AHMM, December 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Someone removed the rifles one by one?” Father Murphy asked.

  "Carbines,” Lieutenant Ridgewood corrected him. “Cavalrymen use carbines. Despite what Lieutenant Summers says, this could have been going on since the weapons first arrived at the fort. I doubt that I would have opened each of those crates to check their actual contents. He probably didn't either."

  Miss Parson sought clarification. “So without the initiative of this private, you would likely have been blamed for the missing material?"

  Ridgewood paused in his eating to ponder that question. “No,” he said finally, “because this inquiry is likely to recommend a court martial, and I will likely never take over the responsibilities of quartermaster."

  "But the thief couldn't have anticipated that,” Father Murphy observed.

  * * * *

  Corey was working out the next morning, running the perimeter of the fort, when Lieutenant Summers led a cavalry patrol out of Fort Bridger.

  Perimeter was a somewhat misleading term at Bridger. When Corey had first come west he had expected to find forts like wooden castles dotting the landscape with huge palisades surrounding them to hold back the marauding hordes of Indians. What he found instead was that forts didn't have walls out West—at least none that he had yet seen did. Instead, the forts sprawled over the landscape like small towns and often housed more civilians than soldiers—people who were more interested in selling to the military market than protection.

  What most distinguished forts from towns, as far as Corey could determine, were the hours soldiers kept. In most western towns, dawn saw only minimal stirrings out of doors. Families with animals sent a boy outside to care for them and a few occupations got men into the street early, but town life proper tended to start later in the morning.

  Forts were more like farms in this regard. Soldiers were up at dawn or just before, preparing for the day's review, cleaning their weapons, and working both to maintain the fort and on the hundred-odd keep-busy tasks their officers had found for them. And sometimes, like this morning, they were riding out on patrol.

  Twenty men and horses were streaming out of Bridger past Corey in two impressive files. Corey ran along beside them for a ways, hoping to pick up some gossip. It was easy to pick out Private Higgins in the line. The mountain of muscle was so big he actually seemed to dwarf the horse he was riding, which might explain why he was usually assigned to the quartermaster's office. It gave him less time in the saddle and easier access to the fort's food stores to keep up his strength.

  The whole fort was anxiously awaiting the day Corey and Higgins would fight—not that any of them expected Corey to win. Higgins was the local favorite: big, tough, and with at least some professional training. If he had been in prime condition, Corey would have been certain he could take him. Corey was hard and fast, and Patrick had trained him to be smart with his fists. But Corey was not in prime condition. He had been beaten with rifle stocks a few weeks earlier in Cheyenne, and he had still not bounced fully back from those injuries. When he met Higgins in the ring, it would be a genuine battle between them.

  Corey increased his pace despite a growing twinge in his side and came up alongside of Higgins. The barren terrain was rough, and he was forced to hop the occasional rock to maintain his place beside him. “Where are you heading, Private?” he asked. “I hope you won't be out so long we can't have our match."

  Higgins laughed, his voice bellowing out of his massive chest. “You can't get out of fighting me that easily!” he insisted. “We're just racing out to bring back the dirty Mormon trader who stole a passel of carbines from the Lieutenant."

  The news surprised Corey. “So you found out who did it?"

  "Sure enough,” the private agreed. “It just stands to reason. I turned him away from nosing around the stores myself earlier this week, and he's the only trader to leave Bridger since the carbines went missing."

  Corey knew he wasn't a particularly bright man, but it still troubled him that he couldn't follow the private's reasoning. “So how did the trader get the carbines?"

  Higgins shrugged. “He stole them. I guess we'll find out how when he confesses."

  Corey was about to respond to that, but Sergeant Kelly called out from farther up the line. “That's enough talking back there, Higgins! Callaghan, you'll have to get your gossip someplace else!"

  Corey peeled away from the file to complete his workout.

  * * * *

  "Corey, me lad, you move like cold molasses. Where's your spark? Where's your timing?"

  Corey threw another combination at the air in front of him. There was a twinge in his shoulder and a sore spot in his ribs, but other than that he was almost completely recovered from Cheyenne. The rhythm and the speed would return in time.

  Of course, there wouldn't be so much pressure for Corey to fight if Patrick could stop losing all of their money in poker games.

  "What's wrong with you, lad?"

  Corey stopped boxing. “What's wrong with me? What's wrong with me is that I got badly beaten keeping you from getting lynched. Now why don't you stop complaining and start helping me work out some moves that don't aggravate my injuries?"

  "Complaining? Me?” Patrick strode up to Corey. “What are you talking about, lad? The only one doing any whining around here is you. Now quit your jawing and get back to work!"

  The breath caught in Corey's chest and his hands clenched into fists. “Whining?"

  "Gentlemen,” Miss Parson interrupted, “Father Murphy is approaching."

  Corey forced himself to open his hands. Patrick stared at him for a moment longer, then turned his back on the boxer and faced the priest. “Welcome, Father, how are you?"

  "I'm feeling quite well today, Patrick, and yourself?"

  "Good, good, looking forward to our game tonight."

  Corey felt his hands clenching again. “Patrick!"

  Father Murphy ignored Patrick's statement and stepped past him, offering Corey his hand. “And how are your injuries today?"

  Corey forced himself to relax again so he could shake the priest's hand. “I'm healing, Father, thank you for asking.” He shot a glance at Patrick. “Another couple of weeks and I'll be fit as a fiddle."

  "We don't have a couple of weeks, Corey,” Patrick reminded him. “Our money is running out, unless I get lucky at the table tonight."

  "Damn it, Patrick! Your luck at the tables is the reason we're out of money!"

  "Language, Corey,” Father Murphy reminded him. “There's a lady present."

  "And a priest,” Patrick added.

  Father Murphy turned his back on both Patrick and Corey and stepped over to Miss Parson. “Please forgive me for not greeting you first as a gentleman should. How are you this fine morning?"

  "I'm quite well, Father,” she answered. “Have you any news?"

  "Well, our hearing has been delayed once again. It seems that Lieutenant Ridgewood's counsel led a patrol off toward Utah this morning."

  "If that don't beat all,” Patrick complained. “The sergeant asked us not to schedule our fight until after Corey testifies at the hearing.” He winked. “They seem to think he's going to get busted up."

  Corey decided not to exasperate Patrick by applauding the delay. “I saw that patrol leave this morning. Higgins is in it. He says a Mormon trader stole the carbines."

  "That's what they were saying,” Father Murphy agreed. “It may well be Lieutenant Summers's final patrol. He's resigned his commission, you know—leaves the service at the end of the month."

  "I'm surprised,” Miss Parson observed, “that they would let the lieutenant lead this patrol as he was responsible for the missing materials."

  "I wondered about that myself,” Father Murphy said. “It appears that he assumed this command as opposed to having it thrust upon him."

  "What precisely does that mean?"

  "Well, as far as I can figure it, Lieutenant Summers brought his suspicions regarding the Mormon trader to Colonel Holworth
last night, who took the matter under advisement. This morning the lieutenant rode out on his own authority to bring the trader back."

  "On his own authority?"

  "Precisely. I heard about it all from Captain Danforth who seems quite amused by Lieutenant Summers's actions. He sees it as an attempt by the lieutenant to defend his honor. It's not clear how the colonel sees it."

  "I cannot believe that they allowed the lieutenant to do this,” Miss Parson said. “Why didn't Colonel Holworth send out another patrol and order the lieutenant back?"

  "I don't understand the problem,” Patrick confessed. “What does it matter which officer brings the Mormon back?"

  "Patrick,” Father's Murphy's voice was quiet. “I am not one to cast aspersions, but surely it must be obvious to everyone that Lieutenant Summers is a suspect in the disappearance of the carbines."

  "But he's just trying to clear his name,” Patrick insisted.

  Father Murphy considered this reply for a few moments, then slowly nodded his head. “Yes, Patrick, that's certainly one way to view his actions."

  NNN

  "What do you mean you're off to play cards again?” Corey spit the words at his trainer, face flushing with anger and exasperation. They'd have no money left at all at the rate Patrick was losing it.

  "Well, Corey, me lad, someone has to pay the bills around here since you're taking so long recovering from your little tussle in Cheyenne."

  "That little tussle was a beating from a lynch mob bent on stringing you up."

  "Now, now, Corey, I've taken a lot of beatings in the ring myself over the years, and I've seen a lot of fine young boxers recover as well. We both know you're healing slow, and we can both figure out why. Your heart's just not in it this time.” The old man shook his head in sorrow. “I never thought me Rock Quarry Callaghan would lose his fire."

  Corey was very close to hauling back and hitting the old man. He chose his words carefully, trying to keep his temper in check. “There is a huge difference, Patrick, between being hit with fists and being hit with rifle stocks."

  Patrick shrugged, an exaggerated gesture clearly intended to let him claim he had conceded the argument to Corey. “If you say so, lad. Still, I know you took down that fellow Perkins on the train. I don't see how fighting Private Higgins could be that different."

  Corey's fist was quivering with desire to strike the old man. He took a very deep breath—so deep it made his still healing ribs hurt. He held the breath as long as he was able. Patrick had gone mad to suggest that there was any comparison between a five second street brawl and a fight in a ring. For God's sake, Corey had kicked Perkins between the legs and thrown him off the train, not beaten him into submission.

  He let the breath out. He was calmer now and infinitely more melancholy. “Patrick, do you want to gamble tonight so badly that you'll keep insulting me until I walk away from you?"

  "I'm not insulting you, Corey,” Patrick sputtered.

  Corey's spirits continued to deflate. “Well, let's be very clear, then, about what you want to do because you've almost succeeded. I'm very close to walking away from you."

  Patrick visibly brightened, clearly not perceiving the threat in Corey's words. “Well then, I'll just go meet the boys and Miss Parson."

  "Wait a moment.” Corey put a restraining hand on Patrick's shoulder. It was a strong hand, despite Corey's injuries.

  Patrick stopped cold.

  "How much money do I have left?” Corey asked him.

  Patrick squirmed. “We have a little more than twelve dollars."

  Corey let the change from I to we pass for the moment. He knew that Patrick had long ago gambled away his share of their money. “And how much have you put away to bet on my next fight?"

  Patrick squirmed again and tugged at his shirt collar with a finger. “Why there's twelve dollars,” he said at last.

  Corey did the figures in his head. It took him a while. He wasn't like Miss Parson. He didn't like counting or arithmetic. “So there's actually twenty-four dollars?"

  Patrick squirmed again, but told the truth. “No, me lad, there's only twelve."

  It was as Corey feared. “Patrick, why are you pushing me to get into a fight before I'm ready when we don't have enough money left to make betting on it worthwhile? There's not going to be a purse out here. The only money we'll make will be from your bets on me."

  "Don't worry, lad, I'll increase our stake at the tables tonight."

  "No, Patrick, you won't!” Corey told him. “You never win when you play cards."

  "Now, lad, you know that's not true. On the train—"

  "The card game on the train was the only time you've won big in all of the years I've known you. Once in a while you break even. Usually, you lose. If you play cards tonight, we'll have less than twelve dollars to bet when I go up against Higgins."

  "Corey, lad, you have to have a little faith in me."

  "I've let you gamble away a lot of my money over the years. I never saw the harm in it until tonight. Now I do! We both know I'm not ready to fight. Oh, I'll beat him, but he's good enough and big enough to bust me up first. And we're not going to be able to win enough to let me heal properly because you can't stop playing cards!"

  "Corey,” Patrick said again. “Just have a little faith. I won't let you down."

  The older man walked away shaking his head.

  "The problem is,” Corey muttered, “you already have."

  * * * *

  Patrick avoided Corey the next morning—not an easy thing to do considering that they shared a tent. But when Corey went out for his conditioning run, Patrick pretended to still be asleep. It wasn't unusual for Patrick to send Corey out alone in the morning—the old man hated to get up early—but it was strange for him to pretend to be sleeping. It added to Corey's sense of coming calamity.

  When Corey returned from his run, Patrick was gone, another bad sign, as it was still early for him to be up and about. Corey went to the fort mess, finagled his breakfast, and endured the good-natured ribbing of soldiers who were certain that Private Higgins was going to destroy him in a couple of days. Corey's heart wasn't in the byplay. All that he could think about was that the fight would be for naught. Win or lose, he was going to get busted up, and they weren't going to make enough money to get by.

  Corey didn't mind getting hurt in the ring. It was part of the job, and he liked fighting, but in the past he'd been risking injury to win something. This time, thanks to Patrick, that wasn't true. This time he didn't know why he would be fighting.

  Miss Parson found Corey a little after noon. The stitch in his side was still troubling him, preventing him from putting real power in his right-hand punches. It was a bad thing. Corey had a fine left jab to set up opponents, but it was the thundering right cross that really knocked them back on their heels. Without the right cross, he'd have real problems with Higgins.

  Corey halted his workout when he saw Miss Parson. “Good afternoon."

  Miss Parson offered him a pleasant smile. “How are you feeling today? It looks like you're finally getting some freedom of movement back on that right side."

  Corey felt his ribs. The flesh was tender, but not nearly as tender as it had been. “It's healing,” he agreed. “Another couple of weeks and I'll be fit as a fiddle."

  Miss Parson arched an eyebrow. Corey knew that she had overheard many of Patrick and his arguments on this point, but she asked the question anyway. “So why are you planning to fight Private Higgins the day after we testify?"

  Corey tried to smile. “Patrick arranges the fights."

  "Mr. Callaghan, if you're not fit..."

  Corey shrugged. “It's embarrassing to admit this to a woman, but you, Patrick, and me have been through a lot together. The truth is we're out of money. It's either let Patrick set up a fight or get a job."

  Miss Parson cringed. As a professional gambler, she was probably the only woman of Corey's acquaintance who understood and respected his aversion to working li
ke ordinary men.

  "Frankly, I'd have fought Higgins already if the sergeant hadn't asked us to wait until after the hearing. I need to fight Higgins before Patrick loses all of our money."

  Miss Parson cringed again.

  "That tears it,” Corey said. “How much did he lose last night?"

  "Seven or eight dollars,” Miss Parson answered.

  "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Corey prayed, “give me the strength not to beat him senseless.” He turned to Miss Parson. “I did everything but beg him not to play last night, but the more he loses the more he feels he's got to prove himself to me by going back to the tables and winning some money."

  Miss Parson's voice was very quiet, making Corey strain to hear her. “I've seen it many times. I make a good deal of my living off men like Mr. O'Sullivan."

  Corey stopped worrying about himself for a moment and really looked at Miss Parson. She was a pretty little thing with long red hair, a sprinkling of freckles, and a look of soul-piercing guilt upon her face.

  "I have never before been in a position,” she confessed, “where I was consistently taking money from a friend."

  Corey took a deep breath and held it. She was right, of course; much of Patrick's money was flowing into her purse. But no one was forcing Patrick to join those games. He released the breath in a long drawn-out sigh.

  "If it weren't going to you, it would be going to someone else. The real problem is Patrick can't stop playing cards."

  "I ... would it be improper to offer you a loan?"

  Corey felt his face flush with embarrassment. “I won't take charity, Miss Parson, but it was kind of you to offer.” He shook his head. “I guess the fight is off. There's really no point to it if we've nothing left to bet on it."

  "You've really nothing left?” Miss Parson asked.

  "Oh, I've got a couple dollars in my pocket. At least I do until Patrick wants to play cards again tonight."

  For the first time in their conversation the looks of sympathy and guilt on Miss Parson's face was replaced by one of irritation. “Give it to me!” she demanded, her voice alive with sudden authority.