A Bright Tomorrow (18 page)

But Owen only shook his head, and at that moment the barker began his spiel. “Now Iron Mike has a challenge for you sporting men. Fifty dollars in hard cash for any one of you gentlemen who can stay just three short rounds with him! Which one of you needs fifty dollars? Step right up and be a hero to your lady friend!”

“Go on, Owen!” somebody shouted. “Beat the sucker's head off!”

Owen moved to stand before Iron Mike. The fighter's tawny eyes reminded him of a tiger. “Better go home, sonny.” The man grinned, exposing yellow teeth, and he peered at Owen more closely. “You the brother of that kid I pounded last night?”

“Sure am.”

“I heard you was comin'.” Iron Mike laughed and said to the barker, “Hey, Sid, we got us a grudge match here. I whipped this hayseed's brother last night, so he's come to take his revenge on poor old Mike!”

The man named Sid brightened at once. “Come up here, young man,” he cried, not failing to hear the cheers that went up. Apparently many of the boy's friends were here, and the barker smelled money to be made. He quickly learned Owen's name and made much of the fact that he was a hometown boy. There was little need for his pitch, though, for the crowd was ready.

“Fifty dollars for only three rounds,” he repeated.

“I've got thirty dollars here says I stay,” Owen said. He then looked at the fighter and asked, “You got any money, bum?”

“Why, you—”

Owen shrugged. “Put up or shut up.”

“Cover him, Sid,” the fighter growled from between clenched teeth.

“I'll just hold the stakes…and the fifty dollars.” Sid turned to see a big man with a star on his lapel climbing up on the platform. “I'm Sheriff Peek. Let's have that cash…and I'll be watching to see that we have us a square fight.”

Sid threw the fighter a despairing look, but he had no choice. He handed the money to the sheriff, and Owen did the same. But when Sid was close enough, he muttered under his breath, “Mike, let him stay and take the purse and the bet.”

“What?” Mike grunted in shocked anger. “I'll kill that kid!”

“You can kill him in the
second
bout,” Sid whispered rapidly. “Look, we can clean up, Mike! If he wins, he'll be cocky. You can challenge him, and we'll put up big dough. Then you can let the hammer down on him.”

Iron Mike shook his head stubbornly. “Nothin' doin', Sid! He's a punk kid and I'm going to tear his head off…after I rough him up!”

A pretty girl in a brief spangled costume appeared. “I'll show you where to change, big boy.” Owen recognized her as one of the dancers in the show. She led him to a back section of the tent and gestured toward a trunk. “Find yourself something in there.” Then she touched his arm and gave him a coy look. “If you win, you and I might do some celebrating.”

Owen grinned. “Suits me. What's your name?”

“Cecily.”

She left, and from a pile of dirty clothes, Owen dug out a pair of short pants that fit him. He went at once to the tent where a boxing ring was set up—the first he'd ever seen. Except for the ring itself, every square inch of the space inside the tent was occupied. He shoved his way through the crowd, receiving a pat on the shoulder from some of the men, an encouraging word from others.

The amber glow of the lanterns overhead bathed the ring in pale light, and Owen saw that a big man dressed in a white suit was waiting with Iron Mike.

“I'm Colonel Franklin Fletcher, my boy,” he said in a sonorous voice. “It will be my pleasure to referee this bout myself.”

Fletcher, Owen saw, was a drinking man, albeit a handsome one. He was at least sixty, six feet tall, and portly. He looked much like Buffalo Bill, Owen thought, with his long white hair, mustache, and goatee.

The preliminaries were simple. After the gloves were on, Colonel Fletcher simply told them to fight fair. Then he stepped back, and a bell clanged, signaling the beginning of Round 1.

Iron Mike came roaring out of his corner, leading with a left, which was only a feint, for he threw a tremendous right that would have broken Owen's neck if it had landed. But it didn't land. Owen simply pulled to one side and let the burly fighter sail by. Iron Mike hit the ropes, and whirled at once as the crowd shouted at him.

He stared at Owen, then nodded. “You're fast, kid. I'll remember that.”

Owen watched as the big man lifted his hands and came at him flatfooted. He was an old hand—no doubt about that—completely confident in his skills. Sure he was overweight, but good enough for the yokels he faced each night. He was a knuckle-scarred man, flat of lip and flat of nose, with cruelty in his yellow eyes. Owen watched him plant his feet solidly, anchored by his vast bulk, and Owen began to circle the fighter at a distance. Suddenly he whipped back in the opposite direction and saw Mike stop and reverse himself. Mike's footwork was slow, and he knew it, for he let out a huge roar and came rushing forward, his head down and his big hands stabbing out in feinting punches. Owen slid by him again, hooked a hard jab into the man's belly, swung from the toes, and caught Mike on the side of the head with a solid right.

The blow would have put most men down, but Iron Mike never lost his balance. Instead, he whirled and struck Owen on the chest with a blow that had a crushing effect, turning him cold. It was a warning of the awesome power that lay in that massive frame, and Owen began to back away, knowing he could not match the man's strength. For the rest of the round, he moved away, dodging and weaving, as Iron Mike threw punch after punch. There was no way to dodge them all, and when the bell sounded, Owen sat down on the stool with sore ribs and a bleeding lip.

His father was there, offering him water from a bottle, and mopping his face. “He's a gorilla, Owen…stay away from him!”

“Sure, Pa.” Owen studied the massive form of Iron Mike as he rested.
Got to hurt him
…
and got to do it quick. He'll run over me if I don't.

Getting to his feet, Owen was on his toes like a runner, and when the bell sounded, he leapt across the ring, lifting his right hand and taking the fighter by surprise. Iron Mike, puffing from his efforts to catch up with Owen, came to his feet slowly…just in time to catch Owen's right glove in the mouth. All of Owen's weight was behind that punch, and Mike's head was driven back as if he'd been struck by a railroad tie. He reeled backward, crashing into the ring post.

Sid shoved him forward, hissing, “Get him, Mike!” And though the older fighter was practically out on his feet, his instincts came to his aid.

Owen went in for the kill, but no matter how desperately he tried, he could not finish him off. The old veteran kept him at bay, using the skills learned in a lifetime of brawling. He sparred lightly until his mind cleared, then, holding Owen's gloves beneath his elbows, he suddenly butted Owen in the face with his bullet head.

Fiery lights exploded in Owen's brain, and he felt the bones of his nose crunch. He couldn't see for the tears and knew that he was helpless. But even as he waited for Iron Mike to finish him, a shot rang out!

Someone screamed, and Iron Mike stepped back in alarm. “No! Don't shoot—!” he begged the tall man who was aiming the biggest gun he'd ever seen in his life.

Owen wiped the blood from his face and wheeled around to see his father holding the .44 steadily on Iron Mike. The crowd grew silent, and Will Stuart said softly, “You foul my boy one more time…and I'll put you in hell!”

Colonel Fletcher stepped forward at once. “Sir, put the revolver away, if you please. I declare your boy the winner of this round!”

It meant nothing, for Owen still had to go the full three rounds. But he wanted to reassure his father. “It's all right, Pa!” he called out, then turned to face Iron Mike. “You're a dog, Mike!” he taunted.

The colonel stepped back and Mike came at him. A cold fury spurred Owen Stuart, and he moved like a cat, sidestepping the big man's rushes. Iron Mike was not accustomed to this much exertion, and his chest was heaving with the effort. He gasped as he struck out, and his blows, though powerful enough to knock a horse down, were slow and Owen danced aside easily.

The bell rang, and Owen didn't sit down to rest. He wasn't even breathing hard, and when the last round began, he moved toward the burly fighter, catching him with a straight left that stopped him in his tracks. He feinted to the left and, when the fighter moved in that direction, Owen came up with a tremendous uppercut, catching Mike on the chin. His teeth clicked, his head snapped back, and he reeled backward. Owen was on him like a June bug, slashing him with blows from every angle. For the rest of the round, he delivered punches that cut the flesh, then smashed the thick body with a thunderous right.

When the bell rang, the big man was out on his feet. Blood running down into his eyes from cuts to his eyebrows blinded him. A gap showed in his teeth between puffy lips. He kept pushing his gloves forward from sheer instinct, but when the bell sounded, Sid had to come and lead him to his corner.

The crowd went wild, but Owen was watching the old fighter and, in spite of himself, felt pity for the man. Iron Mike had only one thing to be proud of, and Owen had taken that away from him.

Owen made his way back to the dressing room, anxious to escape the crowd, and when he was pulling his shirt on, Cecily came through the tent and smiled at him. “You ready to celebrate with me, Owen?” she purred. Her eyes were slitted, and she reminded him of a feline about to enjoy a saucer of cream as she ran her hand over his chest.

Owen grinned recklessly. “Sure. Why not?”

Afterward he thought of that moment, wondering what his life would have been like if he'd refused the woman and gone home with his family. But there was never an answer for things like that.

He introduced Cecily to his father, winked, and said, “You go on home, Pa. Cecily and me…we've got some celebrating to do.” Then he put his hand on his father's shoulder—the first gesture of affection he'd shown toward him in years. “Thanks, Pa…for what you did for me tonight.”

Will felt a moment of pride, and he suddenly wanted to hug this strapping son of his. But he didn't really know how, and merely nodded, “Sure, son. We Stuarts got to stick together.” Then he turned and moved away.

Cecily's hand was insistent on Owen's arm. “Come on…let's start the celebration!”

The celebration was fine. The two of them wandered around the carnival grounds for a time, Cecily presenting Owen to her friends as if he were a trophy. Then the two of them went to a dance being held in the town square. Owen had never danced with any woman like this! She clung to him, pressing herself against him. And later she produced a bottle of raw whiskey, which she made him sample.

It was potent stuff, and by midnight, Owen was drunk. “Let's get us a place to
really
celebrate, honey!” Cecily said and took the bills from his pocket.

She seemed to know what she was doing, so Owen could only follow her in a daze. He stumbled as she helped him up the step leading to a two-story frame hotel, the Excelsior, and tried to pull himself together as she paid for a room.

Owen's head cleared a little on his way up the narrow stairs, and as Cecily opened the door, he walked in blinking. Someone screamed, and Owen drew back in confusion.

Cecily grabbed his arm and said to the couple in the bed, “Hey, we got the wrong room…sorry!”

Owen felt Cecily's grasp as she tried to pull him away—but he could not move. He was drunk, but not so drunk that he could mistake the woman who raised up, covered herself with a sheet, and cursed him vilely.

It was his stepmother, and Owen stood there rooted, unable to turn. The man tried to hide his face, but Owen recognized one of the town's prominent figures—no less than his honor the mayor, Alfred Jaspers, a notorious womanizer.

Owen grew sick, turned and stumbled from the room, with Agnes's screams striking his ears. Ignoring Cecily, he staggered down the steps and left the town, seeking only darkness and a place to hide—someplace to forget what he'd seen.

But he knew nothing could remove the memory of that sordid scene. And as he stumbled along the road, he knew also that he could no longer live in the same house with his stepmother. By the time he reached the house, he knew what he had to do.

Agnes was sly, however. She was home by daybreak and at once retired with Will to the bedroom. The children heard the sounds of an argument, and when the door opened, Will called to Owen, “Son, I've got to talk to you. Come outside.”

As they left the house, Owen got a glimpse of Agnes, who was smiling in triumph, and knew that she had concocted some story to clear herself. As soon as they were outside, Owen told Will what he had decided. “Pa, I'm leaving home.” He said it to save his father embarrassment, for he knew what the woman had made his father agree to.

Will Stuart looked old and tired. He shook his head, and could say nothing but, “I'm sorry, son. It's got to be.”

Owen put a good face on it. He stayed for three days, telling the children that he'd decided to see what the world looked like. When he left, the little ones cried, and the older ones bit their lips to hold back their tears.

He gave Logan thirty dollars he'd won on the fight, saying, “Buy the kids a treat from time to time. I'll send more when I get a job.” He had no prospects as he walked away from the only home he'd ever known…but he was happy.

He caught a ride from Mountain View to Fort Smith without a single idea in his mind. As they came to the outskirts of the town, the old man who'd picked him up said, “Well, lookee there, bub. Carnival's come to town.”

Owen smiled as he saw the banner which read: COLONEL FRANKLIN FLETCHER'S FAMOUS ELIXIR. “Guess I'll get out here,” he said. “Thanks for the ride.”