The Leather Pushers (1921, G. P. Putnam's Sons)/Round 9
Lately you'll find a lot of women at prize fights. Some of 'em covers their white faces with their hands and devotes themselves to wishin' it was over, and some of 'em stamps their feet on the floor as excited as the hoarsely bellerin' stevedore on one side of 'em and the wheezin' corporation lawyer on the other, and hollers shrilly: "Knock him out! Knock him out!"
I ain't got the slightest intention of gettin' mixed up in no argument as to whether it's proper or no for a member of the adjoinin' sex to be a part of the yowlin', cussin' mob which watches one guy endeavor to knock another one stiff for pennies. In the first place, anything any Jane does is O. K. with me. In the second place, I know nothin' what the so ever about the girls except I am practically certain that if it wasn't for them we'd all be throwin' coconuts at each other in the tops of the trees to-day. But to get back to the original subject, the bloodiest prize fight I ever seen since I been pilotin' leather pushers was deliberately staged by a woman, because she hated the game. Sounds odd, hey? Well, listen!
After Kid Roberts, with me at the wheel, had win the world's heavyweight title, we tell the ambitious young men which is clamorin' for first punch at the new monarch of the maulers that we have declared a armistice for a year at the smallest as far as vulgar fistycuffs is concerned. We have a movie agreement which would make the charmin' Mrs. Fairbanks raise her equally charmin' eyebrows and a circus contract runnin' into as beautiful figures as Ziegfeld ever seen. The circus portfolio comes first and calls for the appearance of the Kid twice the day durin' a tour of the country. He's down on the menu to punch the bag, pull the weights, skip rope, shadow-box and step a couple of frames with his sparrin' partners. The big wow at the finish is a offer to take on any man, woman, or child in the audience for three rounds.
At the time this round opens, Dolores had gone to Washington with her father, which had been suddenly called there as the Senate had decided to begin playin' practical jokes on the President again. Me and Kid Roberts with our kingly retinue was flittin' through the train-stops-on-signal-only burgs, knockin' the natives cold with our forty-minute demonstration that self-defense is not only a plea, but a art.
It was at a one-night stand in Chickasha, Oklahoma, that one Joe Kenny—the hero or villain of this yarn, whichever you like—first took a runnin' jump and dove into the spotlight. Followin' the "amazin'ly agile acrobats" and the "extryordinarily educated elephants," the cheaper help was chased out of the arena, givin' Kid Roberts the place to himself. In the middle one of the three big circles a regulation ring was swiftly throwed together before the eager eyes of the awed customers, the tent lights was all dimmed, and a blindin' calcium was throwed on said ring. Then a special announcer begin a long debate with himself which was mostly blah blah, and wound up with: ". . . and now, ladees and gent-tel-men, I have the great pleasure of intreeducin' to you one and all the most scientific, polished, gamest, and hardest hittin' exponent of the manly art of self-defense that the American prize ring has ever preeduced [the cheerin' usually begin about here]—the world's champeen heavyweight boxer, Kid Roberts!"
Whilst the band played "Dixie" on account of the Kid bein' a born New Yorker, and the mob went hysterical by a large majority, Roberts, caparisoned in a dazzlin' dress suit, circled the arena twice standin' up in the back of a auto liftin' his hat and bowin' this way and that.
Followin' a exhibition of trainin' stunts which was eat up by the natives, the Kid went two snappy rounds apiece with his sparrin' partners, a good dinge heavy correctly called Dynamite Jackson and Knockout Burns, a tough old war horse. Then whilst the mob, which has just seen enough to set 'em deleerious, is howlin' their heads off, the announcer holds up both hands for silence, grabs up his megaphone, and tells the world that Kid Roberts will box three rounds with anybody in the tent outside of the elephants, usin' ten-ounce gloves, which is the same as pillows, to four-ounce mitts for his darin' opponent. In his hand the announcer waves a little pink slip of paper.
"Ladees and gent-tel-men!" he says. "It has been the custom in the past, when champeens towered the country takin' on all corners, to offer a reward of some sum like a hundred dollars to any man which could stand before the title holder for three or four rounds. The results of this was that a lot of young and inexperienced boys got their heads beat off and took crool and unusual punishment tryin' to stay on their feet so's in the order to git that jack. I want to say to you, one and all, this evenin', folks, that Kid Roberts is not that kind of a champeen. He's beneath takin' the advantage of his soopeerior strennth and skill. But on the behalf of the management I hereby show you a certeyfied check for five thousand dollars, which will be presented to any man in this audience which can knock Kid Roberts off his feet inside of three rounds!"
This always goaled the mob.
Naturally we had a couple of huskies planted in the attendance which volunteered when the young men was coy about takin' a chance of stoppin' the Kid's right with their chin. But now and then that five-thousandbuck offer caused some rustic which would of dove off Washington's monument into a bucket of water for a five-dollar note to come to the fore.
Such, gentle readers, was the case that night in Chickasha.
The announcer had hardly finished when they is a slight commotion in one of the back rows and a growin' rumble of cheers from the crowd. Up the aisle comes a human mountain which could prob'ly of gazed over the top of Eiffel's Tower without standin' on his toes, and who was likewise as delicate and sickly lookin' as the Rock of Gibraltar. Under a mop of black hair, cut high and round in the rear, his weather-beaten, sharply cut features wasn't bad looking in a hick way. I'd guess his age as thirty-five, too old by about fifteen years to take up box fightin' as a trade. Boxin', boys and girls, is strictly a young man's game.
"Woof!" grins Dynamite Jackson to the Kid. "Sure is a tough baby comin' to visit us, boss. Looks like to me you're gonna be compelled to smack 'at boy down!"
It looked like to me, too, when this guy puts one mighty paw on the top rope, vaults into the ring with a thump that sent up clouds of dust from the canvas and begins removin' his coat and collar. The mob is with him to a man, and he's blushin' furiously, but game, as he begins rollin' up his sleeves without givin' the smilin' Kid as much as a look. Fin'ly he bends down and ties up a loose shoe lace, takes a couple of reefs in his belt, and faces us.
"Le's go!" he snarls at the Kid, and puts up his hands.
Whilst the crowd is still shriekin' I grabbed this dumb-bell's arm with both hands and explaiped to him that whilst his spirit was O. K., his costume was a trifle out of order for a boxin' bout, and that if he'd step into the dressin' room with the handlers everything would be jake. At this the man mountain balks. He claims that nothin' in the wide, wide world will induce him to remove his citizen's clothes and reveal his manly form to the multitude in a brief pair of trunks, as he is on hand to fight—not to go swimmin'. He's also got a kick to register with the regard to wearin' gloves, on the grounds that nobody could hurt each other with their hands all cushioned up, and he sneerin'ly inquires if the Kid is afraid of him. This cuckoo was a bit rough, hey?
Well, we fin'ly talked him into strippin' to ring togs after I have convinced him that Kid Roberts has showed no signs of tryin' to sneak out of town since lookin' him over, and that he'd be pleasantly surprised in a few minutes at the damage it was possible to do with a pair of boxin' gloves if they was properly applied.
The fifteen minutes or so which this bimbo devoted to changin' his costume was nerve-rackin' on the crowd, and by the time he stepped into the ring again they was all ready to bite nails. A cheer which swayed the tent poles greeted him when he throwed off the overcoat he had draped over his walkin' beam shoulders and walked over to the corner selected for him. He viewed the two circus attendants which was deputized to handle him with open suspicion, and absolutely refused to sit down on the stool whilst waitin' for the bell. Oh, this baby was rarin' to go!
"What's yer name, feller?" whispered the announcer hoarsely, standin' beside him. "And whereabouts are ya from?"
"Joe Kenney," says the hick in a voice as deep as the center of the Atlantic. "My place is near Chickasha, and—"
"That don't mean nothin'!" snorts the announcer, straightenin' up and facin' the crowd. "Ladees and gent-tel-men!" he roars, pointin' to the astonished Joseph. "We have with us to-night Oklahoma's favorite son and one of this fair State's leadin' exponents of the manly art, which has—ah—defeated some of the best men in his class. He will now box Kid Roberts three rounds and attempt to win the five-thousanddollar prize by knockin' the world's heavyweight champeen off of his feet. Allow me to present to you, one and all, Hurricane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher!"
The mob howls with joy, and Joe Kenney's eyes stuck out of his head till you could of knock 'em off with a cane when he hears the title which the announcer had bestowed on him, the first time, as I found out later, he had ever stepped into a ring! Whilst our referee is tellin' the Chickasha Bone Crusher that kickin', bitin', jiu jitsu, or pullin' a knife will disqualify him, a scatterin' beller of "Weights! Weights!" comes up from the customers, and the announcer again whispers to Joseph, then leans over the ropes.
"The weights!" he hollers. "The weights is: Kid Roberts, one ninety-seven and a half; Hurricane Kenney, two hundred and twenty-six!"
"Wow!" shrieks the crowd. "Knock him out, Kenney, we're with ya!"
Then the bell rung. Kenney had evidently made up his mind that he would qualify immediately for the "Hurricane" label which had just been gave him, for he charged across the ring at the Kid with a snarl like a famished panther. For a man of his bulk he was really surprisin'ly light on his feet, but the first wild haymaker he let go was the tip off that Joe had never before pushed his knuckles through a boxin' glove. The Kid lazily blocked the punch and countered with a straight left to the mouth that made Kenney say how do you do and brung joyful yelps from the crowd. The Chickasha Bone Crusher then uncorked a wicked right swing to the body, which, although the Kid took it on his elbow, drove him against the ropes and the crowd crazy.
Kenney followed the Kid up, pinnin' him against a ring post with his huge body, and suddenly slidin' one arm around the champ's neck, he begin whalin' away at the stomach with the other. The big tent fairly quivered with the uproar now, half the mob booin' Kenney and yellin' for the referee to break 'em, and the other half screamin' for the Bone Crusher to knock the Kid stiff. The pantin', excited, and red-faced referee, both hands grabbin' the wagon tongue that passed as Kenney's arm, was actually swingin' off the floor on it tryin' to unhook it from around the Kid's neck. He might as well of tried to push over the Rocky Mountain with one hand!
Roberts curled up and kept his head, makin' most of Kenney's rib crackers glance off his arms, but some of 'em was gettin' through, and when they did, havin' 226 pounds of bone and muscle behind 'em—well, they wasn't doin' the Kid any good. He kept choppin' at Kenney's head and face with his right, but this baby seemed to have a iron jaw, and, besides, they was too close together for the Kid to put any snap in his blows.
Roberts looked at me over the human bear's shoulder and shook his head, kinda puzzled.
"Down below, Kid!" I hollers. "Down below—work on his heart!"
Still cool, the champ drops his head till it rests on Kenney's heavin' chest. He sets himself for half a second and then both arms begin pumpin' like pistons into the Hurricane's body, left—right, left—right, left—right, left—right! A minute of this and Kenney's grunts with each blow could be plainly heard by guys in the last row. The arm comes away from the Kid's neck, and I see the back muscles quiverin' under the rollin' skin.
Quick as startled lightnin' the Kid shifts his attack, and a vicious right uppercut sent the Bone Crusher back on his heels, pawin' at the breeze for support. Roberts, however, refused to follow up his advantage and put him away, but contented himself with lefthandin' his man all over the ring—never lettin' the bewildered Kenney set for a solid punch.
The bell only seemed to irritate the Hurricane further, and he took two free swings at the Kid after the latter dropped his hands and started for his corner, for which the mob gave him the razz.
When the indignant referee explained to him that the gong meant cease firin', Kenney grinned sheepishly, walked over to the Kid and shook his hand, mumblin' somethin' about not knowin' the rules.
The Kid presents him with a pleasant smile and a pat on the back, and as Joseph returns to his corner the crowd give him a hand which would of tickled Chaplin.
Durin' the rest I told the Kid that as this Kenney person was about the foulest fighter I ever seen work, he had better crack him and be done with it.
Roberts shakes his head and says he'll merely keep him off and let it go at that.
"This fellow isn't deliberately foul," says the Kid. "He's simply ignorant of the rules—that's all. I don't believe he ever fought in a ring before in his life until this minute. Besides, he's too tough and too game to be stopped with a punch. I'd have to wear him down with punishment first, and I'm not going to cut him up. Let us alone, we're having a lot of fun!"
Kenney didn't land two solid wallops durin' the entire second round, though he must of throwed eight million gloves in the general direction of the Kid's jaw.
Long before the bell he was so blown and tired from his own exertions that he lumbered around after the dancin', smilin' Kid like a drunken elephant.
Roberts simply give the Hurricane and the crowd a boxin' lesson, avoidin' Kenney's terrific clouts by shiftin' his body aside a fraction of a inch or makin' the Bone Crusher's well-meant efforts slide harmlessly around his neck by rollin' his head this way and that, whilst the customers squealed with glee. The gong was a welcome sound to Monsieur Kenney, which flopped heavily on his stool, blowin' like a school of whales.
Round three was a duplicate of the other two, with the slight exception that it only went a minute and a half. Kenney was slow to leave his corner, and so tired from chasin' the elusive Kid about the ring that he could hardly raise his hairy arms. His stomach was pumpin' in and out like a bellows.
The mob, quick to sense his condition, implored the Kid to knock him for a goal, but Roberts had no such idea. He straightened the Hurricane up with a couple of stiff jabs to the face, and Kenney's knees sagged as he fell over against the ropes, mouth open, gaspin', and primed to be bounced.
The Kid stepped away from him to make him lead, and as Kenney swung wildly with both hands to the head, the champ slid inside the blows and planted a short right hook to the jaw. I know Roberts pulled the punch. There was hardly enough kick in it to rock a man, and a few minutes earlier Kenney would of brushed it off like a fly. But now it was all different! Out of condition and exhausted by his own wild swingin', the Bone Crusher toppled to his knees with a crash that shook the ring.
He paid no attention to the referee's count—prob'ly didn't know what it was all about—but turnin' his head around he snarled somethin' at the cuckoo mob, which was on its feet screamin' at him. Slowly and painfully Kenney pulled himself upright at the count of "six," a thin, crimson stream tricklin' from one corner of his mouth, where the Kid had prob'ly loosened a tooth. He spread his tremblin' legs wide apart to brace himself upright, and faced the Kid with danglin', useless arms, his glarin' eyes the livest portion of his tired body. Settin' his jaw, Kenney stares grimly into the Kid's troubled features.
"Go ahead, old-timer," pants this twenty-nine carat gamester, "they ain't nothin' to hinder yuh now!"
With the deleerious mob bellerin' for murder, show me the champion or preliminary burn which wouldn't of measured this guy and knocked him stiff!
But Kid Roberts drew back and looked sharply at the beaten Hurricane for a instant, and then, as Kenney suddenly swayed on his feet, the Kid stepped forward and caught him in his arms, easin' him gently to the floor.
"Next!" bawls the announcer.
The mob is already jostlin' out of the exits.
We had to lay over in this burg till two o'clock the next afternoon, and durin' breakfast in the Kid's private car we get to talkin' about Monsieur Hurricane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher. I had personally gave that baby a lot of thought, for at the time I was already keepin' a eye out for a possible successor to Roberts, which couldn't be moved a inch from his determination to quit the ring after a couple of fights as champion, win, lose, or draw. The fact that the Kid had disposed of Kenney with the greatest of ease the night before didn't bother me at all—Kid Roberts himself was a terrible bust in his first start.
Kenney had showed he possessed the first and most important requirement of a fighter, viz. and to wit, courage. Also, I had the Kid's word for it that he could hit. As he stood now he didn't know the difference between a left hook and the referee, but he could be taught that, and likewise to hit from his bulgin' shoulders instead of from his hips. Although he looked ten years older, he had give his age as twenty-four, another big help. Standin' a good three inches over six foot, he scaled 226, of which perhaps fifteen pounds was flabby and could be worked off, leavin' him a steelsinewed, giant fightin' machine with heart enough to make him a serious problem in a twenty-four foot ring for any man! As a matter of fact, I figured that about three months readyin' up and workin' out with my champ would make Kenney ripe to wade through the third-rate heavies as sensationally as the Kid did.
I put it up to Roberts, and he was enthusiastic.
"Bring him along, by all means," he nods. "He's a good, game fellow and may develop into a first-class heavyweight. At all events, he'll make a splendid sparring partner, for, in spite of his greenness, he's tough and dangerous enough to keep me on my toes for a few minutes at least. I admire the way he stood up to me, and I'll take a great deal of interest in teaching him what I can."
He takes out his wallet and removes a hundred-case note. "Here," he adds, "that big fellow's poor showing against a smaller man last night must have been rather humiliating. I know how miserable I felt the first time! Give him this—it'll cheer him up a bit. From the desperate way he tried to put me out, the poor devil probably needs it, unless I'm very much mistaken."
He was very much mistaken! I ambled into a general store where they sold everything from potatoes to pianos, and learned that Joseph Kenney could be found on a cattle mine about two miles out of the metropolis. The merchant prince which owns the store heartily recommends his son as a scout, and a long, lean, lank dumb-bell garbed like Wm. S. Hart, minus the artillery, quits killin' flies with the lash of a quirt and nods for me to follow him out.
I was just goin' to inform him that ridin' horses was one of the two or three things I ain't fluent at, when he leads me over to a ancient, dilapidated flivver, and motions me to enter therein.
"Wait a minute!" I says. "How much is it goin' to set me back for this joy ride?"
"Twenty dollars!" answers my charmin' guide, automatically disqualifyin' himself as a movie cowboy by usin' two hands to roll a cigarette.
"I'll give you five," I says, pleasantly.
"Done," he says. "Git in and hol' fast!"
Joe Kenney, nee the Chickasha Bone Crusher, was discovered aboard a horse with some guys afoot which was mendin' rails in a fence. He returned my greetin' intact. A little mouse under his right eye and a slightly puffed lip was the only visible signs of strife on the man mountain's countenance. Realizin' how a hundred bucks must appeal to a forty-dollar-the-month cow-puncher, I drawed forth the bill and handed it to him.
"A little present from Kid Roberts," I explains with a bewitchin' smile. "Likewise, I have come to offer you a chance to make as much in a week punchin' ears as you'd make in a month punchin' steers! Boss here, is he?"
The world's largest cowboy looks the hundred-case note over carefully, folds it up, and slips it in his pocket.
"Much obliged!" he says. "This here's the Crawlin' S ranch. I own it, so I reckon I'm the boss!"
Anybody which has nothin' else to do can picture my astonishment.
"Aheh," I says, when I recovered. "Of course, bein' the wealthy owner of a steak farm instead of a lowly cowboy, them—ah—hundred smackers I just give you was unnecessary and—"
"That's all right," butts in the Bone Crusher. "Every little bit helps! Come up to the house and I'll hear yore story."
"Eh—I hardly think it's worth while now," I says. "I'm afraid my stuff wouldn't hit you at all—you bein' a rich cattle king and the like. I come here with the idea of gettin' you interested in the box-fightin' industry, but"
"Well, pardner," interrupts Kenney, his eyes gleamin'. "Yuh couldn't have throwed in with a more interested man. As a matter of cold fact, yore talkin' to the comin' heavyweight champeen of the world!"
This was all different and I followed him up to the house without no more further ado.
A sweet-faced, brown-eyed, fairly good-lookin' young woman is sittin' on the pazzaza wieldin' a mean darnin' needle and exercisin' women's inalienable right to hum to themselves whilst workin'. At the foot of her rockin'-chair romped, as I rightly guessed, three little Chickasha Bone Crushers.
The girl's face lit up like a cathedral when she seen Kenney, and I discovered I had been mistaken when I thought her fairly good-lookin'. She was beautiful. This love thing is wonderful stuff, and I bet they'll be a crash heard round the world when I fall into it!
Mention of the fact that I was manager of a prize fighter killed off the welcomin' smile on the face of Kenney's wife, but the introductions was accomplished without violence and we went on inside the house. The Chickasha Bone Crusher dragged out a box of cigars, a wink, and a bottle of prohibition antidote in that order.
Then he sits down and stretches himself.
"Come a-shootin'!" he says.
I asked him if he was in the habit of drinkin' and smokin' as trainin' exercises, and, frownin', he says he was in the habit of doin' what he pleased, so I made the greatest haste to remark that whilst it was none of my business, he was ruinin' his wind with the smokes and his nerves with the hooch and that most successful scrappers laid off both.
With a grin, Kenney reaches lazily over and picks up a unusually thick poker from the fireplace. Placin' his hands about a foot apart on it, he bent it double like I'd fold a sheet of paper. Then he bent it back again and tossed it clatterin' on the floor.
I'd never seen the stunt done before with such little effort. They was no veins standin' out like whipcords, as the sayin' is, on Kenney's 20-inch neck, nor did beads of perspiration drop off his brow. He done the thing as carelessly as he'd break a matchstick. The Bone Crusher didn't have to do that to show me his muscle. A look at him and you'd believe he'd moved Grant's Tomb six inches with his shoulders! But strength alone, boys and girls, is not enough to become a title holder in fistiana.
For the example, every good wrestler has had ambitions to become a boxin' champ at one time or another in his career and a great many of 'em have laced on a pair of gloves and stepped into a ring only to be made look foolish by some third-rate pug. Even Frank Gotch, the daddy of 'em all, once had this experience. Professional strong men, weight lifters, and the like are flops as a rule when they turn to the ring. Their sinews havin' been developed for show or pushin' and haulin' purposes, they're so slow and muscle-bound that the slighter boxer has no trouble at all steppin' around 'em and pastin' 'em pretty.
But to get back to the Bone Crusher. Inside of a half hour I have found out that readin' about what heavyweight champions got for a few minutes' work had murdered Joe Kenney's interest in the art of raisin' cows. Likewise, Joseph made no secret of the fact that he figured himself a topside slugger, able to hold his own with the best of 'em right now.
"Well, Joe," I says enthusiastically, when he got finished, "I'm for you and so's Kid Roberts. Get your hat on and we'll go down to a notary's public if they is one in this burg. I'll sign you up for three years and you can start workin' out with the Kid right away. With me as your manager and the champ as your teacher—why, say, inside of a year—"
"Draw in yore loop, old-timer!" butts in Joe, risin' and handin' me my hat. "I don't need no manager, and I ain't aimin' to take no job as a helper. I don't want to take advantage of yore champeen by joinin' up with his outfit, because I can lick the tar out of him right now! While yore here, I'm a-givin' yuh fair warnin'—the next time I run across yore man, I'm comin' asluggin' with both hands!"
A dumb-bell is a awful thing, hey?
The Kid and me split a laugh between us when I told him how the Chickasha Bone Crusher had received my generous offer. Then we forgot all about Monsieur Kenney.
The next stop was Tycopee, another duck-in and duck-out hamlet, and when the Kid finishes his act and calls for volunteers, Battlin' Thomas, one of the plants we carried, starts up the aisle, as they is no response from the brave men and true in the audience.
Halfways to the ring the Battler is pushed to one side by a large, tall person wearin' a wide-brimmed black Stetson.
Layin' one hand on the top rope, the stranger leaps into the ring, waves his hand airily to the shoutin' crowd, and presents me and the Kid with a sneerin', full-toothed grin.
"Beats all how us boys do cross trails!" says Hurricane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher, throwin' his coat over one of the posts. "I'd admire to draw down them five thousand dollars. Whereabouts is them gauntlets?"
Twenty minutes later the Kid is shakin' hands with a somewhat battered and slightly bleedin' human shock absorber entitled Hurricane Kenney. One of Kenney's glims is a study in purple, and a cut on his left cheek bone shows the dashin' rancher to be possessed of red blood anyways. Kid Roberts is sportin' several crimson blotches on his gleamin' white body where some of the Hurricane's wild haymakers has landed, but outside of that is unharmed.
"Better luck next time, old man!" smiles the Kid as we're leaving the ring.
"I'll knock yuh out the next time!" growls the jovial Kenney.
We had a hundred-and-fifty-mile jump from this slab, and a wicked rainstorm when we got there kept most of the natives away. But it didn't keep Joe Kenney away! Joseph ambled up the aisle and took a front seat whilst the Kid was givin' a exhibition of bag punchin'. Seein' him, the Kid laughed and then nodded pleasantly and Joe replied with a snarl that caused the hicks on both sides of him to edge from him nervously.
A short time afterward Joe give the customers a treat by crashin' through the ropes to the floor twice, in his desperate efforts to knock Kid Roberts for a row of ash cans. About the only time Kenney laid a glove on the Kid was when they shook hands at the end of the thing.
Well, for the next half dozen times the Chickasha Bone Crusher was a regular feature of the show, wherever they permitted boxin'. Kid Roberts, which seemed to be gettin' a lot of giggles out of Kenney, refused to knock him stiff and be done with it, although he always had to slow up this big ham early with a smash over the heart so's no accidents would happen. Fin'ly we get to New Orleans, where we're due to linger a week. Kenney fails to appear on the openin' night, and I lay the Kid eight to five that the Bone Crusher has decided to call it a day. He showed up on the last night and the big stiff thereby costs me eight hundred fish.
But before Kenney lumbered into the ring that eve me and the Kid has a visitor in the shape of no less than the Bone Crusher's charmin' young wife. She has came all the ways from dear old Chickasha unknown to her bitter half, and if it wasn't for the cute trick she had of scrunchin' up her little nose I doubt if I would of knew her.
They was half moons under the honest brown eyes and she's a bit pale and drawn. Sniffin' scornfully at the bespangled, short-skirted ladies of the trapeze and the etc., she made her way over to where we was standin' on the lot. She'd seen me, of course, before, but not the Kid, and she's standin' right in front of him when she asks where she can find the champion.
Roberts has his hat off and is bowin' at her before I can stall her and Mrs. Hurricane Kenney's eyes registers surprise as they sweep the smilin' Kid from stem to stern. No doubt she expected to see some cauliflower-eared, red-faced, snaggled-toothed, hairy cave man instead of this handsome young blond which looked almost slight alongside of her gigantic helpmeet.
Although I kept both ears wide open and both eyes glued on hers whilst she talked, I could find nothin' suspicious about her story—told in a haltin', moist voice which had the sympathetic Kid for her, and me waverin' before she had said six words. It seemed that Joe Kenney had now gone cuckoo on the subject of box fightin', and his idea that he would be the next world's heavyweight champion had been greatly strengthened by the fact that the Kid hadn't flattened him to date. So he has turned his ranch over to a dumb-bell brother to run and, accordin' to Mrs. Kenney, said brother is runnin' it right into the ground.
At this point Mrs. Kenney resorts to the use of props. She extracts a gram of lace from her pocketbook and with a occasional touch of it to the eyes she says she and the Bone Crusher was happy and everything was jake till the circus and the Kid come to town. She don't accuse the Kid in words of havin' gummed things up, but she does it with her eyes, whilst she's half sobbin' that she don't want her husband to be no pugeylist and that him chasin' all over the country after the circus is bustin' up her home. She claims if the Kid don't send the wanderin' Bone Crusher back to Chickasha, Kenney won't have no wife, ranch, or jack left.
"It might sound funny to you, Mister Kid," she winds up, with a quiverin' of lip that was sure fire on Roberts. "But it's a tragedy to me!"
Well, the Kid spent the best part of fifteen minutes tellin' her to go home and cheer up, leavin' everything else to us.
He says if Hurricane Kenney shows up in this burg he will have a long talk with him and do all he can to lay him off the art of box fightin'. He also adds that Kenney is the luckiest guy since Columbus to have discovered a wife like she, which brings a healthy blush and a pleasant smile to the rapidly brightenin' face of Mrs. K. Then I crammed into her hands a lot of balloons to be blowed up and other souvenirs of the circus for the kids, and we took her to the station in the Kid's bus, so's the Bone Crusher wouldn't run across her was he in our midst.
These frequent settos with the good-natured world's champion wasn't makin' Kenney no worse, and he has now advanced to the point where he's hittin' straight from the shoulder and the Kid is extended to keep him off without droppin' him this time. After the bout we go into the dressin' room off the ring to interview Kenney as advertised to his wife. As a success, the interview was a failure.
Kid Roberts, with a brotherly air advises the Chickasha Bone Crusher to quit followin' us hithers and you and go back to his charmin' consort. He tells Kenney what a tough game boxin' is, how he personally dislikes it himself and that he's goin' to leave the ring flat on its back in another year. Windin' up, the Kid pats the Bone Crusher on the back and remarks that with his wonderful family and prosperous ranch, Kenney's a sultan compared to the average prize fighter.
The Chickasha Bone Crusher, pullin' on his citizen's clothes, has heard Kid Roberts through without a word but with a sneer on his face which would of caused anybody else in the world outside of the Kid to knock him dead as he sat on the stool. Now, he looks up from tyin' his shoes and one swollen lip curls to the tip of his beak.
"Sho' is noble of yuh to look after me," he snarls, "but yuh can't buck jump me thataway. I aims to stay on yore back till I'm champeen, which same I'll be as sure as my name's Joe Kenney! Reckon I'm gettin' too rough for yuh, hey? Come mighty near ropin' yuh there for a minute to-night, didn't I? Yeh, and I would have, only they rung the bell when they seen yuh was hurt. Good thing I had them pillows on my hands or I'd have sure mussed up that baby face of yourn, pardner! I'd admire to take yuh on in a finish fight with bare knuckles—without no bells and without that cotton paddin' on my hands!" He give a nasty laugh. "But I don't reckon yuh hanker for no manhandlin'. Takes a fighter for that, not a boxer, hey?"
"You big—" I begins, but the hard glitter only stayed a second in the Kid's eyes. He pulled me to the door.
"Kenney," he laughs shortly, "you're an insulting and aggravating fool! For your information, let me say that I could have knocked you out at any time you were in the ring with me. I don't want deliberately to hurt you, and evidently nothing but a thorough beating will reach your asinine egotism. Well, I'm human, Kenney—in the future, keep away from me!"
We didn't wait for the Bone Crusher's answer.
From New Orleans to Washington Kenney followed the circus, but he had no more bouts with the Kid. Instead in every town he publicly challenged my title holder to a finish fight for the world's championship, which got us beaucoup publicity gratis in the sticks. In most of the big burgs the wise-crackin' newspaper guys had the Bone Crusher pegged as a plant and wouldn't give him a tumble. In Washington, however, one of the sport writers fell for him and after a interview, printed under Kenney's photo a two-column blah of romantical hooch about him bein' a dashin' cowboy from the ferocious West and the etc., and demandin' that he be gave a crack at the title immediately.
Well, boys and girls, he got it!
The minute we blowed into the nation's capital, Kid Roberts fled out to Senator Brewster's palace to pass the time of day with his comin' bride, the delicious Dolores. He cut his act down to twenty minutes that night, leavin' the sparrin' out entirely, and I followed him into the dressin' room to find his Jap valet layin' out a dress suit and packin' a bathrobe, fightin' trunks, and bandages into a grip. He grins at the expression which must of been on my face.
"Just in time!" he says. "I was going to send Kogi after you. I've got to be downtown by ten-fifteen—see that the car's ready, will you, old man? I've promised Dolores I'd box two rounds with some one at the Red Cross benefit to-night. She's one of the patronesses, you know, and it will be rather a feather in her cap to have a world's champion there. They have a big card of theatrical stars, movie people, and a lot of prominent boxers. You know how these things are, one has to help. I want you to handle me yourself—this will be nothing, just an exhibition, and I'm afraid Dynamite Jackson and Knockout Burns might scare the ladies away!"
"Well—all right," I grumbled. "I guess they's no harm in helpin' the Red Cross, Kid, but this here's kind of sudden. I don't like these short-notice affairs. Who you goin' to box and—"
Kid Roberts throws back his head and laughs. "Hurricane Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher!" he chortles. "He's apparently impressed this sporting writer who wrote that article about him, and I really believe the pair of them think they're slipping one over onme. Of course Kenney's challenging me has smoked the thing up so that—"
"Knock him dead the minute he puts up his hands," I butts in. "We'll get that baby all settled to-night!"
"I'm afraid I may have to stop him this time," says the Kid grimly, shakin' his head. "The poor fool. Well—come on!"
The last-minute announcement that Kid Roberts was goin' to step two rounds with Hurricane Kenney, the cowboy challenger for the championship, brought two-thirds of Washington out to the big auditorium where the Red Cross benefit was bein' had. By the time we had shouldered our way through the mob down into the basement where the men's dressin' room was, congressmen was out in the street fightin' with less known millionaires for the privilege of payin' two hundred bucks to stand up inside. We could plainly hear Kenney's voice in the room opposite the one we took whilst I was bandagin' the Kid's hands. I hadn't bothered to lock the door, and suddenly it opens and closes gently and when I glance quickly around at the Kid's startled exclamation, I see no less than Mrs. Kenney is inside. She's tremblin' like a shaken jelly and on the brinks of weeps. Her cute little face is the color of cream, but her eyes is feverish.
The Kid jumps up frownin'ly and throws a bathrobe around his shoulders.
"Forgive me—I—I—had to come!" pants Mrs. Kenney in a chokin' whisper. "I—Joe has sold the ranch and bet every penny we have tn the world that he will knock you out to-night!"
"Oh, the infernal ass!" gasps the Kid. "Good Heavens, what a mess! You poor girl!"
"Who did he bet with—quick!" I says. "Maybe I can—"
"It's too late!" moans Mrs. Kenney, collapsin' into a chair and hidin' her face in her hands. "I saw the man—Big Bill Henderson, they call him—who's holding the stakes. I told him everything, but it was no use. He said he would not give Joe back the money unless there wasn't any bout. There must not be a bout, do you hear?"
She jumps up off the chair and faces the Kid like she was willin' to take him on herself!
"My dear girl," says the Kid, "I would do anything in the world to help you, but if I refuse to meet your husband now I—why—I'd be the laughing-stock of the country! The ridicule would prevent me from—"
"I don't want you to refuse to meet him!" interrupts Mrs. Kenney, excitedly. "That wouldn't cure him. Joe would still think he could whip you then and he'd keep after you until you fought him! You don't know him like I do."
The Kid, pacin' up and down the room, has been castin' nervous glances at the hall. Now he stops and bends over her with a finger on his lip.
"Sssh!" he says in a low voice. "Mrs. Kenney, you will have to leave my dressing room. I'll delay the bout and try to think of some way out of this muddle for you, but you must go immediately and be careful not to be seen leaving here. You have been very indiscreet in coming here at all! Your husband is dressing in a room across the corridor, and if he heard your voice—found out you were in here—well, it is quite possible with his quick temper that he might—eh—misinterpret your visit. Please go at once."
Mrs. Kenney caught her breath in a half sob that sent my Adam's apple bobbin' around like a cork in the ocean, and the Kid's drawn face showed how deeply he was moved. She looked so little and helpless standin' there beside us two big stiffs that—oh, dammit, you know! I turned away, but out of the corner of my eye I see her edgin' slowly for the door.
"If—if Joe couldn't appear—out there—the bets would be off, wouldn't they?" she breathes.
I nodded.
Then—Sweet Mamma, listen!
The soft brown eyes turns hard and glitterin'. She suddenly bangs the door shut, turns the key, and lets out a ear-splittin' shriek! Almost on the instant it seemed to me, a bull's beller boomed in the hall, the door rattles, and—smash! Flounderin', sprawlin', hysterically cursin', Joe Kenney crashed through the crumbled door into the room.
Like the Kid, Kenney was in ring togs minus the gloves, a roll of soft bandage still danglin' from one hand. For a second he peered around the dressin' room like a guy walkin' from the dark into a brilliantlly lighted hall. His little, flamin' red eyes passed over me on to his chalk-faced wife which stood silent against the wall, her face turned away from the amazed stare of the Kid.
I grabbed her arm and shook it, pointin' frantically to Kenney—tryin' to show her by signs to say somethin', explain the thing to her husband. For some reason, I couldn't talk, though my lips worked enough! She hung her head and said nothin'. With a roarin' curse, the Bone Crusher got me by the waist and throwed me the length of the room. I fell sprawlin' in a corner and then, whilst the mob waited impatiently upstairs for the world's champion and his cowboy challenger to climb through the ropes for a two-round, gentlemanly sparrin' exhibition, they fought in the dressin' room the bloodiest, most sensational battle that I, you, or anybody else ever was privileged to see and they went at it the way Kenney always wanted it—with bare knuckles!
I can close my glims and see that scrap now as well as if it come off last night. Boys and girls, it was sure one for the book! They was no ring, no padded mitts, no referee to prevent foul fightin', no bell to call a brief halt, no handlers to sponge off gore or close a ugly cut.
No yellin' crowd was poundin' their seats and eggin' them babies on—they was nothin' but Kenney's wife sunk to her knees, her face buried in her arms at one end of the room and me crouched half dazed in the other, tryin' to keep cool and advise my battler, which was absolutely fightin' for his life.
Over the busted door peered a half dozen scared faces, but if they did or said anything, nobody noticed.
They was no stallin' this time, no pullin' wallops to let Kenney stay. Kid Roberts was puttin' everything he had into each punch, for the Chickasha Bone Crusher had turned killer and twice had bent the Kid over his giant's knee with both hands sunk in his white throat. Each time the gaspin' Kid had wriggled free and pounded Kenney's face to a purple jelly before the Bone Crusher bulled his way in close to grab the champ around the body with one arm and pound his ribs with the other. A wild swing caught Roberts fair on the chin and he crashed against the opposite wall, his head hittin' with a crack that wrung a scream from me. In a flash, Kenney was on him, bangin' him back and forth against the wall with little, sickenin' snarlin' grunts like a wild animal over its kill.
Half cuckoo, I jumped to my feet and pawed at the Bone Crusher's wet and strainin' back. "Fight fair—you big yellah bum!" I shrieked, and it was the Kid, with a tooth-barin' snarl that equaled Kenney's own which shoved me away with a free arm. Kenney, havin' exhausted every foul means of fightin'—fair enough to him, I guess, accordin' to the rules of what brawls he'd been in—decided to butt the Kid and as he lowered his head, Roberts straightened him up with a terrific left and right, danced away from the wall and broke the Bone Crusher's nose with a solid right smash.
The ensuin' gore covered them both, and I have no doubt that by this time Kenney had went clean crazy, for he grabbed at a chair and brung it down on the Kid's shoulders, crashin' him to the floor. Had I a gat, I would of cooked Monsieur Kenney then and there! I done the best I could, by shovin' out a foot and trippin' him as he rushed to give the prostrate Kid the boots.
They both got up at the same time and stood pantin', facin' each other—a sight for a movie director. Kenney's face was a shapeless mass from which features could only be picked by guess work.
The Kid, drenched with the Bone Crusher's gore, looked almost as bad, and they was a expression on his face I had seldom seen there when he was in a ring. Forced into this mill, Roberts had took more punishment than he ever had before in his life, and his ability to take it amazed even me. He'd been manhandled, fouled and hurt, and, shakin' his blond head, he plunged into Kenney like a lean, savage wolf against a ragin' bear. For a full minute now they stood toe to toe and slugged, and few wallops went wild, though none had the steam behind them they had at first.
They'd both taken enough solid smashes to of ticked a dozen heavies!
A funny look of awed wonderment begin to spread over Kenney's crimson map. Slowly he begin to give ground, his one good eye blinkin' in fear and amazement. Almost twice the size of the slender Kid, he had give him everything he had—buried his fists to the wrist in that corded steel body a dozen times and the Kid was still there, givin' wallop for wallop. I forgot the fight almost in watchin' Kenney's face, and I knew I read his thoughts correct, when without hardly knowin' it, I bawled: "Now you know why he's champion, you big tramp!"
I could of swore Kenney nodded. Anyhow, he begin to back pedal desperately, and now the Kid was cool and grinnin' for the first time since the murder started. He feinted the Bone Crusher into a openin' and drove through his right to the jaw. The groggy Kenney swayed back and forth, both arms clumsily raised before his battered face, and settin' himself, Kid Roberts banged one of Kenney's own fists against his chin with another torrid right. The man mountain toppled forward into a perfectly timed uppercut, seemed to hang in the air a instant, and suddenly toppled over on his back—knocked stiff!
Gaspin', the Kid stood over him glarin' down at the lifeless hulk. He actually seemed sorry it was over!
Mrs. Kenney pulls the Bone Crusher's head into her lap and, weepin' softly, is tryin' to wipe off the gore with a one-inch handkerchief. The Kid bends down to her, his own voice shakin'.
"Mrs. Kenney," he says, "this is a terrible thing—but it had to be! There was no way—"
"I'm glad he was whipped," butts in the remarkable Mrs. Kenney, meetin' the Kid's eye. "Now maybe—he'll—stay—home—with—me!"
Yet when Roberts reaches down to sponge Kenney's face, she knocks his arm away.
"Let him alone!" she says fiercely and covers the Bone Crusher's face with her arms. "Go away and leave him with me. You've done enough!"
Girls is a bit odd, hey?
A announcement is made to the mob that the Kid Roberts-Hurricane Kenney bout is off—on account of Kenney havin' hurt his arm in trainin', So that was that.
Being terrible tough, the Bone Crusher is in shape to start back to dear old Chickasha with the Missus in a hour. By usin' her nut, his charmin'-wife has saved him his dough, the humiliation of gettin' a proper pastin' before the crowd, and likewise convinced him that ranchin' is a better game than fightin'. The deepest regret Kenney seemed to have when he come to was that the only time his wife had ever seen him fight was the holocaust just finished in which he run second and he remarks half mournfully to Roberts:
"She must think I'm a hell of a fighter, now!"
The Kid shook his hand warmly and told him he had gave him the hardest battle he'd had or ever hoped to have in his life. Then he turns to Mrs. Kenney.
"And now," he says, grimly, "perhaps you'll explain to your husband just why you came to my dressing room this evening—and screamed!"
At this the Bone Crusher, which seemed to have forgot the cause of the muss, straightens up again and growls, his grin freezin' into a scowl at the Kid.
"Why—of course," says Mrs. Kenney, brightly, lookin' straight into the Kid's face and speakin' to her husband. "I came down here looking for your dressing room and—er—I—entered Mister Roberts's by mistake. When I saw that I was in the wrong room it gave me such a start that—I—I just—screamed from—eh—fright—that was all! I would have explained at once, but you began fighting and I had no chance."
Woof!
"Oh—aheh—I see!" grins Kenney, with a sheepish look at the Kid.
But the Kid ain't lookin' at him. Roberts is regardin' Mrs. Kenney with open admiration. She gets a slow crimson and turns her head. Kenney looks from one to the other with a puzzled frown.
"Come on!" says the Kid to me. "I've got to do some explaining myself. Throw my stuff in the grip and we'll use Kenney's room to dress."
He went out and Kenney stands lookin' at his wife for a minute. It struck me that he seemed half pleased that she had drawed that glance from the champion, though of course the poor boob didn't know what had caused it.
"He's not a bad hombre," remarks the Bone Crusher, "and he licked me fair enough—but he ain't fooled me none with his slick talk. That feller was stuck on yuh, Bess. I could see it in his eyes when he looked at yuh! Guess I better get yuh home to the ranch, or I'll be losin' yuh, eh? All the punchin' I'm goin' to do hereafter, Bess, will be in connection with cows!"
Thus passed Joseph Kenney, the Chickasha Bone Crusher. . . .
Some time very late that night Kid Roberts is tellin' Miss Dolores Brewster, in a reception room off the ballroom at the Red Cross dance, that he got the bumps on his face in a auto accident and that he don't feel up to foxtrottin', but will call for her after the ball.
"Please let me explain, dear, why I didn't appear at the benefit," he's sayin'. "The most sensational thing—"
"I know all about it!" Dolores butts in, smilin'. "Mrs. Kenney—that cowboy's wife, you know—found out I was connected with the affair and came to me this afternoon. Imagine the poor little thing coming all the way from Oklahoma! She wanted to prevent the bout—told me a most pathetic story. I'll tell you about that later, but I gave her my word I would try and stop you and her husband from entering the ring to-night. I phoned all over town and couldn't find you and I felt horrid. I wish you could have seen her, Kane, she was so tragic! Well, I finally hit upon the scheme of sending a wire to your dressing room warning you not to enter the ring to-night, as the police were going to stop the exhibition on the ground that it was a prize fight. Wasn't I clever? That's what prevented the bout, wasn't it?"
"Yes!" I almost hollered, kickin' the Kid right in the ankle.
The Kid is still chokin', when a page sticks his head in the room.
"Telegram for Mister Roberts!" chants the boy. "Telegram for Mister Roberts!"
Curtain!