When the gambler came riding into the Lucky Dog mining camp the spring rains were over and most of the mud had dried but wasn't rock hard yet. The stream that came from up the mountain and split to flow around the camp was no longer a river washing prospectors' tents and tools away and flooding the Caldwell mine. The days were only warm not blistering hot and the nights still cool enough you needed a blanket.

His dress was fancy: a checkered suit, a coat with a velvet color, soft leather boots, and a brown bowler. He had a carpet-bag hooked over the saddle horn and an umbrella stuck in the rifle scabbard. The horse wasn't much, but nobody paid attention to the horse. He stopped in front of the Lucky Dog saloon and dismounted. He stood there surveying the place while the few men on the lone street looked him over. He raised his bowler, nodded to the curious, and entered the saloon.

The saloon had a long bar on one side and four tables on the other, and a canvas over rafters and joists making an A-frame roof. Lanterns hung from the joists and birds perched up there and flew around. Their droppings would land on someone's hat or in a glass of beer. Often, late at night, a drunken miner would pull a pistol and blast away at the birds resulting in more holes being put in the canvas. The birds came and went through the open eaves.

At that time of day,one in the afternoon,only three loyal and serious drinkers were at the bar. They all watched the gambler as he walked to the near end. Ed, the bartender, went over to him and asked, "What's your poison, mister?"

"I'm a stranger here, sir, what are your selections?"

"Selections? We have corn liquor, Tanglefoot and Red Eye, good rye if you got the cash, beer, and the twelve bottles of Old Overholt set aside for Dirksen. He's the man oversees the mine."

"I'll have a shot of the good rye."

Ed poured the drink and the gambler threw it right down. Then he said, "I'll have another and pour one for each of these gentlemen taking their ease this fine day. And have one yourself, my good man."

Ed poured and everyone drank.

"I wonder," the gambler asked, "what you gentlemen do around here for entertainment? I don't want to seem disparaging, but your little community is not exactly a metropolis."

"Well," one of the men said, "there's drinking, of course, and poker most nights and there's bowlegged Martha, which you can get if you buy her husband a bottle, and there's Jimmy One's whore, but she's Injun and fat and toothless."

"She's old too," another man said.

Another said, "Jimmy One was supposed to bring in some young Chinese whores from Sacramento but he never did."

"There are Chinese here?"

"Yep," the bartender said. "They work for the mine hauling away the slag and such. There ain't many. You got something against Chinamen?"

"Not precisely. As you gentleman might gather, I'm a professional gamer, an adept follower of Dame Fortune. I have usually profited in my profession except . . . " He paused and the others waited. "Except when a Chinaman has been involved. I was once doubling down in a game of Faro and a Chinaman walked by with a mop and bucket and I lost it all. In San Francisco I bet one hundred dollars that the next man through the hotel door would be wearing a hat and it was a bare headed Chinaman in pigtails. I was in a high stakes poker game with a pot of over five thousand dollars and I was drawing to a pair of kings and a pair of aces. I looked across the saloon and coming down the stairs in a red gown slit up the side to expose her leg was a Chinese lady of the evening. I drew a seven and got beat by a drunken cowboy holding three deuces."

The men shook their heads.

The bartender said, "I see your point there . . . say, you never give us your name. Mine's Ed and that's Frank and Buster and the real ugly one is Scratchy Parker."

The gambler said, "Glad to meet you, gentlemen. My appellation, as it were, is Baxter Baxter. I realize that is a bit unusual but my father liked his last name so much that he believed I should double it. Now, my friends usually call me Bax. I wish you gentlemen would do like wise. Ed, let's have another round of that good rye."

Everyone became friendly with the gambler and told stories about the camp and how it got named Lucky Dog: a man's dog went to the stream for a drink and started barking at something shining at the side of the water and that turned out to be the first gold nugget found. Then once there were other strikes Cameron Caldwell and his brother Claremont opened a mine and put Cameron's son-in-law Dirksen in charge because there wasn't a meaner son of a bitch in two hundred miles.

"The mine bring in much gold?" Baxter asked.

"Hell, yes," Scratchy said. "They bring it out by the ton. They ship the ore down to Caldwell's mill. He's got four working mines."

"Anyone else find gold?"

"Sure. A good number of prospectors make a go of it. Myself, I get a poke of dust a week. So do these boys. So far so good but it'll run out in time."

The others nodded.

"Now I need some information, gentlemen."

"Shoot," Scratchy said.

"Where, in this encampment of seekers after the precious metal, may I find accommodations?"

The three prospectors just looked at him but the bartender said, "Not much here that a gent like you would care for. Now I do have a room in the back that you can have if you can get somebody to sweep it out. I'll throw in a canvas tarp and two blankets. It's not much but there's no bed bugs, fleas, or snakes."

"I will take you up on that offer, sir. What is the damage?"

"Huh?"

"The fee, sir. What is the rent?"

"I don't know. You gonna start up a game here?"

"I am seriously considering that option."

"I'm guessing you're good enough to skin these miners so . . . how about ten per cent of your take?"

Baxter looked up at the roof as he calculated. "Well, my good man, have the room swept, add a mattress, and no charge for the rye and it is a deal."

The bartender did some calculating then. "All right . . . but we'll try it for a week to see how it goes. You got to pay for your drinks though. I mean, after these."

Baxter reached his hand over the bar and Ed gave it a good shake.

That evening the lanterns were lit, tobacco smoke filled the saloon, and tobacco juice mostly landed in the spittoons. Cheap whiskey scoured men's throats and Baxter sat at a table playing draw poker with four other men. He was winning, but not so much as to make his victims suspicious. All the time he kept remarking on the cleverness of the others and how surprised he was to find such sophisticated poker players up here in the hills.

Well into the evening Victor Dirksen and one of his foremen, a giant of a man with a large jaw that looked like a slab of rock, known as Irish Mike, entered and stood at the bar. Ed served them from the private stock as Dirksen surveyed the room. "Who's the stranger in the fancy clothes?"

"Calls himself Baxter. Just come in this afternoon. Seems straight enough considering he's a gambler."

"Keep a close watch on him, Ed. I don't want the men getting swindled by some tinhorn."

"I intend to. In fact, he's staying in my back room."

When two of the players quit and got up from the table, Dirksen said, "I think I'll take a closer look at this character."

Followed by Irish Mike, Dirksen walked slowly over to Baxter.

Baxter smiled and asked, "Care to partake in our little game, gentlemen?"

Irish Mike shook his head but Dirksen slid into a chair as he said, "Don't mind if I do."

Baxter nodded and said, "We've been requiring a two bit ante. By the way, my name is Baxter but most people refer to me as Bax."

Dirksen reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. In the pile of eagles, half-eagles, and silver dollars he found a two-bit piece. He tossed it into the center of the table and said, "I'm Victor Dirksen."

Two hours later Baxter and Dirksen were the only winners. The other men left the table. Dirksen said, "I see you deal an honest game, Baxter."

"I found that in the long run it is not the best policy to be dishonest. After all, it is simply a matter of playing the probabilities."

Dirksen turned to Irish Mike: "Have Ed bring over a bottle for me and Baxter, Mike, before you go."

Irish Mike told the bartender and left. Ed brought over a bottle of Old Overholt and two clean glasses. He set bottle and glasses on the table and Dirksen poured. The two quickly downed their drinks and Dirksen refilled both glasses.

"I wonder, Baxter, exactly what a man of your type is doing here. The word went around that a fancy-dressed gambler was here and I came to see just what was up. So I'm asking you, what are you up to?"

"Mr. Dirksen, I am only looking for a little action, as it were."

"I believe that. My question is: what kind of action? This isn't a place for a professional gambler. And it's certainly not a place for a sharper or any kind of swindle. I run this camp and I won't have any tinhorn come here and pull some kind of game."

"I assure you I am not here to cheat or swindle anyone. My game, as you call it, is simple and above board."

"What is that?"

"Have you heard of the pugilistic art?"

"You mean fisticuffs?"

"Yes. I am an advocate of the manly sport of bare-knuckle boxing. I am searching for a possible champion."

"Here? In a mining camp?"

"Where else can one find such strong and determined men eager to make their fortune?"

"Fortune?"

"Recall, Mr. Dirksen, that as far back as 1849 Hyer fought for $20,000. No more than two months past in a grove on the outskirts of Sacramento I witnessed a match where the stake was $10,000 and the side bets were several times that amount. Calculate the gain over several such contests on an investment of a few ounces of gold."

Dirksen became interested. This time he sipped his whiskey rather than throwing it back. "So, Baxter, what's your plan?"

"I propose to discover the champion bare-knuckle miner. We begin here in Lucky Dog and hold several matches to determine the best fighter. This will have the advantage of providing solid entertainment for the community plus encourage solidarity among the miners once a champion is found who will fight the champions of other camps."

"I see. Of course there'll be some fairly heavy betting."

"Certainly. I am not mistaken in thinking you have no objection to wagering?"

"Huh? No, nothing wrong with an honest bet. When do you plan to start these matches?"

"I would prefer it if this project were a mutual affair, Mr. Dirksen. Perhaps we could be partners in this enterprise?"

"I like your idea. I go along with you on it. We get our champion here and challenge all the other camps and then go to the towns. Every town has a man thinks he's the toughest there is. Yes, I like your idea."

Baxter reached across the table and Dirksen shook the gambler's hand.

The next day Dirksen gathered all the men in front of the saloon and announced the contest to find the toughest bare-knuckle fighter who would be champion of Lucky Dog. The winner would be awarded a prize of one hundred dollars.

A man at the back of the crowd asked, "Greenbacks or real money?"

"Silver and gold coin," Dirksen said. "Good solid coin. Now any man want to try out, he needs to sign up with Mr. Baxter here. Baxter will set up the matches. Winners move on, losers are out. The entry fee is ten dollars in coin or dust. A man or his sponsors pay that as he signs up."

"Sponsors?" someone asked.

"Some of you might want to back a man for a share of the prize."

"What about bets?"

"Baxter will handle all the wagers. Sign up now and we'll hold the first match tonight."

There was quite a lot of stirring around and discussion in the group.

Baxter stood by the saloon door and said, "Sign up in here at the bar, pay your entry fee, and receive a free drink of good rye whiskey."

First one man then another and another came forward and went into the saloon. The last man was Irish Mike. Baxter took the entry fee and wrote their names on a numbered sheet. Eight men entered. Baxter put eight numbered slips of paper in his hat and had the bartender Ed pull them out to set the pairings. With a black paraffin crayon Baxter wrote the matches on the mirror behind the bar.

He said, "The first contest tonight will be between Irish Mike and Gene Daniels. Place your wagers here with Scratchy Parker, gentlemen. He will supervise the transactions and the gentleman there with the shotgun will assure that the money is secure." The man with the shotgun was provided by Dirksen.

That evening four stakes were driven into the ground beside the saloon. A rope was strung around the stakes to form a square that Baxter called the ring. Lighted lanterns hung from the side of the saloon and on two tall poles. A crowd formed and bets were made. Baxter took the money and handed out slips. He put the money in a sack Scratchy Parker held.

Dirksen got into the center of the ring and said in a loud voice: "Rules are this: no kicking, biting, gouging, or throwing dirt. Breaking a rule means you lose. There are no rounds or any of that nonsense. The match lasts as long as both men are able to stand and fight. If a man is knocked down and can get back to his feet before a minute is up by my watch, he is not out. All right, men, let's get started."

Irish Mike and Daniels, both bare chested, entered the ring and slowly approached each other. Daniels ducked a wild right and hit Irish Mike square on the chin with a right of his own. He yelled and grabbed his right with his left. "Damn, my hand's broke." Irish grinned and hit Daniels with a left and a right. Daniels dropped to the ground and lay there. He glanced up at Irish but stayed down. Dirksen stepped into the ring with his pocket watch in his hand and after a minute called the fight over.

Baxter settled the bets and everyone went inside to celebrate or complain, except for Daniels who walked away cradling his swollen right hand.

The next three evenings brought the number of surviving fighters down to four. The crowd got into the excitement and shouted and cursed and stomped and the bets became larger. By the end of the sixth night the number of fighters had been reduced to two: Irish Mike and a tall bearded miner called Frenchy Valentine.

On the seventh day, a Sunday, the word had got around to some of the smaller camps and holdings and the saloon was filling up with newcomers along with the regulars. There was a lot of talk and speculation of who would win. Most said it had to be Irish Mike, but a few said they'd seen Frenchy "beat hell" out of three drovers in a saloon in Showdown. Then someone said, "No, that was in Burns Mills." "No it warn't." "Hell if it wasn't." The argument was settled by tossing both men out into the street.

Coming along that street, which was really no more than a widened dirt road, were two men on tired horses and leading a pack mule. The mule was loaded with a folded tent, several blankets, and a rolled up mattress. The first man wore a beaver hat and a sheepskin jacket. The second man was all in black from his hat to his boots, except for the silver band on his hat and the silver Indian ornaments that made his belt and the silver Indian designs on his jacket. The first man was so pale as to almost be an albino; the second man's face looked as if it had been baked for years in the sun. They stopped in front of the saloon.

The first man leaned forward and asked one of the men lying on the ground: "Mister, could you tell me where I could find Victor Dirksen?"

"You mean the mine super?"

"Yes, I do."

"How the hell should I know? I'm not his mother." The other man on the ground laughed.

The man in black slowly dismounted. He walked over to the two men and asked over his shoulder: "Mr. Comstock, which one you want shot?"

"It's all right, Jack. We'll let the insolence pass . . . one time."

Jack pulled out a Bowie knife with an eight inch blade and said, "I'll scalp them to teach a lesson they won't forget."

Both men pleaded for mercy.

"Answer my question then."

"He's up at the mine." The man pointed down the street. "Fact that's him and Irish Mike comin' right now."

Then the two got up and quickly scurried away.

Comstock dismounted and waited as Dirksen and Irish Mike came toward them. When the two were close enough, he said, "I understand, sir, that you are Victor Dirksen."

"That's right. Who are you?"

"My name is William Comstock Walsh. My uncle is Judge James Walsh of Virginia City and my mother is a Comstock of the same line as Henry Comstock. Maybe you've heard of them?"

"What man in the mining business hasn't?"

"Yes. I have a letter of introduction from Cameron Caldwell that explains my purpose. My uncle feels that before I begin developing my share of the claim I should study the way expert mining engineers, such as you, Mr. Dirksen, operate. I have visited several mines: Morning Glory, Hiram Randal's at Showdown, and Chinese Camp. I have a beginner's knowledge of how to handle heavy ground so it won't collapse into the stopes by using square-set timbering. I have worked at the mill at Gold Hill so I am not totally ignorant."

"May I see the letter?"

Comstock took out a folded sheet of paper from an inside vest pocket and handed it to Dirksen. Dirksen read it, nodded, refolded it, and handed it back.

"Cameron says I'm to help you all I can. He says you're a serious young man who has a claim that could be worth a fortune. Cameron's word is sure good enough for me . . . besides, he's my boss and my wife's old man."

"Thank you. Now I need to find some place to set up camp and then, perhaps, we could get together."

"Sure thing, Mr. Comstock."

"Please call me Bill."

"Right. You call me Vic. This big man here is my foreman Irish Mike."

Comstock nodded and smiled. "This man next to me is my bodyguard. It was my uncle's idea since I travel with considerable cash in greenbacks and my important papers. His name is Jack Wilson."

"Wilson?" Irish Mike asked. "Are you the man they call Apache Jack?"

Jack smiled.

Dirksen said, "Well, Bill, you got yourself a hell of a bodyguard. Set up camp wherever you want, but you're welcome to stay at my place. My wife's not here. She stays down in civilization."

"Thank you, Vic, but I prefer to rough it. My uncle says that will toughen me up."

"He's got a point there. Well, Irish and I are going in for a sandwich and see how the betting is going."

"Betting?"

"Yes, we've been having a bare-knuckle boxing contest to find the Lucky Dog champion. The big fight is this evening. I figure Irish Mike will win. You'll want to watch."

"I certainly will. I've seen one such contest in Virginia City. It was very exciting. I believe the money involved amounted to ten thousand in gold."

Dirksen liked the sound of that. He poked Irish Mike in the shoulder: "You might get out of the mines yet."

Some time later Comstock and Jack entered the Lucky Dog saloon. Dirksen, who was at a table with Irish Mike and Baxter, signaled and they joined the group.

After introductions all around a bottle of Dirksen's private stock was brought over and everyone but Comstock had a drink.

"I don't want to seem impolite but hard liquor goes to my head too quickly. I hope you understand, Vic."

"Sure do. In fact, I'm going to limit Irish here to six shots so his head is clear for the fight."

Baxter said, "Perhaps you would be interested in wagering on the contest, Mr. Comstock?"

"I just might do that. Are greenbacks acceptable? I do have some gold coin but paper is much lighter to carry when traveling."

Dirksen said, "Greenbacks are fine with me but some of these miners don't believe in them. I'll back whatever you put in."

"So," Baxter asked, "how much and on whom?"

"I know Irish Mike is one of the contestants but who is the other?"

Baxter pointed to a tall bearded man drinking a beer at the bar. "The other is Frenchy Valentine. He is very quick with his hands and he has a long reach. You can see Irish Mike's assets."

Comstock looked at both men and asked, "What are the odds?"

"Right now they're running two to one on Irish. But that is not the way to calculate the return. There is no bank, as it were, so the pay out is based on shares. If, say Irish Mike wins, then the men who bet on him divide the amount bet on Frenchy according to how much their bet is of the total bet on Irish . . . plus their initial investment. Of course, there is private person to person betting where one can require odds."

Dirksen said, "If you bet one dollar and the total bet on Irish is one thousand then you get one-thousandth of the money bet on Frenchy. Your payout is proportional to your risk. It's a good system. It generates large bets."

Comstock smiled. "And the wealthier you are the more you can risk and the more you can get in return."

"That is quite right," Baxter said.

"Is one hundred dollars enough?"

"It certainly is. On whom?"

"Oh, on Mr. Irish Mike, of course. Jack, could you hand Mr. Baxter the money?"

Apache Jack took out a thick leather pouch from a jacket pocket, unsnapped the cover, and counted out five twenty-dollar bills to Baxter.

Irish Mike raised his glass. "Mr. Comstock, you just made yourself some money."

Everyone but Comstock downed a shot.

The sun was setting, the lanterns were lit, the ring was set up, and a large crowd surrounded the ring. Dirksen entered the ring and repeated the rules. There was applause and loud shouts as the two fighters came through the crowd. Irish Mike's face was flushed (he downed a half pint before coming out) and Frenchy looked hard and determined.

The fighters entered from opposite sides and slowly approached each other. Frenchy shot out a straight left to Mike's nose, then stepped quickly backward. Mike came forward and got another left to the nose. Mad, he swung wildly, and Frenchy landed a right on the nose. For the next ten minutes or so that is how the fight went: Mike moved like a drunken bear swinging wildly, while Frenchy kept hitting him on the nose and backing away. Mike's nose began to bleed and blood flowed over his massive chin. Frenchy supporters began making side bets and Dirksen looked worried.

Now that Mike's nose was a mess, Frenchy started working on the eyes. In fifteen minutes Mike's left eye was nearly closed and there was a cut over the right eye. Mike stumbled after Frenchy but couldn't land a punch. After an hour Irish Mike was nearly blind but still standing. Frenchy still hit and backed away but not so quickly as before. He was breathing heavily and his arms were slack, his fists down by his waist.

Mike kept going after Frenchy and finally backed him into a corner. Frenchy threw a left and a right. Mike crowded him. Frenchy tried to slip away but slid into a thick fist. He shook his head and Mike landed a left to Frenchy's jaw and then a right that sent him flying out of the ring.

Frenchy lay stretched out on the ground. A man bent down and put his ear to Frenchy's chest. "He's still alive . . . but not by much."

Somebody threw a bucket of water on Frenchy but he still didn't move. Another man bent down to lift him to a sitting position. Frenchy groaned, opened his eyes, and mumbled something before passing out.

The triumphant Irish Mike was led to the saloon by Dirksen and followed by a crowd of cheering men. At the bar Ed poured Irish a large glass of good rye and placed it in the giant's hand. Irish Mike smiled and drank it down. The blood on his chin had dried, both nostrils were clotted with black blood, and only one eye would stay open. He slammed the glass down and Ed refilled it.

Irish Mike said, "I beat the bastard, didn't I?"

Dirksen slapped Irish on the back. "You did, Mike. He still is out."

"Did I kill him?"

"Almost, man, almost."

"Well, he had it comin'. Bastard near blinded me."

Others then came in to congratulate the champion and Baxter began to distribute the money bet. The total was over two thousand dollars.

At a table out of the crush of the crowd Dirksen sat with Comstock and Apache Jack. He asked, "Bill, what did you think of the match?"

"Very interesting. Your Irish Mike is a great bull of a man. The other man, Frenchy, didn't have the necessary stamina."

"Well, he sure couldn't stand up to Mike's punch."

"True . . . once the punch was landed."

Baxter came over to the table and sat down. He gave Dirksen five hundred in gold and Comstock one hundred in greenbacks and fifty in gold coin (two double eagles and an eagle).

Dirksen asked, "How did you do, Baxter?"

"I made fifty on the pool and another fifty some on side bets."

"How do you think Mike will do in the other camps?"

"He's a winner. He can absorb a hellacious pounding and still have crushing strength. I don't see how he can be beaten."

Dirksen poured drinks all around and Comstock even accepted. "In celebration," he said.

Baxter proposed a toast to the future of the champion and all his "coming conquests."

Everyone drank to that.

Dirksen proposed a toast to Baxter, who came up with the idea of the matches.

Everyone drank to that.

Comstock proposed a toast to the fighting spirit of the Lucky Dog camp.

Everyone drank to that.

Comstock proposed another toast, this time to Dirksen for being such a good host.

Everyone drank to that.

Comstock proposed another toast, to the fighter Frenchy.

"Why Frenchy?" Baxter asked.

"Because he did his best and that's all you can ask of any man."

Everyone drank to that.

By now Comstock wasn't too steady. He rocked in his chair and wore a stupid grin. He didn't quite slur his words but his tongue was thick.

"Another toast," Comstock said. "To the best fighter of that match even though he lost. I drink to Frenchy."

"Hold on there," Dirksen said. "The best fighter won."

"Exactly," Baxter said. "One determines the best fighter by the outcome of the match. Irish Mike won, therefore he is the best. Quod erat demonstrandum."

"I beg to differ, Mr. Baxter. Your hero, Irish Mike, is not a boxer. From what I have seen he can be easily defeated."

"Oh, you think so?" Dirksen asked.

"I know so, sir. It is obvious to the most casual observer."

Apache Jack leaned over and said, "Mr. Comstock, maybe you've had too much whiskey."

Comstock shook his head. "Maybe so, Jack, but I know what I know. I understand why these men would defend their hero, mainly because they are ignorant of the art of boxing. It's not their fault they're ignorant."

Dirksen and Baxter bristled.

"I say that your Irish Mike was merely lucky tonight. If Frenchy had had more stamina it was his fight. In other words, your champion is a mere brute."

"He is, is he?" Dirksen asked as he stood up. "Who is going to beat him?'

"Give me an hour with any healthy man and he would destroy your champ."

"In the classic idiom of all challenges, Comstock, put up or shut up," said Baxter.

"Yes," Dirksen said, "put up or shut up."

"All right, gentlemen, I'll bet all the cash I have on hand and the deed to my Comstock holdings that I can train a man in one hour to be able to win a fair match against Irish Mike."

"All right, I'll see that bet. What's the value of your holdings?" Dirksen asked.

"I have been offered one hundred thousand for my deed. I don't suppose you can match that."

Dirksen shook his head.

"One half? No. Well, one fourth comes to twenty-five thousand."

"I can get that much in the camp and with my own added in, I can do it. All right, Mr. Comstock, I bet twenty-five thousand dollars that Irish Mike can beat your man. Who is it?"

"I haven't one at the moment, obviously."

"Obviously," Baxter said with a sneer. "And I'll put up everything I have, two hundred, against two hundred of your greenbacks."

Apache Jack said, "Mr. Comstock, you've had more whiskey than you're used to. You can't do this."

"Jack, bring out my deed and give it to Mr. Baxter here to hold. I mean it."

Apache Jack reluctantly brought out the pouch, removed a folded stamped-with-a-seal paper, and handed it to Baxter. Baxter opened it, read it, nodded, and said, "It's legitimate all right."

Dirksen said, "You claimed any man could do it. There are plenty here. Pick one."

Comstock, blurry-eyed, scanned the crowd of drunken miners.

"Well?"

Comstock smiled. "I pick the next man through the door."

"Whoever he is?" asked Baxter.

"Yes."

They all turned to face the saloon entrance and a small Chinese man walked in.

Dirksen laughed but Baxter went pale.

Dirksen yelled, "Hey, grab that Chinaman!"

Four men surrounded the man and one grabbed him by the arm and led him over to Dirksen.

"Here he is, boss."

The Chinese was trembling and looked from face to face as if trying to get a clue of why he'd been grabbed.

Dirksen said, "He looks healthy enough for a Chinaman. He's your man, Comstock."

Comstock stood up, wobbled some as he came around the table, and said, "Do you speak English?"

The man said nothing.

"Do you understand English?"

The man nodded.

"Good. What is your name?"

The man spoke a string of rising and falling tones. The only one anyone understood was Kwong.

"So your name is Kwong?"

The man nodded.

"Do you understand boxing?"

Kwong shook his head.

Dirksen made two fists and boxed the air. "Boxing, fighting, understand?"

Kwong looked left and right trying to find an escape route. He shook his head and muttered, "Nooo, no fight."

"Yes," Dirksen said, "you have to fight."

Kwong shook his head again.

Dirksen said, "Listen, Chink, you will fight or I'll have you whipped." He mimicked a man swinging a whip.

Kwong spun quickly and ran for the door.

Dirksen yelled, "Catch the bastard! Grab him!"

One man tackled Kwong and another held him down. Dirksen, Comstock, Baxter, and Apache Jack came over. Dirksen said, "I want to see you teach that man to box, Comstock. I'm looking forward to the fight, if you can keep him from running away. And if he does run away, the bet is forfeited."

Apache Jack said, "The only thing to do is lock him up until the fight."

Dirksen said, "We don't have a jail. Besides, he's your problem, not mine."

Comstock said, "Well, we can tie him up and keep him in my tent."

"Up to you, Comstock."

"I'll need some rope."

Dirksen scanned the crowd of drunks surrounding them. "One of you get some rope."

A man went out after the rope. Irish Mike pushed his way through the crowd and staggered up to Dirksen. "What's going on, boss?"

Dirksen pointed to Kwong lying on the floor. "There's your next opponent."

"Huh?"

"The next man you're going to fight."

Mike, nose swollen nearly twice its original size, his one eye closed, asked, "A Chink?"

"Yes. Comstock here bet this Chinaman can beat you."

"The hell he can! I'll take him on right now . . . with one hand tied behind me."

"I'd let you except Comstock needs to teach him the art of boxing first." He turned to Comstock: "Would tomorrow evening give you enough time?"

Comstock, suddenly seeming sober, nodded.

A man came in with a length of rope. Kwong was pulled to his feet. Apache Jack formed a loop and slipped it over Kwong's head. Then he used the free end to tie Kwong's hands behind the back and left a tail of rope to pull taut and control the man.

Comstock, Apache Jack holding the rope, and Kwong worked their way through the crowd and left. Dirksen said, "Anybody want to bet on Irish Mike against that Chinaman? See Baxter. Looks like we're going to own a deed to a hundred thousand dollar mine."

The rush nearly knocked Baxter down.

Comstock, Apache Jack, and Kwong stayed in their tent for the whole day. Several curious men would walk by but the flaps were closed and they couldn't see anything. Apache Jack did come out to water and feed the horses and the mule. He gave everyone watching a cold hard eye so no one came near.

Irish Mike slept until late afternoon. He drank nearly a gallon of water before eating a whole fried chicken. His nose was still swollen but both eyes were open. He asked Dirksen to bet his prize of one hundred dollars on himself.

Baxter sat at a table in the Lucky Dog with Scratchy Parker collecting bets and handing out slips. He was nervous and didn't say more than a word or two. When Scratchy asked him what was wrong, he said, "A Chinaman."

Scratchy said, "Hell, Irish Mike will kill him. What could go wrong?"

"I don't know. Perhaps an earthquake or a lightning bolt would hit Mike."

Scratchy laughed and poured himself a shot of Baxter's bottle of good rye.

The crowd around the ring was rowdy. Everyone bet on Irish Mike and were expecting a great good time watching a Chinaman get beat to death. Some even said that Irish could knock the man's head off. There was a lot of whiskey being drunk and laughter and friendly cursing.

The lanterns were lit and Irish Mike waded through the crowd with cheers and slaps on his back. Mike entered the ring with Dirksen and they waited.

A few minutes later Comstock and Apache Jack, leading Kwong with a rope around his neck, came down the street. Laughter and curses greeted them. As they worked through the crowd, more than one man spat on Kwong. Apache Jack pulled his Bowie knife and a clear path opened up.

Comstock stopped by the rope but Apache Jack lifted it and pulled Kwong into the ring. He cut Kwong's hands loose and took the loop off the neck. He showed the Bowie to Kwong, who nodded.

Dirksen announced the rules and stepped out of the ring. Apache Jack pushed Kwong toward Irish Mike before getting out.

Kwong was trembling as Mike came at him.

Irish Mike swung a roundhouse right and Kwong, a foot shorter than Mike, ducked and ran toward the rope. Men standing there stepped up to the rope to stop his escape. He ran to another side and was stopped there. He turned around just in time to duck another wild swing. For the next five minutes he kept running around the ring and Irish Mike couldn't catch him.

The crowd began to get mad. Yells and curses and stomping shook the night air. "Fight, you damn yellow bastard!"

As Kwong ran by someone stuck out a pole and tripped him. Then he was poked hard with the end of the pole. When he stood up, Irish Mike was on him, not two feet away. Kwong was caught in a corner. Irish Mike pulled back his right hammer-like fist. Suddenly Kwong's left darted out and his palm smacked Irish at the bottom of the nose, driving it back into his face. Mike roared with pain. Kwong's small right fist, a fist of nothing but knuckles, struck Mike just above the stomach. Stunned, Mike couldn't breathe and his legs turned to rubber. As Mike's knees folded, Kwong landed a sharp hard straight right just below Mike's left ear. Mike's eyes rolled up to show only white. He fell face down over the rope, collapsing the ring.

Yells, shouts, curses sounded. Dirksen jumped into the ring. Comstock yelled, "Time it! Time it!"

Dirksen pulled out his watch. Irish Mike lay face down without moving. Two men struggled and turned him over. Only the whites of his eyes showed. People rushed to get a better look. It was then that Kwong saw his chance. He took off running into the dark. He was so fast and gone before anyone could know for sure which way he went.

"The Chink!" someone shouted.

"The hell with him, what about Irish?"

Dirksen called for water and a bucket was brought and emptied on Mike. Dirksen slapped Irish Mike's face several times. Nothing. Then he grabbed the mashed nose and twisted it. Irish sat up with a yell. "What happened? Did I kill him?"

Dirksen turned away in disgust.

Comstock and Apache Jack were already in the saloon collecting their winnings from Scratchy. When Dirksen, followed by a staggering and humble Irish Mike and a small crowd of depressed miners, entered. Comstock was smiling and Apache Jack had one hand on the revolver stuck behind his belt and the other hand on the sack containing the money.

Dirksen said, "I don't understand it? A Chinaman scared shitless gets in a lucky punch or two and it's over."

"He was fighting for his life," Comstock said, "not just for money. That was the difference."

"Is that what you taught him?"

"Yes. I told him it was a ritual that white men performed. Once a year when the moon was right they beat someone to death. It had to be a foreigner: an Indian or Negro or Chinaman. I told him Apache Jack would butcher him if he didn't fight."

"Damn," Dirksen said. "I admit it, you won. That was damn clever. You cleaned me out but I admit I was outsmarted. Maybe I should use the same method on Mike."

Mike was over at the bar downing shot after shot.

"Well," Comstock said, "I think we better be leaving. I can't assume I'm very popular around here right now."

"You have a point."

"We'll go out the back. I'll return some day for instructions on mine engineering."

Comstock and Apache Jack left by a back door.

Dirksen went up to the bar. "Ed, pour me a double."

Just then Baxter entered. He walked to the bar like a man who had lost everything he ever had or wanted to have or hoped to have. When he looked at Dirksen there were tears in his eyes. Dirksen nodded to the bartender, who poured a large whiskey for Baxter.

Baxter said, "It had to be a Chinaman. It's my curse." He drank the whiskey and slammed the glass down. "It's enough to turn a man into a drunkard. Fill it up, bartender, I need to drown my sorrow."

Dirksen said, "Baxter, I think I'll join you."

It wasn't until late the next day that Baxter climbed on his horse and started out. He had told Dirksen that he was through with pugilism but that Irish Mike could probably beat anyone but a Chinaman. Since he was broke, Dirksen gave him a half-eagle and wished him luck.

Baxter said, "I think I better remain in the profession I am most suited for . . . poker."

As he watched Baxter ride away, Dirksen was trying to figure what he could tell his wife that she'd believe.

In a secluded section of a restaurant in San Francisco's Chinatown, a Chinese man, in a silk gown covered with detailed drawings of golden dragons, sat drinking tea with a very attractive Chinese woman. The beaded curtain parted and three men entered the room.

The man at the table looked up and smiled.

The man known as Comstock said, "To be honest, Kwong, you should get the lion's share."

The man known as Baxter said, "Well, maybe Kwong and me since I did most of the work."

The man known as Apache Jack, now with his face cleansed of berry-stain, said, "No, we should fight over it."

They all laughed.

Kwong said, "I don't believe we should try this again in California. Three times is the charm, as you people say."

"That might be right," "Baxter" said. "We could move into Nevada."

"Or Texas," "Apache" said. "Texans will fall for anything."

"Comstock" said, "We made enough to last until we can decide on a sound plan."

Kwong said, "Yes, let everyone enjoy the rich fruits of life: subtle tea, satisfying food, and delightful women. Always remember we owe this full life to our ancestors."

"Our ancestors?" "Baxter" asked.

"It was my father's brother who taught me zhongguo wushu and the essence of quan fa."

"Apache Jack" said, "You sure as hell did in Irish Mike."

Kwong shrugged. "Truly, it was not a contest. I almost pity him." He paused and smiled. "But not quite."