Sankey glared at him. Great red blotches on his ribs showed the beating he was taking. “A rigged fight, huh?” he snarled. “This sonofabitch's killin' me.”
Before Gurney could say anything the gong went. Out came Franks, weaving and bobbing, with Sankey backpedaling, snorting heavily through his nose. Gurney put his elbows on the canvas, watching closely.
Sankey tried a left, but Franks' head moved, then Franks caught him with a left and a right. Sankey began to bleed from his mouth. He drew his lips off his gum-shield, snarling at Franks. He kept circling until the crowd began to yell at him. He flung over another left that landed as Franks was going away, and tried to follow it up with a terrific right swing. It whistled over Franks' head, who came in close and socked with both hands. Sankey pushed him off and jabbed away, landing too high up to do any damage.
Sankey was getting sore as hell. Every time Franks came in he belted Sankey in the ribs. They were landing solid. Sankey just couldn't keep him out. He was taking an awful beating in the body. The round finished with a flurry in the far corner. Sankey managed to uppercut Franks with the heel of his glove, cutting Franks' nose.
Sankey came back to his corner flat-footed. Gurney could see the muscles in his legs fluttering. He flopped on his stool and his handlers went to work on him.
Gurney said, “Keep him off this round. He's goin' to dive in the fifth.”
“I can't stay,” Sankey said; he was almost crying. “The bastard's spillin' my guts.”
Gurney snarled, “You'll stay all right, or you'll run into more grief outside.” He looked across at Franks, who was lying back taking in great lungfuls of air. They weren't even working on him.
The gong went for the fourth.
Sankey went out with a little more spring. He was desperate. He drove a right at Franks, connected, and followed it with a left. Franks went back on his heels, covering up. The crowd rose to their feet, howling.
Gurney shouted, “Get after him... beat the hell out of him!...”
In went Sankey, swinging punches from all angles. Franks rode the dangerous ones and smothered the wild swings. Then he suddenly jabbed a left in Sankey's face, bringing him up short, and crossed with his right. It caught Sankey between the eyes. There was a sharp silence when Sankey went down on his hands and knees, then the crowd screamed with excitement. Franks went to a corner, opposite Gurney. He was breathing slowly, his great chest rising and falling without effort.
Gurney shouted, “Next round, or you get it!”
Franks showed no sign that he heard.
The referee was standing over Sankey, shouting the count in his ear. Sankey's muscles were fluttering as he tried to drag himself off the canvas. They were all shouting at him. The gong stopped the count at eight.
They got Sankey into his corner by dragging him. Hank gave him a shot of rye, tugging his ears and pouring water on his head. Hank was scared stiff. Dillon came up and leant over the ropes.
“Get a grip on yourself, you big slab of ——,” he snarled.
“Y're goin' to win in this round. If you don't go out and tear that bastard to bits I'll give you the heat.”
Sankey fought down the nagging tiredness. “My left's like lead,” he whined.
“Then use your goddam right,” Dillon said. “Remember, hit that guy all over the ring. He'll go down.”
The gong went for the fifth.
The crowd expected Franks to come out and finish it, but he didn't. He seemed to have suddenly lost his steam. Sankey went straight into a clinch. He hung on, leaning his weight on Franks, until the referee had to shout at him. Franks caught him as he went away, but there was no snap to it. Sankey was breathing like an escape of steam. He jabbed Franks as he came in, and Franks hit him in the ribs, three light blows that didn't even make Sankey flinch. He danced away from Franks, coming down on the flat of his feet. Franks shuffled after him, his hands low. Sankey saw his opening. He'd have been blind if he hadn't seen it. In went his left and cross went his right. It was with an open glove, but they both sounded good. The crowd heaved to their feet. Franks went down on his side.
Gurney gave a little hiss of relief. The crowd screamed and rocked, yelling to Franks to get up. The referee, slightly startled, began to tick off the seconds.
Sankey leant against the ropes, his knees buckling and his face smeared with blood. He couldn't even look pleased.
Franks didn't move, he just lay there.
Beth Franks fought her way to the ringside. She beat on the canvas with her hands. “Get up and fight!” she screamed. “Don't let 'em get away with it! Harry... get up and fight!...”
Franks took his time, but he got up at nine. The crowd, backing Sankey now, screamed to him to go in and finish Franks. Sankey tottered out of his corner, swearing. Franks stood waiting for him, his lips in a thin line, looking like a killer. There was nothing the matter with him. He was as strong as when he started. As Sankey came on he called Franks every obscene name he could lay his tongue to.
Franks brushed aside his feeble guard and belted him in the ribs. It was an awful punch, landing solid in the church roof of Sankey's chest. Sankey's eyes rolled back. His mouth formed a large “O', then, as he fell forward, Franks whipped up a punch that came from his ankles to Sankey's jaw.
It was a waste of the referee's time to count. The crowd went mad. They yelled and hooted as the little guy's arm ticked off the ten. Then, when he threw his arms wide and ran over to raise Franks' glove, they stood on their seats and rattled the roof.
Dillon turned his head and looked at Gurney. His eyes smouldered. “The dirty, double-crossin' sonofabitch,” he said through his teeth.
They all crowded into Butch's shack. There was Gurney, Hank and Morgan. Sankey had gone home, too sullen and furious to come. Dillon shuffled along behind the others, savage and silent.
Butch was sitting in a dirty dressing-gown. His head was wrapped in a bandage. He sensed at once that Sankey had flopped when they came in.
Overhead, Myra could hear the uproar that was going on, and she came down the ladder to listen.
Dillon sat on the table, picking his teeth, while the others shouted and cursed. Butch was so mad, Gurney thought he'd have a stroke. He beat the arms of his chair again and again. “I put all I had on that punk,” he bawled; “now where am I?”
Dillon suddenly came to life. “Shut up, you rats!” he snarled. “Franks's got more guts than the bunch of you rolled into one. What does it matter if you lost a little dough?”
There was a terrible silence, each man glaring at Dillon murderously. Butch said in a strangled voice, “You fixed that fight, huh? You ain't losing any dough... an' you talk like that?”
Dillon looked him over contemptuously. His eyes went round the others. They began to edge a little towards him, except Gurney. Gurney knew about the gun.
Butch climbed out of his chair. “Bring him to me,” he said savagely, flexing his fingers. “I'll teach the bum somethin'.”
Dillon's thin lips smiled. His eyes were stony with contempt. “Forget it,” he said. “You little punks don't know where you get off.”
Butch said, “Leave him to me.”
He began to weave forward, his great hands questing. Dillon,' sitting on the table, watching, just hunched his shoulders in his coat. Then, when Butch was within a foot of him, the Colt leapt into his hand.
Hank screamed, “Get back, Hogan, he's got a gun!”
Dillon shot Butch low down. The crash of the gun made Myra scream out. She stood outside the door, her hands to her mouth, shuddering.
Butch's blind eyes closed, blotting out the two yellow clots from Dillon's sight. He put his hands over his belly and squeezed. The blood ran through his fingers. Dillon watched him, his smile a little fixed.
