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86    ABBOTT'S MONTHLY

A Pair of Kings-(Continued from page 84)

but when he stood once more on the King's Rock, Myankaas slowly kissed him before they faced the people. They turned and M'zimba raised his spear. At the signal every man, woman and child put all they had in that:

"Bayete!"

I FELT real prosperous myself. The plot and the "smelling out" were as down and out as Ngacoma. Pulling out would be a cinch now and we might be able to haul away some gold. Yes, sir, the world was such a good old place that I wanted to hunt for Minnie and give her some encouragement, it being feast time and everything, when a soldier from Mac stopped me. The Black One wanted me.

Old Mac greeted me with a smile as I shook his hand near loose. I even got a near one from Myankaas. We three sat silent for a time and watched the people enjoy themselves 

"Remember the plot I told you about last night, John?" asked Mac suddenly. 

"You bet I do!" 

"Myankaas put me wise-" as I remembered it, steady old M'zimba had been a big help, too, but this sweet brown made Mac forget that regular fellow, so I said nothing, just nodded, "-and she also fixed up the challenge and the fight. Ngacoma was suspicious at first, naturally. A while ago you nearly twisted your neck off, trying to see a letter the pass guard brought me. Here, read it!"

I grabbed the paper. This is what I read:

Dear Mac: 

This message, I hope, will reach you the First Day of The Feast of The First Fruits. You have kept faith well. Come back to America or remain in the Land of The Black Lion, please your ambitions and desires. Chicago is my city for all time. I will never return to Africa. I am-

Then followed a bunch of stuff about business in old Chi and some classy high brown dame he'd fallen for, and at the end:

Give my best regards to John Atwood, and thank him again for his so wonderful idea. 

Bayete Inkoosi! 

Chaka (Charles Chacker). 

"Hot Dawg!" I shouted, "we can clear out at once!"

I got a first class king's extra royal look. I felt funny, like a kid caught wearing his father's new watch.

"I, Chaka, stay here-with my wife, Myankaas!" Mac said as proud as if he was a New York Alderman. 

"Wh-a-a-T!" I yelled. "O, well, what's a lifetime among these cussed colored folks of the Black Lion!" I jumped up in a hurry and looked carefully into the crowd beneath us.
 
"Excuse me, people, see you later! I've got to find Minnie! She might turn foolish and take some one of these fresh assegai throwers!"

The Devil Wolf-(Continued from page 71)

are the candles? Tip! Are you all right?"

McKane answered between sucked-in breaths. "Light, Dick-a light!" There came the sound of a knife's point stabbing again and again into flesh that had moved under his hand. Then he grunted searing curses and scrambled to his feet. 

Finally Bowen found the candles. In a trice he had them alight. As their flames worked higher he held up the tin container for a better view of the room. Tip McKane stood panting, his rifle on the floor, a gore-dripping knife in his hand. 

"My God, Tip-the white-eared wolf!" Bowen seized his partner's arm. "you're bloody! Not badly hurt?"

"Not-hurt-at all. Wolf blood." He swayed dizzily, then stared about. "Louis-gone?"

They saw the door wide open. Their eyes me understandingly. "I'll go bring him back, Tip," Dick said, and strode to retrieve his gun. "I'll quiet him and bring him back. He's alive all right, eh?"

"I reckon." McKane stared down at the long, heavy carcass of the wolf. His hunting knife described a swift twist and one gray-white ear came away in his hand while blood spurted from the still-twitching flesh.

"Dick," he demanded as the other hesitated, watching, "how in the world do you explain this? Are we crazy or just demented? How much is there in Louis' story anyhow? Were you and I saved by our not believing?"

BOWEN'S rifle-butt struck the floor. He leaned forward, his wind-weathered face graver than McKane had ever seen it. "Tip," said Dick earnestly, "I don't know. But that must be it! That superstition got such a grip on Louis he expected to die. The other day when he shot the wolf he must have missed-because look, your bullet worked!"

They eyed each other, then stared at the tawny, lifeless form on the floor. "But how about the others- Tremaine and LeGrae? demanded McKane.

"Bunk! Imagination! When a man's alone months at a time, and sees a white-eared wolf-and is superstitious anyhow.... Do you get it?"

Tip McKane wiped gleaming beads of sweat from his forehead. "Yes, that's it. Terror can kill a man, make him so certain he's going to die that he does die. But, Dick," he notified grimly, "I've had enough o'this devil-wolf stuff. Enough o'trappin' on the Lac d'Esprit de Diable, superstition or no superstition. Tomorrow we hike!"    



for May, 1931    87

Frame-up-(Continued from page 30)

written down." and she produced a notebook which she opened at a written page. 

"Where is Byrne now?" he asked. 

"I'll tell him you're here," she said. "He's been up about five minutes."

Fred and his manager sat down, and soon Byrne came in. He recognized Fred. The latter saw that surprise was written over the champ's face.

FRED closely scrutinized the man before him. Byrne was a big fellow, sandy haired, eyes of pale blue, evidently not an intelligent man. 

Fred shoved the notebook which he had retained, under the champ's eyes. "See anything familiar?" he asked, watching the champ for the slightest move.

Byrne's eyes ran over the writing. He looked at Fred with mouth hanging open. "How did you get this?" 

Fred nodded with satisfaction. Grant's face was beaming.

"Well, my hunch worked," Fred said. He rose, crossed the room, and stooping behind the sofa, picked up something that resembled a telephone. He returned to where the other men were regarding him with interest.

"This," he explained, "is a dictograph. Grant planted it back of the sofa about four nights ago. I had a hunch Morgan would be around to fix you. We bribed your maid to listen in the kitchen. That's where these wires lead. She took down the conversation you had with Morgan."

Byrne was staring at Fred as though this was beyond comprehension. He passed his hand through his shock of hair in a dazed manner. "Well, what're you gonna do?" he said sullenly. 

Fred pointed a tense finger at the champ. 

"Byrne, you can see for yourself we got you where we want you. There's no use beating around the bush. You accepted a ten thousand dollar offer to throw tonight's fight. 

"We can expose you and get you thrown out of boxing. Now listen, send a note right away over to Bell and Harvey, the promoters of this fight. Return Morgan's money. Get out of town for a while. You can come back under a different name." 

BYRNE was a picture of doubt. He ran his hand through his hair several times. He started to speak, shut up, the blurted out, "But how will I ever make a comeback?" 

"In the near future Grant and I are going to take three or four fighters in our stable," Fred returned. "Byrne, I promise to take you in. You're a fighter with a lot possibilities. I'll say that for you. We'll bring you back under a different name and point you for the title. I'm going to put on a few pounds and get in the heavyweight class. That'll leave a place for you." 

Byrne showed his relief. For the first time his wide mouth broke into a smile. "All right," he said. He shook hands with Fred. Grant delightedly slapped both men on the back and lit a fresh stogie. 

When Fred and Grant left, the former said: "Now for the biggest part." He inhaled a deep breath.

The crowd in Fowler's arena was rapidly increasing. Most of the seats were taken by the time Fred and Grant pushed their way along the side of the seats until they came to the little room where Bell and Harvey had their office. Fred pushed the door open. The two promoters were inside. Both wore unpleasant looks. After an exchange of greetings, Fred asked, "Why the frowns?"

BELL held out a slip of paper. "Byrne's gone, he announced solemnly. "Sent us this note today saying he had decided to quit the game and go away. We sent for him at his hotel but he had already checked out," Bell burst out. "Can you imagine a nut like that? A champion doing such a stunt? We've got to put on a match. The crowd will lynch us if we don't. We've got to find a sub for Byrne and let the boxing commission pick contenders for the title."

Grant spoke up. "How about Fred here going in tonight?"

Bell looked up quickly. "Can you go in on this short notice?"

"Sure, Fred said. "I'm rarin' to go." There was a viciousness in his words. 

The promoters agreed, and Fred signed a hastily drawn contract. Then he made for one of the dressing-rooms. His chain needed one more link.

The crowd raised a howl at first when Bell announced that the champ could not appear. But a remembrance of the last battle between Fred Warren and Mike Morgan settled them in their seats. 

Fred entered the ring with tightened lips. He saw Morgan, who was already there, give a violent start of surprise. The two men advanced to the center of the ring and shook hands. Fred's eyes bored into Morgan. Morgan's eyes shot a spasm of fear, then just as quickly his gaze was normal.

Fred exulted silently. His plan had worked. The man he wanted most to meet was here. Morgan, though unwilling, had to stay and fight.

THAT night the fans were treated to a battle such as few crowds are fortunate enough to see. Every boxing crowd demands action. These fans got it-plenty of it. 

From the opening gong the two men tore into each other. Neither man sparred. Clinches were rare.

Fred ripped slashing blows into Morgan. Without any attempt at defense he kept boring in. 

Morgan was a willing partner in this action drama. He bounced hits galore off Fred's anatomy. He put such steam into his blows as he had never dreamed of doing.

And the battle went on-battle of two former champions, both goaded by hate. 

The crowd was almost every instant on its feet. The fight carried them away. They yelled, they screamed, they lost their voices for the evening. Some could only whisper hoarsely by the fourth round, but they did their best.

Morgan's face was covered with blood. Blood ran from his nose, mouth, a cut above his eye, from a split cheekbone. His body had been pounded into a raw redness. The blood in his mouth tasted warm and salty. 

Fred was cut too, but not so

Transcription Notes:
I could not find out if italic words in the document should be noted in the transcription. AnnBaroco