Evening star., 1941-11-30
THIS WEEK MAGAZINE
MOUNTAIN
FURY
Coctinvsd from pogs ssvsntssn

after few more blows. they clinched
again. The crowd began to yell.
Then Beth was at the ropes. No,
it was Lisbeth. Lisbeth Rufer, noun
tain girl. Her voice. whippoorwill-
shrill, cleaved the din of the crowd.
well git him. Jody! The damned
polecatr'
Jody's dull gaze focused on her.
Oh. it's easy to guess what it was
like - to Jody - her face a white
blob beyond the ropes, her eyes blaz-
ing. Those two wings of shining black
hair could easily have seemed to end
in long pigtails. Punch drunk. Jody
must have seen. sharply, the girl who
balanced a squirrel rife across an
apple-tree limb.
Jody's eyes famed again. His gasp
ing voice came out in yell through
the mouthguards - "Ruint our wag-
gin -" And then he was into it.
OoN'r ask me how he did it, or
where his strength came from. Wheth-
er fury-born or from some secret res
ervoir, filled by the pine washed
mountain air, what does it matter?
All that counts is that Jody broke
loose from Butch, and when the big
man staggered after him, he found his
opening again. A chance to use that
left, and this time he put lot more
than his best behind it.
Butch crashed. He came up again,
slowly. using all the time there was -
time enough for his rage to come to a
boil. He was like crazed bull when
he lunged back toward Jody.
Keep as0ay from him, Jody."
prayed.
Jody didn't keep away. His dazed
mind made him dodge enough to let
the blow glance off his cheek, then he
came in, boring, punching, fighting.
driving Butch back toward the ropes.
And the pitiless glare of the lights on
Butch's wet face, showed up the thing
we'd always known was inside him.
The thing that had been growing.
through this evening, as he'd watched
Jody get up, again and again, after
he'd been smashed down.
Butch sVas afraid. 1t sweated from
every yellow pore of him. 1t shone
in his small black eyes. He was afraid
of boy who didn't know when he
was licked. And on the face of Make
Harris, his manager. saw the thing
/ knew was in every sports writer's
thoughts: We built you UP, Butch.
We Wdsted our s00yds, and the words zoe
didn't write about you. You neoer could
haze been a champ. You nerer had what
it takes. Your left once more. Jody.
and he's ready for the trash heap,
where he belongs.
JoDY didn't need the left. Just that
wild tough rain of blows, battering
Butch's own yellowness deeper into
his marrow, till he buckled at the
knees. then slowly toppled at the feet
of the boy from Squaw Mountain.
l doubt if Jody heard the shouts.
He stood there, staring down at Butch.
He didn't turn his gaze, not even
when the referee caught his gloved
hand, lifted it high. Beth - Lisbeth
- still hung at the ropes, and l saw
the tightness of her hands. saw that
she wasn't breathing.
Jody's weight shifted to the left
foot, and remembered, with surge
of sickness, Jody's vow -. "FN sise
him jest sohas he gise you
l wondered how the crowd could
60 on yelling. slapping backs. tossing
hats, or how the referee could grin
into the movie camera :. or how the
cameramen themselves could 60 on.
grinding. when the whole thing was
about to break like a rotten egg.
Kicking a man when he is down.
But Jody's head jerked up. His
glance was for Lisbeth. His voice
was a croak: Il CANT do it, Lisbeth.
Y .-pA - Il