"I want to know!” English Bill insisted. “Mrs. Blake is still very upset about what happened to her brother, and I don't want anyone disturbing her again."
"How could our visit to Mr. Greene upset Mrs. Blake?” Miss Parson asked. Her face expressed only confusion, but Corey knew her better than that. “I mean to say, that the jury has convicted him of murder. He's due to be hanged tomorrow morning. How could our visit affect any of that?"
English Bill began to get flustered. “It's not going to change anything!” He turned and began to stomp away without completing his confrontation with Corey. “You hear that!” he shouted. “It's not going to change anything!"
"How peculiar,” Miss Parson said in a voice somewhat louder than it needed to be to reach her companions’ ears. She turned back to face Marshal Tucker. “Was he telling the truth?” she asked. “Was he really not Mr. Windsor's friend?"
The marshal looked uncomfortable about being asked such a question in public. “Well now, I don't know if it's proper of me to answer,” he said.
"What are you talking about?” one of the bystanders asked. “Everyone knows Windsor and English Bill hated each other. Windsor hated English for beating him in the ring three times, and English hated Windsor for being Mr. Blake's brother-in-law."
Miss Parson turned to address the speaker. “I'm sorry Mr. . . . I'm sorry, but we haven't been properly introduced."
The man looked suddenly self-conscious, “Carl Nichols, Miss."
Miss Parson began to radiate charm and goodwill. “It's nice to meet you, Mr. Nichols. Would you be so kind as to explain why Mr. Bill would have resented Mr. Windsor for being Mrs. Blake's brother?"
"Why because Bert Windsor was in English's way,” the man said. “English Bill wanted to be Mr. Blake's number one man, but Bert Windsor had that position even though he wasn't much good at anything. English Bill was always having to fix up Windsor's messes. I'm surprised he didn't cheer in public when he learned old Bert Windsor was dead."
"Can you confirm this?” Miss Parson asked Father Murphy.
The priest looked a trifle uncomfortable at her question. “I've heard similar comments,” he admitted, “but I'm not really familiar enough with either man to confirm the particulars."
"It's true enough, Father,” another bystander called out. “English Bill and Bert Windsor hated each other!"
"Can't blame English for that!” someone else shouted. “Who didn't hate Bert Windsor?"
"Interesting,” Miss Parson said. “I think I'd like to talk to Mr. Beech now."
* * * *
A small crowd followed the three to the stables and Alan Beech. The extra people made Corey nervous. Their numbers seemed to lessen the chance that Mr. Beech would tell them anything useful, but then again, maybe the moral weight of these neighbors would have the opposite effect on the businessman.
The commercial stables were large, as was often the case even in a small town. Western men depended on their horses for their livelihood and often their very lives. Most were willing to spend money on their steeds that they would never spend on themselves. And positioned as it was near the rail station, Alan Beech would also be able to rent animals to any travelers needing to get out into the countryside.
Beech saw the crowd coming and came out to meet them. “What's going on?” he asked. “Is someone throwing a party and forgot to tell me?"
"We've got some questions for you, Alan,” someone yelled out, “about the day Bert Windsor got killed."
The idea clearly took Alan Beech by surprise but he didn't appear hostile to the subject. Instead, he shook his head from side to side, and said, “What a shame! I always thought Brian Greene was a nice boy. Who'd have thought he'd end up hanged?"
"Well he hasn't been hanged yet!” Patrick announced. “And if you answer a few questions, maybe he won't have to be!"
Now Beech began to look concerned, as if Patrick were suggesting he'd hidden something at trial. “Answer a few questions?” he sputtered.
Miss Parson shook her head. “Please, Mr. Callaghan,” she whispered. “Stop Mr. O'Sullivan from saying anything else!"
Corey put his hand on Patrick's shoulder just as the old man began to turn grandly toward Miss Parson. “What? What's wrong?"
"Mr. Beech,” Miss Parson said, “I think that Mr. O'Sullivan got a little bit ahead of himself. We don't think you've hidden anything. We also don't know that Mr. Greene didn't commit the crime he was convicted of. We're just confused as to what actually happened. We were speaking with Mr. Greene this morning and it seems that everything happened right here at the stables, and you are the one man who can help us understand the truth."
Beech looked slightly placated but still mostly on edge. “Well I don't know what I can say here that I didn't tell the judge,” he said.
"Come on, Alan,” Carl Nichols called out. “What's it going to hurt to go through it all again?"
Beech looked over his gathered neighbors. Corey took the moment to examine them as well. This was not an angry crowd, or even a suspicious one. They were excited, looking for a little entertainment in their morning, and hoping that he, Patrick, and Miss Parson could provide it.
Beech shrugged. “I guess it wouldn't hurt for me to talk about it again. It didn't actually happen here,” he reminded them, “but way around in the back."
Alan Beech led the gathering around back beside a large corral. Half a dozen horses stood within the fences basically ignoring the humans, while one or two others approached to look them over.
"It happened back here,” Beech explained as he indicated the area around them. They were only a couple of hundred feet from the rear of the stables.
Miss Parson looked around, judging the distances and the relationship of the space to the rest of the town. “I'm surprised the murder didn't happen farther away,” she said. “You would think that someone would have heard the two men fighting back here."
Beech scratched his head just above the hairline. “It was a busy day,” he said, “and I was in my office at the front of the stables when Brian came and found me. I have two boys working for me, but they were brushing down horses in the stall. There's a lot of noise during the day. It's not so strange that we didn't hear anything back here."
"And the animals in the corral didn't raise a ruckus?” Father Murphy asked.
Beech scratched his head again. “Well they were agitated when I came back with Brian and had gathered mostly on the far side of the fence—horses don't like death—but no, I don't recall them making unexpected noises or raising a ruckus."
The growing crowd watched the conversation with baited breath as if they expected something truly exciting to happen.
"And you came back with Mr. Greene and what did you see?” Miss Parson asked.
Beech swallowed hard. “There was a lot of blood,” he said. “This wasn't the first time I've seen death, but it was hard to look at. There was a big rock, like that one over there, and it looked to me as if it had just bounced off Bert Windsor's face and driven him back into the ground. That's why he was bleeding from both sides."
"Both sides?” Miss Parson asked.
"Yes, Miss,” Beech confirmed. “Bert Windsor had both a cracked skull and his face smashed in. The doc said he figured that the force of the blow had caused Windsor to break the back of his head against the hard ground."
"Either that or he cracked it when Brian Greene knocked him over,” an elderly voice added.
The small crowd of people opened up to let an elderly bespectacled man through their midst. Father Murphy stepped forward and offered him his hand. “Doc,” he said, “it's good to see you. These are my friends Corey Callaghan, Patrick O'Sullivan, and Miss Pandora Parson. We were talking about the murder last night and decided to ask Brian a couple of questions that were troubling us. That led us here and to all of this."
The doctor looked disgusted at what he saw around him. He squinted up at Corey. “And you don't think Brian Greene did it?"
; Corey shrugged. “Brian Greene was not a boxer. My understanding is that Bert Windsor was pretty good. I don't see how Brian Greene ever got Bert Windsor into a position where he could murder him."
"Perhaps you could help us,” Miss Parson suggested. “I assume you treated Mr. Greene for his injuries?"
The doctor appraised Miss Parson carefully through his glasses and Corey could see that he had just figured out which of the town's visitors actually had the most intelligence. “Yes, I did,” the doctor said. “His face had been extensively battered. I would say that Bert Windsor had defended himself very well."
"Were the injuries sufficient to knock Mr. Greene unconscious?"
The doc shrugged. “I don't see how he could have been unconscious and killed Bert, but if you're asking if I would have been surprised to find him unconscious with those injuries the answer is no."
"So they really were very bad?” Miss Parson asked. “This is part of what troubles me. The Constitution of our great land requires that there be no reasonable doubt when convicting a man of a crime. Mr. Greene says he was knocked unconscious by Mr. Windsor. You say his injuries could have caused unconsciousness. Why on earth did that not make the jury believe there was reasonable doubt?"
"Because he confessed, Miss,” a strong, low voice explained.
Corey turned to find a short squat man pushing to the front of the crowd. He had forearms the size of many people's thighs and a completely bald head unadorned by any hat. “This is Roy Taylor, our blacksmith,” Father Murphy said. “Roy, this is—"
The man waved him off. “I've heard, Father, no need to introduce them again.” He faced Miss Parson squarely, wasting no time with Corey. “I was on the jury,” he told her. “I admit I'm not happy with the sentence. I find it hard to believe that Brian Greene would smash a rock into any man's face. But that's what Alan Beech said the man said, and when Brian was on the stand, he didn't deny it."
The crowd all turned to look at Alan Beech. “Is that really what he said, Mr. Beech?” Miss Parson asked. “Please think hard about this. Words are so important. What were the exact words Mr. Greene said when he came running into your stables?"
Alan Beech's face screwed up with anxiety. “It's been a long time,” he said. “It's hard to remember precisely. I mean, I know he said he killed him but—"
"Please try, Alan,” Father Murphy pleaded. “The boy's going to hang tomorrow morning."
Alan Beech closed his eyes. His brows furrowed in concentration. “I was working on my books,” he recalled. “A lot of people had been in and out of the stables that morning, and I wanted to make certain my records were in order. Brian came running inside calling for help. Mr. Beech, Mr. Beech,’ he said. You have to come quick. I've been fighting with Bert Windsor and he's been killed.’”
Beech opened his eyes. “You see,” he told the crowd. “He confessed."
The blacksmith stepped up next to Beech and grabbed his upper arm in his large strong hand. “That's not how I heard what you just said."
"What do you mean?” Beech asked. “They'd been fighting and Windsor had been killed. Brian killed him."
"But he didn't say I killed him," the blacksmith said. “If you'd told your story like that in court, I'd have voted not guilty."
"It means the same thing, Roy,” Beech protested. Corey thought he honestly couldn't see the point the blacksmith was making.
"What is wrong with all of you people?” English Bill called out as he shoved his way through to the front of the crowd. “You!” he shouted, pointing one finger at Corey, “What gives you the right to come into my town and make so much trouble?"
Beside him, Corey saw Miss Parson quickly suppress a smile before she stepped back into the shelter of Corey's shadow. “Why do our questions make you so nervous, Mr. Bill?” she asked.
"Nervous?” English Bill repeated. “You don't make me nervous. I want you to stop causing trouble."
Corey knew that he was slower with his mind than he was with his fists, but he finally caught on to what Miss Parson suspected had happened. He stepped forward to confront the local tough man. Behind English Bill, still buried in the crowd, he could see Judge Harley and Marshal Tucker approaching. “What trouble is that?” he asked. “You've been trying to ride me since we got to town—outside the rectory and outside the jail. What are you so afraid we'll discover?"
"Mr. Beech, was Mr. Bill one of your customers the day of the murder?” Miss Parson asked.
Beech looked like he didn't appreciate being thrust back into the center of attention, but he answered boldly enough. “Yes, he was,” he confirmed. “He left his horse with me just a few minutes before Brian came running to tell me about Bert Windsor."
"That has nothing to do with anything!” Bill shouted, but unless Corey had completely lost his ability to read a crowd, the good people of Golden Fields disagreed with him.
Corey decided to push the man. “What really happened?” he asked. “Did you find young Brian Greene passed out and Bert Windsor standing over him? Did you see a chance to get yourself promoted by getting rid of the competition?"
Cold fury took control of English Bill's facial muscles and he scowled furiously at Corey. “Why you—"
"Did it take two hits with the rock?” Corey interrupted, “one in the back of the head and the final one in front?"
English Bill hit him. Even though he was expecting the blow, Corey was taken by surprise. He had been concentrating too much on his accusation and not enough on the opponent in front of him. The blow knocked him back three steps and threatened to take his feet out from under him.
"I don't need a rock to kill a man!” English Bill shouted. He leapt toward Corey with both fists swinging.
Corey tried to step back out of the way but he hadn't quite recovered from the surprise of that first punch. English Bill landed a left-right-left combination and kept coming. Corey dodged left, directly into another blow and finally got his hands up solidly in front of him so that he could begin to defend himself.
The growing crowd screamed as if this were a professional match and not a mindless brawl. Corey jabbed with his left to force English Bill to fight honestly and was rewarded with a square chin against his knuckles.
English Bill didn't seem to mind. He hit Corey again, always moving forward, shouting as he came. “I've killed plenty of men with my bare hands!"
Footwork was critical to the success of any boxer, and Corey couldn't quite get his own feet set beneath him. He jabbed again, trying to set English Bill back for a moment, then came in hard with his right fist. The blow glanced off his opponent's shoulder, unsettling both of them. Corey smothered the desire to take a wild swing and pressed in low so he could drive a punch hard into English Bill's stomach.
He felt a wild haymaker pass close over his head, then he hit English Bill again. He straightened up and struck the man's jaw with a thundering left hook, then pressed his momentary advantage, charging up his rhythm, landing blows from left and right on English Bill's head.
The town's self-proclaimed champion was still shouting about all the men he'd killed. Corey figured he should back off and let him confess more details but he wasn't going to do it. He wanted the man down on the ground and unable to hit him any longer. He hammered him with his strong right fist and moved again to set him back up with the left.
"That's enough!” a firm authoritative voice broke through the din. “Break those two men apart!"
After a few seconds to get organized, half a dozen men pressed into the fight. English Bill began swinging at all of them, but Corey dropped his hands and pulled back out of the fight. Father Murphy and Miss Parson had moved to stand beside the judge, who was busy directing the citizens of his town. “That's right! Hold him! No, don't hit him any more. I want the fighting stopped!"
Father Murphy whispered furiously in the judge's ear. “Yes, yes, I heard that, too, but it doesn't mean he killed Bert Windsor,” the judge retorted.
"But, Judge,” Father Murphy
protested, “you're surely not going to hang the lad with all of these questions unanswered."
"No,” Judge Harley agreed, “I'm not. What I am going to do is sit down with our prosecutor, our mayor, and some of our fine neighbors and see what the hell we have to do to find some justice in Golden Fields!"
* * * *
"Thank you,” Father Murphy told Miss Parson. “I know you didn't want to get involved in this, but I am very grateful that you did so."
They had gathered again around Father Murphy's dinner table waiting for Mrs. O'Leary to serve the meal.
"What's going to happen, Father?” Patrick asked.
"Well, I don't think anyone rightly knows yet. At the very least, I think there will be a new trial. Malcolm Blake is arguing against it, but I don't think anyone in town really believes Brian Greene murdered Bert Windsor now."
"And to think that English Bill was the guilty one,” Patrick mused. “Well it just goes to show that you can't trust an Englishman."
Miss Parson frowned and Father Murphy grimaced.
"I doubt that they will convict English Bill of murder,” the priest said, “even if they decide to try him for it. He's well known for running off his mouth, and there really isn't any evidence tying him to the crime."
"It would be quite the moral dilemma for you if they do, Father,” Miss Parson noted.
Father Murphy stared uncomfortably at the table, while Patrick looked incredulously at Miss Parson. “You're not suggesting that Father Murphy killed the man, are you?"
"No, of course not,” Miss Parson said. “But Father Murphy knows English Bill isn't the murderer, don't you?"
Father Murphy said nothing.
"In fact,” Miss Parson said, “I would go so far as to suggest that you've always known the identity of the killer. Would I be wrong, Father? Perhaps we should hear your confession."
Father Murphy did not respond to Miss Parson's accusation. The warm feeling of accomplishment that Corey had enjoyed since fighting English Bill began to turn cold in the pit of his stomach. “Are you saying that Brian Greene really did kill Windsor?” he asked.
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