammed him to the canvas to end the second round.

Both men came to scratch quickly for the third round, and Turner landed a left and a right that shook Kilkenny to his heels. The bigger man could really hit, and he was showing it. In a clinch, out of the corners of his eyes, Kilkenny located the two men with Hale. They were seated side by side with Hale in the front row, not more than six feet from the ropes.

Turner was rough and strong. He tried to twist Kilkenny's arm in a clinch, and Kilkenny got a forearm under his chin and thrust his head up and back, then hit him with a glancing left. Turner bulled him to the ropes, punching with both hands.

Tombull moved in, landing a left to the head, then a right to the body. Kilkenny circled away, stabbing with his left. Turner crowded him to the ropes, and when Kilkenny tried to sidestep out of the corner, nailed him with a right that stopped Kilkenny half-turned. Instantly Turner was on him, punching hard with both hands. One fist caught Kilkenny over the eye, another crashed into the pit of his stomach. He landed two feeble punches to Turner's body, but the bigger man clubbed him on the kidneys with his right fist.

Kilkenny slipped away, and, fists poised, Turner crowded in.

He threw a punch to the head, and Kilkenny ducked the right but caught a chopping blow with the left that started blood flowing from a cut over the eye.

Turner closed in, and feinting, caught Kilkenny with a right and floored him.

Dixon worked over the eye rapidly and skillfully.

Dazed though he was, Kilkenny was amazed at Dixon's skill. "Watch the right!" Dixon said. "It's poison! Move away to his left."

Kilkenny stepped up to scratch, then sidestepped to avoid a rush and stabbed a left to the head. Turner closed in and Kilkenny went under a right and smashed both fists to the body. Then he was thrown and hit the canvas again.

He took his rest gratefully and came hesitantly to the scratch, but as Turner came up he lunged suddenly and smashed both hands to the chin. Staggered, Turner braced himself, but before he could recover, Kilkenny hit him a hard left to the mouth, then drove a hard right to the body. Turner shook off the punches and bored in, hitting with short, wicked punches. Kilkenny sidestepped, stabbed another left to the head, and sidestepped again. Angered at missing two blows, Turner stopped flatfooted and started to speak, and Kilkenny swung a right to the ribs.