Widowmaker Jones (32 page)

T
he miles passed behind beneath them with the clickety-clack of the train's wheels passing along the rails. Newt leaned his head against the window, trying to lose himself in the rocking of the coach, and trying to shut out the sound of the drunken man in the bowler hat near the front of the car. That very fellow was up in the center aisle, talking as loudly as he had been for most of the trip and bragging about everything he could think of. Several newspapermen near the man seemed to be hanging on his every word as if he were some kind of celebrity. The little Yankee beside him was trying to calm him down, but he was having none of it, and soaking up the attention.

“If you weren't such a wormy little fellow, I would paste you a good one on the ear,” the drunk said to the farmer sitting next to where he stood, and the same farmer who he imagined had done him some offense.

The drunk was a big man. A little shy of six feet tall, but broad shouldered and deep in the chest, with a thick neck and the sense about him that he was as strong as an ox. He backed up to give the farmer he was bullying the room to stand, and handed his bowler hat to the little Yankee behind him, still trying to calm him down.

The bully ran a hand over his close-cropped head, twisted one end of his pointed, handlebar mustache, and assumed a boxing stance with his fists held forward before him, as if he were posing for a photograph.

“Get up and fight, or show all these people what a coward you are,” he said to the farmer.

The farmer was half his size, and obviously wanting no part of a brawl with a man sure to hurt him badly. The farmer's wife clutched his arm.

“I never said you weren't good,” the farmer pleaded. “I just said I thought Jem Mace was better than you back in his prime.”

The bully turned enough so that he could see the newspapermen behind him, and so that they could hear him plainly. His clipped Boston accent was slurred from the booze. “A Brit best me? Why, you unpatriotic little sack of bones. There's not a man in the world that can lick me. I'm twenty-seven and oh, with the gloves or without.”

Newt only wanted to sleep, but he couldn't ignore the noise anymore. He'd seen that kind before—braggarts who turned mean when in their cups, and the kind that tried to make themselves seem bigger than they really were by picking on those weaker than them.

“Stupid drunk,” Newt said.

A man across the aisle set aside the notebook he was writing in and snorted. “That stupid drunk is John L. Sullivan, bare-knuckle champion of the world. Why don't you go say that to his face?”

“So that's the Boston Strong Boy himself, is it?” Newt said. “What's he doing on a train in Texas?”

“Where have you been the last year and a half? Don't you read the papers?” the same man asked. “Sullivan is touring the country. He'll fight any man for four rounds, and two hundred and fifty dollars to anyone that can beat him.”

“Hmm.”

“Eight good fighters have tried so far, and none of them have come close. For God's sake, he knocked out Paddy Ryan in Mississippi two years ago, and Paddy was as tough as they come.”

“You some kind of reporter?” Newt asked.

“
Galveston Daily News
. Sullivan is on his way to our fair city for an exhibition match.” The reporter reached across the aisle for a handshake.

Newt ignored the offered hand. Sullivan wouldn't give up on egging the farmer into a fight, and he slapped the little farmer hard enough that the sound of it carried through the car. He made another of his ribald jokes, and some of those watching him laughed nervously.

“Newt, don't you do what you're thinking,” Kizzy said. “You don't have to be that way.”

Newt rose and slid past her to get to the center aisle. He glanced at Sullivan and then back at her. “You look away, Miss Grey. Don't pay me any attention at all.”

“Don't . . .” she started.

“What was it the judge said? A man should stick to his talents?” Newt unbuckled his gun belt and handed it to the reporter he had been talking to, at the same time giving her a smile.

While the reporter was still trying to figure out why Newt had given him his gun, Newt started down the aisle. The little Yankee trying to get Sullivan to quit picking on the farmer noticed him coming.

“You aren't an officer of the law, are you?” The little Yankee tried to block Newt's way.

“No.” Newt looked over the man at Sullivan.

“Please pay Mr. Sullivan no mind,” the little man said. “I'm afraid he isn't himself today.”

“Get out of the way.”

“I'm his fight promoter. I can get you his autograph.”

Newt shoved the promoter into his seat and went past him. Sullivan still had his back turned to Newt and was too intent on the farmer to hear his approach. Newt cleared his throat and reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. Sullivan turned on him slowly, his drunken, stubborn face sizing Newt up.

“What do you want, you big bastard?” Sullivan asked.

“Leave that man alone.”

“This ought to be good,” one of the reporters said. Several of the other reporters and those in Sullivan's entourage climbed over the back of their seats to give the two combatants room.

“And who the hell are you?” Sullivan asked, shoving one fat pointer finger in front of Newt's nose.

Newt slapped the hand away and threw a short, straight right into Sullivan's cheek. The boxer staggered back two steps and fell to the floor, and the train grew as quiet as a church.

“Widowmaker Jones, at your service,” Newt said, backing off and looking down at Sullivan.

Sullivan groaned, and for a moment it looked as if he were down for good.

“Look at that,” one of the passengers exclaimed. “He knocked the champ down with one lick.”

But Sullivan wasn't out. He groaned again and took hold of a seat back and slowly pulled himself to his feet. There was blood on his cheekbone, and a nasty snarl on his face. He lunged off-balance and clipped Newt with a hard left hook, falling again in the process.

The blow staggered Newt to one side and back three rows, but he caught himself against a bench. The passenger car swung dizzily before him, and he tasted his own blood.

“Knock him out, Champ!” one of the crowd shouted. “Give 'im the what for!”

“I'll bet you five dollars Sullivan puts him down in the first thirty seconds,” another voice said.

“What kind of fool do you think I am?” the first voice replied. “Look at the scars on that fellow. He's a born loser if I ever saw one.”

“I'll take that bet,” Kizzy said, quieting the room again.

Newt turned and saw her standing in the aisle at the far end of the car. Those cat eyes of her were wet again, and he wasn't sure if it was resignation or worry that he read on her face. She was truly beautiful, and not a woman easy to forget.

He gave her one slow nod of his chin and then turned and wiped the blood from his mouth and flexed his fists. A smirk of a smile revealed a broken tooth. “Just like old times.”

Sullivan shuffled forward, crouched with his fists cocked and loaded. “You better fight hard, cowboy, or I'm going to beat you within an inch of your life.”

The crooked, chip-toothed smile spread across Newt's busted lips again, and he laughed bitterly and quietly. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”