Chapter 30: Taking a Chance

Jeff Connolly approached the small Rocky Mountain town of Lodgepole late in the morning of a bright, cool September day. An aimless, opportunistic drifter, Jeff lived on his wits, worked when he had to, and whether he was in funds or broke depended on his most recent experience. His current bankroll was eight dollars and forty-seven cents. He had no idea that the place ahead of him was enjoying a rare day of excitement. That became clear as he rode along the main street and heard, off in the distance, the roar of raised voices. He was surprised to note that there was no traffic of any kind. None of the stores appeared to be doing any business. The only person in sight was an old fellow, snoozing in a rocking chair in front of a saloon.

As he proceeded southwards along the street, Jeff heard the massed voices more clearly, sometimes high with excitement, sometimes low with groans of disappointment. The din came from some spot at the far end of the town. Jeff had intended that his first call would be at the livery stable, but curiosity impelled him to ride on. It was only when he reached the last building in the street that he came upon the source of the racket.

In the space to the west was a boxing ring, mounted on a platform. It seemed that every chair in town had been pressed into service for the occasion. About two hundred people – mostly men – sat in three rows around the ring. Other onlookers stood two or three deep behind the seated spectators.

In the ring, two men were battling. One was tall, slim, fair-haired and fully dressed but for his hat. The other was stripped to the waist. He was three inches shorter than his opponent, but much more heavily built, with a deep chest and a dark craggy face. Both men wore padded gloves. The taller man was plainly having a hard time, constantly dodging and retreating.

Within a minute of Jeff’s appearance, the encounter was over. The shorter man stepped in, feinted with a right, then smashed a savage left at the other’s midriff. The taller man folded forwards, taking a cracking right to the jaw, which hurled him out between the ropes, landing him at the feet of three front-row spectators. The dark-faced, barrel-chested man used his teeth to begin untying his gloves. He knew his opponent would not renew hostilities.

It was then that Jeff noticed, forty yards from the ring, a wagon with high wooden sides, resembling a railroad boxcar. It was painted bright red and along the side, in gold letters, was the legend: ‘Jim Farley – pugilist. English Champion.’

Directly in front of Jeff were two men who had distanced themselves from the main crowd. Both were well-dressed, one short and of middling build, the other tall and slim. It was a snort from the newcomer’s horse that attracted the attention of the pair, who turned as one. The shorter man smiled at Jeff. “Morning,” he said. “You seem to have arrived too late for the fun.”

Jeff grinned in return. “That’s a pity. All over, is it?”

“Looks that way. That man you just saw knocked out of the ring was our last hope.”

Jeff dismounted. “Oh,” he said, joining the two men. “Why’s that?”

The short man plucked a cigar from his shirt pocket. “This fellow Farley is travelling around, giving boxing exhibitions, taking on all comers. He stops at little towns like ours between visits to the big places.

“How does he work it?”

“Well, he comes into a town and he and his manager fix up the ring from parts they keep in the wagon. They work fast and have the thing ready in well under an hour. Then Farley appears in the morning from ten until eleven and again in the afternoon from three until four. In each one-hour session, he faces up to a maximum of six opponents, if there are that many available. There’s no charge for watching, but anybody who fights him pays ten dollars. If the challenger stays the course for three rounds, he gets his money back and fifty dollars more.”

Jeff’s eyes widened. “Isn’t he taking a big risk then, this Farley?” he asked.

“Seems not. He appears to finish everybody off easily. We only managed to put up five men and he knocked all of them out quick enough. Only one got through to the second round, and then for barely half of it.”

“How is it arranged?” Jeff asked. “I mean, what does he call a round?”

“Oh, he fights Marquess of Queensberry rules. He says everybody will do it that way in due course.”

Jeff was intrigued. “Who’s this Marquess, and what are these rules?”

“Queensberry’s a British nobleman and the aim of the rules is to reform prizefighting. The system was introduced a few years ago and the idea’s spreading. I’m not sure about all the differences, but with this man here, there’s no wrestling and certain punches aren’t allowed. A knockout means that a man has been downed for ten seconds. Each round lasts three minutes, then the fighters get a minute’s rest. And they wear these gloves with two or three ounces of stuffing in them. I hear they’ll soon be bigger.”

“Hmn. Sounds a little tame to me,” said Jeff.

The short man roared with laughter. “Friend,” he said. “If you’d seen more of Mr Farley, you’d not talk that way. They say nobody has taken the fifty dollars from him yet. The word is that up in Montana he broke three jaws in one day.”

Jeff was intrigued. “Is he really champion of England then?”

“Well, they’re careful with the wording, but he’s from England all right and I guess he’s champion of some sort. If he isn’t, then they must have some real tough men over there. Farley stands five-foot-ten, weighs near two hundred pounds and has dynamite in both fists. It’s just a shame about this afternoon. We could have had some more entertainment if we’d had anybody to put up against him.”

“You do,” said Jeff, spurred by his impetuous nature and his financial plight “I’ll fight him for a chance of fifty dollars. Trouble is, I don’t have a ten-dollar stake.”

“Well now, you don’t need to worry about that, young man. If you’re serious, I’ll pay the fee. Consider it a gift.”

“Right you are,” Jeff replied. “Just one thing. I’ve been on the trail a while this morning. I could use a room to rest in for a couple of hours, but like I say, I’m a little short of money.”

The taller man took over from his companion. “No problem, friend,” he said. “I own the hotel back down the street there. Just go in and pick any empty room you like. You’ll get plenty of choice – there’s only one taken right now.”

Jeff tipped his hat. “All right,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you at three o’clock, then.” He turned and led his horse to the stable.

The liveryman had already returned to his duties. He whistled in admiration as Jeff arrived. “Man,” he said reverently, “I seldom saw a finer-looking horse.”

“He’s about as good as they come,” Jeff answered. “Look after him well. I’ll need him again tonight.”

Strolling along to the hotel, Jeff was lost in thought. Not for the first time in his life, he wondered why he did not employ his talents more profitably. Living from day to day was exciting, but it was hard on the nerves. He had several times got hold of money, then frittered it away. So far, he had nothing to show for his efforts, apart from the superb horse. He had bought the animal eight months earlier, immediately after a big win at a card table. He recalled his departure from the scene of that minor triumph, pursued by a town marshal who was anxious to interview him about his playing methods. The lawman’s mount was outpaced by the splendid sorrel and he had abandoned the chase.

Jeff entered the hotel, picked out a room, sprawled on the bed and took stock of his situation. He still had over three hours before confronting Jim Farley. Though standing six-foot-one and not much below the boxer’s weight, Jeff had no illusions about his prospects. He knew that he could hold his own in a barroom brawl, but handling a professional fighter under strict rules was another matter. Unless he could find some kind of advantage, he would get a hiding, or possibly something worse. He thought of those three broken jaws in Montana. Well, he could back out, but in his present position, fifty dollars was no mean sum.

Jeff was nothing if not inventive, and within half an hour he came up with an idea. It wasn’t the best he’d ever had, but seemed worth a try. He left the hotel and walked along to the carpenter’s workshop he’d noticed on arriving in the town. There was nobody around, so Jeff picked up an offcut of wood.

The next call was at a hardware store, also open and unattended. Two minutes of rummaging produced a small saw. There was no price on the item, so Jeff left two dollars on the counter, hoping that would cover the cost. Finally he called at an establishment that catered exclusively for the women of the town. His request for stockings caused the owner some puzzlement, but money was money, however eccentric the customer. She supplied Jeff’s needs.

Back in his hotel room, his cash now nearly exhausted, Jeff unstrapped his bedroll, extracted a muffler and got to work. He busied himself for a few minutes then, satisfied that he had done all he could, settled down for another rest.

By two forty-five, the people of Lodgepole had assembled for what promised to be a brief diversion. They were not confident that the newcomer would put in an appearance, but anything that might relieve the monotonous daily round was welcome. If the man didn’t show, they could always gossip. At two minutes to three, Jim Farley emerged from his wagon, gloved and ready. He climbed into the ring and waited, half-sharing the crowd’s suspicion that the stranger would not turn up. Promptly at three, Jeff Connolly came into sight and strode towards the ring. He climbed in, to be met by the professional fighter’s manager, a small middle-aged man who introduced himself as Jonathan Drew. “Do you wish to buff, sir?” he said.

“What’s that?” Jeff asked.

“I mean strip to the waist. Most men don’t, but if you wish to –”

“No. Hardly seems worth it for a few minutes.”

“Perfectly all right,” said Drew. “It’s a little cold anyway.” He told Jeff that the townspeople had been sporting enough to accept him as referee then explained the rules of boxing and the conditions for this contest. If Jeff was knocked out, or otherwise made incapable of continuing, he would lose. If he knocked out Farley, or was still on his feet after three rounds, he would win. Drew then sent the contestants back to their corners, with instructions to come out fighting.

Jeff’s method of combat elicited hoots of derision from the crowd. Whereas Farley bounced out from his corner, plainly keen to make short work of the bout, Jeff moved timorously, intent on defence. His stance was laughable, forearms high and pressed together to cover his chest, gloves shielding his face, up to the eyes. He was the very picture of reluctance. “What’s the matter, man?” one wag howled. “Missing your mother?”

Jim Farley shuffled around, fists working in and out. It took him barely half a minute to decide what to do. His opponent was passably protected from low in the rib-cage almost to the forehead. What was needed was Farley’s speciality, the solar plexus punch, which had been so instrumental in the disposal of his last opponent. He needed only to distract his man, then give him one thump amidships. Suiting the action to the thought, he flicked out a harmless left which wasn’t intended to land anywhere, followed by a thunderous right to the midriff.

That dreadful blow was enough to fell any normal man. Jeff staggered back three paces to the ropes, gasping like a landed fish, left hand clapped to his abdomen.

But the effect on the challenger was modest compared with what happened to the champion. Farley gave a loud groan and stood rooted to his spot, left hand cupping right wrist, face twisted in a grimace of agony. This left him wide open and Jeff, presented with the only opportunity he was likely to get, mastered his own pain sufficiently to bound forwards, bringing up a right from his kneecap to the professional’s unprotected jaw. Farley thudded down on his rear end and rolled over sideways, still gripping his right wrist. Jonathan Drew was so amazed that three seconds elapsed before it occurred to him to start counting. Nevertheless, by the time he reached ten, Farley showed no sign of getting up, though he was conscious.

It was a sensation, setting the crowd alight, but it seemed that Jeff Connolly was in no position to savour his victory. He folded his arms across his mid-section, lurched to the ropes, ducked out between them and jumped to the ground. Jack-knifed, face contorted, he weaved through the spectators. “What’s wrong, feller?” one man asked. “You need help?”

“It’s all right,” Jeff groaned. “I guess I’m going to be sick. No need for you folks to see it.” He staggered to the street corner then, out of sight of the crowd, stood up, grinned and trotted to the hotel and up to his room. Closing the door, he tore off the two thick plaid shirts he’d been wearing. Next, he untied the ladies’ stockings, which were knotted at his back, pulling from them the shaped chopping board that had taken the brunt of Farley’s punch, then he unwound the muffler he’d wrapped around the board to absorb some of the impact.

Already a large area around where the blow had landed was red. Soon, it would be an ugly sight. But the idea had worked. If the shock of that terrible punch had been concentrated at the point where it had landed, Jeff would have been in a sorry state. As it was, the effect had been more or less evenly distributed over the whole area of the board. It was very painful, but not intolerable. Donning one of his shirts, Jeff went downstairs, left the hotel and walked back to the scene of his conquest.

It seemed that no one had left. Instead, the crowd had broken up into small, chattering groups, everyone wanting to swap views on the astonishing event. Farley had left the ring and returned to his wagon. His distraught manager was standing among a large group at the ringside. Jeff marched up to the man. “I’ll take my money now,” he said, rubbing his middle.

The manager was suspicious and would have liked to make an issue of the matter but assumed that Jeff was a local man and that it would be dangerous to antagonise the crowd. He counted out the sixty dollars. “There you are, sir,” he said. “Now tell me, what’s your secret? Jim seems to have broken his wrist. He says it was like punching a brick wall.”

“Well, in a way it was. I’ve trained my stomach muscles so they’re extra hard,” Jeff lied airily. “Your man isn’t the first one to get hurt on them. They were my best weapon. I knew if he hit me there, he’d damage himself more than me.”