Rosa's Land: Western Justice - book 1 (7 page)

It was past one o’clock when Faye finally finished the book. A strange feeling had come over him, and he fondled the book in his hands thinking of the hero. He was still not sleepy, for his whole being was stirred by the heroic adventures of the fictional character. He finally put his head down and held it with his hands. “Why can’t I be a man like Bumppo?” he whispered. The answer immediately came back that he did not have Bumppo’s physical strength. He also was suddenly aware that he did not have the determination to win even if it killed him.

For what seemed like hours Faye sat in the chair, the book in his hands, his head bowed, his mind swarming with thoughts of Marlene, the failures in his life, how he had been overshadowed by his father and his brothers. A grim despair seemed to grip him, and he threw the book aside, stood, and began to pace around the room. Finally he stopped and found himself gritting his teeth.
I may not be a hero like Natty Bumppo, but I can do something!

He prepared for bed, but once he lay down he was suddenly possessed by an idea. It came to him as clearly as black print against a white wall. “I can do something!” The idea took root, and he tossed and turned and finally got up, walked to the window, and stared out on the moonlit gardens and grounds of the estate. The idea seemed preposterous, but he was living in a desperate state since he had lost Marlene and could not face a future that only held more of the same.

He went over and picked up the paper and stared at the picture of Marlene and her lover. “I can become a man she would admire.” He spoke the words aloud, and the sound of his words seemed to startle him. He fixed his eyes on Marlene’s face and the poor reproduction, and the real memory of her came to him.
I can be the kind of man that she would learn to love
.

He moved quickly to his desk and pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen. He began to write, and what he designed was a list of achievements that he would have to conquer in order to be a real hero. He listed the books that spoke of such men then jotted several physical activities. His mind worked rapidly as he thought of what all he would have to achieve. “I can do it!” he said through gritted teeth.

The sun was lighting up the east when he finally put his list aside. He picked up the newspaper, stared grimly at Marlene, and then his eye caught a story he had not noticed. He began to read it. The story concerned Judge Isaac Parker who had been appointed judge in a large territory that included the Indian lands of Oklahoma as well as parts of Arkansas. The story was well written, and Judge Parker’s choice of marshals had been outstanding. The marshals were described in vivid detail, all of them hard-bitten men, fearless, expert with a rifle or a side gun, ready to face danger and endure the hardships of the blistering heat and crippling snows as they pursued the criminals. He read that only the marshals were permitted to enter the Indian Territory. One of them was a man called Heck Thomas. Thomas was a family man but had sent his family away because his wife could not bear the stress of knowing that her husband was out facing killers, both red and white, in the Territory. As he read this, Faye put the paper down and thought about the stories he had read of the West. “That’s the kind of man I’d like to be. One who could be a federal marshal under Judge Isaac Parker!” he decided.

The next morning Faye got up, dressed, ate a hurried breakfast alone, and went to downtown New York. He made inquiries and found a gym on the east side that he was told produced some of the best pugilists in the state. When he went in he was met by a man who had beetling eyebrows, a beefy red face, and hands the size of hams.

“My name is Kelly, sir. What can I do for you?” the man said.

“My name is Faye Riordan, and I want to learn how to box.”

“Oh, do you now? Are you intending on winning the championship?”

“Nothing like that,” Faye said. “Just enough to take care of myself.”

“Well, if you’ve got the money, we’ve got the men who can train you.”

“I can pay whatever you ask.”

“All right. We got some fighting togs. Come along.”

Faye followed the husky man to a dressing room that smelled strongly of smoke and human sweat and other things even more vile. He stripped, and the man watched him carefully. “How much you weigh?” he said.

“About a hundred and eighty-five.”

“I wouldn’t have taken you for that much. You’re all packed in. Come along,” he said, seeing that Faye was dressed.

He took him upstairs, and Faye found himself in the middle of rather fervent activity. There were three rings, and in each one two men were battering each other. There was a
rat-tat-tat-tat
from suspended punching bags, and men were punching them with fierce rapidity. Other men were striking at huge punching bags being held by trainers. There were sounds of grunting and cries when men were hit, and some of them were knocked completely down.

“Well, let’s see. I’ll tell you. It’s not strength in this game, Mr. Riordan. It’s speed. If a man is fast enough, he don’t have to be no Samson. Now look. I’m holding up my hands, you see, and I want you to try and hit one of them.”

It was the same game that Faye had played with Pat Ryan. His fist shot out and caught Kelly’s big beefy hand with a sharp
splat
.

“Ho! That’s the fastest I’ve seen in a while. Try it again.”

It was the same with Kelly as it had been with Pat. If a hand stayed still for one second, Faye’s hand shot out and struck it.

“Well now. You’re the fastest thing I’ve seen around these parts. Hold your hands out now and let’s see if I can hit yours.”

The experiment was the same as it had been with Pat Ryan. The big man simply could not hit Faye’s hands.

“Well, that’s one part of being a fighter, but there’s more to it than that. A man has to be able to take a punch. You’re fast enough to miss most of them, but you’re going to get hit. That pretty nose of yours is going to get flattened.”

“That’s all right. Just put me with somebody who can show me.”

“Come along. I got just the fellow for you.”

Faye followed Kelly to the back section of the room where a man was punching a bag. He had a wealth of curly black hair and an olive complexion—and his hands were very fast.

“Hey Tony, this here is Riordan. He wants to learn how to box. You take him in hand, will you? Don’t hurt him now. He don’t know nothing.”

Tony nodded. “Sure, Mr. Kelly. Come along, Riordan. We’ll try a little sparring.”

Faye had never sparred with anyone. He had been in only one fight and had lost resoundingly. He put on big padded gloves and watched as Tony did the same.

“We’ll just skip around and throw some light blows. Nothing heavy. Don’t try to knock me out.”

“All right.”

Faye did not know a thing about footwork. He pretty well stood still, and from time to time Tony would throw a punch, which he easily avoided. He learned that when a punch came at his head, his hands were fast enough to reach up and deflect it.

“Say, you’ve done this before.”

“No, I really haven’t.”

“Well, let’s go at it a little bit faster, okay? This time I’m going to throw some harder punches, and you try to hit me, too.”

“All right.”

The Italian came in and shot a hard left, which caught Faye by surprise. It grazed his head, but immediately he threw out a hard right that caught Tony full on the forehead.

“That’s a good counter punch!” Tony exclaimed. “Well, I’m not going to believe you’ve never had boxing lessons.”

“No, I never have.”

“Well, you’re not going to need a whole lot of them. Come on. Let’s just go at it now. I’ll have to show you a few things, but you’ve got the speed and the build to throw a good enough punch to make it. Here we go …!”

Faye had been back for three lessons at Kelly’s gym, and on Tony’s advice he had started running. “You’ve got to build up stamina. If you ever go up for the championship, you’ll have to go fifteen rounds. Just try sometime walking around for fifteen three-minute rounds just holding your hands up not trying to hit. What kind of exercise you like?”

“I like swimming.”

“That’s the best! Swim all you can. Run all you can. You’re doing great, Mr. Riordan.”

Faye reduced his visits to the gym to once a week. Both Tony and Kelly told him he had it in him to be a professional fighter, but he had laughed that off. “No, nothing like that for me. Just to be able to handle myself, that’s all I want.” They had both assured him that he could, and he was satisfied.

All the heroes he had read about were experts with guns of some type. He had begun learning how to shoot by enlisting Pat Ryan and buying his own set of equipment for skeet shooting. They had gone out one day far from the house, and Pat, who had done this often for his brothers and his father, set up the equipment ready to shoot. “You holler ‘Shoot,’ and I’ll let it go. You try to hit it. Wait a minute.” Pat quickly came over and looked at the gun. “That’s not a shotgun.”

“No, it’s a Winchester. I just bought it.”

“Why, you can’t hit skeet on the move with a rifle. Nobody does that.”

“Well, I’m going to try.”

“All right. If that’s what you want, Mr. Faye.”

He went back and Faye called out, “Shoot!” The circular clay pigeon flew through the air. Faye got off one shot, but the pigeon was not harmed.

“You see. I told ya. You wasted your time.”

“Let’s just keep going. You throw them as fast as I call. Now, shoot!”

He missed again, and for the next half hour he missed consistently. Finally he hit one, and Pat said, “Well, that’s an accident.”

Faye smiled. “With enough practice you can do anything, Pat.”

Indeed, practice he did, until finally he became so adept with the Winchester that he could hit three out of four of the clay pigeons. By then, he knew he could hit anything on the run.

Next he knew he would have to handle a pistol. He went to a gun shop in the center of the city and looked for quite a while at guns.

The owner’s name was Abe Lemmons. He seemed curious.

“What will you be doing with the gun, Mr. Riordan?” “Oh, I just need to handle a gun.”

“Well, I tell you what. Most men these days want one of those.44 Colts.” He reached into a glass case and said, “Here. Hold that.”

“It’s pretty heavy.”

“Yes, it’s heavy, plus your hands are small and that handle’s big. Most of these are single action.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when you fire the gun you have to use your thumb to pull the hammer back before you can shoot again. As I say, you’ve got small hands.”

“What do I need, Mr. Lemmons?”

“Well, I’d say a.38 would just about fit your hand. Here. Try this one for size.”

Faye took the.38, and it did feel very comfortable. “Yes, I can hold this.”

“Well, it has another advantage. It has a double action. You pull the trigger, you can fire again immediately. You don’t have to cock it again before each firing.”

“But it’s a smaller gun than the.44.”

“That it is, but let me tell you something, sir. A.38 will stop a man as quick as a.44 … if you put the bullet between his eyes.”

“Well, I’ll take this one. You have a belt and a holster?”

“You’re going to wear it?”

“Well, when I go into the woods, it’ll be a handy way to carry it.” This was not what Faye had on his mind, but it was a good enough story for Mr. Lemmons.

“Well yes, of course, we have all kinds of belts.” He fitted him with one that would work fine. Faye put it on and slipped the.38 into the holster. It was about even with where his hand was hanging.

“See how quick you can get it out. That’s what those big lawmen out west do.”

Faye’s tremendous speed came to his aid. He pulled the gun and leveled it so quickly that Lemmons batted his eyes and took a step backward.

“Heaven help us! I’ve never seen a man so fast! Well, you got what you need. I hope you don’t ever have to use it.”

“So do I. How much?”

For the next two weeks Faye went deep into the woods carrying a leather bag full of.38 bullets. He carried targets and practiced drawing his gun and shooting at them. At first he would miss the whole tree, but he had a quick, steady eye and a steady hand, and soon he was able to at least hit the tree. He improved daily, both with the speed of his draw and accuracy of hitting the target. Finally the day came when he put six bullets into a six-by-six-inch piece of paper from forty feet away. He smiled, pulled the gun up, and said, “Well, I’ve done that.”