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 top was filled with empty ale mugs. They were two men and a blonde woman. The woman was sitting closest to Bobby.
“You a fighter?” she said, leaning towards him. Her words were slightly slurred from the ale.
He ignored her.
“You don’t look like a fighter.” She tapped him on the shoulder.
“Ease up, lady,” I said. “We’re just here to relax, so why don’t you do the same.”
“Fighter,” she continued. “He’s no fighter.”
One of the men at the table looked over at me. “What kind of fighter trains on ale?”
Bobby still said nothing.
“You ever heard of Chuck Wepner?” McCarthy asked.
“The Bayonne Bleeder?” the man said. “He’s before my time.”
“Yeah, but not hers.”
Richie the front room waiter brought us our ales, setting two mugs of dark each down in front of McCarthy and I, ginger ale in front of Bobby, then cleared away the mugs on the other table. He studied the trio of faces, trying to decide whether to give them refills or cut them off.
Bobby’s cell phone went off and he reached into his trousers’ pocket and took it out. Flipping it open, he held it to his ear.
“Great,” Bobby said, “see you in the morning.” He closed up the cell phone.
“Who was it?” McCarthy asked.
“Harry.”
“Well?”
“He said to start losing weight.”
“You mean he signed you to fight Adams?” I asked him.
Bobby grinned.
“He’s a lefty,” McCarthy said. “You’ve never boxed a lefty.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” I said.
Before his last fight, Bobby had been training in a small gym up in the Bronx. He lost an eight-round decision on an Atlantic City casino undercard to Jersey Joe Kernan, a local kid who could sell tickets. He banged Kernan around the ring the first couple of rounds, ripping him with vicious body shots, but for some reason couldn’t finish him off. Still, Bobby should have easily won the decision but was jobbed. Superstitious, he changed gyms and now trained at Biff’s in Brooklyn. Biff’s was a larger gym, occupying an entire two-story building under the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge. It had better equipment and better fighters, which meant that the local promoters came around more often to check the talent out. So as far as I was concerned, the loss in AC had been a good thing for him. He seemed to agree, something had changed in him after that fight. He worked harder than ever in the gym and out of the ring, he was quiet, serious.
I bent down and scooped up a handful of sawdust from the floor. “Let’s get out of here. It’s getting too hot.” I liked McSorley’s and didn’t want to get into a brawl here and I sure didn’t want Bobby getting into a fight and busting his hands up on some boozed up clown’s face.
“Pussy,” the tourist keeps on, talking at Bobby’s back as we headed for the door. “Drinking ginger ale like a little girl.”
Outside, the afternoon