John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

Call it sentiment, but a guy will naturally back a slugger of his own complexion. Of course, if the scrap is a mismatch and his own pile of cocoanuts is on the line it is a different proposition. Which is why I, Private Runyon of the Minnesota Volunteers, give no odds when the mess-hall donnybrook between the Chief and the rock-knocker becomes a public event.

Previous to the incident they go for pals, these two, as much as any pair of one-stripers in the vols — the Chief being as talkative a representative of the feather-and-warpaint outfit as you are likely to bump up against and the rock-knocker, a hard-luck case out of Montana, an area where such individuals are in oversupply, always happy to give him an ear. Before their dust-up you could figure that whither goest one of them the other is never far behind, to the point where when the rock-knocker lands his tail in the jug for nixing his looey in the line of battle, in goes the noble savage as well. Fortunately for them, said officer is snatched by the googoos whilst on an excursion of dubious intent out of town, and charges against the two evaporate.

The exact cause leading to their sudden exchange of knuckle bouquets is difficult to nail down, though the dope which circulates after suggests that Atkins, which is the handle the rock-knocker chooses to be known by, commits the error of revealing a Kodak of his innocent sister back in Bozeman or whichever such burg he hails from, and the Indian, who states that his moniker is McGinty though everyone addresses him as Chief, makes a comment inappropriate to his stripe and hue. What with the mercury popping high and the general boredom served our hitch here in the Pearl of the Orient it is not unusual for rank-and-filers to altercate with each other based on one does not care for the manner in which the other peeps at him over their morning java, and when skirts are involved, no matter what color hide they are wearing, the stakes are likely to double.

Whatever the kick-off, here comes Atkins flung over from where the Colorados are laying on the feedbag, smack down onto our table with tin cups of java flying this way and tin plates of mutton stew flying that way and the Chief right after on top of him like Strangler Lewis attempting to twist his hat-holder off. Threats and remonstrations are traded — dirty savage this and red nigger that and I will kill you you paleface son of a bitch and things of this sort while all of us Minnesotas step back and provide them room to settle their disagreement — Atkins using the opportunity to test a rattan-mesh sitter on the Indian’s skull and the Chief lifting the rock-knocker by his shirt several times and throwing him against the floor to see if he will bounce until Captain Sturdevant arrives to spoil the entertainment.

Now this Sturdevant I know from the cow town of Pueblo, Col., a feedlot operator and promoter of contests of skill and science who owns half interest in a sporting club and has parlayed his status in that burg into a position of military importance. As a captain he has his detractors, consisting principally of those of a rank either higher or lower than his own, though I am told he is well regarded by his peers, the fellow captains of Companies A through H. I myself do not personally care for the gent, as he is the one who seconded a certain lieutenant’s pegging me as a runt not worthy to risk his hide next to the other stalwart sons of the Centennial State, forcing me to cast my lot in with the Minnesota delegation, who upon arrival in Googooland were made, of all the undignified possibilities, military coppers in charge of the deportment of both American fighting men and slant-eyed denizens of our newly acquired Walled City and its surroundings.

The captain suggests very forcefully that we separate the combatants, and it takes three of our huskier squarehead volunteers to drag the Chief back onto the reservation. I decline to participate, judging that after being blackballed from one outfit and wangling my way into the other I have done my share of volunteering and no more is necessary, as they can always find something to keep you busy whether it needs doing or not.

The aggrieved parties stand drilling holes into each other with their glimmers while Captain Sturdevant struts back and forth in between them, which is his specialty. I personally have never seen an officer could hold a candle to Sturdevant in the strutting department, slapping his little swagger stick against his leg and clearing his throat over and over which is the sign he is about to issue a pronouncement.

Since you two cannot comport yourselfs as soldiers, is how he says to them, perhaps you would prefer to settle it in the ring.

This comes as no surprise, knowing myself that the captain has been a steadfast voice to make prizefighting legal in our fair state, staging many of what are loosely termed exhibitions of the manly art in order to prepare our citizens for that happy day and give the sporting men among them practice in the art of the wager, from which he extracts a generous percentage. Plus he already prescribes the same remedy for a couple goldbricks from B Company who were carrying a grudge, on which occasion I am set to make a bundle only the bout is called when one of the stiffs begins to pour blood out of his beezer and the mental defectives in his corner cannot stop it. I myself have only seen so much of the red stuff one time when Private Gustavson and I interrupt a pair of googoo sports carving each other up on the Escolta.

If you do not feature a contest of skill and science, the captain adds, there is always lodgings available back in the Bilibid Prison.

The Dagoes who rule the roost here before our arrival built this accommodation, with little thought to the finer amenities, such as air circulation or plumbing. Atkins is the first to speak up.

I will fight this heathen bastard, is how he puts it, any time and any place.

This promotes a hearty cheer from both the Colorados and the Minnesotas, as we are retired from the googoo-hunting business now and there is not much to occupy our attention until a suitable bucket can be shanghaied to haul us back home.

The captain struts over to the Indian then, gives him a once-over, and asks if he is game for the proposition.

The Chief never lifts his glimmers off Atkins. If this bird should fail to step out of the ring alive, he informs the captain, let it be on your conscience.

Sturdevant’s kisser goes from cream to crimson in a second, either because the Chief did not tack a “sir” onto this statement or at the suggestion that a captain of volunteers possesses a conscience for something to weigh upon. He turns and shows both of them the back of his neck, calling out that all will be settled in the riding ring tomorrow night.

This promotes another round of approval from the ranks, the ones in charge of holding back the two opponents forgetting their mission, but Atkins and the Chief once unleashed only shoot a last skull-splitter look at each other and take a powder in opposite directions, Atkins wearing most of our supper on his back.

Runt! the boys are immediately shouting, Runt! for although in civilian life I go by Alfie this is the moniker they hang on me. Tell us Runt, they query, what is the tilt on this contest?

Now this Atkins has got arms like hawser cables, the kind of grabbers your hard-rock miners often carry, but this is one large Indian he is set to tangle with. The redskins I know from Pueblo, mostly characters from Little Raven’s aggregation, are middling-sized and, since they are frequenting the same type of establishments I am, likely to be overly fond of belting the barleycorn. But this Chief is no Arapaho, instead issuing from some tribe of titans in the north woods, and has never once been observed, at least by my searching peepers, to sample the local beeno . A sober Indian is difficult to factor in.