Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2006

Pandora’s Luck by Gilbert M. Stack

The keg burst when the redheaded beauty entered the Denver Emporium.

It was just a coincidence. The bartender was setting the tap, and perhaps he used a bit too much force. Or alternately, the wood may have been weakened by age and by use so that just at the moment she entered, the seams split and that new Coors beer gushed out onto the floor. A broken old miner who hadn’t seen a town since 1872 dropped to his knees and started lapping like a dog, while the cowhands at the bar jumped up on their stools to keep the beer off their boots. As for the rest of the Emporium, they all turned to laugh and point, while the owner howled in dismay at his losses.

Everyone except the redhead, that is.

She didn’t appear to notice any of it. She just walked into the main room, smiled shyly at the floor manager, and whispered something to him. The manager straightened his jacket, stroked his beardless chin, and escorted the lady to one of the back rooms.

And that was all there was to it, as most men would have told the tale. In truth, it was more than a goodly number had noticed. With the keg breaking as it did and the owner raising such a fuss, few men saw the lady at all. And for those that did, they made the natural assumption. A well-dressed lady could only be in a place like the Emporium if she had come there to drag home her husband or her father. As soon as she had her man in hand, she would just as suddenly be going.

That was certainly Corey Callaghan’s assumption.

He had noticed the woman as she peered in the door, and had only been momentarily distracted by the beer gusher. In his opinion, a woman like the redhead deserved to be noticed. She had high cheekbones and a sprinkle of freckles on the tip of her nose. Long red hair was pulled back behind her and partially concealed beneath a fashionable hat. A slender but appealing figure was modestly revealed through a high-collared, long-sleeved dress. To every appearance, she was a proper young woman — except, of course, that she had just entered a gambling saloon.

Corey, himself, was not at the Emporium to gamble. He did gamble on occasion, if he was feeling really wealthy, but he preferred to bet on himself, which in his eyes, was not really gambling at all.

Corey was a bare-knuckle boxer from the Old Country via Boston, and he was here at the Emporium to make certain Patrick, his trainer, got home safely with their money.

Patrick was a rascal of a man, always with a scheme and hidden purpose, but he knew more about punching and footwork than any man Corey had ever known. They had met four years earlier on the docks, and it hadn’t been too much longer before Patrick had convinced Corey to give up honest work to make some money on the road. And if there wasn’t as much money as Patrick had promised, Corey could still admit that it had been a lot of fun.

Still, seeing a woman like the redhead reminded Corey of all the things a boxer could not have. And a proper young woman like her was foremost among them.

It was time to gather up Patrick and convince him to go home.

The fight started poorly.

Gentleman Tom McGee bounded into the ring and Rock Quarry Callaghan sprang forward to meet him. From that point on, it was all Gentleman Tom’s game and Corey might as well have been a spectator rather than a participant. Where he was fast, the Gentleman was lightning. Where Corey was strong, the Gentleman was Hercules. And where Corey was tough, well, in the early rounds of fighting, the Gentleman’s toughness was never put to the test.

It was exactly the opposite of what Corey had expected to happen.

He just couldn’t land a punch, couldn’t keep his rhythm, couldn’t find his footwork, and couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. And Gentleman Tom McGee took advantage of Corey’s difficulties as only a true professional could. He jabbed, he suckered, he walloped, he smashed, and basically pounded Rock Quarry Callaghan into a gravel pit.

The fight started poorly, but it wasn’t finished yet.

“One more round like that, lad, and I’ll have to throw in the towel for sure. I don’t care how much we lose. No one can stand that kind of a beating.”

Patrick O’Sullivan was worried. Four long years and he had never seen the lad like this. No rhythm, no spark, no chance at getting back into it. He wanted to throw in the towel now, but he knew in his heart they couldn’t afford it. He’d bet too much. If they lost today, they’d be down to their last twenty-five cents.

“What’s wrong with you, lad? You’re leading with your chin, your heart’s not in your punches, and your mind? I don’t know where your mind is. You’ve got to fight with your wits!”

Patrick stopped speaking when he realized he’d lost Corey. The lad was showing more life than he had all afternoon, craning his neck and looking into the crowd. Looking at what? Patrick twisted around to see, but the only thing unusual out there was a red-haired woman.

With a terrible sinking feeling, he looked back at his Rock Quarry.

The woman spoke to the man beside her, clearly establishing a wager. She looked up, caught Corey staring, and smiled at him. A small jerk of her head directed his attention toward Tom.

Then and there, Rock Quarry Callaghan decided to win.

“Bet dinner,” he ordered Patrick before bounding up to his feet.

Patrick stared for another moment, then loyally reached into his pocket and pulled out the two-bit piece. “Two bits!” he yelled. “Two bits says my Rock Quarry can still win!”

The bell rang even as men gathered to bid for the bet.

Like the Gentleman, they were about to learn that a smile can be dangerous.

The Rock Quarry flung himself at his opponent, the change in his demeanor immediately apparent. Not that he was his old self yet, he hurt too much to be that Rock Quarry Callaghan. Brutal rather than graceful, he pushed himself with everything he still had. He needed to balance the fight, bring the Gentleman down to his level, break through his reserves and demoralize him.

Even so, Corey almost didn’t get him.

The Gentleman danced back out of reach. He’d seen these desperation plays before. He landed a jab to infuriate, then pranced away again while Callaghan chased him. The strategy should have worked. Corey was dead on his feet and only had a few good punches left in him. The Gentleman had already shown himself superior; now, toward the end of the fight, there should be no question as to who was better. But a flash of red hair, unusual at a match, caught at the corner of the Gentleman’s eye. It didn’t quite distract him, but at the same moment his foot came down on the end of a shoelace that should have been tied tight. It was uncommonly bad luck. Still, the slip only cost him a moment. No real threat to his balance, it just threw his timing off a notch. And in that moment, Rock Quarry Callaghan landed a punch with all the remaining strength he had.

Corey’s fist flew straight out from his shoulder as Patrick had taught him and caught the Gentleman on the bridge of his nose. Cartilage smashed and cracked beneath it. Blood splattered in all directions. And Rock Quarry Callaghan never let his opponent breathe again.

By the time Corey’s own vision had cleared, he was being lifted to the shoulders of the miners who had bet on him. Patrick was shouting the praises of God and Ireland. And the redheaded woman had already collected her money and left.

Patrick was drunk.

“My boy, sure and I don’t know how you did it. Heart of a lion, that’s me Corey — Rock Quarry, that is. Finest fighter who ever lived!”

Corey had lost count of how many times Patrick had made that toast this evening. The old man had started drinking the moment the Gentleman collapsed unconscious. Corey had been worried about his opponent because the Gentleman was just that, a gentleman. But he had come to after a minute, and they’d had a chance to talk when the crowd quieted.

“Sorry about the nose,” Corey had told him.

The Gentleman’s voice was distorted from the dried blood plugging his nostrils. “These things happen,” he’d agreed, looking none too happy to be on the receiving end. “Thought I had you there. Don’t know how you did it.”

“Don’t know either,” Corey told him. “Just glad I did.”

“It happens that way every once in a while,” Tom agreed. “Well, I’d best pick myself up and see about getting home.”

Corey wouldn’t have minded going home himself — not that he, like the Gentleman, had a wife and two sons waiting for him. But Patrick needed to celebrate, and it was always best to be doing that when somebody else was buying the rounds. These winnings might have to last them awhile. Corey never knew when Patrick would be able to arrange another fight.

It took only three days, much to Corey’s surprise — three days before Patrick had arranged a bout for the biggest purse Corey had ever had a chance at. Three hundred dollars to be paid in golden double eagles, and the only catch was that the promoter insisted on having the match Friday evening — just four days away. That worried Corey a mite. The Gentleman had really given him a beating. But Patrick’s greed had been ignited, and he refused to hear any arguments to the contrary.

“I’m telling you, lad,” Patrick kept repeating, “I’ve seen this kid from Kansas City. Lighting Dan they call him, and to be fair, he’s fast, but you’ve got thirty pounds on him and a crippled boy has better footwork than this kid. You can take Lightning Dan on your worst day and still make it look easy.”

Corey had not been convinced, but Patrick would not be swayed. To say they couldn’t delay the fight because Lighting Dan was afraid of the Rock Quarry in his prime made no sense at all to Corey. If Dan was so afraid of him, why had he agreed to fight at all?

Slowly, tenaciously, Corey dragged the real reason for the hastily set date out of Patrick. Walter Steed, the eastern moneyman promoting Lightning Dan’s career, had wanted his boy to fight Gentleman Tom McGee. The fight and the purse were already set, but thanks to Rock Quarry Callahan, the Gentleman was in no shape to fight this weekend. So Steed was willing to settle for a match with the boxer who had defeated him. And Patrick, a fire with insatiable greed, was afraid that the Gentleman would recover enough to try for the purse himself if they didn’t snatch the opportunity to fight on Friday.

Corey wasn’t averse to fighting Lightning Dan, but there were two things about the setup that troubled him. First, broken nose or no, he had had no idea that he had hurt the Gentleman so badly. The idea really unsettled Corey. He liked the Gentleman and wished there were more in the business like him. Which brought Corey to his second trouble. He just didn’t think it was right to snatch this purse away without at least talking to the Gentleman and giving him the chance to throw his hat back in the ring.

Patrick wouldn’t agree of course, but Corey saw no choice but to visit the Gentleman and discuss the situation.

Mrs. McGee was not happy to see Corey. That was to be expected, of course. He had just beaten her husband and broken his nose. But the Gentleman’s wife was a lady, and much as she looked like she wanted to, she did not shut the door in Corey’s face.

“Mr. Callaghan,” she greeted him.

Corey pulled the cap off his head and held it awkwardly with two newspaper-covered packages he had brought for the Gentleman’s kids. “Ma’am.” His voice was hoarse and his mouth suddenly dry. He did not like facing the woman like this. “Is the Gentleman in?”

The two boys appeared, peering around their mother’s skirts. Corey reckoned they were six and four. He flashed a painful smile at them — painful because of the beating he had received last Friday, not because it was directed at kids.

“I’ve got something for you here,” he told them, squatting down without waiting for Mrs. McGee to answer him. He put the cap back on his head and held out one package to each boy. “You must be Little Tom and Jim.”

The boys started forward, then pulled back against their mother again. She considered Corey for another moment, then reluctantly smiled and relaxed a bit. “It’s alright, children,” she announced. “Mr. Callaghan is a friend of your father’s.” An actual twinkle entered her eye when she added, “despite what happened this weekend.”

She stepped back out of the doorway, exposing the kitchen. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Callaghan?”

Corey stood up, packages still in hand, and once again removed his cap. “Thank you kindly, ma’am. Is the Gentleman in?”

Mrs. McGee closed the door. “Of course he is. I’ll get him.”

She left the room in a swish of skirts, leaving Corey with her two children. He waited for her to depart, then got down on his knees to be closer to the children’s eye level. He offered the packages again. “I hope you’re not going to make me carry these home again,” he told them.

Little Tom came forward first and took the newspaper-wrapped bundle into his hands. His younger brother watched as Tom pulled free the paper to find a small wooden soldier concealed within. It was standing rigidly at arms, rifle over the shoulder. The detail work, while not perfect, was still remarkably fine. The younger boy, Jim, took one long look at the figure in his brother’s hands, then leapt forward to claim Corey’s other bundle.

Corey was still laughing when Mrs. McGee returned.

“My husband will join us in a moment, Mr. Callaghan. Would you like some—” She broke off when she saw the toys her sons were playing with.

“Mr. Callaghan,” she admonished him. “There was no need to buy my sons toys. Despite what I said earlier, what happened Friday night was simply part of my husband’s profession. You do not need to make amends.”

Corey was pleased that she thought the toys fine enough to be purchased. “I didn’t buy them, ma’am. I made them. And nothing makes me happier than to see children enjoying a figure I carved.”

“Really?” Mrs. McGee was visibly reappraising Corey.

“Aye, ma’am.” He shrugged. “I like to work with my hands.”

She bent down to her elder boy and took the soldier from him, examining it closely before handing it back. “You’re wasting yourself in the ring, Mr. Callaghan. Just like my husband. You should consider getting out before you ruin those hands.”

Corey shrugged again, embarrassed by the compliment and simultaneously irritated by the advice. He was saved from having to respond by the arrival of the Gentleman.

“Callaghan,” the boxer greeted him, right hand outstretched as he walked into the room.

Corey shook the offered hand, staring at the Gentleman’s face just as he was examining Corey’s. The nose had been set and plastered over, but that couldn’t conceal the morass of black and blue bruises swelling and distorting his cheeks and lips. “Yes, we did a number on each other,” the Gentleman told him.

“That we did,” Corey agreed.

“Can I offer you a drink?” The Gentleman walked to a cabinet and took out a jug and two cups.

“Just a wee nip,” Corey agreed. “I leave most of my drinking to Patrick.”

Mrs. McGee snorted but said nothing.

The Gentleman poured the clear liquid from the jug, then picked up both cups and carried one back to Corey.

“What can I do for you, Callaghan?”

“I want to talk to you about William Steed, Lightning Dan, and a fight being scheduled for Friday evening.”

Whatever warmth and ease had been in the room departed as Corey spoke. “Elaine,” the Gentleman’s voice was quiet, but his tone brooked no argument. “Would you take the boys to their room?”

Corey watched quietly as Mrs. McGee rounded up her sons and herded them out of the kitchen. “You heard your father! Now off with you!”

When children and wife were gone, the Gentleman sighed heavily and invited Corey to take a seat at the kitchen table. “I knew they’d gone to you. Can’t say I’m surprised to see you here.”

Corey took the seat, cradling the cup in both hands. “I’m really sorry about the money. I feel bad about this.”

The Gentleman looked up at him, surprise evident on his face. “I won’t be missing that kind of money,” he told Corey. “I’m frankly surprised to learn you’re so eager to have it.”

Corey sat a little straighter in his chair, hearing the scorn in the words but not quite understanding it. “It’s the largest purse I’ve ever had a chance at.”

“What chance?” Mrs. McGee walked back into the kitchen. “They aren’t talking about giving you a chance.”

Corey twisted in his seat so he could face both Mrs. McGee and the Gentleman. “Patrick doesn’t have a high opinion of Lightning Dan. He seems to think I could have taken him even after going fifteen rounds with the Gentleman here.”

Mrs. McGee was clearly furious. “And how will you be taking him when you’re taking a dive in the fourth?”

Corey was on his feet in a flash. If the Gentleman had said those words he’d already be striking him. He could not keep his voice quiet or calm. “I have never thrown a fight in my life! If you weren’t a woman!”

Elaine McGee began an angry retort, but the Gentleman wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back. She struggled with him for a few moments before agreeing to restrain herself. Then it was the Gentleman’s turn to be angry. With his wife safely out of reach he whirled around on Corey. “Callaghan, perhaps you’d better explain why you came to see me this evening.”

“To offer you a chance to take your fight back!” Corey stormed across the room to the outer door. “What a fool I am, feeling bad for you that our fight cost you the chance at a three hundred dollar purse. What a fool I am, coming here to give you a chance to throw your hat back in the ring and win it!”

Corey grabbed the handle of the door and yanked it open. The Gentleman caught up with him before he could step outside. “Callaghan! Callaghan! I’m sorry. We’re both sorry! We misunderstood everything. Please come back.”

Corey almost turned and punched him. He was that angry, and the Gentleman had exposed himself in the way he had reached out to take hold of Corey’s arm. If he hadn’t liked the Gentle-man — hadn’t actually respected him — Corey would not have restrained himself. But Corey did like Gentleman Tom McGee and until a minute ago, he had thought Mrs. McGee a genuine lady, so he let himself be drawn back into the room so that the Gentleman could close the kitchen door.

“I think,” the Gentleman said, “that we’ve had a misunderstanding. I’d like to explain it to you, but I have to have your word you’ll tell no one. You can’t even tell Patrick. You see, they’ve threatened my wife and sons.”

“Threatened your—”

“Please, Callaghan, just take a seat at the table and listen to me. Elaine, will you make certain the boys are still in their room?”

The Gentleman’s wife left to check on her sons, but not before giving her husband a long stare to make certain he knew she doubted his judgment here.

Corey sat in a wooden chair and the Gentleman sat at the table across from him. His mind was not as quick as his fists, but he believed he understood what had happened. He tested that understanding with a quiet question. “Who threatened your family?”

“Steed!” The Gentleman spat out the word. “First he offered a three hundred dollar prize if I could beat his little fancy from Kansas City. Then, a few days after the fight was talked up, he came back around to bribe me to take a dive. When I wouldn’t agree, he told me his men would cripple my wife and boys. Wasn’t anything I could do. And then you knocked me out and I have never been so glad to lose. Elaine saw it before me. I was too hurt to fight Steed’s boy. I may be too hurt to ever return to the ring. I’ll give up boxing to save my family, but I’m a man — I don’t want to take a dive in front of Steed’s fancy kid.”

Corey sighed. He had known the three hundred dollar purse was too good to be true. “They’ve not come to me yet — not spoken to me at all, truth be told. Patrick handles all of the business.”

“They’ll come, Callaghan. And likely to you and not to Patrick. After all, what can they threaten him with? He’s only got you, and everyone knows a boxer’s days are numbered from the first time he enters the ring. No, they’ll come to you.”

“And do what? Bribe me? There’s not enough money in the world. And I’m not like you. I don’t have a wife and children depending on me.”

“Then he’ll hurt you.”

“I’m a boxer,” Corey reminded him. “I understand pain. And if his boys rough me up too bad it will blow the fight on Friday.”

“Which he may want, if he really believes you’ll beat his fancy.”

“Then he cancels the fight,” Corey said. “There is nothing he can do to me that will make me take a dive.”

Steed approached Corey in the morning at the end of his daily training run — two blocks shy of the flophouse where he and Patrick were boarding. It happened all in a rush — three toughs charging out from between two buildings while the well-dressed Mr. Steed hung back in the early morning shadows.

Corey was tired from his run — four miles in the thin mountain air — and the sweat soaked his shirt and cap-covered hair. He was tired, but he was a fighter born for the ring. He danced easily out of the first two men’s way and landed a hard right fist across the jaw of the third. That one spun and hit the ground — no true grit — Corey couldn’t imagine why Steed had hired him. There was no sign of Lightning Dan.

The first two toughs whirled in their tracks and rushed back toward Corey. He hopped two paces back, clearing the man he had knocked down and drifting in the direction of Steed. His hands were up, his feet were dancing, and he had no doubt at all that he would punch these rough fools into next week. He could see it in the way they ran — all brawn and no training. Corey ducked a shoulder and jabbed as the first man darted in. His fist stood the man up straight, but before he could follow through he had to slide to one side in order to avoid the other one. The first tough staggered back, scowling, but by no means looking defeated. The second whirled again, ready to more rationally assist his friend.

Corey prepared to teach both men a lesson in pain.

Steed stirred himself from the shadows. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Callaghan. Boys,” he waved toward the two remaining toughs, “pick up Donny and step back out of the way. You’ve shown me what I wanted to learn this morning.”

He stepped fully into the light of early day. He was tall, lean, and dark of hair but not of face. His features were tight, drawn, and hard — not hard as a man’s face might get if he did honest work for a living, but hard from lack of charity. His disapproval was evident as he watched his men take hold of themselves, restraining their anger with difficulty. They wanted to fight, but Steed paid them. They scowled, then sidled around Corey to help their still-dazed comrade to his feet, then they gathered together next to Steed and stared sullen hatred at Corey Callaghan.

Corey let them do this. He had seen Steed before, he realized, gambling with the redhead at Corey’s fight last weekend. It occurred to him now that this was an opportunity to test what the Gentleman and his wife had said. Not that he disbelieved the Gentleman, but it couldn’t hurt to let Steed have his say.

Steed was clearly sizing up Corey as well. “I needed to do that,” he announced at last, “because I wanted to see just how much trouble you can cause my Lightning. You were beaten rather soundly by Tom McGee. Frankly, I wasn’t certain how much spit you could muster after just a half week.”

Steed carried a walking stick — for hitting people, Corey assumed, since the Easterner did not limp. Steed leaned on the stick now, still staring intently at Corey. “I have an offer for you,” he told the boxer. “I don’t want your answer now. I don’t want you to act rashly. Men do stupid things when they act without thinking. My Lightning will beat you. Have no doubt about that. I’ve seen you fight twice now, and at your best you’re just not fast enough to challenge him.”

Corey snorted. What Steed had actually witnessed was Corey win two fights against great odds. And the second time without great effort.

Steed ignored the interruption. “My Lightning will beat you, but you are just tough enough and just lucky enough that you might hurt him while he does it.” Steed shrugged, taking his weight off the stick and standing straight again. “And I can’t afford to take that risk. I’ve too much invested in the boy to be letting a dumb mick like you bust him. So here is what you’re going to do,” Steed leaned close again, returning his weight to the stick, “you’re going to put on a show. You’re going to dance about. And in the fourth round you’re going to let my Lightning knock you out.”

Corey’s left foot swept out and knocked the stick out from under Steed. Suddenly overbalanced, the Easterner fell heavily to his hands and knees. The thug who had taken Corey’s punch and stayed standing started forward, but Steed stopped him. “Get back, Jed!”

Steed struggled to his feet and retrieved his walking stick and hat. “I warned you against acting rashly!” He paused to fix the hat back on top of his head. “I warned you. Now you will reap the consequences.”

Steed turned, pushed through his men, and started back into the shadows between the buildings. “We’ll speak again, Mr. Callaghan, and then you will regret your actions this morning.”

Corey grinned broadly as the four men stalked away.

Corey leapt backward as the plank creaked and cracked beneath him. His right foot caught on the broken wood, and he fell hard off the porch on his seat in the dirt road before the Emporium. He was lucky he hadn’t twisted or broken his ankle; the foot had popped free just before the fall could damage it. Corey sat in the road for a moment wondering if he’d been lucky not to be hurt or unlucky to have stepped on rotten wood. A soft, feminine voice recalled his attention to the world around him. “May I give you a hand, Mr. Callaghan?”

Corey looked up to find the red-haired young woman standing next to him. He scrambled to his feet in embarrassment. “I don’t know what happened,” he explained. “The plank just broke as I stepped on it. Most peculiar thing...”

The redhead was not concerned with the porch of the Emporium. “I was hoping to speak with you, Mr. Callaghan. I’m afraid we may not have much time, and I’m not sure that we will have another opportunity.”

Corey pulled his attention away from his fall and the porch and focused completely on the red-haired woman. He suddenly remembered that he had last seen her with Steed. His budding suspicions seemed confirmed by the woman’s next statement.

“I need your help, Mr. Callaghan. If I could just have a few minutes to explain.”

A commotion erupted within the Emporium, distracting both of their attention. It was a sudden and complete disruption of the normal sounds emanating from the place. First the sounds of laughter and conversation abruptly ceased, followed quickly by a rush of footsteps toward the back of the building. The loud call for a doctor restored the din of voices, and before too long, men burst through the front door of the building.

“Damn!”

Corey twisted back to stare at the redhead, shocked to have heard a woman curse.

She took no notice of his surprise. “I was afraid this would happen. There’s nothing to do now but make the best of it and use it if we can.” She laid a hand on Corey’s upper arm, gripping the muscles tightly with her fingers. “Mr. Callaghan, you’ll have to go in. Unless I miss my guess, Mr. O’Sullivan will need you—”

“Mr. O’Sullivan? You mean Patrick?” Horror crossed Corey’s face as he began to realize what might have just happened. He began to pull away from the woman, but she held on fiercely.

“Mr. Callaghan,” she hissed, still trying to keep her voice from carrying. “You must listen a moment longer! You must speak to me before you confront Steed! If we work together...”

Corey stopped struggling for a moment to look at her again, wondering just what she thought she was suggesting. Then he jerked his arm free and hurried into the Emporium to check on Patrick.

There was blood, and quite a lot of it.

Patrick had been laid on his stomach across one of the tables. His gray hair was dark with the liquid seeping up from the crack in his skull. A towel had been pressed against the back of Patrick’s head, and it was quickly turning a dark, wet red. The old man was conscious but not quite rational, moaning something about blackhearts and cowards.

Corey pushed his way through the crowd and crouched down beside the table so that Patrick could see his face without moving his head. “What happened, Patrick? Who hurt you?”

“Corey, me lad?” Patrick asked, sending a shiver of dread the length of Corey’s spine. How could Patrick not recognize him?

“Corey, me lad?” Patrick asked again.

“I’m here, Patrick. What happened to you?”

Patrick groaned. “Hit me from behind, the cowards. Stole me money, and I was winning tonight...” The last statement trailed off in a mournful whine.

“Hit you in here?” Callaghan started to straighten up, searching the faces of the men around him.

“Not here, Callaghan, outside.” The voice belonged to John Pope, one of Patrick’s circle of card players. “He was winning, sure enough, and drinking up the still. He went out back to pass his water, and someone cracked his skull. Pete Miller found him, and we carried him back in here.”

Pete Miller had Patrick’s blood on his hands and shirt and still looked deathly concerned about the old man. “I’m obliged to you, Pete,” Corey told him.

“He’s a tough old geezer,” Pete acknowledged. “Just wait until the doc gets here. Old Patrick will pull through.”

“When the doc gets here,” Corey muttered, looking around the room. “When is the doc going to get here?”

Patrick only needed seven stitches. Corey was shocked that it took so few. All of that blood — but the doc assured him that all head wounds bled like that. “He’ll have a hell of a headache when he sobers up,” the doc informed him. “And he should stay off his feet, at least until Friday night’s fight.”

He wouldn’t take money. “Just win for me on Friday,” he said with a grin. “I’ve bet enough on you to cover this little visit.”

“Friday night,” Corey repeated, his voice cold and grim, already wondering how to get Steed.

When all else fails, use the direct approach.

Corey was standing outside the Golden Nugget — Steed’s hotel. Patrick was safe at home in bed. Safe for now, that is. Corey was about to do what he could to keep him that way by knocking Steed through a couple of hotel walls. He took a deep breath, then strode up the steps into the hotel.

No clerk was behind the counter. Corey paused for a moment, trying to decide if it was better to ring the bell and wake him, or simply leaf through the register himself. Corey was not concerned about being recognized. He had no doubt that after beating Steed within an inch of his life he was going to find himself spending several years in jail. The trick was to make certain that Steed paid for hurting Patrick before the sheriff arrived and interrupted things. The clerk might raise a ruckus. Corey would check the register himself.

He walked around the counter and found the register on a shelf. It was a large, leather-bound tome. He placed it on top of the counter and flipped through the pages. It was only about a third full. He found the most recent entries and began to scan the names: Walter Sturgeon, Bill Smith, Lou Rutger... He turned back a page, running his finger up the list of names: Pandora Parson, Daniel Wilkins, William Steed.

Corey stopped scanning and focused upon the name: William Steed, Room 201. He closed the book, returned it to the shelf, and headed straight for the stairs. The front door opened and Gentleman Tom McGee hurried through. He was moving very fast and very well — especially for a man who was pretending to be unable to fight on Friday. “Callaghan,” he whispered, “thank God I’m in time.”

Corey paused to look at the Gentleman. The notion flittered through his mind that if the Gentleman hadn’t tried to back out of his arrangement with Steed, then Patrick would not have been hurt tonight. But the thought was unfair and Corey discarded it. The Gentleman was trying to protect his family as Corey should have been protecting Patrick. As he was going to protect Patrick now.

Corey started up the stairs.

“Callaghan!” The Gentleman’s voice was louder this time. The note of relief was changing to desperation. “This won’t help Patrick!”

Corey ignored him, so the Gentleman leapt up the stairs behind him and grabbed hold of Corey’s arm. “Please, Callaghan, think it through, man. Do you think simply beating Steed will keep him off of Patrick? We have to break him. And I think we have a plan.”

Corey paused and turned back to the Gentleman. “Break him?”

“Please, Callaghan, I’ve put my family at risk coming here to you. Steed will wait. Come home with me now, and let us tell you our plan.”

The red-haired woman was in the Gentleman’s kitchen drinking tea with Elaine McGee. Corey stopped in the doorway when he saw her, the anger inside him stoking hot again. “Do you know who she is?” he asked.

“Yes, Mr. Callaghan,” Elaine McGee answered him. “This is Miss Pandora Parson, an acquaintance of Mr. Steed. Won’t you come in and have tea?”

Corey turned angrily toward the Gentleman. “You brought me here for this?”

“Please, Mr. Callaghan,” the redhead asked, “will you give me a chance to explain myself? I think I have thought of a way to let you protect Mr. O’Sullivan, and let the McGees protect their sons, and stop William Steed from ever doing this to anyone again.”

Corey allowed the Gentleman to guide him to a chair.

“Tea, Mr. Callaghan?” Elaine McGee asked again. She lifted an ancient, fragile-looking teapot that could well have come from the Old Country, and poured the steaming liquid into an equally fragile-looking cup. She set the pot down near the edge of the table. “If you don’t mind, Tom, I would like to get us started.” When her husband did not protest, Mrs. McGee continued. “Mr. Callaghan, am I correct in assuming that Mr. Steed has approached you in regard to throwing Friday’s fight?”

Corey restrained his temper and answered only the question. “Aye.”

“And knowing your reputation, Mr. Callaghan, I’m certain we can assume that you rejected Mr. Steed’s offer.”

“Aye.”

She nodded. “Just as my Tom did. And now, as he did, you have learned that rejecting Mr. Steed’s wishes does not affect only yourself. Your problem and Tom’s problem are quite similar. How do you stop Mr. Steed from threatening those you care about? Miss Parson’s problem is somewhat different, and if you are to trust her enough to continue this conversation, I think you need to hear how she met Mr. Steed, and why she travels in his company.”

Miss Parson took a sip of tea and looked uncomfortably at Corey. “I think, Mr. Callaghan, that I will actually have to start a little earlier than that.” She sipped again, considering.

“My mother died when I was very young. I really don’t remember her at all. Just little things I associate with her in my mind — a white dress, the smell of cinnamon, and her silver wedding ring.

“My father was left alone to raise me. He was a good man, but he couldn’t hold a steady job no matter how hard he tried. Some people get the wanderlust and move from place to place. My father had a gambling lust. He was only truly happy in a card game. When most girls were in the kitchen learning to cook from their mothers, I was at a table with my father learning to shuffle decks and play cards. And when my father died, he left me only two things: my skill in games of chance and my mother’s wedding ring.”

As she spoke, Miss Parson’s eyes had slowly drifted down from Corey’s face until she stared straight into the teacup in her hands. “I started gambling myself when my money ran low. I knew the games well, and I had always been lucky. I was good at it. I am good at it. I got by, slowly building a stake, which opened a higher quality game. Until one day I got into a game a little over my head and had a full house king high and no money left to call the bet. Mr. Steed was at the table and had already folded out of the hand. He offered to lend me the money I needed to finish the hand, with my mother’s ring as surety. I accepted his offer and lost the hand. It’s the only time I have ever seen a man draw four of a kind in straight five card stud.”

She paused, took a sip of tea, and swallowed hard. “So I lost my mother’s ring and my luck has been... erratic ever since.”

Miss Parson stopped and took a deep breath. Mrs. McGee reached forward to pat her hand. Her arm brushed the teapot, shifting it slightly on the table. For a moment the pot tottered on the edge. The Gentleman leaned forward to grab it as his wife quickly pulled back her hand with the same intention. They succeeded only in jarring the table. The pot shifted again and fell spinning to the floor to land miraculously unharmed at Mrs. McGee’s feet. The McGees and Corey froze in place looking at the undamaged teapot. Miss Parson did not appear to notice. At length, she broke the silence. “My luck,” she said again, “has been erratic ever since.”

Mrs. McGee shifted her attention back to the young woman, staring in bewilderment. Then she reached down toward the floor and lifted the teapot carefully in her hands. She began to place it more firmly on the table, thought better of it, stood, and carried it to the kitchen counter. She stood there for a moment steadying her nerves.

Corey sat back in his chair, suddenly cognizant of the strange events that happened in Miss Parson’s presence: the keg, the porch, the teapot. He was Irish and he understood luck, but this luck set his brain to hurting when he focused on it. He consciously willed his attention back to the task at hand. “What I don’t understand,” he said, slowly articulating each word. “What I don’t understand is why you are still traveling with Steed.”

Miss Parson did not immediately answer. Elaine McGee returned cautiously to the table. “Because, Mr. Callaghan,” she said, trying to act as if nothing unusual had happened, “Mr. Steed still has Miss Parson’s ring. He won’t sell it back to you, will he, my dear?”

“It’s my luck,” the younger woman confirmed indirectly, “my last memory of Mama. I can’t leave it with him.”

Corey tried to think about what Miss Parson had explained about herself, and he just couldn’t understand how it related to his problem protecting Patrick. He said as much. “So Steed is a snake, Miss Parson. We already knew that. I don’t understand how this helps us. Are you asking us to help you recover your mother’s ring?”

“Yes.”

“I think, Mr. Callaghan,” Elaine McGee interrupted, firmly in control of herself again, “that Miss Parson’s story tells us that she is not Mr. Steed’s friend. And on that basis, I’m asking you to listen to her plan. She and I have discussed it in some detail while Tom was out looking for you. I think it has merit. There is risk to you and to her, but if we succeed, William Steed will be finished in Denver forever.”

Pandora Parson wet her lips. “It really all depends upon you, Mr. Callaghan. Can you defeat Lighting Dan?”

Corey nodded firmly. He had never seen Dan fight, but he trusted Patrick’s opinion. The Gentleman confirmed his appraisal. “Dan’s fast, but Callaghan is tough. The real question is, can Callaghan knock him out quickly enough?”

“No, Mr. McGee,” Pandora corrected him. “The real question is, can Mr. Callaghan convince Mr. Steed that he has reluctantly agreed to throw the fight in order to save Mr. O’Sullivan?”

The second time William Steed approached Corey Callaghan, his flanking men were armed with axe handles. They were standing between the same two buildings, waiting patiently for Corey to run past.

Corey had considered running a different route — no sense in making things easy for Steed — but his pride hadn’t permitted it. Besides, if he was to hold up his end of the plan, he would have to confront Steed sooner or later. In truth, Callaghan’s calculated submission was no more humiliating or distasteful than Miss Parson’s role. She would be gambling her virtue on Corey’s fists — and her peculiar gambler’s honor might well force her to pay her debt to Steed if Corey failed.

Corey halted his run and faced Steed and his men. “I see your boys learned a lesson yesterday,” he told him.

“The question, Mr. Callaghan,” Steed replied, “is did you learn a lesson last evening?”

Corey scowled. “Aye, that I did. Now what do you think is to prevent me from pulling out of the fight?”

Steed smiled, a cruel upward turning of his thin face. “Why nothing at all, Mr. Callaghan. But if you do pull out, the next time Patrick O’Sullivan is robbed in the night you have my personal guarantee that he will not survive.”

Corey bristled. The men with the axe handles tightened their grips. Corey forced his Irish temper back down under firm control. “Aye,” he said quietly. “I figured you’d say something like that. I just wanted to hear the words.” He spit distastefully on the ground between them. “No use beating around the bush. I’ll take your dive.”

Steed’s smile broadened. “Sense at last.”

Corey spit again. “There is one condition.”

“Condition?” Steed’s smile hardened, then relaxed again as understanding lit his features. “Oh, the matter of payment.”

“Save your money,” Corey told him. “I’m not doing this for that.”

“Really?” Steed looked genuinely surprised, then a faint trace of suspicion touched his face.

“Aye, my condition is that no one ever tells Patrick. If he knew I took a dive, I could never look him in the face again.”

Cruel pleasure replaced suspicion on Steed’s features. Corey wondered if Steed knew his face was so expressive, or if the man simply didn’t care if the boxer knew Steed was lying to him. “I accept your condition, Mr. Callaghan. Mr. O’Sullivan will never learn of our arrangement.” Corey could not help but wonder how long after the fight was finished Steed was actually planning to wait to break the news to Patrick and gloat over the old man’s pain. Not that it ultimately mattered. Corey wasn’t going to throw the fight. Making the condition had been Miss Parson’s idea. She felt it would encourage Steed to believe he had broken Corey.

“Alright then,” he muttered, and turned to leave.

“One more thing, Mr. Callaghan,” Steed interjected.

Corey turned back to face him.

“I want the fight thrown in the fourth round. No use making my Lightning get too winded.”

Corey saw none of his coconspirators over the next two days, although he knew in general what they were doing. The Gentleman was quietly using all of the influence he had to convince the wealthiest and most unforgiving men in Denver to bet heavily with Steed that Corey Callaghan would defeat his lad. Many of those gentlemen would guess that a play was in the works, but Tom McGee’s reputation was golden. He would bring the gamblers in, and with luck, Steed, in his certainty that the fight was fixed, would over-extend himself and anger some very dangerous people.

Miss Parson, for her part, would also appear taken by Rock Quarry Callaghan’s reputation. She would, of course, know that Steed liked to be certain of things, but would bet her mother’s ring against her virtue that Corey Callaghan would not surrender to Steed’s plans. Steed had worked at breaking Miss Parson to his will for seven long months. He would take great pleasure in the thought of completing his conquest. Miss Parson was certain he would gamble on his sure thing.

As for Corey, he had but to keep training and keep tending Patrick — waiting for Friday night.

The fight began with the clear ring of the bell, and Rock Quarry Callaghan and Lightning Dan both danced into the ring. Patrick stood in Corey’s corner where he always did, a large white bandage still plastered across his head. William Steed and Pandora Parson stood side by side in the front of the crowd near Dan’s corner. Corey wasn’t certain if either of the McGees had come to see the fight.

Lightning Dan danced around Corey, a confident sneer upon his face. He did look fast — his body supple and lean — but Corey still had a solid thirty pounds on the man. He felt confident he could knock the sneer off his face if he could land one solid blow to the head.

Dan darted in and jabbed Corey twice on the chin. The blows stung, sort of, but they certainly weren’t punches like the Gentleman would have landed. Dan’s sneer progressed to a nasty grin, as if he thought he had just really pummeled Callaghan. It suddenly occurred to Corey that Dan was a man who had never won fairly in the ring. Steed didn’t just fix the big fights — he fixed all of his boy’s battles.

Dan shot back within range and stung Corey with a quick combination. Stung Corey, not hurt him, but from the cocky look on the boxer’s face Lightning Dan was sure these were punishing blows. Could it be Dan didn’t know his fights were fixed? Could Steed have actually hidden that from him?

If so, Corey knew how he would beat him. When Lightning Dan approached again, Corey retreated, overreacting to each glancing blow. The crowd did not like it — did not really believe it — but Lightning Dan believed, and Corey let him go on believing until the bell sounded, ending the round.

“What’s gotten into you, lad?” Patrick asked him. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of those little girly slaps he’s giving you.”

Corey sloshed water around his mouth, then spit it into the bucket. “Did you train me to be afraid, Patrick?”

“I did not!” the older man sputtered.

“Then trust your training,” Corey told him, and jumped up and ran back to the center of the ring. Miss Parson was observing him with what could only be concern in her eye. The man next to her yelped as he leaned too close to his smoking friend and set his own mustache on fire. A foamy beer extinguished the flame before it could actually burn the man, soaking his shirt and adding to the confusion.

Lightning Dan approached Corey from his corner of the ring. “Ready for more pain?” he asked. Corey forced himself not to smile. “When I’m finished with you,” Dan promised, “they’ll call you Gravel Pit Callaghan.”

Corey’s only answer was another round of retreating around the ring.

“What is wrong with you, lad?” Patrick asked him. “You’re letting him drive you all over the place!”

“Patrick.” Corey placed his arm around the old man’s shoulders and pulled him close so that no one else could hear him. “I need you to help me now! I have to put him down before the end of the fourth. Do I make my move now? Or do I wait one more round?”

“Make your move?” Patrick asked. “By the end of the fourth? Do you mean to tell me you’re...” The old man smiled. “And I was believing something was wrong. Did you make a bet you didn’t tell me about?”

“Patrick!” The referee was signaling Corey to come out of his corner. “Wait? Or take him now?”

Patrick stopped smiling and met Corey’s gaze. “You take that little fancy down now and stop embarrassing me!”

Corey smiled, a mistake he later learned, but he could not have kept the expression from his face if he had wanted to. “You watch your back, Patrick! Let me worry about the ring.”

Lightning Dan danced out to meet Corey. “You tired of hurting yet, Gravel Pit? Thinking of finding a new profession?”

“I don’t think so,” Corey answered. “I like to work with my hands.”

The starting bell rang and Rock Quarry Callaghan decked Lighting Dan. It was the first solid punch Corey had tried to throw that evening, and Lightning Dan clearly wasn’t expecting it. One moment the boxer from Kansas City was grinning in anticipated triumph. The next he was staggering backward all the way to the ropes that mark the edges of the ring. It would have been a mercy if he had fallen, but God wasn’t feeling merciful that day and neither was Rock Quarry Callaghan. He was next to Dan even as he rebounded off the ropes, landing body blows that lifted the smaller man to the tips of his toes. Two ribs cracked, and Corey turned his attention to his opponent’s too handsome face. Left, right, left, Dan’s head never had the opportunity to fully snap back to its normal position. The referee was moving in to separate the two men; the crowd was screaming in a frenzy. Corey took a step back, throwing out his left arm to ward off the referee. He cocked his right arm far, far back. Dan tottered helplessly in front of him. The stupid fool had really believed he could defeat boxers like the Gentleman and Rock Quarry Callaghan. It was time for Dan to learn that he really didn’t belong in the ring. Corey swung with everything he had, snapping Dan back off the ropes to collapse truly unconscious on the floor.

Corey spun to share in Patrick’s wild grin. The old man leaped with joy and threw his old cap high into the air. “You did it, me lad. I knew you weren’t afraid of Steed’s little fancy.” The crowd, wild with excitement, began to pile into the ring to congratulate Corey. For a few critical seconds Corey lost himself in the celebration. Then with growing dread he realized who he did not see celebrating — and who he did not see paying his debts.

Suddenly frantic, Corey began peering over the heads around him, searching for Steed and Miss Parson. They had left their place at the ring, and he couldn’t find them in the crowd. Surely he ought to be able to see that shock of red hair even in this press of people. They weren’t by the front door, nor by the barrels of beer, nor — wait! There was Steed striding purposefully toward the back entrance, left arm firmly around Miss Parson’s shoulders, propelling her along beside him. His left hand clutched, but did not use, his walking stick.

At the door, they struggled briefly before Steed dropped his walking stick and grabbed hold of Miss Parson’s right bicep. Then they were through the door and out of Corey’s line of vision.

Corey turned back to Patrick, who had let Corey slip from his attention as he accepted the congratulations of a mob of excited spectators. He reached between two people to grasp Patrick’s forearm. The old man looked over at him, caught the frantic expression on Corey’s face, and immediately lost his grin. Corey pulled him close enough that he could shout in the old man’s ear. “Steed has Miss Parson!” He knew Patrick wouldn’t understand that, but he said it anyway. “Remember to watch your back!”

Then he let go of Patrick and forced his way out of the ring. By this time, others were starting to look for Steed as well. They were quite naturally interested in acquiring their winnings. Corey still didn’t know it, but it was his smile before the start of the round that had forewarned Steed of his plans and given him the few moments lead he needed to make good his escape. Corey did not stop to rally these men to help him, however. In his gut he knew that he could not afford to delay.

Corey burst out onto the street and looked wildly in all directions. Some of the crowd had preceded him, others were spilling out behind. He caught a glimpse of what might be Steed’s tall head turning left into a side street and sprinted in that direction. The streets were dark and most buildings did not have lanterns on the porch to help illuminate the way. But the moon was nearly full and four million stars burned overhead, so Corey could see a little as he pursued Steed and Miss Parson. He dashed into the side street in time to see a man and woman turning the corner at the end. He reached that corner in time to see Steed half dragging Miss Parson down the middle of what was really just a little alleyway. The light was poor, but strong enough for Corey to see the tiny derringer jammed into Miss Parson’s ribs when Steed whirled them both around to face him.

Steed’s face was a scowl of bitter hatred. “Callaghan!” he spat the word as if it were a curse. Spittle bubbled on his lower lip. “Callaghan! You bastard mick!”

Corey stopped running, standing perhaps ten feet away from Steed. He put his hands palm out in front of him in an effort to appear less threatening. Rats squeaked and scurried near the sides of the buildings, but no other sounds and no hint of help could be heard coming.

The spittle dropped off of Steed’s chin. “You cheated me, Callaghan! No man cheats me!”

“It was a fair fight,” Corey protested. He didn’t add that it was quite likely the only fair fight Lighting Dan had ever had.

“I didn’t want a fair fight!” Steed snarled. “I told you to take a dive!”

“And I showed you I couldn’t be intimidated.”

The hand on the derringer wavered as Steed started to point it toward Corey. Then he changed his mind and dug the muzzle back into Miss Parson’s ribs. She grunted quietly with the pain. “Really, William,” she noted, “I don’t understand your reaction. You simply lost a gamble. It happens to the best of us. It’s hardly appropriate to make a scene.”

Steed twisted the derringer cruelly in Miss Parson’s side. “Shut up! I will not be cheated! I will not be made a fool!”

Miss Parson’s eyes flashed with surging anger, and she pivoted to face Steed, turning her side to Callaghan, letting Steed plant his gun firmly in her stomach. “I did not cheat you! I told you clearly I did not believe Mr. Callaghan could be convinced to take a fall. You believed otherwise. And you lost!”

Corey was concerned that Miss Parson was pulling the full brunt of Steed’s anger onto herself. He took a step forward, drawing a menacing gesture from Steed’s gun. “You weren’t cheated, Mr. Steed. There’s not a man or woman in Denver who would think that you were. Now why don’t you put down the gun and be man enough to take your loss?”

“Man enough!” Steed stepped backward and yanked Miss Parson’s arm, spinning her about so that she stood between the two men, facing Corey. He dug the derringer into the small of her back. “Do you really think a man takes a loss? I’m not beaten yet.” He took another backward step, dragging Miss Parson with him. “I am not beaten yet!” He said more firmly. “And you and Miss Parson and that stupid old man will pay dearly for what you did to my Lightning tonight.”

Steed took a third step back. As he was not looking behind him, he did not see that he was walking at an angle and moving closer to the wall of one of the buildings. He also did not see that two of the rats had left the dubious shelter of the deeper shadows to examine Steed and Miss Parson more closely. He took a fourth step and put his heel squarely down upon the tail of one of the rats. It was an extremely improbable occurrence, but unlikely mishaps had plagued Denver since Steed’s arrival some two weeks past — had in fact been following him for the seven months since he had refused to allow Miss Parson to redeem her mother’s ring.

The rodent shrieked in pain.

Startled, William Steed looked down at the street behind him.

Miss Pandora Parson twisted in his grasp, moving the muzzle of the derringer out from against her back.

And Corey Callaghan charged forward three steps and drove his right fist into the bridge of Steed’s nose.

Cartilage crushed and blood spattered. Steed lost his grip on Miss Parson and staggered back into the wall. His head cracked against wooden planks, and he fell heavily on his backside in a half-sitting sprawl. Corey moved in against him, catching Steed’s arm with his left hand as he struggled to bring the gun to bear on him. His right fist punched Steed in the face again. The Easterner’s skull cracked against the wall, and his eyes rolled up in his head.

Corey took the derringer out of Steed’s hand and tossed it to the other side of the street. “I’m presuming,” he said to Miss Parson, “that he didn’t give you your ring back.”

Miss Parson finished straightening her dress. “No, Mr. Callaghan, he did not.” She smiled, just a tired little turning of the lips, “but he taunted me with it earlier. It’s in his waistcoat pocket.”

She stepped over next to Corey and looked down on the unconscious William Steed. Blood from his disfigured nose painted his face and continued to seep from his nostrils. “That was quite a punch, Mr. Callaghan.”

Corey shrugged and offered an embarrassed smile. “I like to work with my hands.”

Miss Parson squatted down beside Steed and felt inside his waistcoat pocket. For a moment, her fingers were frustrated, then they touched metal, and a brilliant smile illuminated her face. She pulled the ring clear of the pocket and looked at it in the weak moonlight. A simple silver band was all that Corey could see — no stones, no real finery, just a thin band of unpretentious silver. Miss Parson brought the ring to her lips and closed her eyes. Corey thought she might be praying. Then she opened her eyes, slipped the ring upon the fourth finger of her right hand, and offered Corey her left. He took the hand and steadied her while she found her feet. They stood facing each other for a moment before he reached out and took hold of her right hand as well.

“Thank you, Mr. Callaghan,” she whispered.

“My pleasure, Miss Parson,” Corey began to tilt his head down toward her lips.

“Callaghan, thank God you’re alright!” Gentleman Tom McGee came around the corner into the side street. The doc was with him, and some fifty other men were crowding the street behind them.

“When Patrick told me you took off after Steed, I was afraid there was going to be trouble.” The Gentleman broke off when he saw the battered body lying next to the boxer. “I guess I should have known you could handle it.”

Corey let go of Miss Parson’s hands and stepped around her to face the crowd. “Well I did,” he confirmed. “Steed didn’t like his boy losing in the ring, and he tried to welsh on his bets.” That comment produced an angry mutter from the crowd, but Corey continued over it. “He tried to drag Miss Parson along with him, but she had more honor than that. There’s a woman who thinks a man should pay his debts.”

That was a second blow against Steed’s reputation. It was time to go for the knockout. “His little gun is over there,” Corey announced, “by the side of the building.”

The muttering in the crowd increased in volume. Unfortunately for him, Steed chose that moment to stir and groan. Ben Johnson stepped forward. He was a local mine owner and one of the Gentleman’s dangerous and unforgiving men.

“You did well tonight, Callaghan. I truly enjoyed the way you suckered that fool Lightning Dan.” He snorted with laughter. “As if anyone would believe you were afraid of that fancy pants.” His cold and merciless eyes swept down to where Steed was touching his hands to his battered face. “You did well tonight,” he repeated. “But if you’ll excuse us, Callaghan, these gentlemen and I would like to have some words with Mr. Steed.”

Corey dropped Patrick’s suitcase in the street beside the stagecoach station, then swung his own duffel down beside it. Instead of drinking in celebration, he and Patrick had stayed up late in the night and discussed the situation. Corey had laid out everything for the old man. Steed’s threats, the attack, the pressure to throw the fight, the plan to get Steed. Patrick had listened to everything — at times red-faced with anger, and at times so proud of Corey he was almost crying. They had agreed that leaving Denver was the prudent thing. They had no roots here like the Gentleman and his family. And they really couldn’t be certain that Ben Johnson would permanently deal with William Steed.

So they had decided to move on. They’d start for Cheyenne and if they didn’t like it, well, the West was large. Corey’s only regret was that they weren’t taking leave of their friends. They’d made a lot of them in Denver, and not just the McGees and Miss Parson. It was rude to just up and leave, but Steed had threatened to kill Patrick, and Corey had severely beaten the man. All things considered, both men were ready to head north and take their chances in Wyoming.

The stage driver stepped out of the station and touched his hat. “Pilgrims, why don’t you throw your bags back on top of the stage. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

Corey picked the bags back up and walked over to the coach. He tossed both bags easily onto the roof.

“Damn,” Patrick muttered. “Didn’t that lass cause enough trouble?”

Corey followed Patrick’s gaze and found Miss Parson, carpetbag in hand, walking toward them. A gentle smile lit her face. Her mother’s silver wedding ring adorned her finger. She walked directly to them and set down her bag. “Good morning, Mr. O’Sullivan, Mr. Callaghan,” she greeted them.

Corey and Patrick tipped their caps.

She faced Corey directly. “I’m sorry we were interrupted last night. Are you and Mr. O’Sullivan traveling to Cheyenne?”

“Interrupted?” Patrick sputtered, realizing that Corey had not actually told him everything that had happened.

“Aye, we are,” Corey answered Miss Parson, realizing he was grinning like an idiot. “It seems like a good time to hit the trail.”

“I quite agree.” She looked down at her bag. “If you’d help me stow this, Mr. Callaghan, I think I’ll find my seat.”

She stepped past them, leaving both men staring after her as she climbed into the stage.

Patrick shook his head. “No good will come of it, Corey me lad. How many times must I tell you? Bad luck follows women — especially that one. You know what they say in the Emporium?” He craned his neck looking around them, seeking some path of escape. “Maybe we should go south to Tucson. If we go with her, we may not make it to Cheyenne. The stage will probably break a wheel halfway down the road.”

Corey was still grinning. “That’s okay, Patrick. I can fix a wheel. I like to work with my hands.”

Copyright 2006 by Gilbert M. Stack