Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 54, No. 3, March 2009

Pandora’s Mistake by Gilbert M. Stack

“It’s for real this time, Corey, me lad,” Patrick assured the boxer. “Thunderin’ Joe Bullock ain’t no small town hero who’s never been tested in a real fight. No, he’s just like you — a solid professional bare-knuckle boxer making his living following the stage and rail lines. I’ve talked with some men who saw his last fight. He’s a regular steam locomotive once he gets going. This time we’ll have our hands full!”

Corey absorbed his trainer’s words without really listening to them. Instead he was concentrating on the series of timing blows he was firing into Patrick’s open palms. He knew the older man thought he was being encouraging, but Corey didn’t need any further motivation. He was up and ready to knock this ex-slave on his backside and claim the best purse he had had a chance at since Denver.

“You’re going to have to come in strong!” Patrick continued. “Take control straight from the start — never let him establish his rhythm. You can beat this boy, but he’s going to make you work for it.”

Corey had never quite understood the custom that referred to an adult man as if he was still a child. It made even less sense when that adult was Thunderin’ Joe Bullock — two hundred fifty pounds of black steel forged in the shape of a man. But despite the Irish brogue that still thickened Patrick’s speech, the old man had become very American in the way he viewed social customs.

A rapidly ringing bell interrupted Patrick’s words and Corey’s thoughts. Both men lowered their hands.

“Sounds like they’re ready for us,” Patrick said. “Let’s go out there and show these locals what boxing really is.”

Flat Rock, in the Idaho Territory, was an up-and-coming town in 1874. While the railroad didn’t yet reach it, the stage lines did, and the local sheep ranchers used the town as a stopover on their way to market.

When the founders of the town learned that there were two professional boxers in the area, they had been quick to seize the opportunity to arrange a fight and host a festival. They’d assembled a good-sized purse for the prize and even built a decent open-air ring in the middle of the town square. The schoolhouse had been set aside as Corey’s dressing room and the stables had made similar accommodations for Bullock.

Now Corey left the schoolhouse to the delight of the assembled crowd. He threw his hands high in the air in anticipation of victory and pranced across the green toward the ring.

Joe Bullock appeared at the far side of the square to a mixture of cheers and howls. He thrust his own arms high toward the sky and charged across the square toward Corey.

It was going to be a good fight. Everyone could feel it. Thunderin’ Joe Bullock was as big as a mountain and looked twice as strong. Rock Quarry Callaghan was a powerful combination of strength, speed, and grace. The winner would earn his money today and be celebrating on the generosity of his fans until the wee hours of the morning.

Corey climbed between the ropes and into the ring. Miss Pandora Parson was standing in the front of the crowd completing her betting arrangements with several of the town’s male citizens. Some of the bets that she was placing would be for Corey, so a victory today would pay twice as sweetly.

Joe Bullock clambered into the ring — a fine figure of a man with muscles rippling beneath his coal-dark flesh. This was going to be a fight to the finish.

“Remember now,” Patrick advised. “You’ve got to hit him fast, knock him off his balance, and keep him from hitting his stride.”

A bell sounded and the town’s justice of the peace climbed into the ring. He held his arms up, asking for everyone’s attention, then turned slowly in a circle until he had faced every corner of the square.

“Friends, neighbors, citizens of Flat Rock and Idaho Territory,” he shouted. “Are you ready to see some boxing?”

Every one of the seemingly hundreds of people screamed “Yes!”

“In this corner, all the way from Ireland by way of Boston, Denver, and Cheyenne, we have the granite fists of Rock Quarry Callaghan!”

Again the crowd went wild. It was a grand feeling for Corey, being the center of all of these peoples’ hopes for the afternoon.

“And facing him across the ring, from the cotton fields of Alabama, we have the incredibly dangerous Thunderin’ Joe Bullock!”

Again that mixture of cheers and howls filled the square, but Bullock seemed just as pleased as Corey with his ovation.

The judge motioned to both men to join him in the center of the ring. “Now we’re all here for a good show,” he reminded them, “and we don’t care what you have to do to each other to give it to us! Forty dollars is a lot of money! When the bell rings, I want you both to come out hard and earn it!”

The crowd cheered again and Corey and Bullock went to their corners.

“Remember now, Corey, me lad,” Patrick cautioned. “Hit him hard and fast right from the start. You dictate this fight to him! Don’t give him a chance to push back.”

The bell rang and Corey bounded into the center of the ring. Thunderin’ Joe lumbered out to meet him doing a fairly good impression of a charging freight train.

Undaunted, Corey stood his ground, left fist jabbing out to take Bullock on the right side of the mouth.

An ungodly massive fist plowed back through the air to take Corey on the temple. It was only a glancing blow. Corey sensed the danger at the last instant and pulled back just enough to keep the punch from solidly connecting. But even so, the blow staggered him a half step to the right, and Thunderin’ Joe stepped straight in behind it and hammered Corey with four more punches.

It was the unbelievable speed which unsettled Corey. Big men were strong and tough, but they rarely had that added touch of lightning that leaner fighters so often acquired. Thunderin’ Joe Bullock had all three advantages, and he knew how to exploit them.

Corey ducked his head behind his arms to ward off the blows, but he couldn’t get his feet planted firmly beneath him. His head was swimming and he knew that he needed to drop to the mat to give himself those few critical moments with which to pull himself together, but Bullock had Corey pressed up against the ropes and he literally couldn’t fall to save himself.

It was already bad and starting to get worse. If Corey couldn’t act, he would lose the fight here and now. Thunderin’ Joe’s fists were like sledgehammers to his head. Another few blows and the fight would be ended.

Reaching deep down into the core of his courage, Corey bulled himself forward and shoved Bullock back a step.

A high-pitched whine passed Corey’s left ear followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. Thunderin’ Joe grunted even as Corey pulled back in surprise. A line of blood welled up across the crease between Bullock’s neck and shoulders. A sudden hush stilled the crowd. Every eye was on the two boxers and the bleeding wound on the black man’s flesh.

A fancy-dressed man at the front of the crowd collapsed against the ropes, a bright red blotch blossoming across the front of his shirt. He hung there for a moment, arms hooked over the ropes, then his legs slowly gave way beneath him and his body slid to the ground.

A woman’s scream shattered the silence, and pandemonium erupted behind it. Suddenly every person in the crowd was shouting and running off in a different direction. Most had the sense to run out, away from the ring and the presumed targets of the assassin, but others fought the sudden press of bodies, searching for missing loved ones in the throng.

Corey and Bullock stared at each other for a moment before their fighting reflexes reignited. Then they moved quickly past each other, scanning the crowd for the source of the threat while simultaneously looking for their own friends among the masses.

Corey saw Patrick standing straight and tall, while his head whipped wildly back and forth as he tried to understand what was happening. Corey vaulted over the ropes to land beside the old man, then grasped him roughly by the front of his shirt and pulled him to the ground.

“What? Who? Why are they shooting at you?” Patrick sputtered.

Corey didn’t stop to answer. With Patrick low enough to receive at least some cover from the ring he ran off in a crouch to search for Miss Parson. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe Bullock’s back as the big man ran off with the dregs of the crowd, herding his grizzled trainer and the boy Corey thought was Bullock’s son ahead of him.

Corey rounded a corner of the ring. The bulk of the crowd was truly gone now, making it easier to determine the identity of the people who had stayed. A few, like Patrick, were hugging the base of the boxing ring. Others ran frantically to and fro, unable to figure out that the people they were searching for had fled with the crowd. Miss Parson was huddled over the fancy-dressed man, trying desperately to staunch the flow of his blood with her all-too-delicate handkerchief.

Despite the apparent risk to himself, Corey dropped to his knees beside her to see if he could help. Blood was still spreading from the wound. It had saturated Miss Parson’s small cloth and Corey in his boxing shorts had nothing with which to help close the wound. The stranger’s life was literally flowing away in front of them, if it had, in fact, not already gone.

Patrick crawled up beside them. “Who do you think is shooting at us?” he asked. He was already pulling off his own shirt in a probably futile effort to save the dying man. The old trainer had treated a bullet wound once before, Corey remembered, but the blood had merely seeped from that injury. By contrast, this wound gushed.

“I don’t know,” Corey answered Patrick. “It’s sure that there are enough people out there who hate us, but I didn’t think any of them were around these parts.”

They pressed Patrick’s shirt against the wound and watched as it too began to soak with blood.

“Has he said anything?” Patrick asked.

Miss Parson shook her head. The man’s face was growing very pale. “I wish we could do something for him.”

“Where’s the doctor?” Patrick asked. “Doesn’t this town have one?”

“I hope he had the good sense to run like everyone else,” Corey said. “Otherwise, this poor man is likely him.”

“I don’t think he’s breathing anymore,” Miss Parson whispered. “Poor unlucky man — he came to see a fight and got murdered instead.”

Patrick pulled the cap off his head and held it against his own heart. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I think he’s gone.”

“God rest his soul,” Corey whispered. He reached up and closed the dead man’s eyes.

All three were silent for a few moments.

“Do you think the killer is gone?” Patrick asked.

The question immediately reminded the three that they were still very vulnerable.

“We’d better hope he is,” Corey said, “or he’s likely to hit us the next time.”

“It seems probable,” Miss Parson stated in her calm, matter-of-fact manner, “or surely there would have been more shots fired by now. Hopefully the town marshal is searching the rooms and rooftops across the square to see if the killer left any clues to his identity.”

“We were mighty lucky, Corey me lad,” Patrick said. “If you hadn’t fought your way off the ropes an instant before he pulled the trigger, you’d be dead and I’d be stuck in Flat Rock forever.”

Miss Parson frowned. Clearly something in what Patrick had said troubled her, but it took her a moment before she decided to share it. “Or maybe it was Mr. Bullock who was lucky,” she suggested. “He was, after all, the man in the ring that the bullet actually injured.”

“That’s just because it missed Corey,” Patrick protested.

“Perhaps,” Miss Parson considered. “It certainly could have happened that way, but we would still be wise to speak to Mr. Bullock about it.”

“That’s right,” Patrick said, clearly thrilled that Miss Parson agreed with his analysis. “We’ve got to reschedule this fight just as soon as Bullock is fit. We’ve got a forty dollar purse to win.”

Both Corey and Pandora stared at the old man for several moments, but he seemed oblivious to their disapproval. Finally, Corey turned to Miss Parson. “Why do you want to speak to Bullock?”

“Well I think it’s obvious that we have to find this killer if we’re going to be certain he’s not going to shoot at you again. The marshal might catch him, but most small town law officers I’ve met aren’t up to a challenge like this. They do quite well when they catch the culprit standing over the body with a pistol in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. But a case like this? No, I think if we want to really know what happened we had best depend on ourselves. We can bring in the marshal when we know who killed this man.”

“And you think the place to start is Bullock?” Corey asked.

Miss Parson shrugged her shoulders. “It would certainly make things easier if someone here in Flat Rock had threatened to kill him.”

“All right then,” Patrick agreed. He poked up his head and looked around. “It seems like the killer’s gone. Let’s go find Bullock and find out who is behind this.”

“Patrick,” Corey said quietly. “We were the last people with this poor gentleman when he died. I think we should keep right on staying with him until the marshal arrives. It’s the right thing to do, and the marshal might have some questions.”

“I don’t appreciate you folks bringing your trouble to my quiet little town,” Marshal Blake announced. He was a small man, thin and wiry, with a determined expression that suggested he believed he was a lot more competent than Miss Parson thought was likely.

“We don’t like bringing any trouble,” Corey told him.

“Well, we have a dead man here who says differently,” the justice of the peace contributed.

It had taken about half an hour, but now most of the town’s officials had found their way back to the square. There was Marshal Blake, his deputy, the justice of the peace, and the town mayor. Other citizens had begun to return as well, drawn like flies to the dead body.

“We don’t actually know,” Miss Parson observed, “that the murderer was shooting at Mr. Callaghan.”

“The hell we don’t!” the mayor shouted. “We’ve got three hundred people who saw him do it.”

“Actually, Mr. Mayor,” the marshal’s voice was like an island of calm in the growing storm, “the little lady is right. There were two boxers in the ring. The killer might have been aiming at the colored boy.”

“Then where is he?” a man in the crowd shouted.

“He ran off like the rest of you, Lou,” the marshal said. “Don’t you worry about it. He’ll be around when I want to talk to him. It’s not a crime to be shot at in this town, just to do the shooting.”

The marshal turned back to Corey, Patrick, and Miss Parson. “So am I to take it you don’t think the killer was gunning for you?”

“He might have been, Marshal,” Corey answered. “I don’t rightly know. The truth is that getting shot at was the last thing on my mind when the rifle was fired.”

More than one person in the growing crowd chuckled.

“I’ll bet it wasn’t!” one of them shouted.

“He was beating you something fierce!”

“You’re lucky the fight got called short!”

Patrick’s face flushed deep with anger. “Now that ain’t true!” he shouted. “My Corey wasn’t finished. He was fighting back. You all saw it.”

Corey put a calming hand on his trainer’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Patrick. They’re partially right. Bullock’s speed caught me by surprise. Can’t blame them for not seeing the fight was a long way from over.”

“Say,” the mayor exclaimed, “maybe the little lady is right. Maybe the killer didn’t plan to shoot anyone today, but when the fight started to go bad for Callaghan here he realized he was about to lose all the money he bet on him. So he grabbed a rifle, hightailed it to a rooftop, and shot to end the match. Poor Collins here was just an unexpected accident.”

The crowd was quiet for a moment, considering the mayor’s suggestion.

“It’s an interesting idea, sir,” Miss Parson suggested, “and it might work if the fight had gone on longer. But that’s an awful lot for your killer to accomplish in the minute or two the fight actually lasted.”

The mayor was unconvinced by Miss Parson’s logic. “I still think it’s worth considering,” he insisted. “What do you think, Blake?”

“I’ll have to think deep on it,” the marshal said. Corey couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. “There just may be something to what you say.”

The mayor beamed at the marshal’s words.

So did Patrick. “Say, that means we’ve got nothing to worry about. As soon as that colored boy’s scratch is healed, we can finish this match.”

“It might be wise,” the marshal observed, “for you to wait until I catch the killer first. That way he won’t be taking another potshot at the boxers if the fight goes against him again.”

The marshal’s words hushed the crowd.

“Now what I want to do,” the marshal continued, “is walk with the three of you back to my office so we can talk about who might dislike you enough to take a shot at you.”

“You arresting them, Marshal?” a man in the crowd asked.

“Of course I’m not arresting them,” the marshal retorted. “Do any of you really think that Callaghan here shot that rifle? I don’t want to have to say this again: It is not a crime in Flat Rock to be the man that gets shot at! Now why don’t you all let the doc here tend to poor Collins’s remains? And Ben,” the marshal turned to his deputy, “why don’t you go find that colored boy and tell him and his manager to come down to talk to me?”

Marshal Blake extracted two names from Corey, Patrick, and Miss Parson: William Steed and Ted Perkins. Both had lost a lot of money because of Corey, and both might wish to see him dead. Neither man, as far as they knew, had ever been in Flat Rock, but a lot of strangers had come to town for the fight and it was fully possible that one or both of the men were among them.

As the three left the marshal’s office, Thunderin’ Joe Bullock, his son, and his manager were entering the building behind the deputy.

“Bullock,” Corey greeted him.

Bullock accepted Corey’s hand and the two men flexed to see which of them was weaker. They stared at each other while the pressure built and then, as if by mutual agreement, relaxed their hands and stepped apart.

“How’s your neck?” Corey asked.

“Stings,” Bullock answered.

“You know anyone who might be taking a shot at you?”

Bullock was silent, but his son wasn’t. “A white man don’t need no reason to shoot a colored man.”

Bullock slapped the side of the boy’s head. “You hush now.”

Corey looked directly at the boy, meeting his eyes. He figured the child was about ten years old. “I guess that might be true for some folks,” he said, “but it doesn’t help us now if someone took a shot at your pa because he’s colored.”

“I thought he was shooting at you,” Bullock said.

“Might have been,” Corey agreed. “The way we were moving he might have been aiming at either one of us. The marshal’s taking names, but...” Corey spread his hands helplessly.

“I see what you mean,” Bullock said.

“So are you up for another fight when we get this straightened out?” Patrick asked.

Bullock’s manager stepped forward. “Is your boy that anxious to get his face pounded again?”

“We’ll see who does the pounding next time,” Patrick assured him.

“And it will be my Joe!” his counterpart answered.

“You are almighty fast,” Corey told Bullock. “It took me by surprise.”

“Knowing won’t help you,” Bullock promised. His lips split into a wide grin.

Corey loved the implicit challenge.

The marshal came out of his office to join them. “Save your fighting for the ring, people.”

“This ain’t fighting,” Corey told him. “It’s just managers shouting.”

“You get out of here,” the marshal told him. “I’m finished with you for now.”

The order was firm, but there was no meanness in it. “You Bullocks get in my office. I’ve got some questions for you.”

“Yes, sir,” Bullock said, and stepped meekly toward the marshal’s door. “Shame about that gent that got shot,” he told the marshal as he passed.

“Yes, it is,” the marshal agreed.

“Did he have family?”

“Thank God, no,” the marshal muttered as the manager and Bullock’s son filed past him. “He was too new in town. A lawyer, don’t you know, just setting out his shingle.”

The marshal closed his door and Corey could hear no more.

“So where do we start?” Corey asked.

They were standing on the street outside the marshal’s office and he wanted to know which way they should go.

“I don’t know,” Miss Parson answered him.

Her admission surprised Corey. Miss Pandora Parson always seemed to know what to do. “Well, it doesn’t look like the man was gunning for me unless he just came to town,” Corey said. “If we keep our wits about us, we’ll likely spot someone like Steed or Perkins or even Lightning Dan. So how do we figure out if the person is really after Joe Bullock?”

“That’s just the problem,” Miss Parson explained. “You both heard him in there. He obviously can’t think of a single person who would follow him to Flat Rock and try to kill him, and we really can’t either. I think I made a mistake at the beginning of this.”

The very possibility of Miss Parson making an error brought a wide smile to Patrick’s face. “Now Miss Parson,” he said with a teasing lilt in his voice, “surely my ears just deceived me. Did you just confess to being wrong?”

Miss Parson did not find the situation nearly as amusing as Patrick did. “I just think we’re all going about this the wrong way. Because the bullet actually injured Mr. Bullock, we’re all assuming that either he or Mr. Callaghan was the intended target. But what about the dead man? What about the man the murderer actually killed? Why doesn’t anyone think he could be the one the killer wanted dead?”

They mulled that idea over for a moment, with Patrick actually rubbing his chin to help his concentration. “I don’t know,” the old man said at last. “This marshal seems to know what he’s doing and he doesn’t think that the lawyer was the man the killer was after.”

“If you’re right,” Corey said, “then this really isn’t our problem. We only felt we needed to look for the killer because he might be gunning for me. If he wasn’t after me at all—”

“Now wait a minute,” Patrick said. “Didn’t the marshal also say that he didn’t think we should hold the fight again until after he finds the murderer? I want that prize money! We have to help the marshal.”

Miss Parson closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again any detectable trace of uncertainty had departed from her. “I admit to some curiosity about why this man was killed, as well as some embarrassment that I was fooled into thinking he wasn’t supposed to be the victim. Because Mr. Callaghan was nearly killed by the assassin’s bullet, I think we have a legitimate interest in making certain of the facts. Why don’t we go talk to the doctor and see if there’s anything more he can tell us?”

“I can agree to that,” Corey said, “as long as we stop and let me get properly dressed again before we go visiting.”

Dr. Green worked out of a small house on the south side of the square which combined reception and examination rooms with living quarters. He was a small man with very tiny hands and very thick lenses in his glasses. His reception room was quite crowded when the three friends got there, with very little room for new arrivals.

“Oh, the poor, poor man,” one matronly woman said as she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “He was so young.”

Patrick followed Miss Parson through the door and Corey squeezed in behind him and doffed his cap. Squeezed truly was the appropriate word. Dr. Green’s reception room was that packed with people. Perhaps eight or ten women were huddled together in the center of the room talking excitedly while their husbands and fathers lined the perimeter conversing in far lower tones.

“What’s going on?” Patrick wanted to know.

“It would seem,” Miss Parson suggested, “that Mr. Collins is going to be dearly missed.”

Corey could understand her satisfaction. Two of the women were actually quietly weeping, but none of the husbands or fathers appeared particularly upset. The contrast was quite striking.

“What do you want to do?” he asked Miss Parson.

“Well obviously we need to speak with Dr. Green,” Miss Parson said, “but I think I should speak with these women first. Why don’t you and Mr. O’Sullivan talk to the men?”

She was off into the crowd before Corey could answer her. Patrick also immediately abandoned him, darting off to the right to join with the men there.

Corey could have strangled them both. Miss Parson and Patrick liked to talk, but Corey hated mingling with a crowd: Introducing himself, striking up a conversation, he simply hated all of it. He was a fighter, not a talker. He liked to work with his hands, not his mouth. So he stood uncertainly in the doorway, wringing his cap in his hands, until his size caught the attention of one of the men in the room.

“Aren’t you Rock Quarry Callaghan?” the well-dressed stranger asked him. He was an older gentleman with thinning white hair. He crossed the room and clasped Corey good naturedly on the arm. “That colored boy nearly handed you your head this afternoon. I’ll bet you were almost glad to get shot at to stop him pounding on you.”

The words were said with a friendly smile, but Corey found his spine stiffening just as if the man had been scowling when he said it. “It wasn’t as bad as all that,” he said. “Bullock took me by surprise at first, but I was setting him back on his heels when the shot was fired.”

“Well I wouldn’t go that far,” the man laughed, “but I’m willing to agree that the fight wasn’t over yet.”

He thrust out his hand. “I’m John Winslow. I own the Flat Rock Bank.”

“Mr. Winslow,” Corey acknowledged as he shook the banker’s hand.

“There was a lot of excitement when you came to town,” Winslow continued. “My new teller and his wife saw you fight in Cheyenne. Why that little filly might be your biggest fan. She convinced me to support the mayor’s plan to host this fight. I invested quite a bit of money in it.”

“Well we’re already talking with Bullock,” Corey told him. “We’ll re-schedule the fight. You won’t be disappointed.”

“Glad to hear it,” Winslow said. “Hopefully without all this,” he waved his hand at the room, “next time.”

“Did you know Mr. Collins well?”

Winslow grunted. “He was pretty new. We already had a lawyer. I don’t think there’s enough work for two.”

“Did that cause bad feelings?”

“No.” Winslow was clearly dismissive of the notion. “Most everyone who matters continued to consult the judge. Just a few of the townswomen seemed to want to talk to Collins. I can’t imagine what they thought they needed him for.”

“That is strange,” Corey said, mostly because he felt Winslow expected him to say something.

“It is indeed,” Winslow agreed. “You know, with all of these ladies here, we ought to be able to find out what they wanted.”

Corey wasn’t certain that Miss Parson would appreciate any interference in her conversations with the ladies. “I don’t know if—”

“Nonsense!” Winslow cut him off before further raising his voice. “Baker? Get over here!”

A thin man with glasses appeared at the banker’s elbow. “Yes, Mr. Winslow?”

“Find that pretty little wife of yours,” Winslow said. “Callaghan and I have some questions for her.”

Baker adjusted his glasses on his nose and examined Corey more closely. “Rock Quarry Callaghan?” he asked. “Yes, I believe you are. My wife is quite a fan of yours, sir. We saw you fight when you passed through Cheyenne. You quite captivated her, I’m afraid.”

Corey was embarrassed. He’d never before been told by a man that his wife was captivated with him. What was worse, he could not, for the life of him, remember who Mrs. Baker might be. Truth to tell, Corey suddenly realized, he hadn’t been paying much heed to women since Miss Pandora Parson had begun traveling with Patrick and him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Baker,” Corey offered, fumbling for the proper thing to say, “but I’m afraid I don’t remember meeting you and Mrs. Baker.”

“Oh, I don’t think that we were ever formally introduced,” Mr. Baker assured him. “We saw you fight a man called Pistol Pete, and my Alice has been talking about you ever since. If I’m to be completely honest, I think she’s become a bit overly fond of the manly sport you engage in.”

“Well now,” Winslow butted his way back into the conversation, “we can’t blame you too much if you overindulge that pretty little thing now and then. Why don’t you go find her among those women and let us ask her a couple of questions?”

Mr. Baker turned to do as his employer directed, but it proved to be unnecessary. A squeal of delight sounded from across the room and a young female form darted over to them.

“Mr. Rock Quarry Callaghan!” The woman almost shouted Corey’s name in her excitement. “I am so pleased to meet you.” She caught Corey’s right hand between her two and pumped it up and down in what felt to Corey a most unseemly handshake.

Mrs. Baker was not through talking. “I saw you fight in Cheyenne,” she told him. “They said Pistol Pete was supposed to be fast but you made him look like cold molasses.”

Corey’s face was flushing with embarrassment. He had no idea what to do in this situation. The woman’s husband was frowning behind her. Winslow bore a look of startled amusement, and the rest of the room was beginning to forget its grief over Collins and turn to watch what was happening.

Corey extricated his hand from Mrs. Baker’s grip and tried to step back and put more space between them. “Well Joe Bullock is as fast again over me.”

“You are so modest,” Mrs. Baker said. She stepped forward with Corey’s retreat, keeping the space tight between them. She wasn’t exactly touching him, but she was definitely standing closer to him than felt appropriate. “I saw the fight,” she reminded him. “I was right there beside the ropes watching you. Thunderin’ Joe started out with the advantage but he’d played his hand. You were about to start pouring the pain back upon him.”

That was true, Corey thought. He really believed that he was about to turn the tables on Bullock. But somehow, the devoted look in Mrs. Baker’s eye didn’t convince him that she understood this.

“You’re one of those boxers, aren’t you?” a woman demanded. It was the same woman who had been bemoaning Collins’s fate as Corey, Patrick, and Miss Parson had entered the house.

Corey’s fingers fidgeted on his cap. “Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“How dare you come here!” she shouted. “The menfolk all say that a bullet meant for you killed poor Mr. Collins.”

“Well I—” Corey began.

Mrs. Baker leapt to Corey’s defense. “How dare you even think such a thing? I was in the crowd. I saw the whole thing. Why I was standing right next to Mr. Collins when the bullet struck him. It wasn’t Mr. Callaghan the assassin was aiming at, it was that colored boxer, Thunderin’ Joe Bullock.”

The matronly woman took a deep breath to continue arguing. For the moment, Mrs. Baker’s attention was on her and not on Corey. The boxer saw his opportunity and hurried to escape the room.

The sun was setting as Corey stalked away from the doctor’s house and into the square. The newly constructed ring continued to dominate the field, and Corey’s love of the sport and interest in the shooting naturally drew him back to it.

A passel of boys were gathered around it, ranging in age from maybe six to sixteen. Two of the older boys were circling each other within the ropes, fists held high and dreaming of the day that they might fight before hundreds of people as Corey had today.

Corey watched them from a distance, wanting neither to interrupt nor to be recognized. He liked to be a hero to young men, but his performance against Bullock had been weak enough that he feared he might be the goat to them instead. The boys in the ring had no training, but they made up for that with heart, circling around each other and then throwing a flurry of punches that often knocked one or the other of them down.

As Corey watched he tried to remember his own brief battle with Bullock. Thunderin’ Joe had been pounding him against the ropes on the north side of the square. Collins had been standing in the west right up against the ring near the corner. The shot, therefore, must have come from the east, either from the windows of Flat Rock’s only hotel, or the roof of the hotel or one of the neighboring buildings.

How early had Collins taken his place to view the fight? It would have taken a lot of time to reach the perch that let the killer have a shot at him. Not to mention that he also had to think of the plan and fetch his rifle before trying to carry it out.

He?

With sudden dread, Corey realized that the killer didn’t have to be a jealous husband or an angry father. With so many female admirers, Collins might just as easily have run afoul of one who felt she’d been jilted or neglected.

Corey focused his attention on the rooftops again. They all looked pretty much the same with their peaked roofs to keep the snow from piling too high upon them. Only the hotel was noticeably different than the bank, the general store, and the barber shop, and that was a matter of height and not shape.

Could he really picture a woman in her dress and skirts climbing onto one of those roofs to shoot a man? Were the second-story hotel windows really high enough to give a good shot? Corey wasn’t a marksman. He just didn’t know enough to tell for sure.

“Penny for your thoughts, Mr. Callaghan.”

Corey turned to find Miss Parson had quietly stolen up beside him. “How did it go in there?” he asked.

Miss Parson laughed, a genuinely merry expression. “Well Mrs. Baker appears heartbroken that her boxing idol departed so suddenly, but I think that she is alone among the womenfolk in this particular view. Most, if not all, believe that Mr. Collins was slain by a bullet intended for you. Just what should be done about that they have yet to agree upon.”

Corey watched Miss Parson’s expression carefully as she spoke. She was very happy about something. She must have learned something positive while mingling with the women in that room.

“But you still don’t agree with them,” he ventured.

“Indeed I do not,” she answered. Her smile was radiant. It transformed her from a remarkably pretty woman into a true beauty.

“And...” Corey prompted her.

“Let’s just say that while the women in that room might be in mourning, their husbands and fathers are not. I might go so far as to speculate in private that most of those husbands and fathers have reason to be relieved that Mr. Collins is gone.”

“Only most?” Corey asked, a wry grin forming on his face.

“Well I can only speculate on the actual numbers,” Miss Parson reminded him, “but Mr. Collins had clearly picked up a rather large number of admirers for a man who’d been in Flat Rock only a few short months. Most of the women in that room were clearly very fond of him. If I were a husband, I wouldn’t like that.”

“So you’re sure now Collins was supposed to be shot?” Corey asked.

“Well I still have no actual evidence,” Miss Parson admitted, “but as you know, I am a woman who enjoys making a wager, and I would bet the farm on this. It’s the only theory that makes any sense.”

“Glad to hear it,” Corey said. It felt good to think that a rifleman was not out there waiting for another chance to shoot at him. But they still needed to identify the killer if they were to get another chance at that prize purse. “So how do we find out which husband did it?”

“I haven’t figured that one out yet,” Miss Parson told him. She was clearly enjoying herself. She had always liked a good puzzle. “But I will. Maybe we’ll learn something important when they bury him tomorrow.”

The whole town of Flat Rock and most of its visitors turned out to bury Mr. Gerald Collins. This offered both advantages and obstacles to Miss Parson in her efforts to investigate his murder.

The advantages were obvious. Just about every conceivable suspect had gathered together in one place, giving Miss Parson access to everyone. The disadvantages were equally evident — just about every conceivable suspect had gathered together in one place. There were quite simply far too many people to adequately observe or question.

Thunderin’ Joe Bullock was also at the funeral, as visible for his dark skin as he was for his size. He stood in the rear of the crowd and seemed at pains not to draw overmuch attention to himself. A white bandage covered the wound on his neck, but nothing about his movements suggested the cut was bothering him. Corey wanted to skirt the crowd and go stand with him. It wasn’t because they were friends — they weren’t — but be-cause Bullock was another boxer. In this crowd of mourners who were out for a spectacle, that gave Corey far more in common with Bullock than with anyone else here excepting Patrick and Miss Parson. He settled, however, for keeping his place on the outskirts of the crowd and nodding to Bullock across the heads of the people of Flat Rock. He was glad that Bullock returned the gesture.

“Where do you want to start?” Patrick whispered to Miss Parson.

“I’d like to talk to Mrs. Winslow again,” she whispered back. “She is a very wealthy woman in Flat Rock and was clearly fond of Mr. Collins. The roof of the bank would also make an excellent platform for the shooter if Mr. Winslow wished to forcefully object to the object of his wife’s interests.”

“I guess I could ask around and see if anyone saw Winslow in the crowd at the time of the shooting,” Patrick suggested.

Corey watched a look of utter consternation cross over Miss Parson’s face. He had seen her error immediately, of course. Patrick couldn’t keep secrets, and in his eagerness to help, he would likely tell the whole town that Miss Parson thought Mr. Winslow had shot Mr. Collins. She hadn’t said she suspected him, of course, but that was how Patrick would see it.

“Oh, Mr. O’Sullivan,” Miss Parson said. “Please don’t—”

“I’ll try to keep him out of trouble,” Corey assured her.

“What?” Patrick asked.

“I would so very much appreciate it,” Miss Parson told Corey.

“I’ll do my best,” Corey assured her. “Why don’t you go find Mrs. Winslow? I’ll drag Patrick with me and go talk to Bullock.”

The simple gratitude on Miss Parson’s face touched Corey deeply. Then she turned and slipped deeper into the crowd.

“I only want to help,” Patrick told Corey. “The sooner the marshal arrests somebody, the sooner we can reschedule the fight.”

“Oh, Miss Parson knows you’re on her side,” Corey assured Patrick. “But you know how she is. She’s right clever, and she really enjoys figuring out a puzzle. She just doesn’t want you solving it for her.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Patrick admitted. “I can see where that might be a problem for her. Still, maybe I should just ask a few questions real quietly. I don’t have to tell her the answers. That way she can still work things out on her own.”

“Oh, Mr. Callaghan,” a high-pitched female voice called over the low roar of the crowd. “Mr. Callaghan!”

Corey looked around to find Mrs. Alice Baker emerging through the throng to step between him and Patrick, forcing Corey to step back so she would not be physically pressed against him. She stepped forward as he moved, maintaining the same awkward closeness she had preferred the night before. “Oh, Mr. Callaghan,” she said, “I was so hoping to see you here this morning. I—”

Patrick sidled his way back next to Corey and interrupted Mrs. Baker. Taking the cap from his head, he said, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you yet, miss. Corey, me lad, have you been holding out on me? Who is this lovely woman?”

A range of expressions were fighting for ownership of Mrs. Baker’s face: irritation at being interrupted, pleasure at Patrick’s flattery, and curiosity as to the identity of the old man.

“Patrick, please allow me to introduce Mrs. Baker. Mrs. Baker, this is my manager and trainer, Mr. Patrick O’Sullivan.”

The instant that Mrs. Baker half turned to acknowledge Patrick’s presence, Corey shuffled a foot farther away from her.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. O’Sullivan. What a fighter you’ve produced. Why just look at him. He’s the perfect model of a man: tall, broad, strong, and so forceful.”

Patrick warmed to Mrs. Baker immediately. “Aye, that he is. The finest boxer I have ever trained. The stories I could tell you—”

“And I’ll want to hear every one of them,” Mrs. Baker announced. “In fact, you and Mr. Callaghan will have to join me at the potluck following the funeral. The whole town will be gathering to remember poor Mr. Collins.”

“Why that is right hospitable of you,” Patrick said, his face beaming at the suggestion. “Corey, me lad, why didn’t you tell me about this invitation?”

Corey forewent kicking Patrick in an effort to shut him up. “Just where is Mr. Baker?” Corey asked.

“Mr. Baker?” Patrick repeated, suddenly realizing the situation was a bit more complicated than he had originally assumed.

“Oh, he’s probably following after Mr. Winslow,” Mrs. Baker told them, dismissing her husband from the conversation. “He lets that man order him all over the place just because he works for him. Poor Eugene just isn’t a forceful man like you are, Mr. Callaghan.”

Corey found that Mrs. Baker had stepped right up against him again so that he couldn’t take a deep breath without brushing against her. She stared up into his face with such adulation that it actually unnerved the boxer.

Patrick unwittingly came to Corey’s assistance. “So you know Mr. Wins-low,” he ventured. “Do you remember seeing him when Mr. Collins was killed?”

“Mr. Winslow?” Mrs. Baker asked.

“Yes, we were wondering if—”

Remembering his promise to Miss Parson, Corey forced himself to interrupt. “Where were you when Mr. Collins was shot, Mrs. Baker?”

As Corey had feared, Mrs. Baker was eager for the chance to turn back and face him. “Oh, I was standing right beside him. It was just terrible. One moment he was talking with Mrs. Winslow while I watched the fight and the next he was crumpled against the ropes dying.”

Nothing in Mrs. Baker’s demeanor suggested she’d found the terrible incident anything other than exciting.

“You and Mrs. Winslow?” Patrick asked. He smacked his chops, certain that he had discovered crucial evidence that Miss Parson needed.

Corey cut him off again. “Where were your husbands?” he asked. “It’s lucky that one of you wasn’t killed instead.”

Mrs. Baker waved her hand, dismissing Corey’s suggestion. “Not that they could have done anything. They’re not real men like you, Mr. Callaghan. They’re always around underfoot until you actually find a need for one of them.”

“So they weren’t there?” Corey asked. Perhaps Patrick really had found the information Miss Parson needed.

“Oh, John was around somewhere,” Mrs. Baker said. She didn’t appear to realize she had just slipped and called her husband’s employer by his Christian name. “But he probably had Eugene off running errands. He’s very good at giving Eugene orders.” Mrs. Baker’s expression turned wistful. “Sometimes I think there’s hope for John.”

All of a sudden, Mrs. Baker appeared to remember who she was speaking to. “But that has nothing to do with you, Mr. Callaghan. We already know you’re a man. Why don’t we meet by that tree over there after the funeral so we can go to the potluck together?”

Once again, Corey found his throat tightening with discomfort. He didn’t like the way Mrs. Baker was looking at him.

Patrick, on the other hand, clearly thought the situation was funny. “Oh, we’ll be there, Mrs. Baker. I’ll see to that.”

“You are such a treasure, Mr. O’Sullivan,” Mrs. Baker told him.

“And we’ll be bringing Miss Parson too,” Corey added.

All the joy and adulation dropped instantly from Mrs. Baker’s face. “Miss Parson?”

“The cute little redhaired lass who travels with us,” Patrick told her. “She’s around here somewhere. Let’s see if I can point her out for you.”

“Yes, do,” Mrs. Baker instructed him.

Corey began to regret having mentioned Miss Parson’s name. This sudden coldness in Mrs. Baker was even more unsettling than her gushing adulation. But there was nothing to be done about it now. “There she is,” he told her as he pointed into the crowd. “That’s her talking to Mr. and Mrs. Winslow.”

Mr. Baker stood beside the three, but he did not appear to be listening to their conversation. Instead, he was staring straight back at Corey with a noticeable frown.

“And there’s Mr. Baker,” Corey announced. “Are you sure he won’t mind you inviting the three of us to join you this afternoon?”

“Never mind him,” Mrs. Baker said. Her voice was still cold and flat. “He’ll take what I give him. He’s not man enough to do otherwise.”

“It’s Mr. Winslow,” Miss Parson whispered. “I’m certain of it. I had a very pleasant conversation with his wife. He didn’t approve of her growing friendship with Mr. Collins, and she remembers he and Mr. Baker stalking off to ‘take care of some business’ just before the fight. Of course, she doesn’t realize that I suspect him.”

“That’s great,” Corey told her. “Um, I’m not certain if this will help or not, but Patrick sort of accepted an invitation for us to join the Bakers at the potluck.”

“The Bakers?” Miss Parson asked, her eyebrow arching.

Corey felt the blood rushing to his face. “It wasn’t my idea! But as long as we’re going, I thought it might be helpful to you in finding the killer. Mr. Baker does work for Mr. Winslow.”

Miss Parson examined Corey, poorly concealed amusement twisting her lips. “I am quite certain that concern for my curiosity is the only thing that motivated you.”

Her expression turned pensive. “The Bakers appear to be a very odd couple. He’s rather mousy for a woman of her outspoken preferences. I wonder how they came to be together. Do you know if they have any children?”

“None have been mentioned,” Corey answered.

“It would be interesting to know,” Miss Parson said, “but it hardly impacts on the matter at hand. Perhaps if the potluck becomes too... crowded, you can slip out and tell Mr. Bullock we believe it to be safe to fight again.”

Much to Corey’s horror, Miss Parson got along just fine with Mrs. Baker. He wasn’t quite certain how she did it. One moment Mrs. Baker was staring daggers at the pretty redhead and the next, Miss Parson was taking Mrs. Baker by the arm and guiding her a few steps away from the men.

“Mr. O’Sullivan tells me you are Mr. Callaghan’s greatest admirer,” Miss Parson gushed. “I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to hear that. You know that those two are the only family I have — just like my own father and brother. It does my heart good to see someone noticing their worth.”

Somewhere in the midst of that sugary speech, Mrs. Baker seemed to warm to Miss Parson. Her blond head dipped closer to Miss Parson’s red, and the two were off and whispering and all the while staring at Corey Callaghan.

A hand tapped Corey on the shoulder as he tried to figure out what to do now that he had lost what he had supposed was his sole ally in the struggle to evade Mrs. Baker’s attention. Turning about, Corey found the unsettling woman’s husband standing behind him.

“Mr. Callaghan,” Mr. Baker said, “I must insist that you stop encouraging my wife’s unfortunate infatuation with you.”

“What?” Corey could not have been more astounded by the accusation. Encouraging her? He’d been doing everything in his power to push Mrs. Baker away.

“I will not stand for it,” Mr. Baker said.

Mrs. Baker had evidently caught sight of her husband conversing with Corey, for she broke away from Miss Parson and came charging over beside them. “I warned you, Eugene, do not bother Mr. Callaghan!”

“And I told you, Alice, I will not stand for it.”

Corey retreated a step to let the couple bicker without him. Honestly, purse or no purse, he was ready to put Flat Rock behind him.

“And just what are you going to do about it?” Alice snapped. “Hit him? Fight him? Defend my honor?”

“I am your husband, Alice. You have no cause to be speaking to me this way.”

The marshal stepped up next to Miss Parson, watching the Bakers and Corey. In fact, everyone in Flat Rock seemed to be watching the three of them. Corey retreated further, looking for a way to get away.

“Don’t worry about it too much, son,” Mr. Winslow said as he stepped up beside Corey. “They were carrying on like this before she ever actually met you. It’s why I had to send Baker back to the bank to go over the ledgers. People came to see you fight — not the two of them.”

“You sent Mr. Baker away?” Corey asked.

“Sure enough, his pretty wife likes to make him jealous. It seemed the right thing to do to separate them.”

“And you didn’t go with him?”

“And miss the fight?” Mr. Winslow asked. “Not after I put all that money into it. I watched it with the marshal — what little there was of it.”

So Winslow wasn’t the killer after all, Corey realized, and Miss Parson’s theory was wrong.

“I can talk to any man I want to!” Mrs. Baker shouted.

Corey could see that it was well past time for him to leave, but Miss Parson would want to know what Mr. Winslow had told him.

“Would you do me a favor?” Corey asked the banker.

“If I can,” Mr. Winslow agreed, still apparently amused by the marital squabble.

“Would you go over there to Miss Parson and the marshal and repeat what you just told me about sending Mr. Baker to the bank?”

“I suppose I could do that,” Mr. Winslow agreed. If he had any idea that Corey’s request was connected to the murder investigation, it did not show on his face.

“Good.” Corey looked over his shoulder, plotting his path to the door.

“You coming with me?” the banker asked.

“Rock Quarry Callaghan is ten times the man you are!” Mrs. Baker told her husband and the gathered crowd.

“I think I’d better not,” Corey said, then fled through the crowd toward the far side of town.

Corey didn’t know where to go after escaping the potluck. In truth, Flat Rock wasn’t that big and he didn’t have a lot of options. There was the boarding house off the square where he, Patrick, and Miss Parson were staying, but he didn’t want to feel caged up. He decided instead to go look up Bullock at the barn loft where the man was sleeping and find out how he felt about staying on to fight.

Bullock and his son weren’t there, so Corey exchanged friendly greetings with the manager and left again. He was only a few steps back out of the barn when Mr. Baker appeared in front of him. The determined expression on his face was matched by the serious looking rifle the man was pointing in Corey’s direction.

“I told you, Mr. Callaghan,” Baker began, but Corey wasn’t waiting. At first sight of the rifle he understood what had really happened during the match and flung himself desperately back into the barn.

A shot rang out and Corey had no idea where it went or what it hit.

“I told you, Mr. Callaghan,” Baker repeated as he jacked another round into the firing chamber. “I just won’t stand for it.”

“What the— What’s happening?” Bullock’s old manager shouted.

“It looks like the killer is still trying to kill me,” Corey shouted back.

“Kill you?” the old man shouted. “Then get out of here!”

“The old man’s correct, Mr. Callaghan,” Baker said. He had yet to truly raise his voice. It appeared that unlike his wife, Mr. Baker didn’t enjoy shouting. “You should come out and take your medicine.”

A silhouette appeared in the barn door — a fine target for a person who carried a gun and knew how to use it well.

Baker swung in Corey’s general direction and fired into the shadows. Corey retreated deeper into the barn and hid behind a too-thin wooden post.

Baker stepped in after him, jacking another round as he moved.

“I never touched your wife!” Corey shouted.

The rifle swung about, trying to pinpoint where Corey’s voice was coming from.

“I won’t stand for it.”

“Mr. Callaghan?” Miss Parson shouted, her voice ragged as if she’d been running. “Mr. Baker is—”

The rifle fired. The bullet came nowhere near Corey, and he forced himself to neither move nor speak in response. Baker’s eyes would already be adjusting to the darkness. He had to think of what to do soon. He was rapidly running out of time.

“Mr. Baker, this is Marshal Blake. Why don’t you put down the rifle and come on out of there?”

“Eugene?” It was Mrs. Baker’s voice this time. “Are you really in there fighting for me?”

“I told you, Alice, I’m not going to stand for it.”

“You’re really in there!” she said. Her voice was flushed with pride and excitement.

Corey could make out Baker’s blurry shape, a darker blotch in the lighter shadows near the door. If he could find something to throw he might distract Baker long enough to get near him.

“Mr. Baker,” it was the marshal again. “You’re only making things worse for yourself. Come on out of there.”

Baker stepped deeper into the barn and closer to Corey. He was fidgety, nervous, and his voice contained a slight tremor when he answered the officer.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t follow that instruction just now. Besides, I’ve already killed one man. Killing another can’t make things much worse.”

There was a bucket on the floor about three feet from Corey. It was currently out of reach, but perhaps Baker was distracted enough by his conversation with the marshal that he wouldn’t notice Corey moving.

“You don’t mean Collins, do you? I’d have never thought that you were a good enough shot to hit him at that range.”

Baker sounded bitter. “I am a terrible shot, Marshal. And I wasn’t aiming at Mr. Collins. That was just an unfortunate accident.”

The marshal actually chuckled. “Well I don’t suppose it matters if it was on purpose or by accident. Half the men in town are glad that Collins is dead. I can’t see finding twelve men for a jury who’d all be willing to convict you for it, although they might reward you with a round of drinks at the Hogs Head.”

As the marshal spoke, Corey eased himself down into a crouch and carefully leaned forward to take hold of the bucket.

“Really?” Baker asked.

“I can almost guarantee it!” the marshal assured him.

There was a moment where Mr. Baker appeared to be considering the marshal’s words, but when he spoke again there was a decisive quality to his voice. “I’m sorry, Marshal, but I can’t accept your offer. I just can’t abide the way this man is leading my Alice on.”

“Oh, Eugene,” Mrs. Baker said. Her voice purred with pleasure.

“Well let’s just kick him out of town,” the marshal suggested.

Corey threw the bucket. Baker was looking right at Corey, but the rifle followed the bucket and the bullet missed both targets.

Corey was out of his crouch and moving forward before Baker could bring the rifle back to bear upon him. His clenched fist cracked against the smaller man’s chin, sending the rifle flying and Baker staggering backward to fall on his back in the entrance to the barn. The sunlight flashed off the glass in Baker’s spectacles.

“You brute!” Alice Baker threw herself to her knees beside her husband and cradled his head in her lap. “You animal!” she continued, nearly growling the words as she stared into the barn at Corey. “You just punched a man wearing spectacles.”

Mrs. Baker’s comments pushed the marshal over the edge as his wide grin broke into bellows of laughter.

“I was simply mistaken,” Miss Parson apologized. “It’s just that it seemed to me that you had backed Mr. Bullock into that bullet. If he had kept you pinned against the ropes I didn’t think either of you would have been shot. That meant Mr. Collins was most likely the intended target. It simply didn’t occur to me that the killer might be a poor marksman.”

She was sitting in Marshal Blake’s office together with Corey, Patrick, and the marshal.

“I don’t think you should be too hard on yourself,” the marshal told her. “We all thought Collins was the target.”

“But you said—” Patrick began.

“What else was I supposed to say?” the marshal interrupted. “Gerald Collins was a louse of a man, prying in among the womenfolk where he had no business being. He’d been warned but he wasn’t listening. The only surprise is that the man who shot him was Baker. I still can’t believe it.”

“Is that why you let him go?” Corey asked. He had seen a lot since coming west and realized how little his life really mattered to most men out here. But a marshal letting a man go free the very same day that man had tried to kill him disappointed Corey nonetheless.

“I didn’t free him,” the marshal corrected Corey. “I paroled him. Or actually, the judge did.”

Corey opened his mouth to say something further, but decided there was no point.

“You afraid he might try for you again?” the marshal asked.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” Corey admitted.

“Not tonight he won’t!” the marshal assured him.

“How do you figure that?” Patrick asked. “It seems to me that Baker’s already tried to shoot Corey twice. Maybe he’ll feel he’ll get lucky on the third time.”

“Because tonight he’s with Mrs. Baker,” the marshal explained, “and it seems plain to me that Mrs. Baker’s got—”

The marshal broke off with a sudden look at Miss Parson. He cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is...”

“What?” Patrick asked.

“If you’ll permit me,” Miss Parson offered. “I think that the marshal is trying to say that the revelation of Mr. Baker’s killer instinct makes it likely that the Bakers have some... marital business to discuss tonight.”

Patrick’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed. “Oh.”

“So you see why I thought you’d have nothing to worry about tonight,” the marshal finished. “I’ll lock him back up during Callaghan’s new fight with Thunderin’ Joe just to be certain, but after that... Well there will be a trial but it’s not likely the townsmen will convict Baker of killing Collins.”

It made sense to Corey, but he was still bothered that the marshal seemed unconcerned by Baker’s attempts to shoot him. “And you’re not planning to try him for trying to kill me?”

The marshal shrugged. “That’s completely up to you. Do the three of you want to stay in Flat Rock long enough to testify at the trial?”

The three friends didn’t even glance at each other before answering, “No!”

“There you have it,” the marshal answered.

“The morning after the fight,” Patrick promised, “we’ll all be on our way out of here.”

For the second time in three days, Rock Quarry Callaghan and Thunderin’ Joe Bullock faced each other across the ring. Bullock’s neck was still bandaged, but the wound didn’t appear to be bothering him none. Corey also felt ready. With both Mr. and Mrs. Baker sharing a jail cell for the afternoon, there was nothing to distract him from breaking Joe Bullock.

The bell rang.

Both men darted out of their corners, fists up and feet dancing.

Thunderin’ Joe Bullock was fast as lightning.

But so was Rock Quarry Callaghan.

Copyright © 2008 Gilbert M. Stack