"But why?” Patrick asked in obvious puzzlement. He was so surprised he appeared to have forgotten about the card game Father Murphy had planned for him.
"They convicted him.” Tim Brady spat the jury's verdict as if the words were unclean. “They convicted him of killing Bert Windsor."
"He didn't do it,” Greene whispered.
Father Murphy placed a comforting hand on Greene's shoulder. “We know that, Kevin,” he assured him. He shot a hot glare at Brady, warning him to choose his words more carefully.
"They might as well kill his mother and me too,” Greene whispered. “And his sweet little Megan, and her with a baby on the way."
"What happened?” Miss Parson asked. Her words were kind and gently spoken.
"Oh, they got in a fight. Windsor's brother-in-law is a big man around here—owns a small mine, and a ranch, and maybe a dozen houses in town."
Greene's voice trailed off and Father Murphy picked up the story. “Windsor and Blake—that's his brother-in-law—think they're back in Ireland with the cursed Penal Laws. They want an awful lot of bowing and scraping, but fortunately there are other big men in town and they don't get along too well with them."
Brady cut into the story. “Greene here owns a small grocery,” he told him, “and that seemed to offend Windsor, who owned nothing Blake didn't give him. He started making trouble for Greene—property damage in the store and telling the men who worked for Blake that if they wanted to keep their jobs they'd buy their merchandise somewhere else."
"We've seen a lot of that across the country,” Patrick told them. “Lots of mine owners force their workers to do their shopping in the company store."
"That's not quite the case here,” Father Murphy explained. “For one thing, Blake and Windsor don't have a store of their own—either they never thought of starting one or figure they aren't big enough to need it. Add to that, that two of the other four big landowner's in these parts are also Irish and like Greene—and, well, you can put the whole thing down to irrational hatred on Blake and Windsor's part."
"So what happened?” Corey asked, earning himself a sharp glance from Miss Parson which he didn't understand.
Father Murphy quietly provided Corey's answer. “Kevin's boy, Brian, got into a fight with Windsor and apparently killed him.” He glanced unhappily at Tim Brady, who picked up the story.
"Windsor fancied himself a prizefighter,” he explained. “To be fair, I guess we have to admit he was pretty good. Not as good as English Bill, mind you, but pretty good just the same. It used to be that if a boxer like yourself passed through town he'd fight Windsor one night and English Bill another. Bill won pretty much all of his fights and Windsor about half of them.
"Anyway, I'd been showing Brian a thing or two about sparring and I guess he learned more than I had realized because he fought with Bert Windsor and evidently beat him to death."
"Timothy!” Father Murphy's voice snapped with his pastoral authority.
Tim Brady ducked his head in deference. “I'm sorry, Father, what I should have said was that that was the way the jury saw things. We know Brian didn't kill Windsor."
Miss Parson opened her mouth to ask a question but Patrick beat her to it. “So, you're a fighting man yourself?” he asked. “I thought I saw the look on you."
Tim Brady couldn't squelch his own prideful smile. He really was a lot like Patrick. “Well, it's been a lot of years since I've seen a ring, but I had my fair share of bouts in the old days. That was one of the things I enjoyed about training Brian: It helped me remember the old glory."
"Ah, yes,” Patrick sighed. He clearly found a similar satisfaction in training Corey.
"So you know what you're talking about when you say Brian couldn't take Windsor?” Corey asked.
"Aye,” Brady agreed. “I said as much in court, but English Bill said the opposite and the jury believed him.” He shrugged. “Maybe they were right. Brian was twenty years old, moving into his prime. Windsor had fifteen years on him. I guess he could have done it!"
"Timothy!” Father Murphy snapped again. The warning in his voice was unmistakable.
Tim Brady sighed. “I know, Father. I know he didn't do it."
Kevin Greene placed the palms of his hands flat on the table and pushed himself to his feet. “I think I'd better be getting back to my family,” he announced. “Honestly, Father Murphy, I know you meant well, but I don't think I can bear much more of this."
Father Murphy and Tim Brady immediately rose to their feet. “I'll see you home, Kevin,” Brady told him.
"Let Cathy and Megan know that you're all in my prayers."
"I'll do that, Father,” Greene said. “Prayers are all that can help my lad now."
The two men escorted Greene to the door and Father Murphy returned alone.
He sat down in his chair, poured himself a tall glass of Jack Daniels, took a deep drink, and sighed. “That man is the first friend I made in this town,” he told him, “and the authorities are going to kill his son at ten o'clock Friday morning."
"It seems an awful shame,” Patrick agreed.
"Is this why you invited us here, Father?” Miss Parson asked.
Patrick snorted. “Of course not! We're here to box and gamble—"
Patrick abruptly stopped speaking when he saw Father Murphy wasn't laughing.
"The trial was a nightmare,” Father Murphy said. “Brian was ready-made for the crime. There wasn't any real effort to investigate. The judge and the prosecutor didn't see a need, I guess."
"The verdict was fixed then?” Miss Pandora asked.
"Oh, I don't think so,” Father Murphy said. “Judge Harley's a good man for a Protestant. He wouldn't put up with that sort of a shenanigan. And the prosecutor, well he's honest enough as these things go. He's also the town barber, if you can believe it. There's not enough business in Golden Fields for a full-time lawyer. No, I think they both thought Brian was guilty and didn't see a need to look further."
"But you don't?” Corey asked.
Father Murphy took another swig of his Jack as he thought about Corey's question. “No,” he finally answered, “I surely don't."
"But you haven't been in Golden Fields all that long, have you? You really don't know the people all that well yet."
Father Murphy looked up from his drink to stare hard at Corey, and the boxer had to work at it not to look away. It wasn't like facing down a prizefighter. The priest wasn't that tough in the physical sense, but he carried with him the weight of his office—eighteen hundred and seventy-four years of church authority. Corey finally looked away, unable to stand against the priest's moral strength.
"Perhaps, Father,” Miss Parson suggested, “you could tell us what actually happened."
Father Murphy's expression softened as he turned to face Miss Parson. “It's a sad story. Bert Windsor apparently stole a handful of soda crackers out of a barrel in Greene's Grocery. Brian was working at his father's store and chased him down to demand payment. He caught up to him near the stables on the outskirts of town.
"The two men fought and Windsor knocked Brian out, but when he woke up again, Windsor was dead. Brian ran for help and told the first person he found to come quick because he thought he had just killed Bert Windsor."
Father Murphy finished his drink before continuing. “Alan Beech ran back behind the stables with Brian and found Windsor dead. He took Brian's words as a confession."
Patrick rubbed his chin, as deep in thought as Corey had ever seen him. “It does sort of sound that way,” he said.
"The lad didn't kill him!” Father Murphy insisted.
"Why did the judge decide to hang young Mr. Greene?” Miss Parson asked. “What you describe sounds like manslaughter at worst and possibly even self-defense."
Father Murphy grimaced. “Sam Nell, our prosecutor, argued that because Brian had run after Bert Windsor, the fight couldn't be seen as self-defense."
"That's awfully weak, wouldn't you say, Father?” Miss Parso
n asked.
"Yes,” Father Murphy agreed, “and so do most of the townsfolk, and short of any other factors, Brian wouldn't have been convicted."
He poured himself another swallow of whiskey. Silence hung in the air while he drank it, but he put down the glass on the table without picking up the dangled thread of their conversation.
Miss Parson picked it up for him. “What were the other factors, Father?"
He sighed. “Just one, really, while Bert Windsor was beaten with fists as Brian said, the doc doesn't think that's what killed him."
Unsurprisingly, Patrick proved to have less patience than Corey and Miss Parson. “So what killed him then?"
Father Murphy blessed himself. “Someone hit Bert Windsor in the face with a rather large rock. There was a lot of damage."
"Oh,” Miss Parson whispered, “that does rather make it sound like murder, doesn't it?"
"I don't really know what I think you can do now,” Father Murphy acknowledged, “but in the weeks since this happened my mind keeps going back to that dashing young lieutenant at Fort Bridger. You saved that man's career, and I thought, maybe you could save young Brian's life as well."
"Oh Father Murphy,” Miss Parson said. The look on her face could only be described as horror. “Do you know what you're saying? I'm just a gambler, not a Pinkerton detective. Mr. Callaghan and Mr. O'Sullivan are boxers, nothing more. We have no standing in a court of law. Why would the judge or the prosecutor even listen to us?"
"Judge Harley is a fair man,” Father Murphy insisted. “If you could show him reasonable evidence that Brian Greene didn't kill Windsor, then I think at the very least he'd delay the execution—maybe even commute the sentence. You're the only chance that lad has left."
The horror in Miss Parson's expression turned to simple anguish.
"You're a very intelligent young woman,” Father Murphy told her. “What can it hurt for you to try and help him?"
"But—"
Corey reached out and touched Miss Parson's hand where it set on the table. “He's right, you know. You're the smartest person I know. Maybe you'll see something other people missed."
Miss Parson stared down into her lap. “You're putting an awful burden upon me, Father. It's unconscionable."
"I'm sorry,” the priest admitted with what Corey deemed to be genuine contrition, “but I have no one else to turn to."
"We don't even know if he's really innocent,” Miss Parson complained.
"Yes, we do!” Father Murphy insisted.
"How?” Miss Parson asked with equal force.
Father Murphy closed his eyes for three or four seconds and then opened them again. “I've been a priest more than twenty years,” he told them. “In that time I have heard the confessions of seventeen condemned men. Brian Greene isn't like those men. He didn't say the things that a man says when he knows only a few short days separate him from divine judgment. He looked me in the eye and told me he was innocent—and I believe him!"
"That isn't evidence!” Miss Parson complained.
Father Murphy said nothing.
Patrick couldn't stay silent. “I hate to stand against you on this, Father, but Miss Parson is right."
"No, it isn't evidence,” Father Murphy admitted, “and even if it were, I couldn't go before the judge and tell the story. I've bent the seal of the confessional enough just by telling you what he said. He didn't confess the sin, and I say that's because he didn't commit it."
"I have no place to start,” Miss Parson worried. The pitch of her voice rose with each word.
"Will you try, lass?” Father asked. “There's no one else who might be able to help him."
Miss Parson's fingers began to tremble, so she pulled her hands down beneath the table and into her lap. Her voice shook when she answered the priest. “I'll think about it tonight, Father, and pray on it. Because honestly, Father, it isn't that I don't want to help, it's that I don't see anything I can do."
* * * *
The air was quite cold when Corey stepped out of the rectory for his morning run. The eastern sky glowed with the approaching sun shedding a golden hue on the fields, which Corey imagined inspired the town's name. It was a beautiful place, if a touch desolate as so many western towns seemed to be.
Corey started off down the town's one major street in the direction of the stables and the train station. There were signs of life beginning to appear around him, but he assumed that most of the town's men and women were still fast asleep in their homes. A rooster crowed, immediately throwing doubt upon that supposition, but it made little difference in the end.
Corey ran out of town and down the train tracks toward the rising sun for half an hour, then he turned around and started back again. Golden Fields looked livelier as he approached from the west. People began to emerge from the deep shadows extending from the buildings into the street. Corey nodded cordially to those who met his eye and pretty much ignored those who failed to acknowledge him.
Father Murphy's little church looked more like a small barn than a house of God, save for the large cross hanging beneath the roof where a hayloft entrance would normally be. The little rectory stood to one side, almost in the shadow of the building. Leaning against the wall of the smaller building, in view of the street but out of sight of the door, was a large man with broad shoulders and a rather square chin.
He straightened as Corey approached him and stepped out of the shadows into the morning light. “You must be the boxer I've heard is passing through."
Corey stopped about three paces away from the man. He was breathing hard and his sweat felt cold in the early November air. The man in front of him was perhaps an inch shorter than Corey, with broad shoulders and a touch too much stomach. “You must be English Bill,” Corey speculated. The man didn't have an accent, but it was the only thing that made sense to Corey.
The man grinned. “Heard of me, have you?"
Corey made a jab in the dark. “You're the local champ now that Bert Windsor is dead."
English Bill's grin disappeared. “I'm twice the fighter Bert Windsor ever was. I've always been the champ around here—not him."
Corey shrugged and made no effort to squelch the amusement English Bill's protests inspired in him. “If you say so,” he agreed amicably enough.
"I do say so!” English Bill insisted.
"All right,” Corey agreed.
English Bill took a menacing step toward him. “You don't believe me?"
Corey shrugged. English Bill was certainly big enough to be tough and there was clearly muscle in his arms, but Corey had been playing this game far too long to let a small-town bully like this ever believe he could impress a professional like Rock Quarry Callaghan. “I don't see that it matters much. You're both small-town heroes. I make my living showing your neighbors I'm the better man."
English Bill took another step closer to Corey. His hands clenched into fists. “I'll show you who's better!"
"That's the spirit!” Corey encouraged him.
English Bill cocked his fist.
"Now don't get carried away,” Corey told him. “This is my profession. I'm not going to fight you until there's a crowd paying for the privilege."
"Why you no good Irish—"
"That's right! Get good and angry!” Corey goaded him. He'd have done it anyway to ensure the match, but English Bill made it easy not to like him. “Then go talk to Patrick, my manager, and we'll see about setting up the fight."
"I'm going to—"
"Good!” Corey cut him off. “I hope you know some locals who might sponsor the match. It's always sweeter if the town puts up a little prize money for me."
English Bill's face flushed deep red. “You're not going to win any money!” he insisted. “I am! No good-for-nothing Irish rat is going to beat me in the ring!"
"You keep thinking that,” Corey encouraged him. Truth to tell, he was surprised at how easy he found it to get under English Bill's skin. “Locals like to put their money on the
hometown boy."
"I'm not a boy!” He stepped in and swung at Corey. English Bill had both talent and training, and despite the evidence of his growing stomach there was substantial power in the swing.
Corey dodged the blow and held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, slow down fellow!"
English Bill swung at him again. “Come on and fight! I can take ten of you no-good Micks!"
Corey dodged again, his hands still up in the air in a peaceable fashion. The commotion was noticed by a gentleman in the street, and he came running toward them hollering. “Whoa, stop there, fellows! There's no cause to fight!"
Other people in the little town popped their heads up and watched English Bill take three more swings at Corey Callaghan. Corey dodged them all, backing away slowly while all the time keeping a wide grin firmly on his face.
English Bill stopped swinging and stood panting, his face bright red with fury.
"What's going on here?” the first gentleman to notice them asked.
"Judge, this no-good Irishman is trying to pick a fight with me,” English Bill told him.
"Now that's not precisely true,” Corey noted. He kept his hands in the air in a non-offensive manner. “What I'm trying to do is get you to schedule a fight with me."
The door to the rectory opened, and Father Murphy came hurrying out, followed quickly by Miss Parson. Patrick presumably was still in bed.
"What seems to be the problem, Judge?” Father Murphy asked.
"You know this man, Father?” the judge asked.
"Of course,” the priest confirmed, “he's Rock Quarry Callaghan, the boxer I told you about meeting down at Fort Bridger."
The judge nodded. “I figured as much. It looks like he and English Bill are trying to get their fight started a bit earlier than we expected."
Father Murphy turned to Corey. “Is this true, Callaghan?"
Corey lowered his hand. “English Bill here does seem to be in a great hurry to get himself whipped."
English Bill growled and lunged for Corey but by this time enough men had arrived that he couldn't break through the crowd to swing at him again. His efforts inspired a general round of laughter, which further irritated the local champion.
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