You heard about gangs. They came and went, taking what they wanted and answering to no one. Unless they got gunned down.
And what of that? He’d rather get gunned down in glory than live life like a dog with his tail tucked.
What he needed was a job.
And not the type Tripp was wanting.
Robbing stagecoaches or trains or banks appealed to Henry a lot more than mucking out Joe Jacobs’s stalls again.
Last time they’d done it, one of Jacobs’s kids, some bucktoothed boy maybe nine or ten, had hung around the whole time watching them and grinning like he thought it was funny, them shoveling horse apples for his daddy.
Made Henry want to knock the kid over the head with the shovel, then go inside and do the same thing to his pa, the high and mighty Joe Jacobs.
But everybody would have known who’d done it. And Henry would be on his own, running from a posse.
He needed a gang that was tough enough to stand their ground if men took after them.
He reckoned he might have the men. Tripp could fight. Some of the others back at the cabin probably could, too. Ben Bruce, Dev Harris, Ira Blain. They were all tough.
What they needed was a leader.
He had that covered.
But they also needed a purpose.
He had to come up with a job and rope them in. Once they had a taste of the high life and all that excitement, they would be hooked. And if any of them weren’t, well, he’d just put them down.
He just needed a job. Something to really grab their interest.
In the meantime, however, he still needed Tripp, so instead of punching him in the mouth, he said, “We’ll get some work. But first, I want a closer look at this woman.”
“Sounds good to me, partner,” Tripp said, following him across the street. “Looking is free.”
And there was that stupid smile again. Some men weren’t happy unless they were broke. That was Tripp. Being destitute brought out plucky cheer in the idiot.
Henry stayed half a step in front of Tripp. His chest led the way, and he swung his shoulders back and forth in a confident swagger. You had to let folks know you were in charge.
Every new situation, he waded in like he was stepping into the ring again.
He’d done well as a prizefighter back east, whipping all nine of his opponents. The first eight were Philadelphians, like him.
Trouble was, no one would fight him then. No one in Philadelphia or New Jersey had the guts.
Then he’d finally gotten his big break against New Yorker and top American lightweight contender, Burgess Mack.
After thirteen brutal rounds, both men had answered the fourteenth bell, gasping and bleeding, and Henry, a southpaw, had nailed Mack with a thunderous left and dropped him to the canvas.
The ref counted him out, and for a brief moment, Henry had celebrated. He’d won the fight, setting himself up for a match against the American champion, a fight that would bring real money and open the door to fight the lightweight world champion from England.
But then the New York crowd got angry, and people spilled into the ring, and there was a brawl that went on for a few minutes until policemen came in and broke things up, and then, when they got things settled down, the referee lied and said that Henry had fouled Mack, and the fight was ruled a “no contest.”
Henry went straight at the ref and broke some of his ribs before police beat him with their clubs and dragged him off to their lousy jail.
Even now, two years later, the memory still angered him.
He won that fight. He was going places. They stole everything from him.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” the old geezer who ran the hardware store said. “You boys picking up something for Mr. Jacobs?”
