Читать книгу Battling Boxing Stories - C. J. Henderson - Страница 6

QUICK HANDS

by Wayne D. Dundee

Usually they just put some brute up against him—the strongest, toughest miner from whatever camp they happened to be visiting. Powerful men with massive shoulders and thick arms, men who could load more ore and out-arm wrestle any other man in the camp. Experienced brawlers at best...but possessed of little or nothing in the way of punching basics or actual boxing skills.

This kid tonight, however, was something of an exception. He was smaller, though not by much, and considerably faster. He’d already proven he could move and dodge, rather than wade in right away like so many of them did and try to finish everything with a thrashing windmill of uppercuts and roundhouses. McMahon actually appreciated this. Those other types too often punched themselves out before the end of the first round. And then it was up to McMahon, in order to make sure the crowd got its money’s worth, to carry his opponent (sometimes almost literally since the dumb clods were practically too exhausted to stand) until it reached a point where it was okay to put them down.

As they went into the second round now, McMahon could see his opponent still had quite a bit left. He was showing some wear, sure, breathing hard and sweating—just as McMahon himself was—but the lad was far from being played out. In the corner, between rounds, Professor Hanratty had razor-slit McMahon above his left eye and then held ice against it so it wouldn’t start leaking right away. “Take a punch or two, let him get you bleeding good for the crowd,” he’d instructed. “Then go ahead and finish this rock-chopper before the round ends.”

McMahon nodded his agreement. He had no doubt he could end this contest whenever he wanted—the lad wasn’t that much different than the others. Yeah, he was in better shape and had a few moves; but he couldn’t counter-punch worth a damn and, judging from the big openings McMahon had allowed earlier for the sake of gauging exactly what he was up against, the kid didn’t know how to throw combinations and he was seldom able to get full weight into his harder shots for maximum effect.

So, when it was time, after a sticky flow of blood was smeared down the side of his face and the crowd’s excitement was sufficiently stoked, McMahon went to work and did what he was trained to do. He cut off the ring, backed the kid into a corner, began rocking him with lightning-fast flurries. The kid ducked, bobbed, got his arms up to block a lot of these blows. But the relentless peppering crowded him, didn’t give him a chance to breathe, and the repeated shots to his arms quickly started to make them heavier and slower to rise in defense. That’s when McMahon went head-hunting and started to throw high, hard, jarring combinations....

“It’s the combinations that’ll score you a knockout every time, especially coming from those amazing quick hands of yours,” coached the professor. “Generally speaking, it’s almost impossible to knock a man unconscious when he can see the punch coming, no matter how hard it lands. It might knock him down, it might rattle him all the way back to his ancestors, but he’ll still be conscious. Only when you throw combinations as fast and hard as you do, Mackie-boy, one of them is bound to be the blind punch that gets the job done.”

...And tonight that blind punch was a final shattering right cross to the jaw. The young man went down, hard, and everybody watching knew he wasn’t going to be get back up—at least not under his own power—any time soon.

The audience of grim-faced miners, gathered tight around the makeshift ring erected specially for this event, had been eager and loud and boisterous right from the get-go. The sight of McMahon’s blood had brought them to a near frenzy. And now, even as McMahon started to turn things around, their excitement level remained high. Although he was whittling down one of their own, they nevertheless harbored a grudging respect for his brutal, methodical skill. Once it was over, in their minds they had seen a hard-won fight, had gotten their blood lust slaked, and therefore turned away satisfied.

McMahon had done his job. Once again.

* * * *

“Ah, it’s those wonderful quick hands of yours, Mackie me boy. Never in my born days have I seen a big man like you with quicker hands. If only our paths had crossed sooner, I could have taken you to the best training camps in the country and managed you to becoming a contender right up there in the championship ranks. Even the great John L. would be taking notice! Why, we’d be the toasts of both coasts and every important city in between.”

The boxing bout was nearly an hour past now. Professor Hanratty was speaking as he treated the bruises to McMahon’s face and the cut over his eye. The fighter sat stoically through this, his hands soaking in a bowl of stinging salt brine. They were inside a large tent that had been put up between their two traveling wagons. Soft lantern light filled the enclosure with a golden glow, night shadows seeping in to claim only the corners. A low wind was building outside, moaning down out of the higher mountain range, lifting the tent skirts here and there and allowing cold drafts to swirl in. The day had been unseasonably warm. The temperature had been dropping steadily since sundown, though, and the feel of approaching winter was once again unmistakable in the air.

Professor Hanratty’s spiel, his marveling about McMahon’s quick hands, was standard after every fight. And as he made his reply, McMahon was aware that his words had become pretty standard by now, too.

“Never had that much of a hankerin’ to see the coasts. And I damn sure got no desire to get caught in the crush of any of those big ‘important’ cities you keep yammerin’ about,” he said. “Far as John L., he’s gone to gloved fightin’ these days under those Marquess of Queensberry Rules that all the swells are so keen on. Me, I’m strictly a bare-knuckler and too old to change.... Besides, suits me fine the way things are goin’ for us just like they are.”

“I don’t mind the way things are, either,” spoke up Molly from where she sat on the opposite side of the folding table, counting up the money from tonight’s take. “’Cept I really hate it when you have to cut Mac the way you done again tonight, Professor. Don’t he get bruised up and split open enough by those fellas he fights without you havin’ to add to it?”

Hanratty sighed dramatically (which was how he tended to do many things). “For the hundredth time, my dear, the answer is no, on occasion Mac does not get cut open enough by his opponents. That’s a sorry part of it, I know, but it nevertheless remains a fact. A large part of what we do—just like the way I carry on during my medicine spiel about your foot and Hugo’s misfortune—is showmanship. We have to do that in order to draw sufficient customers.... Without showmanship, that tidy sum of cash you have before you there would be a mere fraction because too few would be interested enough to shell out for what we are pitching.”

Now it was Molly’s turn to sigh. “I suppose you’re right,” she allowed. “You know a lot more about a lot more stuff than I probably ever will.... But I still don’t like seein’ Mac get cut up all the time.”

“Thanks for the concern, sweetie,” McMahon said, favoring the girl with a weary smile. “But gettin’ busted up some is part of what I signed on for. Like the professor said, it’s sort of necessary to the show. If I went out there and whupped all the fellas that step forward in these towns we visit and made it look too easy—without givin’ ’em some reason to believe they had a chance, or not let the crowd get worked up over thinkin’ it might be me who was goin’ down for the count—why, where would be the draw in that? What’s more, it might make those tough ol’ miners downright displeased to pay out their admission money and lay down their side bets only to see me plunk their boy without hardly breakin’ a sweat. How bad a shape you think I’d end up in if a whole passel of ’em rioted on us, maybe rode me out of town on a rail?”

“I seen a crowd riot once,” Hugo said from the other side of the tent, where he was bundling up the ring posts and ropes that he had dismantled after the fight. “It wasn’t a pretty sight. Nossir. I wouldn’t want to see another one, and that’s for sure.”

These four now gathered in the tent comprised the full make-up of Professor Hanratty’s Traveling Medicine & Health Show. In its present incarnation, Hanratty’s troupe had been working the mining camps along the front range of the Colorado Rockies for closing on three years. The centerpiece of the whole endeavor was Hanratty’s Astonishing Elixir, which the professor had been marketing for two decades. Truth be known, Alphonse Herschel Hanratty’s “professorship” had come in the mail for ten dollars sent to a Boston print shop—alas now burned to the ground—specializing in authentic-looking degrees and licenses of any type desired. Yet while the credentials for his title might be lacking, his dedication to purpose was not; he genuinely believed that his elixir had health benefits. Over time he worked to refine and improve the concoction even as he worked to enhance his techniques for selling it. Over that same period of time he had gradually accumulated the others about him.

Hugo was the first. That was back when the professor had been peddling his elixir and other wares on a circuit running through high plains towns and settlements between Cheyenne and Denver. He had come upon the gentle, feeble-minded young giant cleaning spittoons and gutters at a nameless saloon in the middle of nowhere, working for so-called room and board that consisted of being allowed to sleep in a drafty old woodshed out behind the main building and getting thrown table scraps twice a day, like a dog on a chain. In addition to this neglect, the poor wretch—whose brains had been fried to irreversible damage by an adolescent fever—was subject to daily taunts and frequent physical abuse by the saloon owner, his hag of a wife, and numerous regular customers of the establishment. When Hanratty’s wagon rolled away from that vile place, Hugo was riding on the seat beside him. The old peddler didn’t have much to share, but what he had was a lot more than Hugo was used to getting and it came with a friendly smile and nurturing words in place of further abuse.

Molly was next. Hanratty and Hugo happened across her on a street corner on the edge of Cheyenne’s red light district—an instantly heart-wrenching sight to see, this skinny, dirty, ragged, club-footed little nine-year-old holding out a battered tin cup and begging passer-bys for spare coins. They learned that her prostitute of a mother would send her out to the corner each morning, as soon as she returned from putting in her own hours on the street. There Molly would remain until her mother fetched her back home in the evening, where she was fed a supper of corn bread and molasses (occasionally accompanied by an overcooked sausage link or a glass of half-sour milk) and then left alone in their hovel of an apartment while the mother went out to once more ply her trade through the night. The cycle would repeat the next day. The mother’s earnings were sparse due to her foul temperament and hardened looks so much of the time it was only the money from Molly’s cup that carried them through. Even still, when Hanratty offered the woman fifty dollars to take the girl away from the squalid life they were leading, the money was seized with only minor hesitation and the mother’s parting words regarding her daughter were, “Be good to get the hungry-mouthed little cripple off my hands.”

Last came McMahon. The medicine wagon rolled into the town of Bitterroot one morning just in time to see the struggle that was taking place as three deputies from the town marshal’s office were trying to arrest a man for vagrancy. The deputies were all stalwart fellows armed with billy clubs while the target of their attention was weaponless. Reining up his wagon to watch, Professor Hanratty was quick to marvel at the vagrant’s rapidly flying fists and the accuracy with which his punches landed. Having trained in the art of pugilism during his privileged youth, before the corrupt practices and eventual suicide of his father destroyed the family fortune, Hanratty immediately saw the potential for an added element to his traveling medicine show. Therefore, after the billy clubs inevitably took their toll and the vagrant was thrown behind bars, Hanratty came forward with a proposition: He would go the man’s bail and pay any related fines if the fellow would agree to join the professor’s show and travel with them for a minimum of one year. The prisoner, who called himself McMahon, extended a battered right hand through the jail bars and they shook on it.

Not long after that Hanratty added a second wagon and the necessary equipment for a boxing ring to his show, and they began working the mining camp circuit. The first year had long since come and gone with never a mention of McMahon taking leave after his obligation was fulfilled.

While his embrace of these misfits and cast-offs, these lost souls, stemmed primarily from genuine compassion on Hanratty’s part, there nevertheless was a practical side to him that recognized they also needed to contribute something to the overall good of the group. And since the main thing sustaining all of them was the sale of Hanratty’s Astonishing Elixir, it followed that each would have to play some role in the medicine show presentations that drew the paying customers.

Having demonstrated early on a natural way with animals, Hugo immediately took over the duties of lead teamster and the general care and feeding of the wagon mules (contrary-minded but necessary beasts that Hanratty had been fighting a running battle with for years). At Hugo’s gentle coaxing, the animals responded with only rare instances of the stubbornness they had so regularly exhibited for the professor. By virtue of his size and raw strength, Hugo also handled most of the heavier chores—lugging barrels of ingredients, loading/unloading cases of bottled elixir, setting up and striking the boxing ring, etc.—associated to putting on a show.

Additionally, Hanratty called upon this same physical power to utilize Hugo in a brief segment of the show itself. Explaining to the audiences (in the exaggerated, fictionalized way that made up most of his spiel) how he had first found Hugo riddled by the remnants of a devastating fever, the professor would go on to claim that it was the administration of his amazing elixir that had nursed Hugo not only back to full health but to the mighty physical specimen who now stood before them. Alas, Hanratty would add sadly and dramatically, the effects of the fever on the young man’s obviously stunted mental capacities could not be reversed as successfully. After all, even his vaunted elixir had its limits. But still, he would insist, the physical results could not be denied—and at this point he would call upon Hugo to perform some pre-arranged but quite legitimate feats of strength that included bending iron bars and lifting one end of a loaded ore cart.

Nobody seemed to remember exactly how Molly had assumed the roll of banker/ accountant, but she did and did a superb job at it. Everything was always balanced to the penny, a budget was set and adhered to, funds were available and promptly paid out when needed, and a tidy savings stash (especially after McMahon joined up and started drawing bigger paydays for the troupe) was accumulating. In addition to that, Molly also did most of the traditional female chores for the troupe. Laundry, mending, cleaning, doing dishes...everything but cooking. No matter how hard she tried to learn and how hard the professor tried to teach her, disastrous would be a charitable way of describing her results.

As far as Molly’s performance part of the show, Hanratty once again took an obvious flaw, in this case her clubbed foot, and spun it into an exaggerated tale of how afflicted the poor girl’s entire body might have become had he not found her in time to administer copious amounts of his amazing elixir. A portion of each show’s earnings, he would be sure to mention, went into a savings fund intended to one day pay for an operation that would correct the impaired foot. And then he would call Molly onto the stage where she would proceed, accompanied by the professor’s banjo strumming, to do a simple little dance routine that demonstrated her high-spiritedness yet at the same time also showed the restrictions placed upon her by the foot as it was. After that, she would close the show with a liltingly beautiful rendition of Greensleeves, Hanratty this time accompanying on a violin. By the time she was done there unfailingly were hardened miners in the audience with a tear on their rough cheeks and they would be the first in line to buy a bottle or two of elixir, accompanied by the admonishment: “Be sure a share of this goes toward little Molly’s operation.”

Hanratty was not exempt from feeling pangs of guilt over exploiting the maladies of both Hugo and Molly in this manner. But, strictly from a practical standpoint he told himself, a person had to do whatever it took to survive and prosper on this rugged slice of the frontier. Each of his wards understood this, too, and neither had any qualms about what they were called upon to do because each also understood that their lots in life were immeasurably improved since taking up with the professor. Furthermore, the plan to one day have enough money to get Molly’s foot operated on wasn’t mere sales hype—it was a very real goal of everybody in the troupe, even though Molly (who secretly longed for that day more deeply than anyone) always insisted she was fine the way she was and didn’t rate any special treatment over the others.

When McMahon joined the troupe, the paydays from their performances and thereby the chances for getting Molly’s foot corrected increased significantly. Hanratty had always wanted to add something to his show, something special, something to give it an edge over the dozens of other snake oil-sellers prowling the region. At one point he’d tried to use Hugo in a wrestling-challenge format, offering fifty dollars (and taking bets on the side, of course) to anyone willing to try their luck at pinning the powerful young giant. That plan quickly backfired when it turned out that Hugo, for all his raw strength, had no warrior’s heart when it came to actually fighting anybody, for fear of maybe hurting them. Which meant he was the one who ended up on his back and Hanratty ended up shelling out money instead of raking it in.

With McMahon and his lightning fists, however, it was a whole different story. Hanratty had already seen proof the man was willing to fight. It took practically no time for the professor to formulate the rest of the concept that became part of each show: First McMahon would come out and demonstrate the accuracy of his quick hands by striking down fist-sized burlap pouches of pea gravel thrown at him from a distance of thirty feet. (Since baseball was fast becoming a popular sport all across the country, this distance was widely recognized as being only half that of a pitcher throwing to home plate.) Would-be hurlers were invited to pay twenty-five cents for a pouch of gravel to throw as hard as they could at McMahon’s head and shoulders. They could try as many times as they wished, providing of course they purchased a new pouch each time, and if one of their throws eluded McMahon’s fists within a reasonable reach zone their entire expenditure would be repaid double. This naturally segued into the inevitable challenge for a boxing match to take place later that night—$150 offered to any man who could go three rounds with McMahon and still be on his feet at the end. Admission to see this event was fifty cents and once again Hanratty was available to take side bets.

All of the hoopla for this, of course, was liberally laced with claims that McMahon’s physical prowess was due largely to faithful daily doses of Hanratty’s Astonishing Elixir. In truth, the boxing challenges quickly became popular and profitable quite apart from the rest of the show and how much they actually added to sales of the elixir no one could be sure. But what was certain beyond any doubt was that Professor Hanratty’s Traveling Medicine & Health Show was seeing profits like never before and the day of having enough money set aside for Molly’s operation was close at hand.

* * * *

The next day they departed the nameless mining camp and headed on up the line toward their next destination, which was likely to be the final stop of the season before the snows of winter chased them down out of the mountains until spring.

The four riders appeared right after they’d begun their descent into a narrow gorge with the shadows of late afternoon starting to stretch across the rocky trail. At the other end of the gorge was a campsite where they’d planned to spend the night. But, suddenly, the way was blocked by two of the riders dancing their horses out from behind a jagged outcropping and then reining them to a halt directly in the middle of the trail. From behind came the other two riders, galloping up fast, the clatter of their horses’ hooves announcing their arrival until they too reined up short and blocked the trail from behind.

Hugo brought the first wagon to a halt and McMahon, driving the second team, followed suit. Each of the riders promptly produced a Winchester rifle from his saddle scabbard and made a show of jacking a round into the chamber, the sound of the levering mechanisms echoing hollowly off the surrounding rocks.

From the wagon seat beside Hugo, Hanratty scowled fiercely and demanded, “Here now. What is the meaning of this?”

One of the front riders, evidently the leader of the bunch, a wedge-faced specimen with shaggy brows and a prominently displayed set of gnarled yellow teeth, replied calmly, “For an educated man, Professor, that sure seems like a stupid-ass question.... What the hell do you think the meaning of four armed men blockin’ your path might be?”

“Is this an attempted robbery, you knave? Is that what you are about?”

Gnarled Teeth flashed a coyote’s grin. “No, you phony bag of wind, this ain’t an attempted robbery...this is a damn robbery. Now start shuckin’ your hardware—guns and knives and such—and tossin’ ’em down to the ground.”

“We are not armed hooligans like you. We are simply—”

“More stupid talk,” Gnarled Teeth cut him off. “Only a bunch of fools would try to pass through these mountains unarmed against wild critters and the like. Don’t try to tell me you don’t have a rifle or two somewhere in those wagons. Now shuck ’em out and be quick about it or you’ll force me to show you the hard way that we mean business and ain’t to be trifled with.”

“Better do as he says, Professor,” advised McMahon.

Moments later an old Henry rifle and a shotgun had been withdrawn from the wagons and tossed to the ground.

“What about sidearms? Short guns?” Gnarled Teeth wanted to know.

“Surely you can see we are not shootists to be armed in that manner,” said Hanratty.

“No, that’s just it.... I can’t see. Stand up, each of you, and open your coats wide. Do it slow and careful.”

When that demand had been satisfied, Gnarled Teeth motioned for them to re-seat themselves. “Now,” he said, “we get to the fun part.... Leastways for me and my pards. Time for you to hand over all your valuables and the money sack or strongbox or whatever it is you keep your hard cash in.”

“You miserable wretch,” Hanratty seethed. “We’re nothing but a poor traveling show barely eeking out an existence. Your take will be pitiful when split amongst the four of you and you’ll leave us facing starvation with winter coming on.”

“Stow that poor-mouth shit, I ain’t buyin’ it,” responded Gnarled Teeth. “I been watchin’ you. I’ve seen you put on your show two or three times now. Includin’ again last night. You draw big crowds and you take in plenty of cash, so don’t pretend you ain’t got a sizable wad stashed somewhere. You’ll cough it up, too, and do it mighty fast or my pards and me will start throwin’ lead to encourage you. You push us, we’ll start with that big ox sittin’ right there beside you—blowin’ his pumpkin off won’t matter much, anyway, what with it bein’ nothin’ but empty space to begin with.”

“You leave Hugo alone!” protested Molly.

“Shhh. Pipe down, girl,” McMahon admonished her.

The riders at the rear edged up closer.

Gnarled Teeth swung his focus to McMahon. “Yeah, you tell her, boxer man. Tell her like it is. Bullets start flyin’, they ain’t necessarily gonna care if it’s a lame-brain or a cripple that gets in their way.”

McMahon’s eyes blazed with hate. “You’re a cowardly dog,” he rasped.

“I truly am sorry you feel that way about me,” said Gnarled Teeth. “You see, I sorta admire you. Like I said, I’ve seen your show. Seen you box. You got real quick hands for a big man, maybe the quickest I ever saw. I admire a fella who takes a natural ability like that and trains it into a special skill like boxin’.”

“Step down off that horse, I’d be happy to give you a personal demonstration.”

Gnarled Teeth chuckled throatily. “Yeah, I bet you would, wouldn’t you? Tell you what, though.... I got me a skill of my own. You see, I happen to be pretty good with a gun. And you know what? The best punch you ever throwed in your life wouldn’t amount to shit up against the punch from one of my Winchester slugs.” Gnarled Teeth’s expression suddenly turned cold. “Now you tell this phony old bastard up here in the front wagon to get his ass in gear and start handin’ over what I asked for and nobody has to get hurt.”

“All right, all right,” the professor said hurriedly. “No need for violence. Please. Here, under my seat, is the strongbox you want.” He stood up again, as did Hugo, and the two of them lifted the wagon seat so that it swung back on a hinge, revealing a hollowed out area underneath in which rested a black metal strongbox.

“Hand it down to them, Hugo,” Hanratty instructed.

“Make sure you don’t pull nothin’ outta there but money,” Gnarled Teeth warned, “or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I’ve no doubt you’ll be paying a debt in hell one day,” the professor said calmly, “but unfortunately you won’t be sent there by our hand. You have effectively stripped us of any weapon against you.”

“Damned right. And best you remember that if you know what’s good for you.”

The second front rider had nudged his horse closer and now Hugo lifted the strongbox and held it out to him. As this was taking place, the professor pleaded with Gnarled Teeth. “Take whatever you want. Just get this over with and spare the lives of me and my people. I beg of you.”

“Quit your whinin’. We’ll get to the rest soon enough,” Gnarled Teeth told him. “But first things first...Virgil”—speaking now to the rider who’d taken the strongbox from Hugo—“pop that thing open and let’s see what we got.”

Virgil slipped from his saddle and dragged the box down with him. A moment later he sent it crashing to the ground and then dropped to his knees beside it, forcing open the lid. Several loosely bundled bills spilled out.

“How much is there?” called one of the riders who had moved up alongside the rear wagon.

“Looks like a pretty good haul,” Virgil answered, scooping up some of the bills. “Two, three hundred dollars here at least—maybe more.”

“Chicken feed!” spat Gnarled Teeth.

All eyes swung to him.

“I’m on to your tricks, old man,” Gnarled Teeth said to the professor. “How many times I have to tell you I been watchin’ you. You think I don’t know a plant when I see one? Your take from all these minin’ camps you been hittin’ has been a helluva better than that.” He jabbed the muzzle of his rifle threateningly. “So you pitched out what you wanted us to settle for.... Now where’s the real stash?”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” stammered Hanratty. “We take in money, yes, but there are expenses—feed for the mules, ingredients for my elixir—”

Gnarled Teeth swung his Winchester and fired a round into the nearest mule, shattering the poor beast’s brain. Molly screamed as the shot rang out. The stricken animal emitted a soft snort and then its legs buckled and it collapsed heavily to the ground. The mule harnessed next to it pawed and jerked wildly for a moment but was held in check by the weight of its fallen mate and by Hugo hauling back hard on the reins. “You murderer! You bastard!” Hugo wailed at Gnarled Teeth.

“There. Now I cut down part of your expense,” Gnarled Teeth proclaimed. “Best shut up that loud-mouthed lame-brain, Professor, or my next bullet goes in him.”

Molly fell against McMahon, sobbing. “Make them stop! No more shooting—Don’t let them hurt Hugo.”

“All right,” McMahon said, patting the girl comfortingly as he addressed Gnarled Teeth. “That’s enough. You win, you bastard.... You’re right, there’s more money to be had.”

Hanratty looked aghast. “McMahon...stop and think...all we worked for, the money we put away for Molly’s operation....”

McMahon shook his head. “It ain’t worth it, Professor. What does any of that mean if this scum decides to cut us all down.... And he will, sure as can be, just as cold as he pulled on that poor dumb mule.”

“Damn betcha I will,” Gnarled Teeth confirmed.

“What’s to stop him from killing us all anyway?” Hanratty protested.

“No guarantee,” allowed McMahon, giving another faint head shake. “But it’s damn certain he will if he thinks we’re holdin’ out on him.”

“Ain’t no thinkin’ left to it now,” Gnarled Teeth pointed out. “You done admitted you got more money hid away. The only question left...where is it?”

Grim-faced, McMahon said, “Let me climb down, I’ll show you.... You and your boys hold easy on those triggers, right?”

Gnarled Teeth nodded. “Go ahead. Just move real slow and careful-like.”

McMahon gave Molly another comforting pat before quitting the wagon seat. “Everything’s gonna to be all right, little girl,” he assured her.

“It had better be,” Gnarled Teeth said. “Just to be sure, O’Toole”—he gestured to the rider who had moved close to the rear wagon—“you train that rifle gun of yours right on the little cripple. If boxer man tries anything funny, you blow her clean out of that seat, you hear?”

Dropping lightly to the ground, McMahon walked forward to the front wagon. There, he stopped before a large rectangular storage bin that had been fastened to the sideboards on the near side. “What you’re askin’ for is in here,” he said over his shoulder to Gnarled Teeth, as he began untying the ropes that were lashed around the bin to hold its lid shut.

“Mackie-boy, are you sure about what you’re doing?” asked Hanratty edgily.

“Trust me, Professor. This is our best chance.”

“That’s right. Trust the boxer man,” said Gnarled Teeth, “and while you’re at it keep your whinin’ trap shut.”

McMahon wrestled off the lid to the storage bin and let it drop to the ground. Dust puffed up from the rocky footing and swirled in the cold wind. Then he began rummaging in the bin, in time scooping out an armload of small burlap pouches, which he turned and also dumped to the ground. He’d turned back to rummage some more when Gnarled Teeth called sharply.

“Hold up there! What foolery is that? What do you think you’re doing?”

McMahon jerked his chin. “The money you want—it’s squirreled inside some of those pouches.”

“The hell you say! Didn’t you hear me tell the old man that I been watchin’ your shows? You think I ain’t seen how those pouches get used—you knockin’ ’em outta the air when they’re throwed at you?”

“That’s true enough,” McMahon allowed. “But that don’t mean they still can’t have another use too. You never heard of hidin’ something in plain sight, where it’s least likely to be looked for? I’m tellin’ you there are tight balls of money shoved down in the pea gravel inside several of these pouches—the ones tied with red string, the ones we never use as part of the show.”

Virgil looked anxiously at Gnarled Teeth. “When he says it like that, it makes sense in a sneaky kind of way. Might be tellin’ the truth.... Want me to check some of ’em out, Boss?”

Gnarled Teeth scowled suspiciously. “You go ahead and do that, Virgil,” he finally said. “But you hear me, boxer man: I don’t real soon see some money spillin’ out amidst that pea gravel, I’m gonna take you tryin’ to make a fool outta me mighty damn hard—hard on you!”

From where he stood, his right arm still dangling down inside the storage bin, McMahon said, “Let Virgil have his look...you’ll get what you’re askin’ for.”

Virgil left the spilled strongbox and went over to the pouches that had been tossed to the ground. He squatted beside them, laying his Winchester down beside his right foot.

“Want me to give him a hand?” asked O’Toole, a greedy gleam forming in his eyes as he watched Virgil reach for the first of the pouches.

That was the opening McMahon had been waiting for—the moment O’Toole shifted his attention off Molly. In a blinding blur of motion, McMahon’s arm swung free of the storage bin. In his fist, as he extended the arm out to his right, was gripped a Colt .44 Peacemaker. Twice the gun roared, the shots coming so close together it was almost a single sound. Two bullets streaked out, the first splitting open the forehead of O’Toole, the second catching the other rear rider just under the tip of his nose and blowing away the bottom half of his face. Twisting at the waist, reaching cross-body now, the motion a continuing blur of speed, McMahon sent a third bullet up into the soft pad of flesh under Gnarled Teeth’s chin—then on up through his brain, which blew messily out the top of his head, sending his hat flying in the process—before the gang leader even got his rifle raised. That left only Virgil, squatting nearly at McMahon’s feet, He tried desperately to retrieve the Winchester he had laid down only moments earlier. McMahon blasted him at point-blank range and sent him flying backward to land in a sprawl.

It was over in mere seconds. Four bodies lay toppled to the ground, forever stilled, before the echoes of the shots were finished reverberating down through the gorge.

Professor Hanratty wore a stunned expression, his mouth hanging agape to the point of barely being able to form words. “Mackie-boy.... Lord, lord.... Where did you?... How did?... Did you kill them all?”

“Wasn’t time not to,” McMahon answered coolly, as his hands automatically busied themselves pressing out spent shells and then reloading the Peacemaker. He cut his eyes over to Molly. “You all right up there, sweetie?”

Molly, wide-eyed, answered, “I—I’m okay. I’m fine.... Gosh, Mac, where did you learn how to shoot like that?”

McMahon looked away from her questioning gaze and stared off up the gorge for a long minute. Then, in a low voice, he said, “Was a time...back before I joined the show...when my way was to take up the gun pretty regular. Don’t care to go into it more than that, really. It’s a life I left behind...until today.” His eyes fell on Hanratty. “You see, Professor, quick hands are useful for some things other than boxing. For me, that other was drawin’ and firin’ a gun. But then I made my mind up to quit usin’ ’em for that. Never meant to go back to it again, not if I could help it.”

“Yet you had the six-gun in the storage bin. When did you put it there, Mackie-boy?”

“Not too long after we started ridin’ the minin’ camp circuit. Knew there were desperate men to be found on these same trails. Figured havin’ a gun stashed close by might be an ace in the hole we’d need some day.”

“Thank God for your foresight.”

McMahon looked down at the gun in his hand. “Four men are dead because of it.... Don’t rightly know if God wants in on any thanks for that.”

“You did what needed doing, Mackie-boy. You did what had to be done. It’s a dreadful thing to contemplate but you know those vermin wouldn’t have ridden away without leaving all of us dead.” Hanratty’s eyes flicked meaningfully toward Molly and then, in a lowered voice, he added, “...or worse.”

* * * *

They camped right there in the gorge that night. The bodies of the four highwaymen were dragged away and buried under a pile of loose rocks tumbled down from a jagged shelf. Their horses were tied on behind the rear wagon to be sold off, along with the saddles, in the next mining camp. In the morning, just before first light, Hugo got up and began digging a proper grave for his slaughtered mule. It was grueling, hard work in the rocky ground but the powerful young giant was determined to see it done. McMahon pitched in to help. Once the carcass had been dragged to the opening and covered over, they stood in a circle and the professor said a simple yet sincere prayer. Hugo wept.

After that they struck camp and prepared to roll out. Part of the load from the front wagon, now pulled by only a single mule, had been lightened and transferred to the rear wagon. A cold, raw wind was howling down out of the higher elevations this morning and whistling into the gorge, pushing them on their way.

Bundled in a heavy blanket on the seat beside McMahon, Molly said, “How long before we get to the next minin’ town, Mac?”

“Be there by evening, I expect,” replied McMahon. “We’ll do our show, then that’ll be the end of it for a spell. We’ll head on down to the flats somewhere and lay over until spring.”

“I’m looking forward to that.”

“Me, too, little girl.”

Molly frowned. “But you’ll still have to fight one more time. Tomorrow night. Won’t you?”

“That’s the way it works.”

“I sure hope you won’t have to get all cut up again.”

They were rolling past the jumble of rocks covering the bodies of the would-be robbers.

Molly averted her eyes. But McMahon didn’t. He fixed the spot with an icy glare and let it linger there. Then, facing front again, he clucked softly to the mules and said, “Don’t fret over it, gal. Cuts got a way of healin’.... Most things do, in time.”