Fighting Alaska (Fight Card) Read online

  FIGHT CARD:

  FIGHTING ALASKA

  ANOTHER TWO-FISTED

  FIGHT CARD TALE

  JACK TUNNEY

  FIGHT CARD: FIGHTING ALASKA

  e-Book Edition – First Published May 2015

  Copyright © 2015 Duane Spurlock

  Cover: Carl Yonder

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.

  Fight Card, Fight Card Now, Fight Card MMA, Fight Card Romance, Fight Card Luchadores, Fight Card Sherlock Holmes, and the Fight Card logo © 2010 Paul Bishop and Mel Odom

  FIGHT CARD

  FIGHTING ALASKA

  ROUND 1

  TEXAS PANHANDLE, 1900

  The kid’s right thumped into his ribs and thunder rumbled in Jean’s head.

  Jean knew people in the crowd were yelling for him, “Johnny! Johnny!” But he didn’t hear them. He knew others would be shouting encouragement for his opponent. He didn’t hear them, either.

  This fight, he knew, was a terribly unfair matchup.

  He ducked his shoulder to absorb the kid’s right again.

  The kid wasn’t really a kid, maybe twenty-four, twenty-five. But Jean had ten years on him. In this game, that made his opponent a kid. He still hit like a mule kicked, but his inexperience meant Jean would have to carry him, make the bout last.

  He turned, drifted to the kid’s left.

  Jean had to make the kid work, make him use more than his favored right. Making the kid work would make Jean work more, too. In a sense, Jean was fighting for both of them. That could wear him out more quickly.

  But maybe that would make the fight a bit more fair.

  Jean feinted, the kid opened his defense in response, and then Jean lashed out with his right, catching the kid on the left breast. The kid dropped back a step, then bore back in. He swung hard in retaliation. Jean took the blows on his arms. The kid had a temper. Jean had to keep that in mind or the kid would end up making the bout a short one simply through foolish moves.

  A short bout would put Jean in worse shape than before the fight.

  Even in the center of a swirl of noise, dust, and painful blows, Jean felt a knot of disgust tight in his belly.

  He’d put together this bout for one reason – money. Fighting for money was his job, of course. But he usually was pickier about his opponents. However, Jean needed money in a hurry, so he had scrambled around to find a fight. He found this one. He wasn’t happy about taking on an untried fighter like the kid, because Jean would have to work harder to make the fight last, so he could earn back at least more than he bet on the bout.

  And there it was – more work for Jean.

  The kid was getting a little smarter. He feinted with his left, then let loose the right.

  Jean saw the knuckles coming in for a jaw shot. He ducked, rolled up his shoulder, knocked the blow aside.

  The kid was an idiot.

  Jean had seen the same thing all over. A bar brawler, a dock walloper – someone would see one of those characters mop the floor with somebody else in a fight, then would convince the winner he had the makings for a bare knuckle fighter. He could be the next John L. Sullivan!

  The kid had all the moves of an alley brawler who’d heard someone’s encouragement just loud enough. Maybe he really did have what it took to eventually be a decent fighter. He was tough, he could hit. But he had no technique.

  Maybe, Jean thought, a couple more years would turn him into a real opponent.

  But today, the kid didn’t have it. Not yet.

  Taking a bareknuckle swing at Jean’s jaw was foolish. Blows to the head could end up with a hand full of broken bones. The skull was tougher than the hand.

  Jean had learned how bare-knucklers stuck to body blows, worked to wear down their opponents. Stamina, endurance and a disciplined temper meant a bout could last a long time.

  Jean opened up a little, let the kid get in two, three jarring hits. He staggered back a couple of steps, let the yelling crowd eat up some gravy. Make them put up more money on the local boy. Jean wrestled with the disgust in his belly while he danced with the kid, kept the show going. He wanted every coin in those men’s pockets.

  He rolled to the left, set himself for the kid’s favorite move with the right. It was there, as expected, and his ribs took the force of the blow. And the next.

  Jean shifted, caught the next swing on his forearm, then let the kid have his belly as a target.

  The kid didn’t resist.

  Jean fell back, stayed on his feet. He rolled a bit as the kid continued to swing and connect. This was the time for Jean’s act – curl up, stagger about. Make it clear the old man couldn’t stand up to the young stud and his mule-kicking arms. He could hear the noise of the crowd get louder. It was time for Jean’s man in the crowd to start making more bets.

  The older fighter threw a punch occasionally against the kid’s flurry. Jean had to keep the show going.

  The kid’s lack of discipline showed again. His swings got wilder. He was arrogant, sure he could bring down this old man.

  The knot in Jean’s gut seemed to swell. Each punch he let the kid get in, the bigger the knot grew, and the more it burned.

  Jean couldn’t take any more. Sure, he could suck up the punches, roll with the force of the kid’s blows. But the fire of disgust in his belly was tougher than his ability to ride with the fight. He hoped his man had spread around the money, made the bets.

  Jean straightened.

  His arms were full of pins and needles. But he whipped a right, caught the kid on the shoulder. Brought up his left, cut a fist right below the sternum.

  The kid grunted, pedaled back.

  Jean danced to his right, feinting toward his opponent’s left side, so the kid would raise his right arm, the side he preferred to use.

  Jean dodged back, slammed a left under the raised right arm, deep into the kid’s ribs. The kid’s right arm went down, Jean followed up with a left to the chest again. Then a right and left to the gut, right below the sternum.

  The kid’s eyes went wide as he fought for breath. Jean let him dance back and around a bit, but stayed with him, kept just a half step more than arm’s length away.

  The kid’s face paled, then a red stripe across each cheek and his forehead told Jean he’d gotten the kid angry. His opponent swam forward, fast, arms wild, looking for a weak spot in Jean’s defense. Jean waited, blocked shots, connected with the kid’s ribs on the left, the right again.

  While the kid swung, Jean spotted openings and jabbed. A sharp cut with the left where the obliques joined the abs. A round-house to the right shoulder, weakening the kid’s stronger arm. Another tough blast to the sternum.

  The kid got madder, wilder. He brought the right around in an overhand blow aimed at Jean’s face.

  Jean lowered his head. He heard a tremendous metallic ringing, like a sledge striking an anvil. The kid’s fist had slammed into Jean’s skull.

  Jean stepped back. A black cloud passed over his eyes for a moment. The ringing echoes rolled around his head, but were muted. He couldn’t hear any other sound. But he saw the kid’s face. Knew from the shape of the kid’s mouth that he was yelling, maybe screaming. Something in his hand was cracked.

  Jean stepped up, deaf, enraged by the fire in his gut. But where the k
id’s rage had made him swing without thinking, Jean kept the fire directed. Used it to power his arms, heavy as they were, to punch like pistons.

  He smacked a left against the side of the kid’s nose, felt it pop, saw the blood spurt.

  The kid staggered back. Jean walked in, drove a right against the kid’s sternum, a left to the ribs, a right to the opposite ribs.

  The ribs: Jean felt something give and the kid gasped. Jean hammered and hammered. Go, go, go, he thought. Finally the kid crumpled.

  The bout was over.

  Jean had won. But the ringing in his ears seemed to pulse with the roiling flames in his belly. And the fires weren’t dampened with his victory. He barely noticed the aches and the great heaviness that wrapped his frame as the adrenalin drained from his blood. Instead, as he looked at the kid curled at his feet, he burned with a sense of shame and loss.

  ROUND 2

  The fight took place in a tent whose size would make a Sunday camp preacher’s eyes roll with the sin of envy. This canvas never saw a revival – it stood behind the Ajax Emporium, which served up masculine entertainments laced with alcohol and gambling. Jean had arranged the fight with the Emporium’s owner, Bernard Kruger, who took the name Ajax when he purchased the saloon five years back. Ajax had become an old hand at setting up diversions for his customers, and purchasing and erecting the tent two months earlier had turned out to be a sound business move.

  Ajax knew the kid had a hankering to prove himself, so he recruited Jean’s opponent and an off-duty town constable to serve as the new fighter’s corner man and manager.

  Although popular, fights were considered illegal in many communities; such events were therefore touted as scientific exhibitions. Having a local constable involved added legitimacy to the promoter’s claims. Jean hardly knew anyone in town, and Ajax didn’t want to be seen supporting the local boy’s opponent, so the barman recommended Burl Evans, a farrier from down the street, to be in Jean’s corner.

  Burl had helped the wearied Jean maneuver through the noisy throng and out of the tent and into an upstairs back room inside the Emporium. Jean didn’t follow much that happened after that.

  Eventually, he woke up. He lay on a cot. His arms hung off the sides – his hands were drowned in the water of melted ice in two buckets, one standing on the floor to his left, the other on his right. He let his hands stay in the water. He ached so much he winced and had to hold back a groan when he shifted on the cot.

  He recalled after a time how Burl had helped him undress, had helped him wash up, had rubbed down his beaten body. The farrier had good hands, and if he treated horseflesh as well as he did a thumped human form, Jean figured the man had a lot of happy customers.

  Jean realized he’d drifted back to sleep when he opened his eyes and saw Billy Basham looking down at him.

  “Guess I’m lazing away the day,” Jean said.

  Billy grinned. “Johnny, my friend, let me be honest. No matter how much beauty sleep you get, it ain’t gonna help.”

  “Thanks for setting me straight.”

  “That kid you whupped is already out and about. He’s still too young and stupid to know he needs beauty sleep. But he has local yokels pattin’ his back for the good showing. From the look of things last night, I’d say that’s mostly thanks to yourself.”

  Jean offered no answer, so Billy continued. “He’s sulled up like a ‘possum, like he deserves something. But as I said, he’s young and stupid.”

  “He might turn into a good fighter.”

  “With some training and discipline, yes. I’ve seen it happen. But we won’t be waiting around for that day.”

  Jean nodded. He measured his aches as he did so. “How’d we do?”

  “Very well,” Billy said, and he patted his paunch. Jean knew that under the vest and shirt Billy wore a belt stuffed with money – his personal stash plus their winnings from last night’s bout. Billy had been Jean’s man in the crowd making timely side wagers during the fight. Each depended on the other’s performance to make Jean’s pains and bruises profitable.

  “Very well,” Billy repeated. “The kid had a lot of believers under the tent. I guess he’s shown some promise against some neighbors. But we made enough for Ajax to have his cut, the constable, the corner man, and our split.”

  “And mine?”

  “You can get to San Francisco and even eat and sleep on the way.” Billy began to shuck his jacket.

  “Sure it’s okay to pay me out here and now?”

  “That farrier, Evans, he’s doing a fine job guarding your door to make sure no disgruntled boosters of the kid’s debatable talents come a-callin’.”

  “Good man.”

  Billy unbuttoned his vest. “I have your share…”

  “Put it in the bank, give me the receipt. I’ll draw it out when I make my travel plans.”

  “You don’t want to see it?”

  “I can’t use it here.”

  Billy shrugged into his jacket. A knock from the door prompted Jean to say, “Come on in.”

  Burl Evans entered. He carried a platter, and when he pulled away the covering towel, Jean saw it was loaded with a thick steak, roasted potatoes, greens, and Crowder peas. The boxer quickly realized his belly felt like a winter wolf’s, and he ignored the dazzles of pain as he struggled up from the cot. While he sat down at a small table on which Burl had arranged the meal, the farrier left the room and fetched back from the hallway a basket of cornbread and a pail of cold beer. “Rather have coffee?”

  Jean grinned. “I’ll make do.” He tucked into the meal and nodded to Burl. “This is grand.”

  Burl lifted a hand in acknowledgment, then exited into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Billy pinched off a piece of cornbread and nibbled. “We could make some fair money with a rematch.”

  Jean narrowed an eye at him. “That was not a battle of equals. Said so yourself.”

  “Did I? Listen, go back to Faraday, back to bouncing drunks and lunkheads from that bar you were at. Give it a few months. I send word back here, stir up interest in a grudge match, kid gets a chance to show what he really can do. We’d pull home more money than this time, because there’ll be history and bad feelings. More money than we can tote.”

  Jean waved away the proposal with his fork. “I busted his ribs. His hand will hurt him awhile. He’ll think twice before he wants to face me again.”

  “He’s a young stallion. Got to strut for the crowd. For the gals. The locals know his name, put up money for that name, and he has to earn back their respect, even if they’re pattin’ his back today.” Billy tapped his forehead. “It’s all up here in the skull. That’s what makes ‘em wanna fight. He’ll put himself up to anything if he can reclaim the glory he imagines he deserves.”

  Jean looked down at his plate while he sawed at the steak and loaded his fork. “I told you before we did all this, Billy. I’m done.” He shook his head, not raising his gaze. “I fit the fight.”

  “What’s that?”

  Jean’s chewing slowed. He lay down the fork and the plate sounded a little ring. “I saw a fight once.”

  “I betcha seen more than one.” Billy chuckled.

  Jean didn’t even nod, just continued talking. “It was two freedmen. Flogging scars all across their backs, both of them.”

  “Must have been young when they picked those up.”

  Jean ignored the interruption. “You know how these affairs usually go – a battle royale in a private club or some big shot’s home, or a big man put up against a smaller one to create a violent comedy that jollies up the crowd for the main bout. Put everyone in a good mood so they’ll let loose of more money.”

  Billy nodded. “A smiling man will wager his pay, a frowning man stays away.”

  “You’ve seen it.”

  “So?”

  “This fight – equals. Two big men. Big and angry looking, both of them. Made more fearsome looking by those scars on their backs.”
r />   “A great spectacle for the crowd.”

  Jean frowned at Billy. “A great spectacle, yes.”

  “The fight?”

  “It was brutal.” The bout played through Jean’s memory. He’d stood among the yelling spectators, actually flinched more than once as though struck by some of the blows he witnessed. Jean saw something in those fighters’ faces that nearly frightened him – light flashing across clenched expressions like lightning in roiling thunderheads, reflecting a wretched anger and a desire to strip away one’s own pain by flaying it from another man’s body. Every unspoken angry word, every ounce of hate for every moment of pain and loss fueled each swing that slammed a fist into an opponent’s sweat-slick body. The same was true for the man who hit and for the one who hit back.

  An hour afterward, another bout was in progress. Jean had wandered, found his way to a stable three blocks away. A lamp was lit by the open door, but no hostler was present. Jean heard muttering from a dark stall near the back of the cavernous structure.

  Jean had picked up the lamp and gone to the stall. Its floor was strewn with straw. A pail of water sat nestled there, at the back, near a narrow bench. There sat one of the Negro battlers. His scarred back leaned against the wall. His legs were stretched out before him. A rope of bloody snot hung from his nose to his chin, and his eyes were swollen shut. His arms hung limp, his curled hands useless between his thighs. This stall would be his bed for the night.

  The man’s mouth continued to move. Bloody bubbles rose and popped at one corner of his beaten lips.

  Jean had listened to the muttering:

  “Fit the fight. I fit the fight. It been fit. I been fit. Fight no more. No more fight.”

  Jean had backed out of the stall and left. He’d watched no more fights that night.

  He looked up at Billy Basham, who nodded.

  Jean sighed. “Two weeks later I saw him across the street, still staggering around. His face looked like a mule kicked it. The rest of him didn’t look so good, either.”