AHMM, January-February 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Are you hungry, Mr. Callaghan?” Miss Parson asked him. “Mrs. Clifford has boiled some more potatoes. You can wash up as soon as Mr. Clifford returns with another pail of water."

  A gunshot cracked across the dry mountain air, startling everyone in the saloon.

  Corey dropped the wheel and leapt to his feet. Miss Parson was looking about her, trying to identify the source of the sound. Dr. Fulton threw himself to the floor and pulled a table over top of him. Mrs. Clifford stood by the fire as if she didn't understand what was happening.

  "It's not Mr. Butler,” Miss Parson said, pointing to his shotgun in the corner. “At least, he's not the shooter."

  "Patrick!” Corey shouted, moving toward the batwing doors.

  "Corey, me lad,” Patrick shouted back, running around the side of the building, the double-bladed axe still in his hands.

  The relief that Patrick was unhurt rushed past Corey and transformed instantly into concern for the other men. “Mr. Butler?” he shouted.

  The stage driver appeared on the far side of the street, running toward the Golden Nugget. “Callaghan!” he shouted back.

  Corey was outside now, trying to figure out where to go.

  "The creek,” Miss Parson reminded him.

  Corey ran.

  * * * *

  Mr. Clifford lay on his back on the bank of the creek, staring up at the sky while the blood leaked out of his shoulder.

  "Are you alive, man?” Corey asked him as he, Miss Parson, Mr. Butler, and Patrick dropped to their knees beside him.

  "I feel most peculiar,” the theologian said.

  "Where's Doc Fulton?” Butler asked.

  "Back in the Nugget,” Patrick answered him.

  "Gentlemen,” Miss Parson said, “whoever shot Mr. Clifford could choose to shoot us as well. We have to get him back to the saloon."

  "I'll get my gun,” Butler announced, then jumped up and sprinted back the way they had come.

  "We need to move quickly!” Miss Parson reminded them.

  "It will make him bleed faster,” Patrick warned.

  "Now!” Miss Parson insisted.

  Corey scooped Mr. Clifford into his arms, eliciting a scream from the smaller man. Both Patrick and Miss Parson helped him to his feet, then all three turned and dashed for the saloon.

  * * * *

  "John!” Mrs. Clifford screamed when she caught sight of her bleeding husband. She hurried to Corey's side as he pushed open the batwing doors and knelt to lay her husband on the floor.

  "Where's Dr. Fulton?” Corey asked.

  "We can't stay here!” Butler said. His eyes were wide with fear, and he kept turning in circles, looking for someone to shoot with his shotgun. “Those windows make this room wide open. We can't stay here!"

  "He's right,” Miss Parson said. “Let's carry him back to the manager's office."

  Corey picked Mr. Clifford back up and followed Miss Parson to the back of the hall, where a small office housed a desk and three chairs. A door and shuttered window were in the back wall. It wasn't big enough to comfortably hold all seven of them.

  "Where's Dr. Fulton?” Corey asked again.

  A timid voice answered from beneath the desk. “I'm right here."

  "What are you doing down there?” Corey asked. “Mr. Clifford's been shot."

  The doctor didn't answer him.

  "Mr. Clifford's been shot,” Corey said again, laying the wounded man on top of the desk.

  Dr. Fulton didn't move.

  "Help him!” screamed Mrs. Clifford. “He's bleeding to death!"

  There was a generous amount of blood coloring Mr. Clifford's shirt, but Corey doubted it would prove quite that serious now that the doctor was here to help.

  "It isn't safe,” Dr. Fulton insisted.

  "Please!” Mrs. Clifford pleaded.

  Corey stepped around the desk so that he could see the doctor. The man was huddled down with his hands covering his ears. “I don't know what to do,” he whimpered.

  "Oh, for Pete's sake,” Patrick swore. “Corey, me lad, get me some clean clothes to use as bandages. I've patched up a lot of boxers in my day. I guess I can fix a bullet hole too."

  Mrs. Clifford ran from the room to fetch her bag of clothing, returning almost immediately and thrusting one of her precious dresses into Patrick's hands.

  "Can someone cut me some wide strips of cloth?” Patrick asked, then turned his attention to the wound, carefully pulling Mr. Clifford's shirt out of his bloody shoulder.

  It looks like the bullet went clean through,” he muttered. “I guess that's good."

  Patrick began packing folded strips of Mrs. Clifford's dress on either side of the shoulder.

  "Halloo in there!” a voice called from outside the saloon.

  All eyes turned from Patrick and Mr. Clifford to the shuttered window and back door.

  "Halloo!” the voice called again. “Can you hear me?"

  "We hear you!” Corey shouted in reply.

  "I want what's mine!” the voice told them. “You send Caruthers out and the rest of you can go free. You keep him in there and I'll kill the lot of you!"

  "Who on earth is Caruthers?” Mrs. Clifford wailed. “He's shot the wrong man! My husband isn't this Caruthers."

  "You can talk it over for a few minutes, but I want what's mine! Any of you try to leave that building before I get it and I'll shoot you!"

  "You've got the wrong man!” Butler shouted. “There isn't any Caruthers here."

  "He knows who he is!” the voice replied. “Now send him and mine out!"

  Butler took a step closer to Patrick and Mr. Clifford. “It must be him,” he announced. “After all, this fellow already shot him."

  "My husband is a respectable man,” Mrs. Clifford retorted. “He's a scholar. He took his degree at Bowdoin College. He has no reason to be masquerading as another man."

  "Then you then,” Butler turned on Corey. “You're just a boxer traveling around the countryside. Who knows how many names you've gone by?"

  Corey shrugged. “I can't prove who I am. It's likely none of us can, but I do have two friends to vouch for me."

  "Dr. Fulton,” Miss Parson said. “Don't you think it's time you explained what is going on?"

  Dr. Fulton was still huddled under the desk. “What ... what are you talking about?"

  "Oh come now, Doctor, you've been nervous since you boarded the stage.” Miss Parson began ticking points off on her fingers. “Then a rock is propped up just around a sharp bend in the road so that our stagecoach breaks an axle. Your valise was stolen. Mrs. Clifford saw a man peering in at us from the darkness, and Mr. Callaghan and I found evidence of his horse. Now Mr. Clifford is shot, and you, the doctor, hide under a desk claiming you don't know what to do. I think you'd better tell us what is happening, or I'll ask Mr. Callaghan here to grab you by the scruff of your neck and hurl you out the door."

  "He, he wouldn't do that,” Dr. Fulton protested.

  "Of course I would,” Corey lied. “I'd do most anything Miss Parson asked me to."

  "Dr. Fulton,” Miss Parson said, “if we're going to help you, we need to know what's going on. I don't think we have much time."

  Mr. Clifford groaned, distracting everyone for a moment as Patrick slipped a long strip of cloth beneath his shoulder to tie the bandages in place. “Best I can do,” he apologized to Mrs. Clifford.

  The Eastern lady looked from her husband to Dr. Fulton cowering beneath the desk. “You tell them,” she ordered, “or so help me, I'll take Mr. Butler's shotgun and shoot you myself."

  It seemed impossible to Corey, but Dr. Fulton actually grew paler. “His name,” he mumbled, “is Nick Teller."

  "Tell us about it, Dr. Fulton,” Miss Parson suggested in the mildest, most encouraging of tones.

  "I won't wait forever!” Nick Teller's voice called out.

  "He'll wait a little longer,” Miss Parson said. “Tell us about it."

  "My name isn't Fulton,” Caruthers confessed, “and as
you guessed, I'm not a doctor. I'm a lawyer from a small town in Arizona where Teller became a notorious cattle rustler. Everyone was sure he was doing it, and one day we finally caught him in the act. But we had a problem. We sent for the Federal marshal right away, but we knew it might be weeks before he would come. We didn't even have a town jail, and Teller almost escaped from us."

  Caruthers crawled out from beneath the desk so he could see everyone's faces. “So the town came to me and asked me to serve as judge and preside over the trial. They all knew I had studied law, even though I was making my living at a small down-on-its-luck dry goods store. So I agreed, and we held our trial and I sentenced Nick Teller to hang. Then wouldn't you know it, the marshal showed up, told us we'd overstepped our rights, and took Teller off our hands.

  "We all thought it was over. My dry goods store went under, and I moved on. Then one day I looked up from a saloon in Denver and saw Nick Teller staring at me from across the room. I've been running from him ever since."

  Caruthers stopped talking and the room pondered what he had said. “Well, I ain't got much use for lawyers,” Butler informed them, “but I can't see turning a judge over to someone who would dry gulch a man."

  "I'm waiting!” Nick Teller called out again.

  "We also have to consider the possibility that Mr. Teller will kill the rest of us whether or not we turn Mr. Caruthers over to him,” Miss Parson noted. “He's already shot Mr. Clifford, and he can't be certain how much Mr. Caruthers has told us."

  "What are we going to do?” Mrs. Clifford asked.

  "We are going to have to find a way to turn the tables on Mr. Teller,” Miss Parson answered.

  "Do you have a plan?” Corey asked.

  "A very poor one,” Miss Parson admitted, “but it might work if Mr. Caruthers will help us."

  The lawyer shrank back from her. “What do you want me to do?"

  "We need you to go outside and attract Mr. Teller's attention while Mr. Callaghan and Mr. Butler try to reach Mr. Teller and stop him."

  "I won't go outside!” Caruthers said.

  "That really is a poor plan,” Corey said, shaking his head.

  "I haven't had much time to think of one,” Miss Parson reminded him.

  "Then let's think this through. Mr. Butler, if you were by yourself and wanted to see anyone leaving this building, where would you watch it from?"

  Butler didn't hesitate. “The roof of that building next door. You could see both the front and the back of the house."

  "Good, then we'll use Miss Parson's plan, and you and I will slip out one of the windows on the far side of the building and try to sneak up on him."

  "Unless he's perched on that store's roof instead of the other one,” Miss Parson pointed out. “And how will you reach him if he doesn't come down? We need to bring him at least partway to us. Mr. Caruthers, when Mr. Teller says he wants ‘what's mine,’ what is he referring to?"

  "I thought he was talking vengeance,” Mrs. Clifford said.

  "That's it exactly!” Caruthers agreed.

  Miss Parson pursed her lip. “I don't think so."

  "I'm getting mighty tired of waiting!” Teller called out.

  "He's definitely on that side,” Butler said, pointing in the direction he had first indicated.

  "I think you're right,” Miss Parson agreed. “All right, let's try it. I don't see any other choice."

  "I am not going out there!” Caruthers insisted.

  "I guess I could put on his suit and pretend to be him,” Corey suggested.

  "No, Corey, me lad, you're too tall and too big,” Patrick said. “I'll do it. If I can draw him in close, I think I could give him a surprise or two."

  "Patrick!"

  "You're too big,” Patrick repeated, before jerking a thumb toward Caruthers. “And he's too yellow. It will have to be me."

  Patrick began to unbutton his shirt. Caruthers followed suit.

  "You're going to have to pretend to cower so you can hide your face,” Miss Parson advised. “Don't make it easy for him. Fall to your knees and do a lot of trembling."

  "It goes against the grain,” Patrick boasted, “but I'll do the best I can."

  He accepted Caruthers's shirt and slid it on.

  "Pants and shoes too,” Corey suggested. “And hurry it up. We don't have much time."

  Caruthers spared a glance for the women, then sighed and stripped to his long johns. Patrick donned the clothing just as fast as the lawyer could take it off, ending with his black hat.

  "You look terrible,” Corey said when they had finished, “but it will have to do."

  "Not quite,” Miss Parson corrected him. “Mr. Caruthers, give Mr. O'Sullivan your medical bag."

  The lawyer grabbed the bag off the floor and backed away from them until he huddled in the corner with the bag clutched against his chest.

  "That's what I thought,” Miss Parson said. “You're not a real doctor, so what is in the bag?"

  Corey reached out and snatched the bag out of Caruthers's hands. It was heavier than he expected. He opened it and showed its contents to Miss Parson.

  "Money,” she said, “United States scrip. Were you his judge or his partner, Mr. Caruthers? I find the latter much more believable."

  "I don't understand,” Mrs. Clifford said.

  "Mr. Caruthers told us his store went broke. If his story was true, why is he carrying thousands of dollars with him? I think he was selling the rustled stock for Mr. Teller and cheated him out of his share of the profits. Did you betray him to the law too?"

  Remarkably, with his secret exposed, Caruthers began to look calmer and more composed. “What are you going to do?"

  "Exactly what we were going to do before,” Miss Parson told him. “There is still no reason to expect Mr. Teller to let us live through this experience."

  "You're not taking my money out there,” Caruthers said.

  "No,” Miss Parson agreed. “I don't think that would be expedient. We can use a few of Mr. Clifford's books to weight the bag."

  "You send him out now,” Nick Teller called, “or I just might shoot the lot of you."

  "Tell him you're coming,” Miss Parson suggested.

  Panic flashed across Caruthers's face, but he did as he was told. “All right, you win, Teller! I'm coming out."

  Corey slipped out of the room and snatched up several of Mr. Clifford's books. Miss Parson had emptied the black bag of a surprising number of bills and quickly reloaded it with the tomes.

  She handed the bag to Patrick. “Be very careful, Mr. O'Sullivan."

  Patrick nervously licked his lips. “I'll be all right.” He turned to Butler. “Just remember that shot spreads after you fire it. I'd hate to be killed by you by mistake."

  "I'll be careful,” Butler promised.

  Patrick grasped the door handle.

  "I'm, I'm coming out!” Caruthers shouted.

  Patrick threw himself through the open door and onto the ground, wrapping his arms around the black bag as Caruthers had so often done.

  "Don't shoot me! Please don't shoot me!” Caruthers shouted.

  Miss Parson caught the door before it could slam closed and held it about an inch open so she could see what was happening."

  "Get over here, you slimy toad!” Teller shouted. “Get over here so I can kill you proper!"

  "Don't kill me!” Caruthers whined. He really did look in fear for his life, even though it was Patrick who was in immediate danger.

  "I said get over here!"

  "Don't move, Mr. O'Sullivan,” Miss Parson whispered. “Make him come down to you."

  "Shoot!” Teller cursed. “If I have to come down there it will go worse for you!"

  "Tell him he can have the money,” Miss Parson whispered.

  "The money is all yours!” Caruthers screamed. “Just don't kill me!"

  "Let's move, Mr. Butler,” Corey said. Both men slipped into the main hall and ran to the far end of the building where they slipped out the window.

&n
bsp; "You're faster than me,” Butler said, “and I have to get real close to use this shotgun, so I'll go around the front and you try to take him round the back."

  "If that door or window opens at all,” Teller shouted, “I swear I'll kill the lot of you!"

  Corey sprinted along the wall of the building and peered around the corner. A wiry-looking cowhand was covering Patrick with a rifle as he slowly approached him. Patrick was at least seventy-five feet away from Corey. There was no way the boxer could close that distance in time to help him.

  "We were partners, you slimy toad!” Teller shouted. “How dare you run off with the money and leave me to face the law?"

  He was almost up to Patrick now. The old man continued to huddle on the ground over the black satchel.

  Teller stopped walking. “Wait a minute.” The rifle darted forward and knocked Caruthers's hat off of Patrick's head. “You're not—"

  "Stop right there, rustler!” Butler shouted.

  Teller whirled to face Butler and Corey sprinted forward. Seventy-five feet, twenty-five yards, he was never going to make it.

  Teller fired his rifle, putting a bullet into the side of the building next to Butler. The stage driver jumped back, dropping his shotgun. A single shell exploded harmlessly into the air.

  Corey pounded closer.

  Teller adjusted his aim, firing again just as Patrick lunged off the ground and plowed into him.

  The shot went wide.

  Corey ran closer.

  Teller slammed the stock of his rifle into Patrick's cheek, knocking the old man down. He saw Corey closing in on him, but Butler was also reaching for his shotgun.

  Teller hesitated one fateful instant, and Corey Callaghan caught up to him.

  Most cowhands were tough. They lived a grueling life from dawn to dust year round and were used to hardship and pain. But Corey Callaghan was a professional bare-knuckle boxer, and he knew more about inflicting damage with his hands than Nick Teller had ever dreamed possible.

  His right hand snagged Teller by the front of his shirt, and his left fist slammed repeatedly into the rustler's chin: three, four, six, eight times. He only stopped punching because Miss Pandora Parson caught hold of his arm.