A Moment in the Sun by John Sayles Read Free Book Online Page A

wagon road, good wages on the Outside, but prices in Skaguay leave nothing much to show for it, and on every corner there are a dozen busted stampeders ready to work for coffee and johnnycakes. When Hod is down to his skin, Niles Manigault puts in a word.
    “Devereaux says he’s the strongest of the lot out there, best stamina, most stubborn—”
    Jeff Smith raises a hand to silence him, steps close to lock eyes with Hod.
    “Young man,” he says, smiling, “how would you like to earn an easy one hundred dollars?”
    The fight is only a few hours away, and Niles explains that it will be necessary to meet with his opponent first.
    “Merely a formality,” he says as he and Smith lead Hod, struggling back into his clothes, across the muck on Broadway. “Our previous champion being indisposed—”
    “Stiff as a plank,” says Smith. “Passed out drunk in a snowdrift last night and froze to death.”
    “—you are something of a last-moment replacement. They need to be reassured that you’re no ringer.”
    “I never even had gloves on.”
    “We’ll do the talking in here, son,” says Smith, stepping into the Pack Train Restaurant.
    The manager is an older man with a face like boiled ham. Choynski, trim and curly haired, is sawing at a steak.
    “Where’d you get this dub?” says the manager, flicking his eyes over Hod.
    “The north country breeds fighting men,” answers Niles Manigault. “This lad has bested all comers in the region—”
    The fighter sits back to look at Hod. “You ever been in the rope arena, young man?”
    “He is neither a seasoned professional nor a mere chopping block,” Niles intercedes. “A raw talent, you might say.”
    The manager is not impressed. “Folks won’t be happy paying to see a slaughter.”
    “You underestimate our boy,” says Smith, pulling his wideawake off and holding it over his heart. “As well as the drawing power of your Mr. Choynski.”
    “An exhibition,” says Choynski.
    “I expect our citizenry will expect a bit more fireworks than that.”
    “A lively exhibition. What’s your name?”
    Niles Manigault begins to speak but Hod beats him to the punch. “Hosea Brackenridge. Always called me Hod, though.”
    The fighter smiles. “That’s too good to have made up.” He holds out his hand to shake. Several of the knuckles are misshapen. “If you’re anywhere near as tough as this beef, Mr. Brackenridge, we will reward the people of Skaguay with a memorable evening.”
    “Cocky Jew bastard,” drawls Niles Manigault as they step out onto Broad-way again. A mulecart is tipped on its side and men are trying to right it, boots sliding in the mud as they push.
    “We’ve already sold the tickets.” Jeff Smith steps around the accident, unconcerned. “Add the liquor on top and the wagers, there’s a tidy sum to be gathered. My only true concern is what to call our boy Hosea here.”
    “I concur,” says Manigault. “One Jew name in the ring is quite enough.”
    “It’s not Jew,” Hod protests. “It’s from the Bible.”
    “Which is nothing but Jews till you reach the end of the Book,” says Smith. He stops on the far boardwalk to look Hod over again. “Young McGinty.”
    Niles laughs.
    “That a real person?” Hod knows he’s signed on for a beating, and hopes that’s all it is.
    “I ran an establishment called the Orleans Club in Creede during their bonanza,” Smith tells him. “I acquired a statue, a prehistoric man who had been artfully carved out of stone, and kept him in the back room. For the price of one nickel the curious were allowed to take a brief look. We named it McGinty.”
    “Christened thusly,” explains the dude, “because anyone that petrified has got to be Irish.”
    The fight is in the dance hall at the front of the Nugget. The room smells of cigars and spilled beer and the wet woolen clothes of the three hundred men already packed in around the tiny roped square where two windmilling prospectors settle a grudge