# Dead Man's Gold/Chapter 5
### CHAPTER V
#### Lola

STONE found himself in a whirl of people trying to drag him back up the alley, patting him on the back, shouting; others helped up the fallen Padilla. The musician struggled fiercely to get away from them, sputtering Carrambas! and Carrajos! As they got out of the shadows of the alley the crowd gathered round under the electrics in half-drunken excitement, calling for "Padilla" and "El Toro." Stone heard a dozen broken sentences above the gabble.
"What is it?"
"A fight!"
"He knocked El Toro flat!"
"Fight!" "Fight!"
While his seemingly friendly backers held him Padilla broke loose, sprang across the space between them, and thwacked Stone a sounding blow on his cheek with the palm of his hand.
"You damn Gringo," he said, his eyes glittering, blood trickling from his bitten lip. "I teach you, por Dios, to leave my girl alone! I geev you now one chance to run. Eef you stay, I keel you! With my feests. Gringo, with my feests!"
They had caught his arms again and he stood ​sneeringly defiant. Rage, red-hot, had surged over Stone and left him cold and murderous. The blow had been cowardly. He could not have warded it off, held as he was. But it had been administered in front of a hundred men and twenty women, his Americanism had been insulted, and Padilla had told him to run.
"You'll leave the girl out of it, you hound," he said, quietly, for the crowd, pressing forward, quieted suddenly, seemed to hang on his words. "You got knocked down once for insulting her. Now, by God, I'm going to thrash you on my own account!"
A shout went up and now men were coming out from the gambling rooms. Castro was not in evidence. A giant of a man, whom Stone had set down as an oilman, dressed in tweeds and corduroys, with his trousers tucked into high-laced boots, a wisp of a blonde girl clinging to his arm, pressed forward.
"Good for you," he said. "I've got enough of my own crowd here to see fair play. Go ahead and lick the damned Greaser! If Castro butts in we'll dean him up. I'll referee the bout, if you like, or second you, though I don't know so much about that end of it. Jim, oh, Jim!" Another big man, who seemed the twin of the first, surged through the crowd. Following in his wake Stone saw Lefty ploughing on and, back of him, his face pale, Healy.
My brother here 'll keep time," said the first man. Ned Grinm's my name. Chuck some sand on that dancing floor, boys. Some of you see that Greaser shucked of his knife. He's got one somewhere."
​Instantly the crowd divided into two factions. There was a howl of Mexican dissent against an American timekeeper as well as referee. Ned Grimm, self installed, but completely master of the ceremonies, compromised.
Healy and Lefty reached Stone together.
"For God's sake," gasped Healy, his low tones lost in the hubbub. "Get out of here! You couldn't have got into a mess with a worse man. Padilla used to be a toreador in Mexico City and, after that, a prize-fighter. He's strong as an ox. They call him 'El Toro.' Even if you got the best of him the mob 'ud knife the lot of us. I've just seen Castro. He won't interfere."
Stone shook him off impatiently. Healy's reasoning appealed to him dimly through his rage, as nothing personal, only the willingness, the desire to have him act as a coward and so run no chances of spoiling their combination. Healy was guarding the goose that was to lay the largest golden egg.
There was a ring around the dancing floor by now. A few men kept the crowd back. The girls had mounted on tables. Everywhere was the glitter of eyes, the stare of faces intent upon sport, the more brutal the better. Someone hustled a startled Chinaman through the ruck. The Oriental was clinging to a great gong that had been pressed into service from his kitchen. He was established, excited, jabbering, his slit-eyes glittering, beside the man chosen for timekeeper. Two chairs had appeared on the floor under the sputtery electrics, with ​buckets of water and towels. It was not the first time that the Casa Grande had seen a fight. Such things aided the popularity of the place. Padilla had been several times in action. He was the bully of the place, for all his guitar playing. It was an odd combination—matador and musician—only a Latin could have compassed it, but it was a life that Padilla revelled in.
Bets were being made with the odds on the Mexican, despite the quick uptaking of the wagers by the American contingent. The cause of the quarrel was forgotten. It was a race rivalry with scant sympathy for the principals as persons.
Details began to shape themselves to Stone who had mechanically allowed Lefty to help him strip to his waist and seat him in a chair. Padilla emerged from a knot of his countrymen, his sash gay about his waist, the muscles playing over a torso that gave Stone a sudden realization of what he was up against. The Mexican was magnificently built from the waist up, his legs could be only guessed at, but a bull-fighter's footwork is his best safeguard and there was small doubt of their capacity. The broad shoulders sloped a little, the chest curved like a vase down to the stomach, every pose and motion set in play elastic masses of muscle, relaxing and bunching. He sneered across at Stone and turned his back on him, showing a trapezium that a professional gymnast might have envied.
Stone's arms were burned to the biceps, his face tan covered his neck and a deep V on his chest. ​Otherwise his skin was startlingly pale under the lavender lighting. His muscles were long rather than showy and his lower ribs were too well covered. Comparisons between the two flew, and were not complimentary to Stone. The odds were tauntingly raised against the Gringo and not so keenly accepted.
Lefty, professional, his eyes lit up, his face pugnacious, knelt by Stone whispering advice.
"Know anything about the game?" he asked.
"I used to be pretty handy at it," said Stone.
"'Ow 'andy? I got to know. This hain't no exhibition contest. You got your work cut out. Hever go hany distance? Hoo trained you?"
The Cockney's h's were piling up in his eagerness.
"I've boxed with some of the best of them," said Stone. "Don't worry about that end of it, Lefty. You'll get the hang of me in a round or so. But I was in better shape then."
"I should 'ope so," Lefty said, frankly. "Bloody lucky for you you been swingin' sledge lately. You're put up hall right but you're in a 'ell of a condition. You got to feel 'im hout. Hif we win this, hits goin' to be becoz we use our noodles. Your legs is good. You got to keep cool hand—git 'im rattled. Got to. 'E'll 'ammer you a bit hat first. You got to stand it. 'E ain't in the pink 'imself."
"He looks fit," said Stone, eyeing his man.
"'E's skinny," said Lefty. "But 'is skin hain't 'ealthy. Hand I'll bet 'is wind hain't none too good. Too gay a life, too many cigarettes, too much booze. 'E won't last. Hall them muscles popping hout don't ​mean nothing. Hits the 'eart what counts. Go slow. Don't mind them shoutin' hat you to mix it. You pay hattention to what I tell you. You're a hamature. I'm a pro. Leave it to me. Fight slow. Don't huse your harms too much. They'll get tired. Hand, for Gawd's sake, don't leave yourself hopen! Jab 'im. Jab 'is hugly mug for 'im 'til I tell you to switch. Feel 'im hout."
The Chinaman clanged his gong at the cry of the timekeeper and Padilla glided out to meet Stone. The big referee met them, his arms outspread. He spoke to the Mexican holding the watch.
"I'm starting this bout," he said. "This scrap is going to be on its merits." He turned to Padilla first.
"No monkey business goes with you," he said, crisply. "Put up your hands. Up with them. I'm going to be sure none of your Spiggoty pals passed you a knife." Padilla scowled but obeyed and Grimm deftly patted him, doing the same to Stone with a friendly grin.
"You'll break clean when I tell you," he went on. "First man I catch fouling loses the fight. Three-minute rounds. One minute rest. To a finish?" he asked, looking at Stone, who nodded. "Till one is knocked out or quits. Get back to your corners. Now, then, let her go!" And the gong clanged again.
He bulked over both of them but he was active, evidently knew his end of the game, and meant to see it carried out. He gave Stone a certain confidence though Stone never considered the outcome. He ​was cool and he knew that he had a hard job ahead of him. He was going to fight by the judgment of Lefty, measure his man, not waste his strength. In two things only he had an advantage that he counted on: a longer reach, and a better temper.
The Mexican lost no time. He dropped into an approved crouch, fiddling, breaking ground, feinting, trying to get Stone to open up, his followers jeering as the American stood his ground, shifting slowly but cleverly enough to face his active foe. Suddenly Padilla leaped from a squat, lithe as a great cat, lunging like lightning, getting in a blow to Stone's cheek and another to the ribs and dancing back unscathedy while a roar went up of "El Toro!" Padilla danced back to the limits of the human ring while Stone refused to follow him.
"It is the Gringo who is the bull," cried Padilla in Spanish. "I am the bull-fighter!"
Back of the Mexican, in the rear of the crowd. Stone glimpsed the girl Lola, standing on a table, impassive, leaning forward from the hips. Her eyes met his and she flashed him a smile. Padilla came rushing in again, and out, once, twice, leading for the head. But Stone was beginning to find himself. It was a long time since he had faced a man, never before with bared fists in a timed fight. He was far from sure of his judgment of distance, he felt rusty, reluctant to try the tricks that he had learned. But his body warmed and suppled to the excitement, to the indistinguishable roar all about them, to the mocking face of the evasive Padilla. In the next ​rush he jerked his head aside and grinned as he knew he had timed things properly, and the fist of the Mexican only grazed his shoulder. Padilla's right got to his ribs, but he countered simultaneously with a short-arm jolt to the side of Padilla's jaw that sent the Mexican staggering back, off his balance for the second. Instantly Stone was after him with a hard smash to the lower ribs. Padilla turned savagely and Stone uppercut him. The place was in an uproar. Padilla leaped and was straightened out with a punch that cut Stone's knuckes where they split the other's lip and jarred against his teeth. With the blood dripping the Mexican fought desperately. Stone herding him back. A drive under the heart left Padilla groggy, his guard drooping. Stone set himself for the punch and the gong sounded.
Padilla turned and groped back to his corner, crestfallen, shaky. Stone walked to his and Lefty pulled him down into his chair.
"You 'ad 'im goin'," he said. "But 'e won't be caught again. They 'elped 'im hout wif the gong." He worked fast as he spoke, kneading away at Stone's arm muscles. They were a little tired already but he was breathing easily. Over by the gong Jim Grimm was standing in an angry argument with the time-keeper. Like his brother, he had taken off coat and vest. An automatic showed in his hip pocket. He made one warning gesture with his finger and walked away. His brother nodded to him.
"Look hout this trip," warned Lefty, "that beggar can fight. 'E didn't fink you could. Now 'e knows."
​Stone found no more chances for staggering Padilla in the next three rounds. He kept his face bloody with an occasional punch, but the Mexican's body-guard was well-nigh perfect and he possessed the ability to lash out viciously from any angle and with either hand. He played for Stone's kidneys, and one hard jab left Stone in swift agony at the close of a round. Scissored in his chair, his face went gray with the effort to straighten up. Lefty watched him anxiously.
"Keep your helbows working," he cautioned. "'E hain't hall to the merry. You got 'is bellows workin' hovertime. Never mind 'is mug hafter this. Play for 'is bread-basket."
Padilla's chest was heaving hard though he smiled confidently. At the bell he came with a rush, charging, his head well down between his broad shoulders, a hurtling mass of nervous energy. Stone's arms were getting more and more tired and heavy. Years of indulgence had sapped his vigour and drained his reserves, more than he had ever dreamed. Before the fury of Padilla's attack he gave ground and resorted to a clinch. Padilla's long arms twined about his in a fierce wrestle and Padilla's fists got home once and again. As Grimm yelled "Break!", the Mexican snapped in a low blow to the groin that left Stone dizzy and tottering. Padilla bounded for him, but Grimm stepped in between them and shook his finger menacingly at the Mexican. The fortunes of the fight had swung. The crowd yelled, the girls screaming in shrill excitement, as the bell rang and both men went to their corners.
​Already they were badly bruised and battered with the blows of bare knuckles. Padilla's lip, bitten by the girl, slashed again by Stone, could not be closed by his second's endeavours. One eye was darkening on his olive countenance and his body, like Stone's, was smeared with blood. Over Stone's kidneys the white flesh was angry red. The foul blow stabbed like a redhot blade but it was so close to the mark as to be hardly classed unfair in the swift moving of the fight. He writhed in his chair, striving to get back strength enough to meet Padilla within the limit of the swiftly ticking seconds.
"One good buster in the bread-basket 'll knock hall the fight hout of 'im," pleaded Lefty. "Don't wrestle 'im. Slog 'im hin the pantry. 'Ard! Git 'im goin', and you got 'im licked. 'E's yeller, I tell you. 'Is wind is rotten."
Stone barely sensed the meaning of the injunctions. The pain subsided a little but he felt strangely apathetic. His firsts were as heavy as lead, his knees weak, and he tried to flog them to coordination with a brain that functioned dully.
"Bam m-m-m!" There was the bell again and it seemed to him he had taken less than a dozen gulping breaths. He started to get to his feet, but Lefty's hands were on his shoulders and he settled back with relief. A few seconds more and he would be so much better able to face the man he was going to lick. It was preposterous that a Mexican—a Spigotty, as Grimm styled them—could beat an American. It ​was the heart that counted, said Lefty. Very well, then, but why the bell?
The ring was in a tumult. Jim Grimm had gone over to the timekeeper once more, backed by half-a-dozen other men. Guns were shown openly and knives were felt for. All veneers had peeled. The primitiveness of the fight had got down to the raw manhood in all of them but, with the rawness, the Americans demanded fair play. The Mexican watch-holder had favoured his man again, cutting short the precious minute of rest because the Gringo had been hurt in the last round. Ned Grimm, the referee, joined the group. Then he came back to the centre of the ring and his deep voice dominated the uproar that died grudgingly away to listen.
"This is not a prize-fight," he said. "It's a grudge between two men that is going to be fought out under fair rules. I don't want to give a decision on anything but a knockout. But Padilla struck low. The round was shortened once in his favour and now the rest has been chopped in half to favour him again because he got the better of the last round. Next time that happens Padilla loses the fight and the bets will be collected that way."
The number of pistols that appeared from ranchers and oilmen was astonishing and disconcerting to the Mexican element. They growled and muttered but said nothing as Jim Grimm ostentatiously took out his own watch and took place beside the timekeeper to check him.
It had not been intentional, but Stone had ​obtained a respite that was a godsend. His brain was cleared of pain-engendered fog and once more he felt his body responsive to his will. No miracle had happened. He was tiring and he knew that he would have to do what he was set to do inside of the next round or so. But he seemed to have acquired a sort of second wind and, when he faced Padilla once more, he noticed the Mexican's palpitating stomach as the latter danced away lightly and fell into a crouch. That was his target.
Stone commenced the aggressive. He had always been noted for that in the old gymnasium days. Only his knowledge of his lack of condition, braking him sub-consciously, had held him back. Now he sailed in confident, smiling, without a wasted move, feinting, covering, and boring in again, never giving the Mexican a chance to get set for a leap or rush, out-guessing him, bewildering him. Two swings he ducked beautifully and laughed as he noted the expression in the Mexican's eyes, as if Padilla suddenly saw a tired and sluggish fighter turned by magic into an altogether different opponent, fast and fresh.
Once only Padilla managed to evade him, the pair trading punches that left the Mexican's lower face bloody crimson as a sliced beet, but gave him his chance to rush, swinging a murderous right. Stone side-stepped and, as Padilla carried by, flashed his right hard to the mark with a jolt that did not travel far but had every ounce of weight and recoil of arm and shoulder muscle back of it. It knocked the breath out of Padilla's body, it sent his face gray, ​and it made his arms inert. Stone's left shot up to the angle of the jaw and Padilla fell with a crash to the dancing floor, face down.
The crowd writhed like a nest of snakes as it surged forward while Jim Grimm and his aides held them back and Ned Grimm counted off the seconds in a stentorian voice.
At the count of nine Padilla's body had not even twitched. Grimm could have counted fifty instead of his final triumphant "and out!" Lefty was forcing Stone's clothes on him. Healy was again with them, urging instant departure. Jim Grimm came over, gripping Stone's hand.
"America wins!" he said. "Hope to see you again, sir. Look me up at Bakersfield. But take my tip now and get across the line. There'll be hell to pay in collecting these bets and you'll not be in favour if they see you around. Take a jitney and vamose."
Stone looked round for the girl but there was no hope of locating her in such a mêlée. Healy was tugging at him. Lefty advised flight.
The drivers had all been at the ringside and they inspected several cars before a man came to them.
"Want to get back to Calexico?" he asked. "This way."
He led them to a better type of car than most of the machines. Before they reached it he tapped Stone on the shoulder.
"Better go on ahead," he said. "There's someone waitin' for you in the tonneau. A dame. Lola," he whispered.
​Lefty checked Healy who began to protest.
"It may be a plant," he said. But Stone had seen the beckon of a small hand and, opening the door, jumped in, while the driver, who seemed a friendly soul, held the two others a little way off.
Lola seized his hand.
"Thank you," she said. "Twice. Once for saving me in the alley and again for beating him. I wish you had killed him," she added, savagely.
"What are you going to do?" asked Stone with a sudden realization of what might happen to her in Padilla's revenge. He had spoiled Castro's musician. Castro would not be likely to take it in good part.
"I am going back," she said. "Padilla is all vanity, like a big bladder. Once pricked, there is nothing left. Castro will fire him. There are other musicians. And I can handle Castro."
"Do you like that sort of thing?" asked Stone. "Why go back?"
Her tone was amused.
"Do you happen to know where else I can earn a hundred dollars a week?"
"Why do you need a hundred dollars?"
"Because I have other mouths to feed besides my own. I hate the place, but I have to go back to it. You don't understand. And I know how to wheedle Castro."
"That fat beast!"
"Hush!" She set a smooth, cool palm across his lips. "Don't bother about me. I can take care of myself. I do not have to sell myself or even my ​kisses. Perhaps I might give what I would not sell, if—— Kiss me," she broke off, imperiously.
Her lips sought his and clung to them passionately. Then she lithely released herself from his arms. A scrap of folded paper was thrust into his hand, his fingers folded over it.
"Where are you going?" she whispered.
"I don't know," he answered, frankly.
"I shall find out," she returned. "Put that note away and read it when you are by yourself. Then destroy it. I must go."
She was standing by now on the running-board, on the opposite side from the three waiting men. She leaned forward, caught his head between her hands, kissed him, leaped down, and disappeared in the dusk, wrapped in a long cloak above her finery. Stone shifted over and called to the rest.
As they sped across the line and up the main street of Calexico to their hotel, Healy was voluble in praise of Stone and rejoicing at their own safety.
"We're well out of that joint," he concluded. "There's going to be blood-letting over those bets."
Stone laughed suddenly.
"I won and we didn't make a cent by it," he said. "We went there to make a stake and I lost my sixty right off the reel and then bulled the deal for you. Did either of you save anything?"
"I was breaking about even," said Healy. "I cashed in seventy dollars when the row started."
"That won't take us far," said Stone. "Just what is the next move, Healy?"
​"Miami, Arizona, by rail. Not far from Globe."
Stone whistled. Seventy dollars wasn't going to help very much on that trip.
"It was my fault," he said. "Though I couldn't have done anything else at the time."
"Castro would have staked us," said Healy. "I don't know how he'd feel about it now. But——"
"Castro be damned!" said Lefty. "I'm lousy with money. I made five straight passes and let 'er ride. Wen they hall left the table as the ruction starts I'm four 'undred and heighty to the good, in silver an' markers. I've got it hall in gold, tied hup in my 'andkerchief, twenty-four gold cartwheels. To 'ell with Castro! This firm hain't bankrupt, not by a long shot!"
It seemed to Stone as if Healy's congratulations lacked something, but he was in no mood to criticise.
He was longing for a bed, stiffening from the fight, eager to get a chance to look at the paper that Lola had slipped to him. They got a room with a single and a double bed in it, but it was graying to dawn before they secured it and Lefty proposed breakfast. Stone lingered to wash up and opened the note. It was brief, in a writing that reminded him somehow of the hint of girlishness he had noticed in Lola's shoulders:
Look out for your friend Healy. He and Castro are working up something together and it isn't to help you. I may learn more. Write me, if you like. General Delivery at Calexico.
Mary Leslie (Lola).
​That something might be Healy's endeavour to get stake money from Castro. Castro would get his full half share and split again with Healy. Healy had palpably lied about his ability to borrow in Los Angeles. The trip to Mexicali had all been planned. Healy's faro playing was only a cover. He had never intended to win. The telegrams from Rhyolite had been a part of the scheme to work in Castro. And Lefty's unexpected luck had spoiled the little game after the row with Padilla had temporarily upset it.
Stone tore the note into tiny scraps and disposed of them. Mary Leslie! It was a nice little confidence, Stone thought, to have given her real name, Lola, of course, was a nom-de-bal, assumed for the Mexican atmosphere of the dance hall. He wondered if a girl could go straight in such a place. The memory of her kisses brought a quick flushing of his blood. It seemed as if he had won something after all in fighting Padilla. He wondered if he was going to write to her. If he wanted to? And then Lefty came back to the washroom.
"Corfee, Stone," he said. "Pipin' 'ot, with 'amand. Better get something under your belt before you turn in."
Stone laughed at the quick turn from romance to realism.
"Sounds good to me," he answered. "I'm with you."