Calvin and the Kid

by Gary Clifton

Calvin rolled over in the hay and studied the kid’s face in the dim light. “Kid, you need a stitch in that gash. Gonna leave a hell of a scar or get infected and scare Mama outta her wits.”

The kid explored the wound over his right eyebrow with a fingertip. “Be a while ’fore we see Mama, Calvin.”

Calvin leaned close to inspect the wound. “Man, he really tagged you good.”

“Elbow. I’ll get that horse doc here at the livery to look at it, Calvin. We got one more night’s pickins over to that Brown Rooster joint. Today’s payday. Them loggers gonna be carrying a pocket full of cash.”

Cash in the 1908 Tennessee hills was as scarce as clean underwear.

“Ain’t sure that eye is gonna take much more beatin’. We’ll be looking in at your brain... if you got one.” Calvin grinned.

Calvin was two years older than his kid brother. Big and fleshy, he didn’t have the kid’s hands.

They crawled down from the livery loft, stopped by the store and split a sweet bun for supper.

Drawing a crowd in those dives meant waiting until around nine o’clock. They’d all be pretty drunk by then. Drunk and “thirst for blood and violence” were first cousins.

The kid tied his bandana around his head to hide the cut.

At 9:05, Calvin pushed through the swinging doors and announced over the din, “My little brother will fight any man in the house... for a price.”

Every mining community had a barroom full of brawlers and always one who was the meanest brawler in the county. The crowd, nearing a hundred, collectively smirked as a round of “little punk” comments circled the room. But many had seen the kid in action the night before; they knew.

Presently, they formed a human circle, and a shirtless ape waited in the center. Half in the bag, half tough enough to take down an ox, he drunkenly taunted the kid. “C’mon, you little pup. I’ll stove in your head and not spill no beer.”

Bareknuckle, the kid shucked his shirt, the only one he had, and stepped up to the bully.

Some drunk in the crowd asked, “Good God, kid, whadda you weigh?”

“Just enough,” he smiled, revealing a missing front tooth. He’d stepped on a scale the day before at the livery. He just topped 135 pounds.

“Two hundred,” his lie brought a round of guffaws from the row of drunken faces.

The big man was maybe thirty, with a face beaten flat. In thirty seconds, the crowd, the opponent, and the kid saw he could hit the slow-handed monster any time he wanted.

Amidst a flurry of missed roundhouse blows, the kid had bloodied the man’s face in a minute. In two, Goliath began to teeter.

Calvin scurried about, passing his cap for the night’s wages. Coins would spend just as easy as dollars.

Two rounds later, the big lumberjack didn’t fall exactly. He sat on the floor, exhausted, battered,beaten. Calvin and the kid had learned that such a crowd — rather than accept a fair defeat — yearned for another pug-ugly to take on the kid. Worse, the money in the hat never grew for a second match.

Calvin and the kid took advantage of the heated arguments, grabbed the kid’s shirt, and slipped out. Behind the livery, the kid eased off the bandana and washed his face in the horse tank.

“That cut over your eye is bleeding like hell, kid. We might oughta wake up that vet tonight.”

“It’ll wait till tomorrow, Calvin. We need to get to hikin’ on down the road. Find the next town... may be some kinda doc there.”

“You two hold up.” A husky man materialized in the darkness. His voice carried the sound of the law.

The kid felt in his pocket to ensure the switchblade was in place. In the dark, the man did not appear to be carrying a pistol. This cracker wasn’t gonna get the night’s receipts without a scuffle.

“Lemme see some tin,” Calvin said.

“Ain’t no lawman, boys.” He looked at the kid. “Kid, you wanna real fight. Joint called the Annabel ten miles down the trail in Polktown. We walk, we make it by daybreak. I can get you a real fight.”

In the semi-dark, the stranger appeared to be a gambler or hustler of some sort.

“Fight? Who?” the kid asked.

“Feller used to work in the real fight game; had a bunch of fights. Once a trooper in the army. Weighs maybe one-sixty.”

“No thanks,” Calvin said.

“Guarantee twenty bucks to you, kid.”

The kid spoke up. “Dollars? Half up front?”

“Uh, well I’ll front up five.” He handed over a worn fiver. “You got some hand speed, kid. Them rednecks gonna love you. How old are you, young fella?”

The kid stepped back. “That make never no mind, mister?

“Naw, kid.”

“What’s it to you, then?” He grabbed the five “Lead the way, mister.” He gingerly felt the eyebrow. He’d need some sort of patch or bandage.

Calvin whispered, “Kid, you sure... that eye?”

The kid leaned close to Calvin’s ear. “What the hell, I already kilt that fat guy in that tournament you got me into up in Smith Center. I was young. Now I’m fourteen. For twenty bucks, I’ll do whatever I gotta do to the bum in the next town.”

“Damn,” Calvin shook his head. “I dunno.”

Calvin asked, “Mister, is there a vet or maybe a lady who sews in that town... uh, Poopville, you said?”

“Polktown, kid. Yeah, we’ll find somebody with a needle and thread. We might oughta wait until after the fight. No sense sewing it up twice.”