“Yeah, but he might win two hundred fifty,” said another man.

As the crowd squeezed together, Dewayne and I moved to the front so we could see through the grown-ups.

“What’s your name?” Delilah asked, shoving the microphone up.

“Hank Spruill,” he growled. “You still payin’ ten-to-one?”

“That’s the deal, big boy. Are you sure you want to bet twenty-five dollars?”

“Yep. And all I gotta do is stay in the ring for one minute?”

“Yes, sixty seconds. You know Samson hasn’t lost a fight in five years. Last time he lost was in Russia, and they cheated him.”

“Don’t care ‘bout Russia,” Hank said, taking off his shirt. “Any other rules?”

“No.” She turned to the crowd, and with as much drama as she could muster, she yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen. The great Samson has been challenged to his biggest fight of all time. Mr. Hank Spruill has put up twenty-five dollars for a ten-to-one fight. Never before in history has someone made so large a challenge.”

Samson was posturing around the ring, shaking his sizable locks and looking forward to the skirmish with great anticipation.

“Lemme see the money,” Hank growled at Delilah.

“Here it is,” she said, using the microphone.

“No, I wanna see the two-fifty.”

“We won’t be needing it,” she said with a laugh, a chuckle with just a trace of nervousness. But she lowered the microphone, and they haggled over the details. Bo and Dale appeared from the crowd, and Hank made them stand next to the small table where Delilah kept the money. When he was convinced the money was in place, he stepped into the ring, where the great Samson stood with his massive arms folded over his chest.

“Ain’t he the one who killed that Sisco boy?” someone asked from behind us.

“That’s him,” was the reply.

“He’s almost as big as Samson.”

He was a few inches shorter, and not as thick in the chest, but Hank seemed oblivious to any danger. Samson started dancing around on one side of the ring while Hank watched him and stretched his arms.

“Are you ready?” Delilah wailed into the microphone, and the crowd pressed forward. She hit the bell. Both fighters eyed each other fiercely. Hank stayed in his corner, though. The clock was on his side. After a few seconds, Samson, whom I suspected knew he had his hands full, waded in, dancing and juking and bobbing like a real wrestler is supposed to do. Hank was still.

“Come on out, boy!” Samson boomed from five feet away, but Hank kept to his corner.

“Forty-five seconds,” Delilah said.

Samson’s mistake was to assume that it was a wrestling match, instead of a brawl. He came in low, in an effort to apply one of his many grips or holds, and for a split second left his face open. Hank struck like a rattler. His right hand shot forward with a punch that was almost too quick to be seen, and it landed flush on the mighty Samson’s jaw.

Samson’s head jerked sharply, his handsome hair slung in all directions. The impact caused a cracking sound. Stan Musial could not have hit a baseball any harder.

Samson’s eyes rolled back in his gigantic head. Because of its size, it took Samson’s body a second to realize that its head had been crippled. One leg went woozy and bent at the knee. Then the other leg collapsed, and the World’s Greatest Wrestler, Direct from Egypt, landed on his back with a thud. The small ring bounced and its ropes shook. Samson appeared to be dead.

Hank relaxed in his corner by placing his arms on the top ropes. He was in no hurry. Poor Delilah was speechless. She tried to say something to assure us that this was just part of the exhibition, but at the same time she wanted to jump into the ring and tend to Samson. The crowd was stunned.

In the center of the ring, Samson began groaning and trying to get to his feet. He made it to his hands and knees, and rocked back and forth a few times before he managed to pull a foot forward. With one great lurch he tried to stand, but his feet weren’t with him. He lunged toward the ropes and managed to catch them to break his fall. He was looking directly at us, but the poor guy saw nothing. His eyes were red and wild, and he seemed to have no idea where he was. He hung on the ropes, tottering, trying to regain his senses, still searching for his feet.

Mr. Horsefly Walker ran up to the ring and yelled to Hank, “Kill the sonofabitch! Go ahead, finish him off!”

But Hank didn’t move. Instead, he just yelled, “Time!” but Delilah had forgotten about the clock.

There were a few cheers and jeers from the crowd, but for the most part, it was subdued. The spectators were shocked at the sight of Samson floundering, his senses knocked out of him.

Samson turned and tried to focus his eyes on Hank. Clutching the ropes for support, he stumbled a couple of steps, then made one last, desperate lunge. Hank simply ducked out of the way, and Samson landed hard on the corner pole. The ropes strained with his weight and the other three poles seemed ready to break. Samson was groaning and thrashing about like a bear who’d been shot. He pulled his feet under him and steadied himself enough to turn around. He should’ve stayed on the mat. Hank darted in and threw an overhand right, a punch that began in the center of the ring and landed exactly where the first one did. Since his target was defenseless, he reloaded and landed a third and final blow. Samson went down in a heap. Delilah screamed and scrambled into the ring. Hank relaxed in his corner, arms on the top ropes, grinning, no concern whatsoever for his opponent.

I wasn’t sure what to do, and most of the other spectators were quiet, too. On the one hand, it was good to see an Arkansas boy so thoroughly crush this Egyptian giant. But on the other hand, it was Hank Spruill, and he’d used his fists. His victory was tainted, not that it mattered to him. All of us would’ve felt better if a local boy had battled Samson evenly.

When Hank was certain that time had expired, he stepped through the ropes and jumped to the ground. Bo and Dale had the money, and the three of them disappeared.

“He done killed Samson,” someone behind me said. The World’s Greatest Wrestler was flat on his back, arms and legs spread wide, his woman crouched over him, trying to wake him. I felt sorry for them. They were wonderfully colorful, an act we wouldn’t see again for a long time, if ever. In fact, I doubted if Samson and Delilah would ever return to Black Oak, Arkansas.

When he sat up, we relaxed. A handful of good folks clapped softly for him, then the crowd began to break up.

Why couldn’t Hank join the carnival? He could get paid for beating up people, and it would get him off our farm. I decided to mention it to Tally.

Poor Samson had worked hard all day in the heat, and in a split second had lost the day’s wages. What a way to make a living. I’d finally seen a worse job than picking cotton.