Two-Gun Bob, page 288
“Once more I ask you: will you let me take you and put you back in the ring?”
Maloney’s sole answer was to turn his back on his interrogator and reach for the bottle of tequila which the bartender had left on the table. He felt the cold eyes of Grendon on him for a few moments, then was vaguely aware that the manager had gone.
Maloney had been drinking hard three years. Today he plunged into his old vice with a sort of desperation, to drown the old ghosts which Grendon had conjured up. In a short time he was too muddled to even wonder why the bartender kept bringing the liquor for which he, Maloney, had no money to pay.
He swiftly passed into the hazy semi-consciousness of extreme intoxication and as he hovered on the borderline of complete oblivion, he was dimly aware of a commotion. There were shouts, a fall of chairs, the crash of broken bottles – something struck him a powerful blow and he struck back. Or at least that was his intention, but he was so far gone in drink that he never knew whether or not he put the thought into action.
Jack Maloney awoke with a thirst and a splitting headache. Neither particularly worried him, since the last few years this had been a common phenomenon on waking. But he at last realized that he was in strange surroundings. A pitcher of water close at hand first occupied his attention, then he looked about him. He was in a small room, walled, floored and roofed of ’dobe. There was one door which was closed; one small heavily barred window.
The ex-fighter lurched and tried the door. It was locked. Slowly the truth dawned on him. He was in jail. A sort of panic struck him. He knew the horrors of these Mexican jails in whose vermin-ridden cells men die forgotten. He pounded on the door and shouted loudly.
Steps sounded outside in the corridor and presently the door swung open. Two heavy-faced Mexican soldiers, heavily armed, stood on either side of a third man.
“Grendon!” Maloney exclaimed. “What’s all this mean?” There was no sympathy in Grendon’s cold eyes.
“Don’t you remember last night?”
Maloney passed an uncertain hand over his throbbing brow.
“I don’t remember anything after our talk.”
“No,” Grendon rasped, “you were drunk as a swine. Anyway, after I left, a row started in that joint where you were and when the police came in to stop it, one of them bumped into you and you knocked him stiff. It’s a serious offense to strike an officer in this part of Mexico. You’ve been given a heavy fine.”
“I haven’t any money,” said the ex-fighter. “Pay my fine and I’ll pay you back.”
“Pay out five hundred dollars, American money, for a rum-soaked ruin?” Grendon’s voice was more bitter than Maloney had ever heard it.
“Five hundred dollars!” Maloney was dumfounded.
“Sure. And if you can’t pay it, you’ll lay it out – and not in this cool cell either. These soldiers have come to take you to the bull pen, they tell me.
You know what a few months there means.”
Maloney shuddered. He had looked into these “bull pens” and had seen the men imprisoned there, the maundering wrecks that milled ceaselessly to and fro beneath the merciless sun. For a Mexican bull pen is simply a jail with high walls and no roof. No breeze can blow upon the men there; only the semitropical sun beats down upon their defenseless bodies all day long. There is no shade; nowhere to sit or lie save on the hard flagstones or the packed dirt floor, in the broiling sunshine. Men go insane there.
“You won’t leave a man of your own race for a fate like that?” the fighter cried desperately.
“No?” Grendon sneered. “Watch me!” Then seeing the utter despair on Maloney’s face, he said:
“The alcalde happens to be a friend of mine. I’ll do this much for you.
There’s a sort of one-horse fight club here, run by an American gambler, as you probably know. Alright. A Mexican heavyweight by the name of Diaz is in town looking for a match. They’ll let you out of jail to fight him. You’ll get nothing, of course, but I’ll bet five hundred dollars on you and you’ll win! If you don’t, it’s the bull pen.”
Maloney cried out in horror: “Fight? After three years of idleness and dissipation? Why, I couldn’t even spar a round! I’ve no wind, stamina or punch. A child could push me over.”
“Alright,” Grendon snapped, “suit yourself; maybe you’ll have an easier time in the bull pen, anyhow.” He turned away.
“Wait!” Maloney shouted in desperation. “I’ll fight! Buthowcan I expect to win?”
“A man can do anything he has to,” Grendon answered grimly. “I’ll go arrange things. They won’t let you out of this cell till Diaz is in the ring.
Till then you might while away the time thinking about the sun on the bare walls of the bull pen!”
Maloney lay face down on the dirt floor, his aching head forgotten. How could he even stand up to a fighter, even such a dub as this Mexican most undoubtedly was? Much less, how could he win? Then the vision of the bull pen rose up in his mind. The thought of the fight nauseated him; the thought of the prison crazed him.
Time passed. At last the door opened and two Mexican guards entered.
They motioned him to precede them, and they followed close behind, their bayonets barely touching his back.
In the ring in the squalid little sheet-iron fight stadium, Diaz lolled in his corner and awaited the coming of the dub he was to slaughter. Diaz was sure of himself; he had been told that they were taking an American out of the jail to meet him, and surely no fighter of any consequence could be in a jail in this tiny border town which owed its sole existence to the thirst of the white men across the river, and which even Diaz held in contempt. He had not even taken the trouble to learn the name of his opponent.
He glanced up languidly. A black-haired American was climbing unsteadily though the ropes, aided by a wiry man of late middle age whom Diaz, with a start, recognized as the great Grendon himself. Diaz’ heart skipped a beat. What was the manager of champions doing here, and why was he seconding a fourth-rater? Something wrong here!
Diaz stole a look at the other fighter with quickened interest. He looked closer, with unbelief in his eyes. He blanched and spoke swiftly and passionately to his manager.
Jack Maloney felt an involuntary shudder go through him as he looked about at the old familiar sight – the ropes of the ring, the stained canvas, the shouting crowd. Again there rose dizzily a bygone vision – a vaster, more pretentious ring, a huger throng – and a black-haired battler who writhed broken at the feet of a gory slugger. Then another vision blotted this out – a vision of a roofless Hades where men went staring crazy.
He glanced at his opponent, a second-rate Mexican he had never heard of. He saw recognition flare in Diaz’ eyes, saw the pallor on the dark face.
A faint pride stirred in him. As low as he had sunk, the very memory of his name was enough to frighten this second-rater. Bitterness flooded him at the thought of his past glory and his present degradation.
The referee called the men to the center of the ring and gave them the usual unheard instructions. Diaz was beginning to get back some of his confidence. His manager had told him that this man was the same one who had been lying about the saloons for months, and he himself knew that Maloney had not fought for three years. The lines of dissipation in the American’s face and the lack of training evident in his whole frame cheered him; but he must be careful. Must take no chances and be sure that this man was harmless before risking anything. Diaz had once fought a preliminary to one of Maloney’s fights and thememorywas still fresh in his mind, of the sledge-like smashes that had flattened the man’s opponent on that occasion.
The men went back to their corners and as Grendon climbed through the ropes he hissed one parting word: “I’ve sunk five hundred dollars on you! Win and you’re a free man; lose and it’s the bull pen!” The gong sounded. Maloney rose and walked slowly toward the middle of the ring. Diaz came out even more slowly and carefully. Maloney scarcely saw him; in his mind he saw a snarling blood-stained demon who rushed and smote like the very spirit of the primitive.
A moment the men circled each other. At last Diaz led halfheartedly; his left got home under Maloney’s heart and the Mexican, awed by his own audacity, involuntarily closed his eyes, expecting to be blasted out of existence instantly. But Maloney made no attempt to return the blow. It had not been hard, but the feel of it brought back in a nauseating wave all his old fears; again in that instant he relived his nightmare battle with Brennon, his slaughter by Soldier Handler.
Finding himself still alive, the Mexican repeated his lead. This time Maloney countered with his own left and Diaz, shrinking away from it, was surprised to feel it glance lightly from his shoulder. No force there.
Diaz’ intelligence told him that the once-great Maloney was only a shell of himself; but his instinctive fears kept him from rushing in to make a quick finish of it.
He attacked warily, jabbing at Maloney’s face, then as the American retreated heavily, he followed up his advantage with a right to the body that carried force. Maloney felt as if a keen knife had cut off his breath for a fleeting instant. Already he was beginning to feel the effects of his lack of training. His knees were beginning to tremble, his breath to come in gasps. And the first round had scarcely progressed a minute.
Only Diaz’ caution kept him from flattening his opponent in the first round. He kept a steady stream of straight lefts in Maloney’s face, blows that cut and hurt but did not stun, and occasionally he drove his right hard to the body, knowing that Maloney was in no shape to take punishment there.
Maloney was already in a bad way. Those right-handers sank deep in his flabby midriff; sweat soaked his body, his gloves and trunks and it seemed his heart would burst with the exertions of his labored breathing. Worse than all, the blows that rained steadily upon him brought up the memories of those last two fights – Diaz grew in confidence. So far his opponent had not laid a glove on him. The great Maloney was staggering before his blows! As this feeling grew, Diaz increased the savagery of his attack. Just before the gong Maloney went down, partly from the increasing force of the Mexican’s blows, partly from his own exhaustion.
He came to himself in his corner. Grendon was working over him with all the skill of an old-time handler, but Maloney gasped: “I’m through. I can’t even get up off my stool.”
Grendon reached for the sponge to toss it in. His eyes were bitter.
“All right, the bull pen for you. This fourth-rater’s punched you right into it.”
At thatmomentthe gong sounded. From whence his renewal of strength came, Maloney never knew. He always secretly believed it was a flare of momentary insanity and perhaps he was right. But at Grendon’s words, a fearful chaos of hatred flamed up in his brain; hatred for Grendon who was consigning him to a living death, hatred for the Mexican soldiers who stood about to see that he did not escape, hatred for Iron Mike Brennon who was the prime cause of all his trouble. And, naturally, all his hate centered on the man in the ring with him.
Diaz came rushing from his corner like a great tiger. He was wild with the killer instinct, inflamed with the desire to stretch this once-great battler at his feet. But he met a different man. Somehow Maloney heaved up off his stool, knocking the sponge out of Grendon’s hand. His legs seemed dead, but he lurched forward and, as Diaz plunged savagely in, Maloney steadied him with a straight left to the face, and crashed his right under the heart with a force which even surprised himself.
Diaz staggered, whitened. For the first time in his life he had run full into the blow of a real hitter and the sensation left him weakened and nauseated.
He felt as if he had been caved in; as if his heart had momentarily stopped. No longer did he dally with a desire to see the great Maloney stretched at his feet. He only desired to avoid utter destruction.
He commenced a hasty retreat and Maloney, realizing that his strength was swiftly fading, and with the bull pen before his eyes, lurched desperately after him. Diaz was still unmanned by that blow under the heart and on the ropes Maloney caught him. And there, holding the ropes with his left hand to keep him on his feet, Maloney crashed another right-hander over, this time to the jaw, and Diaz dropped for the full count.
As the referee said “Ten!” Maloney dropped likewise, his fading thought being that he was going to die of fatigue.
He came to himself to see Grendon bending over him, and if the manager felt any satisfaction, his face did not show it.
“Alright, hustle out of it,” he rapped harshly.“We’re leaving town. I paid your fine.”
“You can go to hell,” snarled Maloney, sitting up, all his hatred of Grendon blazing in his eyes. “I fought my bout like you said and I’m grateful for what you did – getting me the fight. Otherwise I owe you nothing.” “You owe me five hundred dollars,” Grendon retorted. “The stakeholder skipped with the money I bet on you. I paid your fine out of my own pocket. That way I’ve lost a thousand dollars on you, but we will just call it five hundred. And you’re going to work it out for me.” “Work it out?”
“Fight it out, if you like the word better. That fight showed one thing; you’re not as far gone as I thought. You still know how to hit and you’ve got more than a shadow of your old punch. Close, careful training will sweat the booze out of your system and get you back in shape. You’ll never be much, maybe, but you can slap down a flock of pushovers and pay back my money.”
“I won’t do it,” Maloney answered shortly. “I went through Hades last night. I won’t do it again for anybody.”
“Maloney,” said Grendon, looking at him piercingly, “you hate me, don’t you?”
“As much as one man could hate another,” answered Maloney with his characteristic honesty.
Grendon seemed not displeased. In fact he grinned thinly.
“Alright, do you want to go through life knowing you’re obligated to a man you hate?”
Maloney’s black-crowned head jerked up and his eyes glinted into Grendon’s hawk-like gaze.
“I’ll do it,” he said abruptly. “You ought to make your money back off me in one fight. Then we’re through, understand.” Grendon’s only answer was a wintry smile.
Thus came Jack Maloney, once a coming champion, now a has-been, to the managerial care of “Iceberg” Grendon.Nowords of love passed between them, their conversation was limited to short abrupt advice or requests on the part of the manager and shorter replies on the part of the fighter.
After the affair at the border town, they went directly to the coast and took ship for Australia, Grendon’s native land. Maloney having no money, Grendon paid all expenses, and the fighter wondered that he should spend so much merely to assure himself of the payment of five hundred dollars.
Grendon seemed not at all parsimonious except in this matter, and Maloney decided that the man hated him as much as he hated Grendon and was merely taking this revenge. He remembered that in his early career he had knocked out one of Grendon’s proteges, and though the Australian was not a man to harbor grudges, Maloney for lack of a better reason de cided that Grendon had never forgiven him. He determined to pay back not only the five hundred that Grendon had spent paying his fine, but the five hundred which the crooked stakeholder had stolen. After that – Maloney’s fists slowly clenched as the black tide of his hate surged through his brain.
Grendon had a training camp in the country back of Sydney and there Maloney plunged into the work of conditioning himself.
Grendon proved himself a first-class trainer, whatever else his faults.
He made Maloney go easy at first, start very gradually to building up his long-abused body, and Maloney, realizing his manager’s wisdom and experience, followed his instructions to the letter.
Months passed; slowly Maloney was rounding into shape. He was training hardernow, and his muscles were vibrant with strength and life.Hefelt no craving for liquor. He had never been a natural sot, had drunk only to drown his dreams.Hecould do miles of roadworknowwithout discomfort and when he struck the heavy punching bag, it leaped and tossed like a ship on a windy sea. In the daily bouts with his sparring partners he felt that his timing and speed had come back to a remarkable extent. Speed and punch – the secret of his earlier successes – and now he strove to regain them.
The punch that numbed and shocked the toughest fighter, the speed that carried him through the guard of cleverer men. Maloney had never been a really clever boxer in the fullest sense of the word. He had been more of the slugger; but his defense was not to be sniffed at and his shifty footwork would have done credit to many a more crafty boxer. Speed to catch hisman and the punch to finish him!
At last when he believed he was ready to face a fairly good opponent, Grendon kept him at light training a month longer. In a way Maloney was eager to fight and get it over. His labor had been one of hatred, not love, and the sooner he could fling the money he owed into Grendon’s face with a curse, the better it would suit him. But when he thought of entering the ring again, the old red ghost came back and left him weak and trembling.
Still, he was secretly grateful for one thing: he was no longer a whiskeysoaked hobo, but a man. Like all natural athletes, he reveled in the feel of his new strength and vibrancy – in the smooth flowing muscles and the work of the great clean lungs. He decided that he would never again sink into the gutter; he was still young, scarcely twenty-five years old. He would get some sort of a job and if he could not be a fighter, he would at least be a man.
Then at last Grendon announced that he had gotten Maloney a match.
“An American by the name of Leary,” said Grendon. “You ought to draw a good crowd, if the fight fans down under remember you. And they always turn out to see a couple of Americans battle. I don’t know what’s the matter with Australia; she turns out so few fighters worthy of the name these days.
