The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (36 page)

Flash Moran’s eyes hardened a little. “Sure. Why?”

“Marollo’s got something on my wife.” The Soldier leaned forward. “She’s a square kid, but she slipped up once, and Blackie knows it. If I don’t do what he says, he’s going to squeal. It means my wife goes to the pen…I got two kids.”

“And what does he want?”

“Marollo says I go down before the tenth round. He says I take it on the chin. Not an easy one, as he wants it to be the McCoy.”

Flash Moran sat down suddenly. This explained a lot of things. It explained why Marollo was watching him. It explained why, when they found out who he was, the gangsters had backed out of beating him up.

“Well, why see me?” Moran asked. “What can I do?”

“One thing—don’t stop me before the tenth, even if you get a chance.”

“Not before the tenth? But I thought you said it was in the tank?”

“I talked it over with the wife. I told her I was going sooner or later anyway, that you were a good kid and would make a good champ, and that I’d sooner you had it than the others. I knew you were on the level, knew Dan was, too.

“But she said, nothing doing. She said that she’d take the rap rather than see this happen. That if I lose this fight for Blackie, he’ll force me to do other things. Eventually, I’ll have to kill him or become a crook.

“She told me to come and see you. She said that not only must I not take a dive, but there mustn’t be any chance that he’d think I took it.

“Then she asked me if I could beat you.” Barnaby looked at Flash Moran and grinned. “Well, you know how fighters are. I told her I could! Then she asked me if it was a cinch and I told her no, that the betting was wrong. It should be even money, or you a slight favorite. You’re six years younger than me, and you are coming up. I’m not. That makes a lot of difference.”

Flash Moran looked at the floor. He could see it all. This quiet, simple man, talking quietly with his wife over the breakfast table, and deciding to do the honest thing.

“Then you want me to ease up on you in case I have you on the spot?” he said slowly. “That’s a lot to ask, Soldier. You aren’t going to be easy, you know. You’re tough. Lots of times it’s easier to knock a man out in the first round than any other time in the fight. Get him before he’s warmed up.”

“That’s right. But you ain’t going to get me in the first, kid. You might tag me about eight or nine, though. That’s what I want to prevent.

“You see, the thing that makes guys like Marollo dangerous is money. They got money to buy killers. Well, I happen to know that Marollo has his shirt on this fight. He figures it’s a cinch. He knows I’m crazy about my wife. He doesn’t know that she’d do anything rather than let me do something dishonest. One bad mark against the family is enough, she says. But if we can make Marollo lose, we got a chance.”

Flash Moran nodded. “I see. Yes, you’ve got something, all right.”

“I think I can beat you, Moran. I’m honest about that. If I can, I will. I came because I’m not so dumb as to believe I can’t lose.”

“Okay.” Moran stood up. “Okay, it’s a deal. They want you down before the tenth. I won’t try to knock you out until the eleventh round. No matter how hard it is, I’ll hold you up!”

The Soldier grinned. “Right, then it’s every man for himself.” He thrust out his hand. “Anyway, Flash, no matter who wins, Blackie Marollo loses. Okay?”

“Okay!”

W
HEN
B
ARNABY WAS GONE
, Flash Moran sat down and pulled on his shoes. It might be a gag. It might be a stall to get him to lay off. It would be good, all right. They all knew he was a fast starter. They all knew his best chance would be quick.

Yet Barnaby’s story fit the situation too well. It was the only explanation for a lot of things. And, he remembered, both Marollo and McKracken had been talking the impossibility of a knockout. That would be right in line. They would do all they could to inspire confidence in the fight going the distance, and then bet that it wouldn’t go ten rounds.

He took his final workout, and then left the gym. It was late afternoon, and he walked slowly down the street. He’d never worked a fight. It wasn’t going to be easy, for all his life he had thrown his punches with purpose. Well, he thought ruefully, it would probably take him all of ten rounds to take the Soldier, anyway.

Suddenly, he remembered…the Soldier had made no such promise in return.

He turned a corner, and found himself face-to-face with Ruth Connor, walking alone.

Her eyes widened as she saw him, and she made as if to pass, but he stopped her.

“Hello,” he said. “Weren’t you going to speak?”

“Yes,” she said. “I was going to speak, but I wasn’t going to stop.”

“You don’t approve of fighters?” he asked, quizzically.

“I approve of honest ones!” she said and turned as if to go by. He put his hand on her sleeve.

“What do you mean? I’m an honest fighter, and always have been.”

She looked at him.

“I’d like to believe that,” she said sincerely, “I really would. But I’ve heard your fight tonight was fixed.”

“Fixed? How was it supposed to go? What was to happen?”

“I don’t know. I heard my uncle talking to some men in his office, and they were discussing this fight, and one of them said it was all framed up.”

“You didn’t hear anything else?” he asked.

“Yes, when I come to think of it, I did! They said you were to win by a knockout in the twelfth round.”

“In the twelfth?” he asked, incredulous. “Why, that doesn’t make sense.”

She glanced at her watch.

“I must go,” she said quickly. “It’s very late….”

“Ruth!”

“Yes?”

“Will you reserve your opinion for a few hours? A little while?”

Their eyes met, then she looked away.

“All right. I’ll wait and see.” She looked back at him again, then held out her hand. “In the meantime—good luck!”

Reilly Moran walked all the way back to the hotel and told Dan Kelly the whole story.

Kelly was puzzled.

“Gosh, kid! I can’t figure it. The setup looks to me like a double double-cross any way you look at it. Maybe the story about Barnaby’s wife is all hokum. Maybe it ain’t true. It sounds like Blackie Marollo all right. I don’t know what to advise you. I’d go out and stop him quick, only we know you’ve got blamed small chance of that.”

“Supposing the fight went the distance…all fifteen rounds?” Flash said thoughtfully. “Suppose I didn’t stop him?”

“Then neither way would pay off and the average bettor would come out on top. That’s not a bad idea, but hard, Flash, damned hard to pull off.”

T
HE PRELIMINARIES WERE
over before Flash Moran walked into the coliseum. He went to his dressing room and began bandaging his hands. It was a job he always did for himself, and a job he liked doing. He could hear the dull roar of the crowd, smell the strong smell of wintergreen and the less strong, but just as prevalent, odor of sweat-soaked leather.

Dan Kelly worked over him quietly, tying on his gloves, and Sam Goss gathered up the bucket and the bottles.

Flash Moran never had felt like this about a fight before. When he climbed through the ropes, hearing the deep-throated roar of the crowd, he knew that something was wrong. It was, he was sure, stemming from his own uncertainty. All he’d ever had to do was to get in there and fight. There had been no other thought but to win. Tonight his mind was in turmoil. Was Soldier Barnaby on the level? Or was he double-crossing him as well as Marollo?

What if he threw over his bargain and stopped the Soldier quick? That would hit the customers who were betting against a quick knockout hard. It would make money for Blackie Marollo. On the other hand, he would be betraying his promise to Barnaby.

When they came together in the center of the ring, he stared at the floor. He could see Barnaby’s feet, and the strong, brown muscular ankles and calves. Idly, he remembered what Dan Kelly had told him one day.

“Remember, kid, anytime you see two fighters meet in the center of the ring, and one of them looks at the other one, or tries to look him in the eye, bet on the other guy. The fellow who looks at his opponent is uncertain.”

They wheeled and trotted back to their corners, and then the bell rang.

H
E WENT OUT
fast and led with a left. It landed, lightly, and he stepped in and hooked. That landed solidly and he took a left himself before he tied the Soldier up. This preliminary sparring never meant anything. It was just one of those things you had to go through.

Barnaby was hard as nails, he could see that, and fast on his feet…. A blow exploded on Moran’s chin and he felt himself reel, falling back against the ropes.

The Soldier was coming in briskly, and Moran rolled away, straightened up, and then stopped Barnaby’s charge with a pistonlike left. He stepped in, took a hard punch, but slipped another and smashed a wicked right to the heart.

He was inside then and he rolled with the punch and hooked his left to the ribs, and then with his head outside the Soldier’s right he whipped his own right to Barnaby’s head.

It was fast, that first round, and both men were punching. No matter what happened later, Moran decided, he was still going to soften Barnaby up plenty.

When the bell rang for the second, Flash Moran ran out and missed a left then fell into a clinch. As they broke, he hooked twice to the Soldier’s head, but the Soldier got inside with a right. Moran smashed both hands to the body and worked around. The Soldier fought oddly, carried himself in a peculiar manner.

It was midway through the third when Flash figured it out. The Soldier was a natural southpaw who had been taught to fight right-handed. His stance was still not quite what a natural right-hander’s would be, but the training had left him a wicked two-handed puncher.

Soldier Barnaby was crowding the fight now and they met in mid-ring and started to swap it out.

Outside the ropes all was a confused roar. With the pounding of that noise in Moran’s ears and the taste of blood in his mouth, he felt a wild, unholy exhilaration as they slugged for all they were worth.

The first seven rounds went by like a dream. It was, he knew, a great fight. Those first seven rounds had never given the crowd a chance to sit down, never a chance to stop cheering. It was almost time for the bell, time for the eighth.

He got up eager to be going, and suddenly, out of the ringside seats, beyond the press benches, he saw Blackie Marollo. The gambler was sitting back in his seat, his eyes cold and bitter. Beside him was McKracken, his big face ugly in the dim light.

Before the tenth.

He remembered the Soldier’s words. Would Barnaby weaken and take a dive? And if he got a chance, should Moran knock him out?

T
HE BELL SOUNDED
for the eighth and they both came out slower. Both men were ready, and they knew that this was a critical time in the fight. As Barnaby stepped forward, Flash looked him over coolly. The older fighter had a lump on his cheekbone. Otherwise, he was unmarked. That brown face seemed impervious, seemed granite-hard. How like the old Dempsey Barnaby looked! The shock of dark curly hair, the swarthy, unshaven face, the cold eyes.

Moran circled warily. He didn’t like the look of things. What if the Soldier stopped him before the tenth? How was Marollo’s money bet, anyway? Was it bet on a knockout before the tenth? Or on Moran to stop Barnaby?

Barnaby came in fast, landed a hard left to the head, then a right. Moran started to sidestep, his foot caught and for an instant he was off balance. He saw the Soldier’s left start and tried to duck but caught the blow on the corner of the jaw. It spun him halfway around. Then, as Barnaby, his eyes blasting with eagerness, closed in, he caught a left to the body and a right to the chin. He felt himself hit the ropes and slide along them. Something exploded in his face and he went down on his knees in his own corner.

Through a haze of roaring sound, he stared at the canvas, his head spinning. He got one foot on the floor, shook his head, and the mists cleared a little. At the same instant, his gaze fell upon Marollo. The racketeer’s face was white. He was half out of his chair, screaming.

At the count of nine, something happened to his legs and they straightened him up. As the Soldier charged, Moran ducked a driving right and clinched desperately. The referee fought to get them free. When they broke, Moran stabbed the Soldier with a stiff left to the mouth that started a trickle of blood down his face, then crossed hard right to the chin and the startled Soldier took a step back.

But he slipped the next left and came in, slamming both hands to Moran’s body. Smiling grimly, Moran stabbed three times to Barnaby’s split lip, stepped in, and hooked high and low with the left.

Barnaby’s eyes were wild now. He charged with a volley of hooks, swings, and uppercuts that drove Flash Moran back and back. Moran got on his bicycle, fled along the ropes, and circled into the center of the ring, where he feinted with a right. As Barnaby came in, Flash Moran crossed his right to the chin.

The blow caught the Soldier coming forward and knocked him back on his heels. Moran followed it up fast and staggered Barnaby with a left, then stabbed another left to the mouth and crossed a hard right which caught the Soldier high on the head. Barnaby staggered and almost went down. Clinching, the Soldier hung on. At last he broke and tried a wild swing to the head. It missed, but the next caught Moran on the chin.

He went down—hard!

T
HE BELL SOUNDED
as Moran was getting up. Flash turned and walked back to his corner. He was dead tired, tired and mad clear through. Two knockdowns! It was the first time he had ever been off his feet!

“How’s it, kid? Hurt?”

“No. Just mad.”

Kelly grinned. “Don’t worry. This round coming up will be yours. Lots of left hands now, and watch that left of his.”

The gong sounded. They both came out fast and the Soldier bored in. Flash Moran needled Barnaby’s mouth with a left jab, then put a left to the body and one to the head. He sidestepped quickly to the right and missed with a right hand.