Corey half turned to face him while still trying to hold the other riders in his view. “I'm sorry for your loss, Mr. Tanner, but I can't let you murder Patrick O'Sullivan."
"It's not your decision,” Tanner observed. “And just who are you anyway?"
"Corey Callaghan, sir, and it is my decision. I won't let you commit murder tonight."
"Just shoot the fool and get it over with,” one of the riders suggested. He lifted his rifle and aimed it at Corey.
"Wait!” Tanner's voice was firm and the man hesitated. “What about it, Mr. Callaghan? What's to prevent us from simply shooting you and then executing the old mick? What's your stake in this?"
Corey slowly lowered his hands. “Now that's the problem, isn't it? You see killing Patrick O'Sullivan as an execution. I see it as murder. That's because you believe he killed your father, and I know he didn't."
Tanner bristled. “How do you know he didn't?"
Corey shook his head. “I'm sorry, sir. I'm not good with words. If you'll wait until Miss Parson can be brought here, then I'm sure that she'll convince you, but—"
"Wait while you send for a woman?” It was the man who had started to shoot Corey who interrupted them. “He's just trying to stall until someone brings more law. Let's shoot him and be done with it."
"No!” Tanner commanded, then turned his attention back to Corey. “Dunn's right. I can't wait. Back away now or I'll let him shoot you."
Corey swallowed hard at the lump in his throat. He hoped his voice was steady and did not show his fear. “No, Mr. Tanner, you won't.” He prayed to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph that he was correct. “You can execute a murderer, but you won't become one."
Tanner stared at him hard out of the darkness. A half moon was in the sky and little pools of light spilled out of the back windows of the jail, but it was unlikely that Tanner could actually see Corey well enough to study his resolve. He spit. “Damn it, you boys go pull that man out of there."
Dunn lifted his rifle again.
"I said pull him!” Tanner snapped. “Put your guns down and go pull him away from that window."
Three of the men holstered their rifles and got down from their horses.
"Callaghan!” a voice whispered urgently from inside the jail.
"It's the deputy,” Patrick whispered.
"Callaghan, how many men are there?"
"I count seven,” Corey told him.
"I think there are more in front,” the deputy reported.
"Move Patrick,” Corey urged. “Make them break into the jail to get at him."
"You might as well get out of the way,” one of the dismounted riders suggested. “Otherwise, you're just going to get hurt."
Corey stopped whispering to the deputy and took a step forward. “You'll have to go through me to get him."
The distinctive sound of shutters being opened rolled down the street toward the jail. The riders glanced around them, probably wondering, as Corey was, just how many people were now witnessing this confrontation.
"Get on with it!” Tanner ordered, and the first rider stepped in to meet Corey's fist.
The man never saw it coming. He stepped forward into a swinging chunk of granite and quickly stumbled back in the opposite direction before falling flat in the dirt. Corey darted forward and delivered a short powerful blow to the next man's midriff, taking advantage of his opponents’ sudden surprise. Three men expected to handle one without difficulty. Corey took advantage of their overconfidence to quickly even the odds.
He followed the blow to the midriff with an uppercut to the chin, then spun around to deliver a roundhouse blow to the third man's temple. In just a few moments, all three men were on the ground. They weren't out for the count, but they were stunned and hurting. Corey backed up until he was standing in front of the window again.
Tanner spit again. “What did you say your name was?"
Patrick could not contain his pride—not even to save his own life. “That's Rock Quarry Callaghan!” he boasted.
"Patrick, shut up!” Corey's voice was sharp and angry, but the warning came too late.
Tanner cursed. “So you fooled me, Mr. Callaghan. You're right, I won't murder an unarmed man, but neither will I let a professional fighter stop me from avenging my father.” He looked around, considering. “Boys, use the butts of your rifles and convince Mr. Callaghan to step aside."
"Saints preserve us,” Patrick swore.
"Deputy Poole,” Corey whispered, “you'd better move Patrick now!"
Two more riders dismounted, leaving only Tanner and Dunn in the saddle. They reversed their grips on their rifles and walked forward to join the three men picking themselves up off the ground. “Mister,” the first man Corey had hurt announced. “You just made a mighty big mistake!"
He started toward Corey but stopped when he realized his friends weren't following him. Corey folded his right fist into his left hand and smiled at his attackers’ confusion. He figured any delay ultimately helped him and Patrick. There were more signs of witnesses stirring along the street. Maybe some of them would decide to intervene.
"Get on with it!” Dunn hollered as the men stood in a rough circle and whispered back and forth.
"They're afraid of you, Corey, me lad,” Patrick whispered in encouragement.
Unfortunately, his voice carried.
"I ain't afraid of no man!” the first rider declared.
Corey sighed. “Patrick, you're not helping.” He stepped forward to meet the rider.
Dunn laughed.
The rider wound up for a punch, and Corey jabbed him twice in the chin. The blows didn't cause the man to step back, but they threw off his timing, making it easy for Corey to evade his wild swing and land a much more punishing blow just below his rib cage. Before he could hit the man again, one of the riflemen stepped in swinging his weapon down over his head like an axe. Corey stepped in close so that the force of the blow landed past his shoulder. He hammered three blows into the man's torso, then stepped back and landed a haymaker to the chin.
A man leapt onto Corey's back. He spun about and pawed at the man, only to get the butt of a rifle driven into his stomach. It was worse than your average punch, but he'd taken harder blows in the ring. He tried to ignore the pain, stepping forward to throw a right to the rifleman's jaw, but the man on his back hampered him.
The rifleman hit Corey a second time while another man grabbed at Corey's right arm. The boxer spun about and drove his left fist into the latter man's shoulder, but there were too many of them surrounding him. A rifle butt cracked against Corey's ribs. The man on his back clawed at Corey's eyes. The first rifleman was back on his feet, swinging his weapon horizontally. Corey ducked low, and the rifle connected solidly with the face of the man on his back. Corey's rider went sprawling, but before the boxer could take advantage of his freedom the other rifleman drove his weapon hard into the side of Corey's head.
Another blow connected with his stomach, followed by a rifle butt driven hard against his back. The ground hit Corey in the face, and he struggled to get his hands and knees back under him. He wasn't fighting any longer. It was all that he could do not to let the men hammer him flat.
A female voice carried clearly across the street. It was a bit out of breath, but still strong enough to carry. “If you're quite finished having your ruffians beat an unarmed man, Mr. Tanner, perhaps you'd like to learn the identity of your father's murderer."
Silence smothered the street, and through rapidly swelling eyes Corey could see Miss Pandora Parson skirting the edge of the jail to stand between Patrick's window and the men surrounding Corey.
A curse broke the silence coming not from the confrontation at the jail, but from one of the spectators watching from a window across the street. “I see her,” another voice retorted in disgust, and somewhere else a door creaked open. Up and down the street western men were preparing to do their duty to protect a western woman. The silent witnesses were preparing to become participants in t
he night's entertainment.
"You would be the Miss Parson the boxer mentioned?” Tanner asked.
"I would indeed,” Miss Parson answered. Corey thought he heard a faint tremor in her voice, and through his pain he remembered that she did not think she had enough evidence to convince Tanner of Patrick's innocence. She would just be buying time as Corey had.
"If you'll spare me a few more minutes,” Miss Parson continued, “I believe I can convince you that you are about to make a grave mistake this evening."
"The only mistake we've made,” Tanner observed, “was in not shooting that fighter when he first stuck his nose into my business."
"Be that as it may,” Miss Parson said, “you've now succeeded in attracting a lot of attention to your activities and as you've made no attempt to hide your identities, it may behoove you to reconsider your position. Can it really hurt you to wait a few minutes longer to exact your revenge?"
Tanner sighed. “You might as well say your piece."
"Thank you. As you've no doubt learned by now, there was an altercation between your father and Mr. O'Sullivan in the Silver Lady yesterday evening."
"That no good cardsharp was cheating!” Patrick shouted.
Tanner's face snapped toward the cell window, and he edged his horse forward several paces. “My father never cheated at cards!"
"Mr. O'Sullivan, please!” Miss Parson pleaded.
"He was a no good, lying—"
"Patrick!” Corey shouted as loudly as his battered rib cage would permit him. “For the love of God, you listen to me! You sit down in that cell, and you listen to what Miss Parson has to say, and you shut your stupid mouth!"
"But Corey, me lad—"
"Not another word!” Corey insisted. “You open your mouth again and I swear I will never go back in the ring!"
Much to Corey's relief, Patrick responded with silence, too stunned for the moment to think of something to say.
Tanner, however, kept talking. “My father never cheated!"
Miss Parson tried to soothe him. “It doesn't matter if your father was good, lucky, or cheating last night. What does matter is that Mr. O'Sullivan thought that he was cheating and attempted to challenge your father to a fistfight."
"He didn't cheat,” Tanner repeated.
"I am not saying that he did. I am explaining to you why Mr. O'Sullivan appears guilty."
"He appears guilty,” Dunn observed, “because he murdered him."
"He had the motive to murder,” Miss Parson agreed, allowing her attention to be drawn from Tanner to this man. “He believed he had been cheated, and he was humiliated when a hired hand broke a bottle over his head and threw him out into the street. What is more, Mr. O'Sullivan also had the opportunity to murder Mr. Tanner's father. As you no doubt know, he was found leaning over the body."
"And so he's guilty!” Dunn insisted.
"And so the marshal arrested him,” Miss Parson corrected him, “even if the rest of the evidence is confusing."
"What evidence?” Tanner asked, refocusing the lady's attention on him. “I thought that was the whole case—O'Sullivan was caught bloody-handed with my father after the killing."
"Well, first there is the problem of the knife,” Miss Parson stated.
"The knife?” Tanner repeated. “I don't understand."
"Deputy Poole?” Miss Parson called out. “Would you describe the knife used to murder Mr. Tanner's father, please?"
Poole's face appeared at a barred window next to Patrick's cell. His body blocked the light emanating from the building so his features were masked in shadow. “Knife's a bowie, miss.” His voice boomed into the street. “It's a big blade, seen a lot of use."
"And did Mr. O'Sullivan have a knife sheath on his person?"
"No, miss,” the deputy answered. “That's a might peculiar, but it don't really mean a thing."
"Not by itself,” Miss Parson agreed.
"So he didn't have a sheath,” Tanner said. “As the deputy said, that doesn't mean he didn't kill him."
A larger crowd was gathering now, composed of both men and women. Pandora projected her voice louder to make certain everyone could hear her. “The second problem with the evidence is the money. Deputy Poole, how much money was collected at the scene of the killing?"
The deputy had his answer ready. “One hundred twenty-seven dollars, strewn all around the body like it was dropped in a hurry."
"And how much was found on Mr. O'Sullivan?"
"Thirty-seven cents."
Someone in the growing crowd laughed.
"Would it surprise you to learn, Mr. Tanner, that your father won between four and five hundred dollars yesterday?"
"Four to five hundred?” Tanner asked. “How do you know that?"
"I've spoken with half of the gamblers. They all agree that your father left the table with much more than was found near his body. Isn't it peculiar that with at least three hundred dollars missing, not a single one made it into the pockets of the man accused of murdering him?"
The first hint of uncertainty touched Tanner's voice. “Yes."
"It's not so strange,” Dunn objected. “There were a lot of people around your pa's body after the murder. If O'Sullivan dropped your pa's winnings, lots of people could have helped themselves to some of the cash."
"Dunn's right,” Tanner said, sitting straighter in his saddle. “This doesn't mean that O'Sullivan is innocent."
"So you are Mr. Dunn,” Miss Parson's voice brightened with the realization. “I didn't recognize your face in this darkness. I am so glad to learn you are here tonight.” Her voice seemed to gain confidence as she was speaking. “And as for your point, Mr. Tanner, you are completely correct. It is entirely possible that Mr. O'Sullivan owned a knife without a sheath. It is also possible that most of your father's winnings were stolen by the men who discovered him and Mr. O'Sullivan. No one before Mr. Dunn here has suggested that was the case, but it is still a possibility. But there is also another possibility. If Mr. O'Sullivan is innocent and his account of what happened behind the Silver Lady last night is correct, than there is another man who had both motive and opportunity to murder your father. Mr. O'Sullivan chased that man away, causing him to drop part of the money he was stealing and to leave his knife stuck in the back of his victim.” She turned her attention fully on Dunn, but her voice still spoke to John Tanner. “If you could find another man who had both motive and opportunity, wouldn't you want to search him for an empty knife sheath and some three hundred dollars in cash? Wouldn't you want to be certain of your man?"
"Now wait a minute,” Dunn said.
Tanner shook his head. “That won't do, Miss Parson. Dunn has worked for my father for eight years."
"And he was fired last night for insisting your father replace the bottle of whiskey Mr. Dunn broke on Mr. O'Sullivan's head."
"Dunn?"
The surprise in Tanner's voice unsettled the cowhand. “Now that ain't so, Mr. Tanner. I told you how it was. Your pa sent me back to his room to get a box of cigars. That's why I wasn't there when this happened."
"There were upwards of forty people in the Silver Lady that night, Mr. Tanner. Every one heard your father fire his man. Mr. Dunn had both motive and opportunity to kill him. Why don't you ask to see his knife?"
Dunn started backing his horse away. “O'Sullivan's the one who murdered him. Why else would the marshal arrest him?"
"Dunn!” The hand's retreat had transformed Tanner's doubt into suspicion. “I want to see your knife."
Dunn began to turn his horse away.
Tanner lifted his rifle. “Dunn!"
Dunn spun back, lifting his own rifle as he did, but Tanner fired first, throwing the hand from his saddle.
"Saints, preserve us,” Patrick prayed.
* * * *
It took two more days for the marshal to release Patrick, even though both the money and the empty bowie sheath were found in Dunn's bedroll. Even then the marshal didn't look happy to be doing it
.
"I want the three of you out of my town,” he said.
"But I'm innocent!” Patrick complained.
Corey grabbed his trainer by the arm and began to pull him toward the door, but Patrick hadn't finished talking. “He's just afraid we'll help the deputy beat him in the next election."
"Shut up, Patrick,” Corey admonished as he pulled the old man away from the row of cells and into the front of the building. He ground to a sudden halt when he saw Miss Parson standing a little closer to Deputy Poole than he thought was strictly necessary.
"If you hadn't stood up for the law,” Miss Parson was saying, “I shudder to think what might have happened."
"Well now.” Patrick wrenched his arm free of Corey's grasp and rubbed his hands together with glee. “Looks like Miss Parson has found herself a boyfriend. Maybe we're finished with that filly at last."
"That filly saved your life,” Corey reminded him.
"Saints, preserve me! You think I don't know that? But now I've got to worry about your training. We've ribs to heal and bruises to fade and womenfolk just get in the way."
Miss Parson held out her hand to the deputy and said farewell. She moved to join Corey and Patrick. “Where are we headed, gentlemen?"
"We?” Patrick complained. “What about the deputy?"
Corey ignored Patrick's comment and spoke to Miss Parson. “It doesn't matter much, as long as we keep moving west. Patrick can pick up a fight for me pretty much anyplace."
"West it is, then,” Miss Parson agreed.
"We'll take the rails toward San Francisco,” Corey decided. “They've got big gambling houses there."
Miss Parson smiled. “Indeed they do, Mr. Callaghan. Thank you for thinking of me."
"Don't I have a say in this?” Patrick asked.
Corey continued to ignore him. “We probably won't get there all in one trip,” he warned. “Not everyone,” he paused to look meaningfully at Patrick, “can handle their cards as well as you do."
"What do you mean by that?” Patrick sputtered.
"By easy stages, then,” Miss Parson agreed. Then she slipped her arm into Corey's, and they walked out into the street.
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