THE WAGES OF SIN
It was soon evident that the word had been passed round that there would
be "something doing" at the Cafe de la Legion that evening. Never
before had its hospitable roof covered so large an assembly of guests.
Though it was not exactly what could be called "a packed house," it was
far from being a selected gathering of the special friends of Il Signor
Luigi Rivoli. To Legionaries John Bull, Reginald Rupert and 'Erb
'Iggins it was obvious that the Bucking Bronco had been at some pains to
arrange that the spectators of whatever might befall that evening, were
men who would witness the undoing of Luigi Rivoli--should that
occur--with considerable equanimity. Scarcely a man there but had felt
at some time the weight of his brutal fist and the indignity of helpless
obedience to his tyrannous behest. Of one thing they were
sure--whatever they might, or might not behold, they would see a Homeric
fight, a struggle that would become historic in the annals of la Legion.
The atmosphere was electric with suppressed excitement and a sense of
pleasurable expectation.
In a group by the bar, lounged the Bucking Bronco and the three
Englishmen with a few of their more immediate intimates, chiefly
Frenchmen, and members of their _escouade_. Carmelita, a brilliant spot
of colour glowing on either cheek, busied herself about her duties,
flitting like a butterfly from table to table. Never had she appeared
more light-hearted, gay, and _insouciante_. But to John Bull, who
watched her anxiously, it was clear that her gaiety was feverish and
hectic, her laughter forced and hysterical.
"Reckon 'e's got an earthly, matey?" asked 'Erb of Rupert. "'E'll 'ave
ter scrag an' kick, same as Rivoli, if 'e don't want ter be counted
aht."
"I'd give a hundred pounds to see him win, anyhow," was the reply. "I
expect he'll fight the brute with his own weapons. He'll go in for what
he calls 'rough-housing' I hope.... No good following Amateur Boxing
Association rules if you're fighting a bear, or a Zulu, or a
Fuzzy-wuzzy, or Luigi Rivoli...."
And that was precisely the intention of the American, whose fighting had
been learnt in a very rough and varied school. When earning his living
as a professional boxer, he had given referees no more than the average
amount of trouble; and in the ring, against a clean fighter, had put up
a clean fight. A tricky opponent, resorting to fouls, had always found
him able to respond with very satisfying tricks of his own--"and then
some." But the Bucking Bronco had also done much mixed fighting as a
hobo[#] with husky and adequate bulls[#] in many of the towns of the
free and glorious United States of America, when guilty of having no
visible means of support; with exasperated and homicidal shacks[#] on
most of that proud country's railways, when "holding her down," and
frustrating their endeavours to make him "hit the grit"; with terrible
and dangerous lumber-jacks in timber camps when the rye whiskey was in
and all sense and decency were out; with cow-punchers and ranchers, with
miners, with Bowery toughs, and assorted desperadoes.
[#] Tramp, a rough.
[#] Policemen.
[#] Train conductors.
To-night, when he stood face to face with Luigi Rivoli, he intended to
do precisely what his opponent would do, to use all Nature's weapons and
every device, trick, shift and artifice that his unusually wide
experience had taught him.
He knew, and fully admitted, that, tremendously powerful and tough as he
himself was, Rivoli was far stronger. Not only was the Italian a born
Strong Man, but he had spent his life in developing his muscles, and it
was probable that there were very few more finely developed athletes on
the face of the earth. Moreover, he was a far younger man, far better
fed (thanks to Carmelita), and a trained professional wrestler. Not
only were his muscles of marvellous development, they were also trained
and educated to an equally marvellous quickness, skill and poise. Add to
this the fact that the man was no mean exponent of the arts of _la
savate_ and _la boxe_, utterly devoid of any scruples of honour and
fair-play, and infused with a bitter hatred of the American--and small
blame accrues to the latter for his determination to meet the Italian on
his own ground.
As he stood leaning against the bar, his elbows on it and his face
toward the big room, it would have required a very close observer to
note any signs of the fact that he was about to fight for his life, and,
far more important, for Carmelita, against an opponent in whose favour
the odds were heavy. His hard strong face was calm, the eyes level and
steady, and, more significant, the hands and fingers quiet and
reposeful. Studying his friend, John Bull noticed the absence of any
symptoms of excitement, nervousness, or anxiety. There was no moistening
of lips, no working of jaw muscles, no change of posture, no quickening
of speech. It was the same old Buck, large, lazy, and lethargic, with
the same humorous eye, the same measured drawl, the same quaint turn of
speech. In striking contrast with the immobility of the American, was
the obvious excitement of the Cockney.
"It'll be an 'Ellova fight," he kept on saying. "Gawdstreuth, it'll be
an 'Ellova fight," and bitterly regretted the self-denying ordinance
which he had passed upon himself to the effect that no liquor should wet
his lips till all was o'er....
Luigi Rivoli, followed as usual by Malvin, Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat, Borges,
Hirsch and Bauer, strode into the Cafe. He was accustomed to attracting
attention and to the proud consciousness of nudges, glances and
whisperings wherever he went. Not for nothing is one the strongest and
most dangerous man in the Foreign Legion. But to-night he was aware of
more than usual interest as silence fell upon the abnormally large
gathering in Carmelita's Cafe. He at once ascribed it to the widespread
interest in the public challenge he had received from John Bull to a
_duel a l'outrance_ and the rumour that the Englishman had as publicly
withdrawn it. He felt that fresh lustre had been added to his brilliant
name.... Carmelita _had_ been useful there, and had delivered him from
a very real danger, positively from the fangs of a mad dog. Very
useful. What a pity it was that he could not marry Madame, and run
Carmelita. Might she not be brought to consent to some such
arrangement? Not even when she found she could have him in no other
way? ... Never!
_Absolutamente_ ... Curse her.... Well, anyhow, there were a few more
francs, dinners, and bottles of Chianti. One must take what one can,
while one can--and after all the Canteen was worth ten Cafes. Madame had
been very kind to-night and would give her final answer to-morrow. That
had been a subtle idea of his, telling her that, unless she married him,
she should marry no one, and remain a widow all the days of her life,
for he'd break the back of any man who so much as looked at her. That
had given the old sow something to think about. Ha! Ha! ...
As he entered, John Bull was just saying to the Bucking Bronco, "Don't
do it, Buck. I know all about that
'Thrice-armed is he who hath his quarrel just,
But four times is he who gets his blow in fust.'
But thrice is quite enough, believe me, old chap. You've no need to
descend to such a trick as hitting him unawares, by way of starting the
fight."
"Is this my night ter howl, John, or yourn? Whose funeral is it?"
... "Fight him by his own methods if you like, Buck--but don't put
yourself in the wrong for a start.... You'll win all right, or I shall
cease to believe in Eternal Justice of Things."
It had been the purpose of the Bucking Bronco to lessen the odds against
himself, to some extent, by intimating his desire to fight, with a
shattering blow which should begin, and, at the same time, half win the
battle.
Rivoli approached.
Ha! There was that cursed Englishman, was he? Well, since he had given
his promise to Carmelita and was debarred from a duel, he should repeat
his apology of last night before this large assembly. Moreover, he would
now be free to handle this English dog--to beat and torture and torment
him like a new recruit. Bull's hands would be tied as far as weapons
were concerned by his promise to Carmelita.... The dog was leaning
against the flap of the bar which he would have to raise to pass through
to his dinner. Should he take him by the ears and rub his face in the
liquor-slops on the bar, or should he merely put him on the ground and
wipe his feet on him? Better not perhaps, there was that
thrice-accursed American _scelerato_ and that indestructible young devil
Rupert, who had smitten his jaw and ribs so vilely, and wanted to fight
again directly he had left hospital and _salle de police_. The Devil
smite all Englishmen.... His wrath boiled over, his arm shot out and he
seized John Bull by the collar, shook him, and slung him from his path.
And then the Heavens fell.
With his open, horny palm, the Bucking Bronco smote the Italian as
cruelly stinging a slap as ever human face received. But for his
friend's recent behest, he would have struck with his closed fist, and
the Italian would have entered the fight, if not with a broken jaw, at
least with a very badly "rattled" head.
"_Ponk!_" observed 'Erb, dancing from foot to foot in excitement and
glee.
"Ah--h--h!" breathed Carmelita,
The Italian recovered his balance and gathered himself for a spring.
"No you don't," shouted Rupert, and the three Englishmen simultaneously
threw themselves in front of him, at the same time calling on the
spectators to make a ring.
In a moment, headed by Tant-de-Soif, the Englishmen's friends commenced
pulling chairs, tables and benches to the walls of the big room. Old
Tant-de-Soif had never received a sou or a drink from the bully, though
many and many a blow and bitter humiliation. Long he had served and
long he had hated. He felt that a great hour had struck.
The scores and scores of willing hands assisting, the room was quickly
cleared.
"This American would die, it appears, poor madman," observed M. Malvin
ingratiatingly to Carmelita.
"I do not think he will die," replied the girl. "But I think that
anyone who interferes with him will do so."
The eyes of the good M. Malvin narrowed. Lay the wind in that quarter?
The excellent Luigi was found out, was he? Well, there might be a
successor....
Meantime the Italian had removed and methodically folded his tunic and
canvas shirt. A broad belt sustained his baggy red breeches.
So it had come, had it? Well, so much the better. This American had
been the fly in the ointment of his comfort too long. Why had he not
strangled the insolent, or broken his back long ago? He would break him
now, once and for all--maim him for life if he could; at least make a
serious hospital case of him.
Bidding Malvin mount guard over his discarded garments, Rivoli stepped
forth Into the middle of the large cleared space, flexing and slapping
his muscles. Having done so, he looked round the crowded sides of the
room for the usual applause. To his surprise none followed. He gazed
about him again. Was this a selected audience? It was certainly not
the audience he would have selected for himself. It appeared to consist
mostly of _miserabile_ whom he had frequently had to punish for
insubordination and defiance of his orders. They should have a
demonstration, that evening, of the danger of defying Luigi Rivoli.
As the American stepped forward John Bull caught his sleeve. "Take off
your tunic, Buck," he said in surprise.
"Take off nix," replied the American.
"But he'll get a better hold on you," remonstrated his friend.
"I should worry," was the cryptic reply, as the speaker unbuttoned the
upper part of his tunic and pushed his collar well away from his neck at
the back.
"'E'll cop 'old of 'im wiv that coller, an' bleed'n well strangle 'im,"
said 'Erb to Rupert.
"Fancy that now, sonny," said the Bucking Bronco, with an exaggerated
air of surprise, and stepped into the arena.
Complete silence fell upon the room as the two antagonists faced each
other.
_Nom de nom de bon Dieu de Dieu_! Why had not le Legionnaire Bouckaing
Bronceau stripped? Was it sheer bravado? How could he, or any other
living man, afford to add to the already overwhelming risks when
fighting the great Luigi Rivoli?...
The Bucking Bronco got his "blow in fust" after all, and, as his friend
had prophesied, was glad that it had not been a "foul poke"--taking his
opponent unawares.
"Come hither, dog, and let me snap thy spine," growled the Italian as
the Bucking Bronco faced him. As he spoke, he thrust his right hand
forward, as though to seize the American in a wrestling-hold. With a
swift snatch the latter grabbed the extended hand, gave a powerful
jerking tug and released it before his enemy could free it and fasten
upon him in turn. The violent pull upon his arm swung the Italian half
left and before he could recover his balance and regain his position,
the Bucking Bronco had let drive at the side of his face with all his
weight and strength. It was a terrific blow and caught Rivoli on the
right cheek-bone, laying the side of his face open.
Only those who have seen--or experienced--it, know the effect of skilled
blows struck by hands unhampered by boxing gloves.
The Italian reeled and, like the skilled master of ringcraft that he
was, the Bucking Bronco gave him no time in which to recover. With a
leap he again put all his strength, weight, and skill behind a slashing
right-hander on his enemy's face, and, as he raised his arms, a
left-hander on his ribs. Had any of these three blows found the
Italian's "point" or "mark," it is more than probable that the fight
would have been decided. As it was, Rivoli was only shaken--and
exasperated to the point of madness....
Wait till he got his arms round the man! ... Corpo di Bacco! But wait!
Let him wait till he got his hand on that collar that the rash fool had
left undone and sticking out so temptingly?
Ducking swiftly under a fourth blow, he essayed to fling his arms round
the American's waist. As the mighty arms shot out for the deadly
embrace, the Bucking Bronco's knee flew up with terrific force, to smash
the face so temptingly passed above it. Like a flash the face swerved to
the left, the knee missed it, and the American's leg was instantly
seized as in a vice.
The spectators held their breath. Was this the end? Rivoli had him!
Could there be any hope for him?
There could. This was "rough-housin'"--and at "rough-housin'" the
Bucking Bronco had had few equals. He suddenly thought of one of _the_
fights of his life--at 'Frisco, with the bucko mate of a hell-ship on
which he had made a trip as fo'c's'le-hand, from the Klondyke. The mate
had done his best to kill him at sea, and the Bucking Bronco had "laid
for him" ashore as the mate quitted the ship. It had been "some" fight
and the mate had collared his leg in just the same way. He would try
the method that had then been successful.... He seized the Italian's
neck with both huge hands, and, with all his strength, started to
throttle him--his thumbs on the back of his opponent's neck, his fingers
crushing relentlessly into his throat. Of course Rivoli would throw
him--that was to be expected--but that would not free Rivoli's throat.
Not by any manner of means. With a fair and square two-handed hold on
the skunk's throat, it would be no small thing to get that throat free
again while there was any life left in its proprietor....
With a heave and a thrust, the Italian threw the Bucking Bronco heavily
and fell heavily upon him. The latter tightened his grip and saw his
enemy going black in the face.... Swiftly Rivoli changed his hold.
While keeping one arm round the American's leg, at the knee, he seized
his foot with the other hand and pressed it backward with all his
gigantic strength. As the leg bent back, he pressed his other arm more
tightly into the back of the knee. In a moment the leg must snap like a
carrot, and the American knew it--and also that he would be lame for
life if his knee-joint were thus rent asunder. It was useless to hope
that Rivoli would suffocate before the leg broke... Nor would a dead
Rivoli be a sufficient compensation for perpetual lameness. Never to
walk nor ride nor fight.... A lame husband for Carmelita.... Loosing
his hold on his antagonist's throat, he punched him a paralysing blow on
the muscle of the arm that was bending his leg back, and then seized the
same arm by the wrist with both hands, and freed his foot.... A
deadlock.... They glared into each other's eyes, mutually impotent, and
then, by tacit mutual consent, released holds, rose, and confronted each
other afresh.
So far, honours were decidedly with the American, and a loud spontaneous
cheer arose from the spectators. "Vive le Bouckaing Bronceau!" was the
general sentiment.
Carmelita sat like a statue on her high chair--lifeless save for her
terrible eyes. Though her lips did not move, she prayed with all the
fervour of her ardent nature.
Breathing heavily, the antagonists faced each other like a pair of
half-crouching tigers.... Suddenly Rivoli kicked. Not the horizontal
kick of _la savate_ in which the leg is drawn up to the chest and the
foot shot out sideways and parallel with the floor, so that the sole
strikes the object flatly--but in the ordinary manner, the foot rising
from the ground, to strike with the toe. The Bucking Bronco raised his
right foot and crossed his right leg over his left, so that the
Italian's rising shin met his own while the rising foot met nothing at
all. Had the kick been delivered fully, the leg would have broken as
the shin was suddenly arrested while the foot met nothing. (This is the
deadliest defence there is against a kicker, other than a savatist.)
But so fine was the poise and skill of the professional acrobat, that,
in full flight, he arrested the kick ere it struck the parrying leg with
full violence. He did not escape scot-free from this venture, however,
for, even as he raised his leg in defence, the Bucking Bronco shot forth
his right hand with one of the terrible punches for which Rivoli was
beginning to entertain a wholesome respect. He saved his leg, but
received a blow on the right eye which he knew must, before long, cause
it to close completely. He saw red, lost his temper and became as an
infuriated bull. As he had done under like circumstances with the
Legionnaire Rupert, he rushed at his opponent with a roar, casting aside
wisdom and prudence in the madness of his desire to get his enemy in his
arms. He expected to receive a blow in the face as he sprang, and was
prepared to dodge it by averting his head. With an agility surprising
in so big a man, the Bucking Bronco ducked below the Italian's
outstretched arms and, covering his face with his bent left arm, drove
at his antagonist's "mark" with a blow like the kick of a horse. The
gasping groan with which the wind was driven out of Rivoli's body was
music to the Bucking Bronco's ears. He knew that, for some seconds, his
foe, be he the strongest man alive, was at his mercy. Springing erect he
punched with left and right at his doubled-up and gasping enemy, his
arms working like piston-rods and his fists falling like sledge-hammers.
The cheering became continuous as Rivoli shrank and staggered before
that rain of terrific blows. Suddenly he recovered, drew a deep breath
and flung his arms fairly round the Bucking Bronco's waist.
Corpo di Bacco! He had got him!...
Clasping his hands behind the American, he settled his head comfortably
down into that wily man's neck, and bided his time. He had got him....
He would rest and wait until his breathing was more normal. He would
then tire the _scelerato_ down ... tire him down ... and then ...
This was his programme, but it was not that of the Bucking Bronco, or
not in its entirety. He realised that "Loojey had the bulge on him."
For the moment it was "Loojey's night ter howl." He would take a rest
and permit Loojey to support him, also he would feign exhaustion and
distress. It was a pity that it was his right arm that was imprisoned
in the bear-hug of the wrestler. However, nothing much could happen so
long as he kept his back convex.
Seconds, which seemed like long minutes, passed.
Suddenly the Italian made a powerful effort to draw him closer and
decrease the convexity of his arched back. He resisted the constriction
with all his strength, but realised that he had been drawn slightly
inward.
Again a tremendous tensing of mighty muscles, again a tremendous heave
in opposition, and again he was a little nearer.
The process was repeated. Soon the line of his back would be concave
instead of convex. That would be the beginning of the end. Once he
bent over backward there would be no hope; he would finally drop from
the Italian's grasp with a sprained or broken back, to receive
shattering kicks in the face, ribs and stomach, before Rivoli jumped
upon him with both feet and twenty stone weight. For a moment he half
regretted having so stringently prohibited any sort or kind of
interference in the fight, whatever happened, short of Rivoli's
producing a weapon. But only for a moment. He would not owe his life
to the intervention of others, after having promised Carmelita to beat
him up and bring him grovelling to her feet. He had been winning so
far.... He _would_ win.... As the Italian again put all his force into
an inward-drawing hug, the American, for a fraction of a second,
resisted with all his strength and then suddenly did precisely the
opposite. Shooting his feet between the straddled legs of his
adversary, he flung his left arm around his head, threw all his weight
on to it and brought himself and Rivoli crashing heavily to the ground.
As the arms of the latter burst asunder, the Bucking Bronco had time to
seize his head and bang it twice, violently, upon the stone floor.
Both scrambled to their feet.
It had been a near thing. He must not get into that rib-crushing hug
again, for the trick would not avail twice. Like a springing lion,
Rivoli was on him. Ducking, he presented the top of his head to the
charge and felt the Italian grip his collar. With an inarticulate cry
of glee he braced his feet and with tremendous force and speed revolved
his head and shoulders round and round in a small circle, the centre and
axis of which was Rivoli's hand and forearm. The first lightning-like
revolution entangled the tightly-gripping hand, the second twisted and
wrenched the wrist and arm, the third completed the terrible work of
mangling disintegration. In three seconds the bones, tendons,
ligaments, and tissue of Rivoli's right hand and wrist were broken,
wrenched and torn. The bones of the forearm were broken, the elbow and
shoulder-joints were dislocated. Tearing himself free, the American
sprang erect and struck the roaring, white-faced Italian between the
eyes and then drove him before him, staggering backward under a
ceaseless rain of violent punches. Drove him back and back, even as the
bully put his uninjured left hand behind him for the dagger concealed in
the hip pocket of his baggy trousers, and sent him reeling, stumbling
and half-falling straight into the middle of his silent knot of jackals,
Malvin, Borges, Hirsch, Bauer, and Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat. Against these
he fell. Malvin was seen to put out his hands to stop him, Borges and
Hirsch closed in on him to catch him, Bauer pressed against Malvin,
Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat stooped with a swift movement. With a grunt Rivoli
collapsed, his knees gave way and, in the middle of the dense throng, he
slipped to the ground. As the Bucking Bronco thrust in, and the crowd
pressed back, Rivoli lay on his face in the cleared space, a knife in
his left hand, another in his back.
He never moved nor spoke again, but M. Tou-tou Boil-the-Cat did both.
As he left the Cafe he licked his lips, smiled and murmured: "_Je m'en
ai souvenu_."