The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Six (38 page)

T
HE
T
IGER STIRRED
restlessly, staring at the canvas. He remembered every detail of that last day of his old life. How Deke and himself, on an around-the-world athletic tour nine years before, had decided to visit Tiger Island.

Rumor had it there were more tigers on the island than in all Sumatra, perhaps in all the Dutch East Indies. The hunting was the best in the world but they had been warned; the big cats were fierce, and they were hungry. The greatest of care had to be taken on Tiger Island…more than one hunter had died.

Deke Hayes, however, had insisted. And Bart Malone—who was later to become the feared Tiger Man—had gone willingly enough.

For years the two had been friends. They had often trained together, and had boxed on the same card. The two were evenly, perfectly matched in both skill and stamina. Toward the end, as they had risen in the rankings, Bart Malone had seemed to get a little better. Then two things happened: both men were booked on an exhibition tour that was to take them around the world, and Margot had come into the picture. From the beginning she had seemed to favor Bart.

They had been in a tree stand, waiting fifty yards from the body of a pig they had killed to bait the tigers. Suddenly, Hayes discovered the ammunition he was to have brought had been forgotten.

Despite Bart Malone’s protests, he had gone back to the boat after it. A tiger had come along, and Malone had killed it. But as the sound of the shot died away, he heard the distant roar of a motor.

At first Malone wouldn’t believe it. In the morning, when he could leave the tree with safety, he had gone down to the beach. The motorboat that had brought them over from Batavia was gone. On the beach was a little food, a hunting knife, and an axe.

Deke Hayes had never expected him to live, but he had reckoned without the strength, the adaptability, the sheer energy of Bart Malone. With but six cartridges remaining, Malone had made a spear, built a shelter, and declared war on the tigers.

It had been a war of extermination, a case of survival of the fittest. And Bart Malone had survived. He had used deadfalls and pits, spring traps, and traps that shot arrows.

He had learned to kill tigers as hunters in Brazil kill jaguars—with a lance. For nearly eight years he had lived on the remote island, then he had been rescued—and returned to the world as the “Tiger Man.”

T
HE
T
IGER
M
AN SHOOK
himself from his reverie, and rubbed his feet in the resin.

And in the champion’s apartment, Tom McKeown toyed with the dials, seeking the right spot on the radio.

“You should see him fight, champ. Might get a line on him. This will be his big test. And if Noble beats him, as he probably will, we’ll have to fight a Negro.”

Hayes snorted. “I don’t care. Noble is a sucker for a left uppercut. I can take him. I’d have fought him two years ago if you’d let me!”

“There’s plenty of time, if you have to. He ain’t getting any younger. You got seven years on him, champ,” McKeown said smoothly. Deke Hayes grinned.

“That was neat work, McKeown, steering the Tiger into Noble. No matter who wins, we got a drawing card. And no matter who wins, if we move fast, he’ll be softened by this fight. So the goose hangs high!”

T
HE BELL CLANGED
. Tom Noble was easy, confident. He came out fast, jabbed a light left to the head, feinted, and hooked a solid right to the body. The Tiger circled warily, intent.

Noble put both hands to the head, and then tried a left. The Tiger slipped inside, but made no attempt to hit. As they broke the crowd booed, and the Negro looked puzzled.

The Tiger circled again, still wary. Noble landed a left, tried to feint the Tiger in, but it didn’t work. The Tiger circled, feinted, and suddenly sprang to close quarters, striking with lightning-like speed.

A swift left, followed by a hard right cross that caught the Negro high on the side of the head. Tom Noble was stepping back, and that took the snap out of the punch; but it shook him, nevertheless.

Noble stepped in, jabbed a left three times to the head, and crossed with a right. The Tiger slipped inside Noble’s extended left and threw two jarring hooks to the body.

The fans were silent as the round ended. The usual killing rush of the Tiger hadn’t been there. Noble looked puzzled. The Tiger glanced up at Ruby Ryan, then bared his teeth in sort of a smile.

Noble boxed carefully through the second and third rounds, winning both by an easy margin. The Tiger seemed content to circle, to feint, and to spar at long range. The killing rush failed to come, and the Negro, who carefully studied each man he fought, was puzzled. The longer the Tiger waited, the more bothered Noble became.

The giant Negro could sense the repressed power in the steel of the Tiger’s muscles. When they clinched, Noble could feel his great strength; but still the Tiger waited. He stalled, and Noble began to feel like a mouse before the cat.

In the fourth round, Tom Noble opened hostilities with a hard left to the head, and then crossed a terrific right to the jaw that snapped the Tiger’s head back and split his lip.

Noble, eager, whipped over another right, but the Tiger slid under it and drove a powerful left hook to the body that jarred the Negro to his heels.

Before Noble could recover from his surprise, a hard right uppercut snapped his head back, and a steaming left hook slammed him to the floor in a cloud of resin dust!

Wild with pain and rage, the Negro scrambled to his feet and rushed. Toe-to-toe, they stood in the center of the ring and swapped punches until every man in the house was wild with excitement.

Bronze against black, Negro from the Baltimore rail yards against the mysterious Tiger Man, they fought bitterly, desperately, their faces streaked with blood and sweat, their breath coming in great gasps.

The crowd, shouting and eager, saw the great Negro boxer, the man whom all white fighters were purported to fear, slugging it out with this jungle killer—the strange white man, bronzed by sun and wind, who had come out of the tropics to batter all his competition into fistic oblivion!

W
HEN THE BELL RANG
for the fifth round, the Tiger came out like a streak. His wild left hook missed. Overanxious, he stumbled into a torrid right uppercut that slammed into his jaw with crashing force. The Bronze Behemoth slid forward on his face, to all intents and purposes out cold!

For a moment the crowd was aghast. The Tiger Man was down! For the first time in his career, the Tiger Man was down! Roaring with excitement, the crowd jumped up on their chairs, shrieking their heads off.

Then suddenly, the Tiger Man was up! All the stillness, the watching, the waiting was gone from him now. Like a beast from the jungle, he leaped to the fray and with a torrent of smashing, bone-crushing blows, he battered the giant black man across the ring!

Twice the Negro slipped to one knee, and both times came up without a count. Like a fiend out of hell he battled, cornered, fierce as a wounded lion.

But with all his ferocity, all his great strength, it was useless for Tom Noble to stand up against that whirlwind of blows that drove him back, back, and back!

The Tiger was upon him now, fighting like a madman! Suddenly, a steaming right cross snapped the Negro’s head back, and he came down with a crash! Like an animal, the Tiger whirled and leaped to his corner.

Tom Noble was up at nine. A great gash streaked his black face. One eye was closed tight, and his lips had been reduced to bloody shreds of flesh. His mouthpiece, lost in the titanic struggle, had failed him when most needed.

Noble was up, and bravely he staggered forward. But the Tiger dropped into a crouch. Grimly, surely, he stalked his opponent.

Seeing him coming, Tom Noble backed off, suddenly seeming to realize that no human effort could stem that tide of blows he knew would be coming.

He backed away, and the Tiger followed him, slowly herding him toward the corner, set for the kill. Not a whisper stirred the crowd. They were breathless with suspense, realizing they were seeing the perfect replica of a jungle kill. A live tiger from Sumatra couldn’t have been more fierce, or more deadly!

Then, suddenly, Noble was cornered. Vainly, desperately, he tried to sidestep. But the Tiger was before him and a short, jolting left set Noble’s chin for the right cross that flickered over with the speed of a serpent’s tongue. The great legs tottered, and Tom Noble, once invincible, crashed to the canvas, a vanquished gladiator.

I
N
H
AYES’S APARTMENT
, there was silence. McKeown wiped the sweat from his forehead, although he suddenly felt cold. He looked at the champion, but Hayes’s face was a mask that told nothing.

“Well,” Tom McKeown said at last. “I guess we overrated Noble. It looks now like he was a setup!” But in his heart there was a chill as he thought of those crashing fists.

“Setup, hell! That guy could fight!”

Hayes whirled.

“Listen, McKeown: you find out who this Tiger is; where he came from—and why! He started in Calcutta. Okay! I want to know where he was before then! I think I know that guy, and if I do—”

Toronto Tom McKeown walked out into the street. He stood still, looking at nothing. The Tiger had the champ’s goat. What was behind it all? One thing he knew: if there was any way to prevent it, the Tiger would never meet Deke Hayes.

R
UBY
R
YAN WALKED
into the hotel room and threw his hat on the table. His eyes were bright with satisfaction.

“Well, that settles that! I guess McKeown has tossed every monkey wrench into the machinery that he can think of—but nevertheless, the fight goes on, and no postponements. The commission accepted my arguments, and agreed that Hayes has got to meet the Tiger—and no more dodging.”

Beck looked up from the sport sheet he was reading. He seemed worried.

“Maybe it’s okay, but you and me know Tom McKeown, and he’s nobody’s fool. There’ll be trouble yet!” Beck opined.

“It’ll have to be soon, then. Tomorrow night’s the night,” the manager said grimly.

Suddenly the door burst open and the Tiger staggered in. He was carrying “Pug” Doman, one of his sparring partners. Over the Tiger’s eye was a deep cut from which a trickle of blood was still flowing.

“What th’—” Ryan’s face was white, strained. “For cryin’ out loud, man, what’s happened?”

“Five men jumped us. I heard them slipping up from behind. We fought. Four of them are out there”—he jerked a thumb toward the door—“in the road, Doman got in the way of a knife.”

“Well, that’s more of McKeown’s work!” Ryan said angrily. “I’ll get that dirty so-and-so if it’s the last thing I ever do! Look at that cut over your eye. And I just put up the same amount McKeown did—to guarantee appearance, and no postponements!”

T
HE
T
IGER
M
AN CRAWLED
through the ropes, stood rubbing his feet in the resin. Ruby Ryan, his face hard, was staring up the aisle for Hayes to appear. Beck arranged the water bottle and stood silent, waiting. Behind them the excited crowd continued to swell. The arena was fairly alive with tension.

Now Deke Hayes was in the ring. The two men stepped to the center for instructions. Hayes’s eyes were fastened on the Tiger with a queer intensity. The Tiger looked up, and there was such a light in his eyes as made even the referee wince.

“It’s been a long time, Deke Hayes!” the Tiger growled. “A long time! But tonight, you can’t run off and leave me.

“You gypped me out of my girl. You tried to gyp me out of the title, too. Now I’m going to thrash you until you can’t move! After tonight, Hayes, you’re through!”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” Hayes sneered. Then they were back in their corners, and the bell clanged.

Hayes was fast. The Tiger, circling to the center, realized that. He was even faster than Tom Noble. Probably as good a boxer, too. Hayes feinted a left, then hurled a vicious right that spun the Tiger halfway around and made him give way. Deke Hayes bored in promptly, punching fast, accurately.