Battling Boxing Stories. C. J. Henderson

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      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.”

      A LITTLE TOO MUCH HEART

      by Stan Trybulski

      1.

      “Think you’re ready for another fight, Bobby?” I asked the kid.

      “Sure, I should be on next Friday’s undercard, what with all those bums and canvasbacks they have listed.”

      “You been in the gym lately?” McCarthy prodded him.

      “Everyday. Run there and back, too.”

      “You finally learn how to slip a jab?” McCarthy asked him.

      “I can slip yours,” Bobby said. He was smiling but I could see he didn’t especially like McCarthy needling him.

      “How’s your weight?” I asked, changing the subject.

      “One-fifty-five,” Bobby said. “I’ve been keeping it under one-sixty.”

      “Can you get it down quickly?” He fought as a welterweight.

      “Why? You hear something?”

      “Álvarez was cut sparring this morning. Over his left eye. His manager’s talking it down but I hear it’s a bad one. The promoter is looking for a substitute. I heard he called Harry, your manager.”

      “That’s the main event at the Felt Forum. He’s up against Georgie Adams.”

      Álvarez was a Mexican kid from Coney Island who loved to mix it up. A real crowd pleaser who took chances and would take two punches to land one. Adams had been the welter title holder, losing by TKO last year to the current champ. He was on the comeback trail to a title rematch and Álvarez was the perfect opponent. Except, Álvarez liked to mix it up in the gym too and eyebrow cuts being what they are, he trained himself out of a good pay day.

      The three of us, Bobby Colón, Mike McCarthy, and I were in McSorley’s. There was a trio of tourists sitting at the next table to us. They had been drinking long before we got there and their table СКАЧАТЬ