text: Later they found a restaurant and had steak dinners before getting a hotel room with two beds. They washed their faces, hands and bodies and fell into the beds exhausted after their 100-mile walk.
  
  After breakfast the next morning, they found Plunkett's General Store on Capital Street and bought wool coats and lined leather gloves, brown canvas pants, shirts, longhandles, socks, new work boots, stocking caps and bandanas. When each had what they wanted, they walked down to the barbershop and got haircuts and beard trims before having baths. Paulie was proud of his beard, though it was a mite thin.
  
  As they each sat in tubs of hot water, Grit said, "Nothin's finer than a good hot bath. I wish we could do it more often. Sometimes I can't stand the smell of myself."
  
  "I feel the same," Paulie said. "Maybe we should get a copper tub, and we could heat water and have a bath occasionally."
  
  "That's a grand idea, Paulie. We got the money, and let's get a stove for the cabin, a heat stove and a small cook stove. It'll make things a lot easier."
  
  Later at the livery, they looked at an oak wagon with thick iron tires. "This'n looks heavy duty, and I like these high sides on it," Grit said.
  
  "Yeah, it looks stout alright," Paulie said, "but once she's loaded, will two horses be enough to pull 'er back to our camp?"
  
  "I think so," Grit said. "I don't suspect it'll be that heavy, and we've only got to travel a hundred miles."
  
  They bought the wagon before wandering over to the livery and buying a four-year-old dun that looked like a sturdy farm horse and seemed very easy to handle. Once they had the bay and dun harnessed, the horses seemed perfectly at ease, as if both of them had been called on to pull a wagon before. Grit and Paulie rode around town and on the south side, they found where the men had built the boxing ring.
  
  "Looks like they're gettin' ready for this afternoon, Paulie," Grit said.
  
  "Yep, and I don't wanna miss it," Paulie said.
  
  They sat and watched for a short time as men inside the ring and underneath were putting the finishing touches on the ring construction. One man bounced against the ropes to make sure the corner-posts held.
  
  "I think it's fine, Mac!" he yelled.
  
  Somebody's reply from underneath was inaudible.
  
  Grit dropped the wagon off at the livery and he and Paulie went to Steadman's for lunch. The waitress came over, took their order and asked, "You two gonna watch the big fight today?"
  
  "Oh yeah," Paulie said. "We're lookin' forward to it." Grit was happy to see Paulie so eager about the fighting that afternoon, but he knew Paulie had no idea of how brutal the sport was. Bare-knuckle fighting was vicious and bloody, and even though they gave a nod to the Queensberry rules, not many observed them.
  
  Eye-gouging, head butting, kneeing in the groin during clinches were inflicted on the unwary. The referee might warn a fighter but almost never disqualify one. In the ring, a man was fighting for his life, and if he didn't die, he was often maimed and his face disfigured for life.
  
  In the restaurant, they filled up on chicken-fried steaks, mashed potatoes and gravy before heading over to the fight, where people were already jostling for the best places to view the day's events. Grit guessed there were easily five hundred people there, mostly men, but also lots of young boys were running around.
  
  There were temporary bars set up to buy beer, whiskey and sandwiches. Bryn's Bakery was selling sandwiches and all kinds of custards, sweet rolls and other desserts.
  
  At 1 o'clock, the promoter jumped through the ropes with a giant red megaphone for the introductions. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to welcome all of you here today for this afternoon of supreme entertainment.
  
  "We have as our guest today one of the world's great bare-knuckle pugilists, all the way from Ireland by way of New York City. Known as the 'Dublin Haymaker,' here's the man who's landed a haymaker on hundreds of other fighters and put their backs on the canvas, John P. Falmouth."
  
  Falmouth ducked between the ropes and entered the ring flexing his biceps as the crowd burst into applause, and it was deafening. When the raucous crowd quieted somewhat, the promoter yelled in his megaphone, "The 'haymaker' is taking on all comers today, no matter their size. The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
  
  "Step right up to the table here, and sign up to fight Mister Falmouth. We've already got six brave men who are willing to fight the 'Dublin Haymaker' and see if they can hit him with their own haymakers. Anyone who defeats Mister Falmouth will immediately be awarded one thousand dollars.
  
  "The charge to enter is only $25, and you may place your bets right here at ringside at the same table where you sign up to fight the champion. We are prepared to accept bets in any amount. So step right up and make your bets."
  
  Falmouth was bare-chested. He had a good physique, but Grit could tell he was going to seed. Too many drinks, too many beefsteaks and too much fat on his body. Perhaps the fat gave him some cushion against his opponents' blows, but Grit suspected the man was living off past glory, his reflexes still quick enough to defeat the country bumpkins he faced in towns across the West, but no longer quick enough to face the tough opponents in the big eastern cities.
  
  "Our first opponent for Mister Falmouth is Douglas Williams, who represents your own Dakota Southern Railroad. Place your bets, gents. Looks like Mister Williams can get the job done. Look at the size of the man."
  
  A giant of a man, maybe 6-foot-5 and 250 pounds lumbered into the ring to the delight and loud applause of dozens of his supporters. The promoter, having finished his job, jumped down from the ring and the referee took over. The referee called the boxers to the middle of the ring for their final instructions, no kicking, no gouging, no wrestling, and the men returned to their corners to await the bell.
  
  When it rang, the men stalked and circled each other throwing jabs before Williams threw a powerful right that Falmouth ducked. He came up inside Williams's arms and smashed a powerful left-right combination to the man's midsection before dancing away. When Williams missed with a second punch, Falmouth gave him a jolt on the chin and he went down to end the round.
  
  "Did you see that?" Paulie asked.
  
  "That was just a little love tap," Grit said. "Nothin' serious. Falmouth wants to keep the fight goin'."
  
  Grit realized that Falmouth was playing with Williams. He could have come up and delivered that first combination to his opponent's chin and ended the fight right there, but that wasn't good for business.
  
  In the second round, Williams continued to flail away, but Falmouth took most of the blows on his shoulders and arms. Both men's upper torsos became splotchy red. Grit saw that Falmouth was an expert at blocking punches, and that's the way he survived in the ring. He also had good vision, always keeping his head up and eyes open to see flaws in his opponent's defense.
  
  A couple of minutes into the second round, one of Williams's punches landed to the side of Falmouth's head, and it seemed to shake the pugilist. Once that happened, he clinched and recovered. From that point, Falmouth went after Williams's big body, sending punishing blows repeatedly into his belly and ribs. Suddenly, he switched to Williams's face and sent a staggering blow to the man's nose, which started to bleed all over the canvas. As he continued to attack the face, Williams suffered cuts above and below his right eye and the blood leaked into his vision and obscured his sight. A straight right cross to the chin sent Williams down and out. His seconds came out and tried to revive the man, but he couldn't answer the bell for a third round.
  
  Paulie turned to Grit and said, "I didn't realize boxing was so ferocious and savage."
  
  "Yeah," Grit said, "and sometimes it's worse than that."
  
  "What could be worse?" Paulie asked.
  
  "Sometimes a fighter dies," Grit said, "and when it happens, it doesn't seem like much of a sport."
  
  "You've seen it?" Paulie asked.
  
  Grit nodded, "Yeah, I've seen it."
  
  "Where?"
  
  "In Michigan."
  
  "Would you tell me about it sometime?"
  
  "I'm not anxious to relive it, Paulie." It was obvious to Grit as he stood there that many felt exactly like Paulie. Men were rushing to the table, having had a change of heart about taking on Falmouth after seeing the destruction he'd dished out to Williams. They were trying to get their entrance fees back, but the promoter's people were giving no refunds.
  
  The promoter jumped into the ring once more and yelled through his megaphone. "I see some of the faint of heart have turned into chickens, suddenly afraid to fight Mister Falmouth, but let me assure you, all it takes is one lucky blow to the head, and our champ here is down for the count. I've seen it happen in other cities and sadly I've had to pay the thousand dollars. Don't be afraid, just step right up. The champ is tired now, and you'll be fresh coming into the ring. Our next fighter is Boris Popov, the pride of Russia."
  
  Popov was a different type of fighter. He had no thought of feeling out his opponent but instead wanted to obliterate him. He swarmed over Falmouth throwing blows from every direction, and he was pretty good. He hit Falmouth hard, but the wise old fighter covered his head, slipped many of the punches and took the others on his shoulders and arms. Inevitably, though, some got through and Falmouth clinched and held on until the referee separated the fighters and Falmouth had recovered a bit.
  
  Through it all, Falmouth looked for an opening, and when it came, he tagged Popov on the chin with a right uppercut that staggered the Russian and took some of the starch out of his approach. He clinched and hung on repeatedly to Falmouth in order to survive, but when the referee separated the fighters, Falmouth stepped in and tagged Popov once more on the jaw with a devastating left hook, and he was down for the count.
  
  Five more fighters got into the ring and all lost pretty quickly, and the number of those willing to get into the ring with Falmouth dwindled to nothing. After the last knockout, the promoter jumped into the ring with his spiel telling everyone that knocking Falmouth out only took one punch.
  
  "That's all it takes," the promoter said. "One lucky punch, and you get a thousand dollars. Come one, come all!"
  
  When there were no volunteers, the promoter's demeanor changed. He became belligerent. "I got no takers in this town? What kind of men we got here, a bunch of cowards? I thought when we came here we'd see some real men, but now I see we got nothin' but milksops and mama's boys."
  
  Without warning, the man pointed his finger at Grit, who was standing in the crowd with Paulie. "You there, have you got the guts to get into the ring with the champion?" Why he picked Grit nobody ever knew. Perhaps his eye lighted on the first stranger he saw. Quickly, everybody around Grit pushed back and left him standing alone with Paulie.
  
  "Have you, or are you just another namby-pamby like the rest of the men in this town?"
  
  Grit was tongue-tied. He wanted to say he had no desire to fight, but he was standing there and everyone was staring at him or trying to get a look at him. His face flushed and he held up his hand and waved the man off while shaking his head.
  
  "Just as I thought, a weakling without the guts to take on the champion. C'mon, I won't even charge you the $25 entrance fee. Just get up here and show us what you got."
  
  The shaming of Grit was too much. His face reddened in anger and his mouth set in a determined grimace. Paulie watched Grit turn into someone he'd never seen before. Grit started toward the ring, only half-hearing Paulie yell, "No, Grit, don't do it." But once committed, Grit pulled himself up into the ring and said, "Alright, bring on your champion."
  
  "Now, you see, I was wrong," the promoter said. "This man's got more guts than anybody else in this town. Good luck, my man."
  
  Grit reached into his pocket and pulled out $25. "Here's the entrance fee," Grit said as he waved it in the air and handed it to the promoter. "You get your thousand dollars ready." The promoter smiled piteously at him.
  
  He pulled his shirt out of his pants and slipped it off over his head. When the crowd saw the great slabs of muscle on Grit's body, the onlookers were in total disbelief. Everybody started cheering for him and some even placed bets on him to win. He leaned over the ropes and yelled, "Paulie, put a thousand dollars on me to win. Do it now!"
  
  "Are you sure, Grit?" Paulie asked.
  
  "Yes, I'm sure. Do it 'fore it's too late."
  
  Grit stared at Falmouth who stared back at him as the referee gave his instructions. He walked back to his corner, and something took over. He'd never understood what it was, but he had no fear, except for a slight apprehension that he might really hurt Falmouth. But that's what it was all about, this bare-knuckle fighting. He looked down at his huge, calloused hands and knew he could command them to do whatever he wanted.
  
  The bell rang, and Grit didn't hesitate. He shuffled to the center of the ring and snapped off a crisp left jab that caught Falmouth above the left eye, and it split the skin open. Grit faked another left jab to the same eye, and when Falmouth raised his hands to block the jab, he also lowered his head, thinking the jab would hit the top of his head, the hardest part of the skull and capable of breaking a man's hand, but when Falmouth lowered his head, Grit came through with a right uppercut that tagged the professional flush on the jaw, and he went down, ending the round.
  
  Falmouth's seconds rushed out to help him to his feet, but he was wobbly as he went back to the corner. When the bell rang for the second round, Falmouth seemed to have recovered, so he went for a headshot with a right cross. Grit slipped it by his head and gave a titanic blow to Falmouth's left ribs. The power in the blow was devastating, and Grit knew it would be. He'd given it everything he had. Realizing Falmouth was hurt bad, he gave him another right to the ribs, and Falmouth went down again gasping for breath.
  
  His seconds once more rushed out to help the out-of-shape professional back to his corner. They washed his face with a sponge, but it wasn't his face, it was his ribs that were the problem. Those busted ribs allowed him only to take the shallowest of breaths. Grit was whispering to himself, "Don't come out. Throw that sponge into the middle of the ring. I don't wanna hurt you anymore."
  
  But the old professional answered the bell, though it seemed like it was with reluctance. Grit danced around, tagging Falmouth repeatedly on his nose, his eyes, his cheeks, his chin. His bare knuckles forced the thin facial skin against the sharp bones around Falmouth's eyes and gaping wounds opened up. Falmouth was bleeding all over the canvas. He raised his arms to fend off the blows to his face, and that's when Grit gave him a left hook to the right ribs, and the man went down for the third time. His seconds rushed out, dragged him back into his corner and sponged off his face to find it had cuts all over. They covered the cuts with petroleum jelly, but it couldn't stop the bleeding.
  
  As the bell rang, the promoter was screaming at the seconds. "Get 'im on his feet! Get 'im on his feet! Get 'im out there!" Instead, the trainer threw the sponge into the middle of the ring, and the fight was over.
  
  Grit looked down and saw Paulie, who was scrambling between bodies toward the betting table. Grit grabbed his shirt and jumped from the ring, shoving his way to the table and arriving just as Paulie did.
  
  "Here's the wager stub, Grit," Paulie said.
  
  Turning to the man handling the wagers, he said, "I want the thousand dollars we bet, the thousand I won and the thousand for winning the fight. Give it to me now."
  
  The promoter ran over screaming, "No, we ain't payin'! You're a ringer!"
  
  Grit grabbed him by the collar. "You pulled me out of the crowd, told me I was a coward. How could I be a ringer? Now pay me, or I'll beat you worse than I did your fighter."
  
  "Alright, alright, pay him the money," the promoter said. "But listen, Mister, I wanna promote you, make you rich. You're the best I ever seen. You could be the world champion."
  
  "I don't wanna be the world champion," Grit said. "Not now, not ever."