Is-A-Man (A J.T. Edson Standalone Western) Read online

  ‘The twenty-five dollars’ purse, you mean?’ the burly man suggested, reaching out with his right hand to tap the appropriate place on the poster.

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ the girl confirmed. Then, throwing a glance in each direction as she had done twice before since starting the conversation, she continued, ‘However, could we go somewhere off the street to talk, please.’

  ‘Of course,’ Brackley assented, his curiosity aroused. After he had led her into the mouth of the alley separating the saloon from the next building on the street, he enquired, ‘So you think you can beat one of my ladies?’

  ‘I’m willing to try—Besides—!’

  ‘Besides?’

  ‘From what I’ve heard about you,’ the girl said with a friendly frankness which its recipient found refreshing and flattering. ‘There is a collection taken for the loser of the bout, which means either way I’ll have something for my efforts.’

  ‘I do and you would,’ Brackley replied.

  ‘Would you mind telling me how much that will be?’ the girl asked.

  ‘That always depends on how good a show you—the challenger’s put on,’ Brackley answered. ‘It can be as high as twenty dollars if she’s done well and the crowd like her. But where did you hear about what goes on at my shows?’

  ‘Two of the men who were staying at the rooming house where I was living in Surbiton had seen your Troupe when you visited there,’ the girl explained. ‘I heard them talking about it over breakfast next morning.’

  ‘So you live in Surbiton, huh?’ the burly man said, the visit to which her companion had referred having taken place some two months earlier. ‘That’s a pretty long way from St. Jo.’

  ‘I know, I’ve made the journey,’ the girl answered, but her tone and demeanor had become wary. ‘Not that I live there, I was just staying for a vacation and I haven’t run away from home, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Brackley lied, the possibility having crossed his mind. ‘But, if you’ll pardon me for saying so, you’re not the usual kind of challenger I get for my ladies.’

  ‘Going by what the men were saying about the woman who took on your German Countess in Surbiton, I thought I might not be. But I’m still making the challenge.’

  ‘Why?’

  Brackley considered the question was justified. He had noticed that the girl constantly glanced about her while speaking and awaiting his answer. However, even if she had not run away from her home, he was willing to admit this could have been motivated by nothing more significant than a desire to avoid being seen whilst engaged in a conversation with somebody like him. On the other hand, should she be a runaway and knew her parents were looking for her, it seemed unlikely that she would want to let herself become involved in something which would attract attention to her.

  Of course, the man told himself, there was another possibility. The girl might be a criminal on the run from the law. However, studying her, he felt sure this was not the case. What was more, if she was a fugitive from justice, she would be just as disinclined as a runaway to draw attention to herself by engaging in a wrestling match.

  ‘I need some extra money,’ the would-be challenger replied, meeting the speculative gaze of her interrogator without flinching. ‘And your offer strikes me as being a good way of getting it.’

  ‘That sounds reasonable,’ Brackley admitted, in spite of his misgivings. ‘But do you have any idea of exactly what you’re getting yourself into?’

  ‘I think so,’ the girl replied, then raised and bent her right arm. ‘I’ve always led an active life and haven’t forgotten what I learned as a child. Feel my muscle and I think you’ll find I’m not exactly puny.’

  ‘You’re not, I’ll give you that,’ Brackley admitted, having made the experiment and found a very firm bicep under the material. He had already noticed, whilst entering the alley, that his companion moved in a sprightly fashion suggestive of more agility than might be expected from one of her build. However, realizing she had misunderstood his question, he continued, ‘But I still want to know if you’ve any idea of exactly what you’re getting into?’

  ‘I’ve ridden almost all my life and know how to take a fall,’ the girl asserted. ‘On top of which, I was always something of a tomboy and learned how to take care of myself in scuffles with boys as well as other girls. And I’m not afraid of taking some knocks and collecting a few bruises, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘That’s part of it,’ Brackley declared. ‘But I’m more thinking about where you’d be. It’ll be in a saloon, with a whole crowd of men looking at you.’

  ‘At the risk of appearing boastful,’ the girl asserted with a smile, ‘I’ve noticed men looking at me for a few years now and it hasn’t done me any harm.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you have had them look,’ Brackley answered, running a far from disapproving gaze over his companion. ‘But I’d say that’d only be while you’re on the street and dressed.’

  ‘It was,’ the girl conceded. ‘But I don’t recollect the two men in Surbiton saying your ladies were undressed.’

  ‘They weren't, at least not the way I reckon you mean,’ the burly man affirmed quickly and definitely. Concluding there was no point in saying the women of his Troupe did occasionally wrestle stripped to the waist at select private functions, as the event under discussion was not in that category, he went on, ‘And they won’t be tonight, but they’ll be wearing a whole lot less clothes than I’ll bet you’ve ever let yourself be seen in.’

  ‘I had an idea what I’m wearing wouldn’t be suitable,’ the girl claimed, glancing at and running her right hand over her skirt. ‘But I’ve a pair of riding breeches and a man’s undershirt I can put on.’

  ‘The breeches’d be a mite rough on whichever lady you was up against,’ Brackley pointed out, hoping this would prove a deterrent.

  A shrewd businessman, the manager of the Troupe could see the advantage of accepting the challenge. Good a show as his wrestlers put on amongst themselves, the response from the audience was always far better financially when one of them was taking on a member of the local community. He sensed, due to the girl being so different from the usual type of challenger, this would be even more so if he consented to her participating. Nevertheless, because of an inborn sense of what was right, the supposition was in conflict with a feeling that somebody with her background did not belong in such an atmosphere and he was hoping the implications of his remark would cause her to change her mind.

  ‘I guess they would,’ the girl conceded. She was silent for a moment, then looked at the poster and, clearly having arrived at a decision, gave a shrug. ‘All right, as they won’t do, I’m willing to borrow the same kind of clothing your ladies wear if they’d lend me some.’

  ‘It sounds like you’ve thought this out pretty good,’ Brackley commented with a grin suggesting admiration.

  ‘I have,’ the girl confirmed and, while it had become friendly again, there was a timbre of grim determination in her voice. ‘Including something I felt sure that you would have to take into account.’

  ‘What would that be?’

  ‘What the men around town would think and say if they heard you’d refused to accept my challenge.’

  ‘By golly, young lady, you have thought it out real good,’ Brackley stated and there was still more admiration than animosity in his tone. Then, giving a shrug redolent of cheerful rather than resentful resignation, he went on, ‘All right, on your head be it. I’ll have—I reckon Annie—Lady Lavinia of Sheffield will be the safes’—best—to take up your challenge.’

  ‘I’ll leave that up to you,’ the girl declared, giving no sign that she had noticed the way in which the selection of her opponent was worded although she decided it justified her assumptions with regards to the character of the man she was addressing. ‘How do we do the wrestling?’

  ‘The bout’ll be a single fall, with no time limit,’ Brackley explained. ‘It’s won when one of you has
her shoulders pinned to the mat, is made to say she submits, or gets knocked out. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I’ve a pretty good idea,’ the girl admitted. ‘Those were the rules when I’ve seen men wrestling at fairs and such back home.’

  ‘And you’re willing to go along with those rules?’ Brackley inquired. ‘Even though you could get hurt so much you’ll have to say you submit, or perhaps be knocked unconscious.’

  ‘I’m willing to take a chance on either!’ the girl asserted. ‘I don’t really expect to win, but I promise I’ll do the best I can.’

  ‘I reckon you will at that.’

  ‘Then you’ll take the challenge?’

  ‘Just as long as you’re sure you want to go through with it.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘All right then, your challenge’s accepted,’ Brackley affirmed. ‘I’ll have to know your name, so that I can announce you.’

  ‘Syl—Reb—Becky Hind—’ the girl supplied and, despite having somewhat mixed feelings over having achieved her purpose, silently promised herself that she would do her best to surprise the white haired man when the time came.

  ‘Becky Ingraham of Surbiton, Missouri,’ ix Brackley suggested, having noticed the slight hesitation with which the introduction was made and deducing the name he had finally received was an alias.

  ‘Oh no!’ the girl replied, the vehemence of the response giving strength to the supposition. ‘Don’t mention Surbiton whatever else you say. I wouldn’t want anybody from there to find out wher—what I’m doing!’

  Two – I Killed a Man

  ‘Wh—Wha—What—?’ Becky Ingraham gasped, as the spinning sensation inside her head subsided and conscious thought began to stir. Finding herself looking up at an unpainted wooden ceiling which she did not recognize, she also realized she was lying on something far harder even than the less than soft bed at the rooming house which was her temporary accommodation. Lowering her still blurred gaze to a lower level, she discovered there were two vague masculine and a female shape near her, but she was unable to identify any of them. Despite a growing realization that every muscle and fiber of her shapely young body was throbbing with a persistent aching pain, she tried to shove herself into a sitting position, staring about her in a dazed and close to frightened fashion. ‘Wh—Where am I?’

  ‘Take it easy, honey!’ Horace ‘Pug’ Brackley requested, gently restraining the girl. ‘Your head hit the mat with a helluva bang, but the doctor here says you’ve got nothing worse than a bump on it the size of a goose egg.’

  ‘It was your own fault, duck,’ claimed ‘Lady Lavinia of Sheffield, England’, having hurried forward on seeing Becky was regaining consciousness. Her accent was not what might have been expected from one with such an aristocratic name and she employed a term of friendly endearment common in the working class areas of the British city from which she had originated. Despite her exhaustion and physical suffering, she had refused to go to her own changing room at the rear of the Journey West Saloon until she was sure she had not inflicted any permanent damage to the girl. Hoping this was the case, there was an expression of relief on her face and her tone became redolent of that emotion as she went on, ‘You was so good, I forgot I wasn’t working with one of the regular girls and used the routine I would’ve with them to get the bout over.’

  Despite the conviction with which she had spoken when issuing the challenge, Becky had needed to call upon all her resolution and strength of will to go through with it.

  She had been helped by the friendly way in which she was greeted when being introduced by its manager to the International Troupe Of Lady Wrestlers and its other two male members, Percy Pulbright—who was to act as referee—and the ‘advance man’, Sidney Colkiss, responsible for going ahead to make the arrangements for the bouts in the towns they visited. Nevertheless, on being taken to one of the rooms at the rear of the saloon and shown the clothing she was to wear, she had begun to realize what Brackley had meant when asking if she realized exactly what she was getting into. Not only did the sleeveless white cotton blouse have an extreme décolleté, but it, and the black tights, clung like a second skin to her otherwise—except for a pair of heel-less black cloth shoes—unclad curvaceously buxom body. It was attire of a brevity far exceeding anything she had worn in the presence of members of the opposite sex since her tomboy childhood. Even then, those who had seen her skimpily clad were cousins and friends of the same age as herself, not total strangers.

  While crossing the crowded main barroom, accompanied by ‘Contessa Rosa of Milan, Italy’ who was to be her second, the girl had discovered that the scrutiny of the all male audience was far more disconcerting than when she was fully and conventionally dressed. She told herself that, due to the drastic way the style of her life had been recently changed, in all probability, if she wanted to survive, this was only the first time she would be compelled to depart from the standards in which she had been raised. Therefore, by forcing herself to remember what was at stake, she had been able to enter the ring at the center instead of yielding to an inclination to run away.

  Once the bout had commenced, Becky had soon forgotten her misgivings. She discovered that her faith in Brackley’s character was justified and she realized why Lady Lavinia had been selected to meet her challenge. Although she had gathered some knowledge of holds and throws as a child, having been taught by her father who was a skilful amateur wrestler, she could not have lasted for long by her own endeavors against such an experienced opponent. Almost twice her age, matching her in height and build, with yellowish-red hair styled in a similar fashion, the Englishwoman had whispered instructions which allowed her to escape the first time she had found herself in a grip she had not encountered during her childhood tussles. Helped by her natural agility and fitness, the advice which continued to be given had enabled her to put on an exhibition which the crowd had found enjoyable and believed to be completely genuine.

  The end had come when, forgetting she was not in contention against another member of the Troupe, the red head had set into motion a routine they often employed to produce a spectacular finish. Not only had the girl been close to exhaustion and unaware of what to expect, but she was distracted by having seen two men from Surbiton who she had reason to believe were looking for her sitting at a ringside table. Therefore, she had failed to break the fall she had taken with the skill she had displayed up until then. Without realizing the back of her head had struck the padded floor of the ring hard enough to knock her unconscious, Lady Lavinia had doubled her body over at the waist and, lying across her legs, held her pinned against the ‘mat’.

  When Pulbright had completed the count of three and told the red head to rise, she had done so with the intention of carrying on with her usual display of ‘aristocratic’ arrogance by supposedly gloating over having attained victory. However, both she and the referee had realized something was wrong when Becky’s folded body had straightened involuntarily then continued to sprawl supine, unmoving and with eyes closed. Despite the rigorous bout in which they had engaged and occasional genuine suffering to which she had been subjected due to the inexperience of the girl, Lady Lavinia had been alarmed and very concerned when she realized what must have happened. It had taken all her willpower to commence acting in a manner far different from her true inclinations. However, she had restricted herself to stalking back to her corner and donning the cloak handed to her by her second, behaving all the time as if completely disinterested in the fate of her beaten opponent.

  Subsequent events had also taken a more serious turn than was intended. The manager of the Troupe of International Lady Wrestlers and Sidney Colkiss had hurriedly left their ringside table and entered the ring. Joining Pulbright and ‘Contessa Rosa of Milan, Italy’, they had been diverted before they could conduct an examination of the girl. Taking a glance at the hostile response being displayed by the crowd, who had clearly taken Becky to their hearts, Brackley had been aware of the danger. All around the
barroom, men were standing up and indignantly shouting. However, he had encountered a similar situation more than once and knew how best to cope with it. Although he knew doing so would entail neglecting Becky for a short while, he had put the scheme into effect in the interests of avoiding an incident which would bring him into conflict with the local peace officers, and with William Flanagan, the owner of the saloon.

  Before any of the spectators could decide to take physical action against the girl’s victorious assailant, Brackley had hissed an order to her second. Knowing what was wanted, the Contessa had started screaming abuse in her heavily accented English and dashed across the ring. She was prevented from ‘attacking’ Lady Lavina by ‘Countess Fritzi of Hamburg, Germany’, who was equally cognizant with the situation. Leaving the girl where she lay, the three men had crossed to where the pair were locked together in a hair pulling struggle and dragged them apart.

  The sight of the altercation between the Contessa and the Countess had served its purpose by holding the attention of the crowd. Nor had it ended with their separation. Following the routine in which both had participated on several occasions during their travels, they had both demanded they be allowed to settle their disagreement without interruption. First making it seem he did not approve, Brackley had allowed himself to be ‘persuaded’ by the shouted demands from the onlookers that they were allowed to do so. With the promise of a ‘grudge’ fight between the ‘enraged’ seconds agreed upon for later in the evening, the spectators had quietened down and returned to their seats.

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Doctor Oswald Plunkett—the local medical practitioner selected by Colkiss as most suitable to attend in case there should be any accidents involving the combatants, a precaution which Brackley insisted upon having taken even when there was no local contender likely to cause the need for such attention—had entered the ring to examine the unconscious girl. On being told that it was safe for them to do so, Colkiss and the Contessa had carried Becky back to the changing room. They had been accompanied by the doctor, who wished to be present when the girl recovered so that he could carry out tests to ensure she was not suffering from any serious effects.