Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

Younger jogged about, feinting and weaving, while Darky waited, alert and ready to throw the counter punch.

The crowd had moved closer, in awed silence except for the scraping feet.

Younger led with his left but it was a tentative thrust and Darky weaved back outside it. Younger threw a hard left lead. Darky slipped inside it and crashed a short right hand under the heart; then he closed with Younger, claiming his arms, throwing his weight against him. Before the self-appointed referee could intervene, Darky pushed Younger clear and again waited for him to lead.

Sap his strength then go for an early knockout, Darky kept telling himself. The calm of battle had descended on him, but he knew he must win quickly or be cut to pieces in ignominious defeat.

Ruffled, Younger came in again throwing his left hand wildly. Darky ducked; the blow slewed off the top of his head; he threw a savage right uppercut sending Younger down on his heels and hands. Younger fell near the wide trunk of the elm tree near the light post. Darky crowded in leaving Younger little room to rise. Younger managed to scramble to his feet and hang on, throwing short rights to Darky’s head in the clinch. He was fighting mad, stung but rendered confident by the fact he had taken Darky’s right to the jaw and come back clear-headed and strong. As the boxers scuffled and punched at close quarters, a murmur rising to a near roar came from the crowd. They expressed excitement, awe, near horror all mixed up.

Darky pushed Younger off and again took up his stance. He was beginning to pant already. I couldn’t have landed that one square on his jaw, he tired to reassure himself. I’ll try one more, then go downstairs.

Younger came in and poked out another left lead. Darky moved his head aside evasively, but before he could throw his right fist, Younger came up with his right and their punches jumbled, neither landing cleanly.

A man’s gettin’ slow, Darky admitted to himself, as he smothered close, pinioning Younger’s arms. The referee ordered a break and again they shaped up to each other. Younger was growing more confident. Again he threw a left lead and again he nullified Darky’s counter blow and they clinched.

Darky noticed that his strength was ebbing a little though he hadn’t taken a heavy blow; yet Younger seemed as strong as at the beginning. I’ll try to bore in under him, Darky schemed.

Throwing aside the discretion of the left lead, Younger rushed in throwing round arm blows with both hands. Darky ducked low and shot a short right to the body. Younger grunted and smothered up. Darky ripped a left uppercut which caught Younger on the nose and set it bleeding. Sensing he had this time hurt Younger, Darky made to follow up his advantage, but Younger stopped him in his tracks with a savage right cross. The punch cut Darky’s left eyebrow deeply, sending blood pouring onto his shirt front. Younger piled in punching wildly but Darky succeeded in clinching with him and pushing him away.

Younger came in again. Darky failed to evade a left hand punch and it struck his nose setting it bleeding from both nostrils.

The crowd circling the fighters swayed to the rhythm of the battle. A female voice screamed: “Finish him orf, Jimmy boy!”

Younger reigned blows on Darky. Darky clinched, desperately seeking respite. He leaned in on Younger, pushed him off. He threw a desperate right cross which landed flush on Younger’s jaw, steadying him. Darky levelled another right, then a left. Younger retaliated, They stood toe to toe, slugging it out.

“Take it easy, Darky,” Ernie Lyle yelled. “You won’t beat him that way.”

Darky got the worst of the latest encounter and clung on, wrestling Younger back against the tree until the referee came between them, vainly trying to pull Darky away. The referee grabbed Darky’s right arm, tugging at it. With Darky thus handicapped, Younger sent a left hook to the jaw. Darky staggered back. Younger followed him, raining blows. Darky crouched low, desperately trying to land an effective punch to the body. A grunt from Younger indicated he had succeeded. But Younger kept attacking like a ferocious animal; his strength seemed to have no limit. He punched Darky at will aiming his blows at the cut eye. The blood streaming from Darky’s eye and nose had dyed the front of his shirt and trousers red, and spattered over Younger. Younger’s own nose had stopped bleeding but his face was red and barked from the effect of Darky’s punches.

The thud of bone against bone; the crunch of flesh against flesh.

The feeling in the crowd had changed to horror and revulsion; only those few who loved violence for its own sake and Younger’s cronies held any affinity with the battle now.

Darky slumped to the ground as much from exhaustion as the effect of Younger’s punches. Younger stood above him, breathing heavily through the nose, sensing victory.