Wringing of the Bell, a “Gate Jumper” universe short story, Steampunk genre. By Joseph Wolfe
3,500 words, about a 17 minute read.
“You know what they say, Dent,” Hector announced as he pulled the autocarraige into the rough-packed, sandy parking lot. “When normal people need money, they get a job. When rich kids need money, they go to an illegal boxing ring in Palm Valley.”
Denton glared at his brother. “Who says that?”
Hector laughed. “Me, mostly. You will, too, after I win my first fight tonight.”
Denton looked over the parking lot; two dozen horses tied up at the watering trough, and only one other autocarriage. The warehouse, their destination, was a large, brown stucco building with the letters “Southwestern Shipping Co.” on one of the corners near the top. Palm Valley’s trainyard was next door, so this was prime real estate in the area.
On top of the warehouse, on a flat section above all the roof tiles, an airship sat docked, its leather air balloon deflated and steam engine sleeping until the next time it would be fired up to fly.
“Why would the owner bother running something like this? Southwestern is the biggest shipping company around.”
“Dent, you have a lot to learn about people with money. Mostly, they always want more money.”
“Aren’t we people with money?”
Hector pulled on the brake hard, and the metal wheels of the autocarriage squealed to a stop. “Our family is. You and I? Not so much. Go douse the fire.”
Denton hopped in the back and tossed sand into the furnace. His brother was right. His father and grandfather were pretty tight-fisted when it came to the family’s wealth. Promises of a future inheritance did little when it came to procuring good whiskey.
When Denton was done, Hector was halfway to the warehouse back door, his leather bag with his gear in hand.
“Hold on,” Denton called out as he ran to catch up. His black loafers were not suited for the chase.
“Get the lead out, Dent!” Hector called back. “We’re going to miss the first fight.”
The two walked up to a single wooden door with a well-dressed, well-muscled gentleman standing just outside. His arms were crossed; two pistol butts shone in holsters flanking his hips.
“You two lookin’ a little young to be here.” he barked. “You got a name?”
“Hector Bell.”
Denton elbowed him. “You used your real name?” he hissed.
The tough pulled out a folded paper from his suit coat pocket, unfolding it and studying it with the last of the desert’s fading sunlight. “Mr. Bell,” he said with a wide grin. “Fresh meat. We like fresh meat around here. Head on in and go straight to the back room to get ready, then wait for your name to be called.”
Hector smiled and nodded, then opened the door with Denton in tow.
Inside the backroom of the warehouse, a boxing ring with rough brown ropes stood elevated in the center. Makeshift wooden benches on successively raised boxes covered all but the betting booth and the entry. About a hundred men dressed in everything from Salvation Springs white to shabby-looking brown suits milled about. Coins and paper bills shuffled back and forth at the betting booth; a well-dressed man with a polished silver monocle stood behind, taking the bets and recording them carefully in his book.
A lone steam engine in the corner hissed and chuffed, each crank powering the lights strung throughout the room, the majority hanging over the ring where the action would be.
Denton looked up and saw an owner’s booth protruding into the room about fifteen feet up, cigar smoke wafting out like they were burning a fire in there.
He pulled out a blue handkerchief from his vest pocket and coughed into it. “There’s more cigar smoke than air in here.”
“Isn’t it something else?” Hector said, clapping his hands together. “There’s the backroom!” he pointed. “Come on!”
Hector, the taller and stronger of the two brothers, made his way through the crowd with ease. Denton followed, but was bounced around like an apple in the back of a wagon.
“Excuse me,” Denton mumbled as he passed. A sudden shove from nowhere meant he was definitely not excused, and he bumped into the back of a large Irishman, who turned and crossed his tree trunk arms.
“You looking to fight, lad?”
“No no, I was shoved–”
The Irishman picked up Denton by the collar of his white button down. “If yer not lookin’ to fight, you best apologize.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Valley Ring!” the announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. The Irishman looked up at the speaker, and Denton twisted himself free and bolted for the backroom.
“Oi! Where do ya think yer goin?” the Irishman called out, but Denton had already disappeared into the crowd and finally made it to the backroom door.
“The only place for hundreds of miles you can watch fighters go toe to toe for gold and glory!” the announcer continued. “First in the ring, we have the reigning champion, the desperado of the dunes, please join me in welcoming: Samuel Santos!”
The crowd roared. Denton turned to watch as the six foot something Mexican entered the ring. Black hair slicked back and black mustache furled wildly at the ends below a crooked nose and dirty eyes, he looked like he had been born kicking and punching. The man stuck out his barrel chest and raised his hands, drinking in the applause.
“And today’s first challenger, his fourth time in the Valley Ring, please welcome, the drunken brawler, the Rolling Ryan O’Reily!”
Denton’s jaw dropped. It was the Irishman he had bumped into. The pale-skinned, red-haired man took his spot in the ring. He looked like he could win a fight with a runaway freight train.
“Denton, what are you gawking at?” Hector said from the doorway.
Denton jumped. “Hector! Don’t leave me behind like that. That O’Reily fellow nearly beat the snot out of me a moment ago.”
“Him? What did you do? Never mind; I need your help with my hand wraps. Come on! You’re supposed to be my coach.”
“Right, right,” Denton agreed, but spared one last look to the center when the bell rang. O’Reily and Santos squared off in fighting stances. They exchanged jabs which didn’t connect, then O’Reily brought around a right hook so fast Denton only saw the aftermath. Santos went down—hard. The crowd booed in response.
“O’Reily has done it! With a single blow, the champion goes down!”
“Denton, come on.”
Denton nodded and followed Hector to the back room, which looked like storage. A couple of splintering benches and a dozen rusty lockers next to boxes of whatever the place shipped on the legitimate side of its business.
“Are you going to have to fight that guy?”
“Relax. They put fresh meat against fresh meat here. They have to keep things interesting so people don’t know which way to bet.”
Denton worked at tucking his shirt back into his slacks. “I hope you’re right. That guy looked like he just came out of prison.”
“Probably came to the Americas to avoid prison.” Hector chuckled. “Here, wrap this tight but not too tight. Remember how I showed you?”
Denton sat next to his brother and started wrapping the cloth, first around Hector’s wrist multiple times then looping it between his thumb and index finger a few more before going between each finger.
“Good, just like that. I hear back east they wear big puffy gloves for these fights. Bunch of pansies if you ask me.”
“What’s our cover story when we get home?”
“You kidding? Father won’t care,” Hector whispered, half to himself.
Denton sighed. “But you think Grandfather won’t?”
Hector shrugged. “Ever since he talked about making the Jump, he’s been out of the house a lot.”
“You think he will get enough Votes this year?”
“Maybe not this year, but he’s one of the most well-known people in the town. Not to mention that time years ago when he saved a dozen men trapped in the mine. He’s a local hero and a civil servant. He’s as much a shoe-in as it gets.”
“I wish he wouldn’t leave so soon. He’s still on the young side for it.”
“Sure, but you never know how many years you have. Mom was even younger and look what happened.”
Denton couldn’t argue with that. “There, last one. Give it a few.”
Hector flexed his hands into fists then back into open a few times. He stood up and walked over to a ratty leather bag hung from rusty chains, shifted into a stance, then gave it a few practice blows.
“You’re slow,” Denton teased.
“Just warming up,” Hector said, then unleashed three quick blows, two to the face to open up his target, then a fast left hook to the ribs. “You putting money on me?”
“Just a few pennies.”
Hector turned and held out his hands wide. “Come on! What’s with that?”
“I spent most of what I had on coal to get us here. Grandfather says I don’t get much more pay until I’m no longer an apprentice. Keeper only knows when that will be.”
“Well, the purse for a fresh meat fight isn’t much, but it will cover your coal for this trip and the next one.”
“The next one? I still think we’re dead if Grandfather finds out. Are you really using your real name?”
“Helt no. I told them to announce me as Gregory the Gargoyle.”
“Gregory the Gargoyle?” Denton tried not to laugh. “Really going to church with that one, huh?”
“The Gargoyle watches, and when he sees an opening–” Hector brought around a fist and turned his hips into the blow, snapping the rusty chains holding the bag and sending it to the ground with a loud slap, “–he strikes.”
Denton started a slow clap. “Nice theatrics.”
“Gregory the Gargoyle?” a voice sounded near the door. Denton and Hector turned to see a young man with a newsboy cap and a clipboard. “You’re up next.”
Hector looked around the room. “Where’s the other fresh meat?”
“You’re it tonight. You’re fighting O’Reily.” The young man stepped back out.
Denton and Hector gaped at each other.
“Do you think they will let me use their telephone?” Denton asked.
“What? Why?
“I want to call Father and start making funeral arrangements.”
Hector slapped at him, but Denton leaned back to dodge.
“You gotta be faster than that to beat O’Reily.”
Hector lunged; Denton stood up and ran around the bench avoiding him.
“Too slow!” Denton said with a chuckle.
“Bell!” the tough from the front door barked into the room. “Get your arse out here!”
“When I win this, that purse is getting me a new pocket watch, just you wait,” Hector said as he left, Denton following behind.
“Ladies and Gentleman, tonight we have a rare fight for you! A newbie, hailing from Salvation Springs, the descendant of the gold miners with mineral in his lungs, the stone-faced villain, please welcome, Gregory the Gargoyle!”
Hector climbed the ropes into the ring, raising his hands to drink in the glory. Scattered laughter from the crowd came back, and shouts of “put it all on O’Reily!” from the mob at the betting window.
Denton took his place in Hector’s corner. O’Reily was in the opposite corner talking to his coach, another Irishman. They pointed and laughed at Hector, who was too busy shouting at the crowd to notice.
“What do you think brother?” Hector asked as he leaned on the ropes. “I think the crowd loves me!”
“Love is a…strong word.” Denton saw his comment was ignored; Hector’s eyes fixed on something behind him. He turned; a young waitress set fresh whisky glasses on a table for the men. She looked up at them for a second, then lowered her eyes and hurried away to the kitchen.
“She’s cute,” Hector said.
Denton’s brows went up. “You think so?” He didn’t think so.
“Sure do.”
“Ladies and Gentleman, how long will the fresh meat last? Place your bets now! The fight is about to begin.”
“What does he mean by that?” Hector shouted. More laughter.
Denton had to admit, as ignorant as his brother was, he had charm. A lot of charm. Maybe the audience was warming up to him.
“Fighters, take your places in the center!”
Hector walked up to O’Reily; the Irishman had a wicked grin.
“Past yer bedtime, lad,” he said to Hector; Denton barely caught the words in the din of the crowd. “Don’t worry, I’ll tuck ya in tight. Then I’ll go to yer mum’s room and tuck her in too.”
Denton gasped.
“My mother’s dead you bastard!” Hector said, then threw a wild punch to the gut, sending the Rolling Ryan O’Reily reeling.
The crowd jumped to their feet, the noise loud enough to knock a few tiles off the roof. The Irishman’s coach jumped in, shouting “he’s disqualified! The bell didn’t ring! The bell didn’t ring!” He took a swing at Hector, connecting with his right eye.
Denton jumped into the ring, as did the tough from the front door, and several people from the crowd. It was an all-out brawl now; complete chaos erupted in the ring and it was every man for himself. Denton tried to cover Hector’s blind spots, but punches were coming out of nowhere, and he wasn’t much of a fighter. Now he wasn’t just an apple being bounced around, but a bruised apple being juiced.
“Hector, we got to get out of here!” Denton shouted. He put his arms around Hector’s waist and pulled him away.
“No! Let me at him! He insulted our Mother!”
“We’re joining Mother if we don’t leave now!”
Maybe it was the blow to the head from the Irish coach, or the fact that O’Reilly looked like he was getting ready to jump back in, but Denton was somehow able to pull his larger brother out of the thick of it, and they ducked their way out of the ropes and bolted for the exit.
“After them!” someone shouted.
Denton didn’t turn to see who it was as he and Hector cleared the entry door and ran for their autocarriage. Denton vaulted over the side directly to where the fire box was, shoveled in coal with his hands, and rapidly lit match after match, tossing each one in until the flames roared.
“Denton, hurry!” Hector called out from the driver’s seat.
Denton poked his head out. The tough from earlier had grown to three toughs, and their heads turned back and forth as they looked for Hector and Denton.
“There!” one of them shouted, pointing at the autocarriage.
There was no time for the water to boil. Denton panicked and threw more coal in, then checked the thermometer. They needed more time.
“Dent, what do we do?” Hector called out.
Denton scurried about like a blind rat, then he looked out the back. The place they parked was uneven, packed ground, and it sloped downhill.
“Pull the brake and go tender first!” Denton shouted.
“What? Why?”
“Just do it!”
Hector released the brake, and the autocarriage started rolling backwards down the hill, just fast enough to keep away from one of the toughs catching up to them.
“How much road do we have?” Hector asked.
Denton looked. Not much. Several more seconds and they would be going off the road, and once that happened, one bad bump could turn them over.
“Steer her around slowly until we come around, then full steam towards the exit!”
Hector obeyed, slowly turning the auto carriage, still in tender first, relying on Denton’s commands to steer.
The tough chasing them cut through the center of the half-circle they made, catching up and grabbing onto the rail. Hector loosed a punch, sending the tough tumbling onto the hard packed sand.
The whistle of the steam engine suddenly rang out.
“That’s it!” Denton shouted as he pulled the valve, sending steam power into the autocarriage. It chuffed, slowly at first, but soon, they were full steam ahead, driving backwards out onto the road, Denton shouting directions as Hector steered.
Several minutes passed; the men initially mounted up to chase them, but soon gave up. They couldn’t catch up to a steam engine with horses.
Once safe, Hector slowed down the autocarriage and took a moment to turn it around so they could switch to chimney first. Denton joined him in the front, and they continued the drive back to Salvation Springs.
“Well, that was something,” Denton said, giving his brother a firm pat on the back.
“Sure was.” They paused for a moment, taking in a few steady breaths as the adrenaline wore off. “Sorry.”
“What for?” Denton asked. “I can take a few cracked ribs for you.”
Hector chuckled, his laughter dying off in groans of pain. “I was hoping to win us a purse tonight. But that Irish bastard…he brought up Mother.”
“I know. If it means anything, you did right by me and by her.”
Hector looked over, his right eye puffy and red. “It does.”
After they made it back to Salvation Springs, the next day passed with no retribution from Father. Grandfather said very little about the injuries on both brothers, but he worked Denton to the bone at the Waterworks. Denton’s ribs ached doing maintenance on the pumps and engines, and every time he groaned, Grandfather would say, “something you want to tell me about?”
Of course he knew, but Denton wouldn’t come out and say what happened. He could rat himself out, but never could rat out Hector.
Later that evening, while Father and Grandfather were both away at a banquet held by the city, Denton and Hector laid out on their couches, nursing their injuries. A knock on the door surprised them.
“You get it.” Hector moaned.
“I just started icing my bruise,” Denton complained. “We don’t get another ice delivery until day after tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m not moving. And you’re more curious than me. So I know you’ll get up if I don’t.”
Denton glared at him, then grunted and stood. He walked over to the door and opened it, and was surprised to see a well-dressed gentleman, middle-aged, standing there, holding a purse.
“Is this the home of the Gargoyle?”
“Sir, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Wait, that’s me!” Hector shouted.
“No, it’s not,” Denton shouted back.
The man chuckled. “I’m not here to settle a score. At least, not in the way you’re thinking.”
Hector was at the door, and shoved Denton aside with a gentle push on his bruised rib.
“Ow! Hector!”
“You rang?” he said to the gentleman, his arm outstretched and leaning on the jamb.
“I came by to give you your winnings, and to welcome you back anytime. That was quite the punch you gave O’Reily, and he’s fuming for a rematch. So are my customers.”
“But…I didn’t win.”
The gentleman shrugged. “Close enough, for now.”
“Ah well, thank you sir! Gregory the Gargoyle doesn’t back down from a fight, no sir.”
Denton poked his head under Hector’s arm. “If we’re welcome back, why did your thugs chase us down?”
The gentleman chuckled. “They were just doing their job, and we can’t have anyone thinking we actually approve of what happened. Besides, they didn’t draw on you, did they?”
Hector and Denton shook their heads.
“Didn’t think so. Besides, the crowd loved it, and I want you back. Consider this a downpayment on future fights.”
“The gentleman handed the purse to Hector, who snatched it up. “Thank you, sir!”
Now, if you will excuse me, I have more business in Salvation Springs.”
“Yes, of course, thanks again!”
“Oh, just one more little thing.” The gentleman took off his hat, revealing a bald pate. His wrinkled eyes bore into Hector’s skull. “This was a one-time thing. Next fight, wait for the bell to ring, or I will be coming to settle the score. Understood? Good. Have a nice evening.”
Denton pushed the rest of the way past Hector and stepped out the door; the man already halfway back to his horse-drawn carriage. “Wait, how did you find us!”
The gentleman continued walking, but stopped at the carriage door and turned back. “I know who the Bell brothers are. Don’t worry; your secret is safe with me.”
Denton turned back to a wide-grinning Hector.
“Well well well, looks like this is just the beginning of my boxing career.”
“You don’t seriously plan to go back, do you?”
Hector lightly tossed the purse up and down. “I do, and I plan to get the name of that waitress when I do. I wonder if she likes diamonds.”
Despite his ribs, Denton chuckled at his brother. “Fine, but before you buy any diamonds, you’re buying us whiskey. Tonight.”
Hector grabbed his top hat from the rack. “Deal. Let’s go. You’re driving the way back.”
Thanks for reading! Interested in another free short story, Steampunk adventure? Click here to read Lending a Hand!
