"There's a different ethic these days."
"That's what I'm telling you,” Beemer said.
"People don't want to work for their money now."
"That's what I'm saying."
"What are you gonna do with your half of Four-Foot's stash?"
"After I pay that tax bill? Find another car, I guess. I'm gettin’ push-back from the insurance. They say it wasn't exactly car theft because the car was still there, what was left of it. The thief-weasels were there strippin’ it the whole time Beech was takin’ down our statements. Wheels an’ everything gone."
"You can't even park on the street anymore."
"No, you can't. I got Big Jimmy Little to shove it along the ground with his truck, so I could show it actually had moved, but the adjusters weren't impressed.” Beemer snorted. “Buncha crooks, those guys."
"Tell me about it."
"Law and order. Too much law and not enough order."
"Tell me about it,” Benny said.
Copyright (c) 2008 Jas. R. Petrin
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Fiction: PANDORA'S DEMON by Gilbert M. Stack
"How dare you!"
Corey Callaghan's head snapped up and about at the sound of Miss Pandora Parson's voice and the stinging crack of flesh on flesh that accompanied it. His eyes darted about the smoky saloon, past the card table with the empty seat where she had been playing, until he found her ten feet away struggling in the arms of a grinning cowhand. Corey was on his feet and moving even before he fully realized what was happening.
Out of the corner of his eye, Corey could see Patrick O'Sullivan rising in protest as well, but most of the patrons of The Painted Lady were simply watching what was happening. One nearby table of cowhands was even raucously encouraging the attack on Miss Parson.
"I said let go!” Miss Parson insisted. Her voice was firm as steel, her manner admitted no fear.
"I know you want to give me a kiss,” the cowhand said, dropping his face down toward hers.
Corey grabbed the man with his left hand, spun him about, and drove a right cross solidly into the man's grinning mouth. Corey knew exactly what he was doing. He was a bare-knuckle boxer by profession with years of experience, and he directed the blow with all his skill and powered it with all the rage and hatred this man had just ignited within him.
It was the single most satisfying punch of Corey's career. The cowhand flew back over the bar and did not rise again.
The raucous cowhands at the nearby table surged to their feet. Corey didn't hesitate. Maybe they planned to talk and not fight, but with the odds three to one against him, Corey couldn't wait to find out. He fully understood that his only advantages were training and speed. He stepped in close and drove another hard right straight out from the shoulder, knocking the first of the newcomers back off his feet.
It was a less spectacular punch than the blow which had sent the man over the bar, but its effect was even more dramatic. The man staggered back to collapse across another table, spilling drinks and creating havoc. Those men leapt to their feet as well, instantly angry and ready for payback. They didn't seem to blame Corey though. The biggest member of the newly offended party hauled Corey's second victim off the table and sent him sprawling into a small group of miners. They responded in kind, and the chaos spread.
Corey had already flipped the table out of the way and moved in on the next man. Two jabs and a body blow doubled him over, giving Corey the opportunity to move on down the line, striking mercilessly in an increasingly vain effort to end the battle.
Normally Corey enjoyed a good fight, but with Miss Parson in the saloon and the focus of the wrong sorts of attention, he was worried about losing track of the redhead in the growing madness.
Patrick was getting into the action as well. The old man had always had less sense than Corey and the boxing trainer loved an opportunity to show that he still had what it took when the need arose. He was wiry and fit, but old, and Corey couldn't watch his back and Miss Parson.
As yet another man took a swing at Corey, he was forced to acknowledge that he might even have trouble looking after himself if he stayed much longer. He easily ducked the punch and turned his new opponent's excited grin into a startled O with a couple of blows to the stomach.
Corey backed up, ready to punch again, but the man was turning his attention to easier playmates and Corey decided to let him go.
He stopped next to Miss Parson, looking out for anyone moving purposefully in their direction. For a brief moment the space around them resembled a lull in the storm. None of the friends of Miss Parson's original antagonist were showing any further interest in them. And as for the man who really started the trouble, a quick glance showed Corey that he was literally lying unconscious behind the bar.
"Shall we fight our way through to Patrick?” Corey shouted. “Or do you just want me to get you out of here?"
Through the flickers of expression which danced across Miss Parson's face, Corey could almost see her taking even firmer hold of herself. She was that sort of woman: strong and courageous; grit as well as beauty and brains.
"We'd best not leave Mr. O'Sullivan behind us,” she shouted back.
Corey nodded with approval. It was never good to leave a friend alone in a brawl, although Corey would have done it if Miss Parson had needed him to.
"Stay close behind me!” he shouted, then began to clear a path to Patrick O'Sullivan.
* * * *
Outside The Painted Lady, Patrick was fuming. “Men like that!” he spat. “They've no respect for anyone! Miss Parson, I am so ashamed that I could not get there to help you. Not that Corey needed me!” he added quickly, pride in Corey's fists bursting through his outrage. “That first blow, me lad, was a thing of beauty. Legends come out of punches like that when you land them in the ring."
The old man suddenly remembered what he had been saying. “But that man in there, laying his hands on a good and honorable woman."
"It happens sometimes,” Miss Parson quietly acknowledged. “It's a vile and repulsive thing, but a risk that women run when they enter my profession. Thankfully it happens far less frequently now that I'm traveling with you and Mr. Callaghan."
A man was slowly approaching them. The tin star on his vest reflected the light from the saloon where the brawl was still raging. The marshal stopped in their general vicinity, watching the fight through a window. He spat tobacco juice to the ground. “Looks like it's already winding down,” he announced.
He turned to face the three friends, hitching his thumbs in his gun belt. “You the boxer who threw the first punch?"
"Aye,” Corey acknowledged, trying to size up the man. He was big and solid, but his stance struck Corey as being more neutral than hostile.
Patrick evidently didn't read him that way. “He was defending the honor of this young woman!"
The marshal spat again. “Ain't no honorable women in Perdition,” he said, then tipped his hat. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma'am."
"Why that's—"
The marshal interrupted him. “Ain't none of us got much honor or reputation here. Why do you think we call it Perdition?"
"I did wonder about that,” Miss Parson said.
"You're the lady gambler?"
"Yes."
"Well you're probably the only woman in town who either ain't a whore or hasn't been one.” He winked. “Best keep watching out for yourself. A lot of men here would like to change that."
"I see,” Miss Parson said, giving no indication at all that the news surprised or troubled her.
"In fact, that's sort of why I'm here,” the marshal said.
Corey clenched his fist, but if the marshal noticed, he gave no indication.
"I've got just enough gentlemanly instincts left that I'd like to keep something like that from happening to a pretty little woman like you. So I came by to warn you that you'd all best get out of town. I don't care none about the fight, but the way I hear it, the first man you p
unched was Jack Russel."
The marshal paused for their reactions but neither Corey, nor apparently Patrick or Miss Parson, had heard the name.
"Jack Russel?” he said again. “The Russel Gang? Cattle-rustling, stagecoach-robbing, dry-gulching murderers?"
Corey relaxed his fist and spread his hands. “Sorry, Marshal, we're new to these parts."
"Well you both just met him ten or fifteen minutes ago and let's just say he's not known for his forgiving moods."
"Thanks for the warning,” Corey said.
"If you know he's done all these things,” Patrick asked, “why don't you arrest him?"
The marshal laughed. “If I started arresting people around here for breaking the law, I'd have to lock up plumb near the whole town. I'm just interested in keeping the peace here in Perdition. I don't care what they do anywhere else."
As the marshal finished speaking, a man was thrown sprawling through the batwing doors of The Painted Lady. The officer of the law didn't appear to notice.
"It's very kind of you,” Miss Parson said, “to take the trouble to walk over here and warn us about this problem."
"No trouble at all, ma'am."
"Would you happen to know when the next stagecoach drives through town?"
"It's due about ten o'clock Thursday morning,” the marshal said, “although it's been known to arrive both early and late."
Two days, Corey thought, or really two nights and a day.
"Thank you very sincerely,” Miss Parson said, rewarding the marshal with her most charming smile. “It's gentlemen like you who make the West a safer place for women. We'll be sure to take your advice."
"He didn't...” Patrick sputtered. “He won't..."
The marshal touched his hat again. “I'm always happy to assist a pretty lady. If you'd like to come down and stay with me for the next couple of nights, I'm sure I can keep you safe."
"Very generous,” Miss Parson assured him, “but as Mr. Russel learned this evening, Mr. Callaghan and Mr. O'Sullivan are quite capable of keeping me safe."
"Well the offer stands if you change your mind,” the marshal said, then hitched his thumbs in his gun belt again and moved off the way he had come.
* * * *
"Can you believe the utter gall of that man?” Corey asked as he, Patrick, and Miss Parson walked through the dark streets back to their boarding house.
"Actually,” Miss Parson corrected him, “the marshal appears quite a decent man for this sort of town—especially decent for a man in authority."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, he could have arrested me for inciting that brawl and then tried to force himself on me. In the best of places the West is very dangerous for a woman on her own—especially a woman with an unorthodox profession such as me."
Corey started to protest but forced himself to shut up. He had to assume that Miss Parson knew what she was talking about.
"Normally,” she continued, “I would not have stopped in a town with a name like Perdition. But Mr. O'Sullivan was certain he could get you a good fight here, and I do enjoy traveling with the both of you."
"Me?” Patrick said. “I'm responsible for this?"
"Of course not, Mr. O'Sullivan, Jack Russel is responsible."
"But why didn't you say something?” Patrick asked. “There are other towns that Corey could fight in."
"I knew the risks,” Miss Parson explained, “and I decided to gamble that Mr. Callaghan's impressive physique and growing reputation would be sufficient to deter aggressive ... admiration.” She shrugged. “Sometimes you play the odds and lose."
Corey thought about that and about what Miss Parson's life must have been like before she had begun to travel with Corey and Patrick. He had often wondered why a woman with her dignity, intelligence, and beauty chose to stay with a small-time boxer and his trainer. Now he understood her reasons a tiny bit better.
"We're all agreed then?” Corey asked. “We won't schedule a fight in Perdition. We'll just catch the next stage instead—wherever it's going."
Patrick and Miss Parson agreed.
"Good, then we'll all walk up to the stage station after my run tomorrow morning to buy tickets. Until we get out of town, Miss Parson, I think it best if you don't go outside without both Patrick and me beside you. I also think we should stay out of the saloons tomorrow night."
* * * *
Corey was trying to cool off after a four-mile run when the man approached him a couple of buildings shy of the boarding house. “Say, aren't you Rock Quarry Callaghan?"
Corey stopped, eyeing the man carefully after last night's fight. He didn't recognize him, and he saw no sign of bruises or other injury. He was armed but his hands were out in front of him, nowhere near his pistol. There also didn't appear to be anyone with him.
"Aye,” Corey acknowledged, “that's me."
"Sam Taylor,” the man introduced himself, offering Corey his hand.
Corey tentatively accepted it. The grip was firm and friendly.
"What a punch you threw last night,” Taylor said. “I think you punched Jack Russel clear into next week. I've never seen anything like it."
Corey couldn't contain the pride that stirred his voice. “It was a fine blow, wasn't it?"
"The very best,” Taylor said, placing his hand on Corey's shoulder and gently encouraging him to turn back toward the heart of town. “Why don't you come have a drink with me? I'd love to hear more about your career."
"It's too early to drink,” Corey objected. “Besides, I haven't had breakfast yet."
"Then have breakfast with me,” Taylor suggested.
A muffled “No!” sounded from farther down the street. Corey's head whipped around, certain that it had been Miss Parson's voice shouting. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam Taylor reaching for his gun.
Corey's boxer's hands were faster than any quick-draw artist's. His fingers reached out as the gun cleared leather and taught Sam Taylor the danger of standing too close to your intended victim when you start your draw. He grabbed the pistol barrel and pulled the gun out of Taylor's hands before he could bring it to bear or finish settling his finger on the trigger. With a flick of his wrist Corey tossed the gun down the street, then settled to the business of quickly showing Taylor what he had wanted to know about Corey's fists.
Four seconds later, Taylor was lying dazed and bloody in the street. Corey ran to the boarding house, scooping up the pistol on the way so he could pop the cylinder and empty out the bullets. As he mounted the steps to the porch, he hurled the weapon farther up the street. Then he was through the front door and into the hall.
Mrs. Kettle, the owner of the boarding house, was standing by the stairwell looking up toward the landing. If she was happy to see Corey, she had a funny way of showing it. “Russel,” she shouted in her gravelly voice, “Callaghan's coming!"
Corey was past her and half up the stairs before one of the members of Jack Russel's gang appeared to face him. Corey recognized this one. He was the third man Corey had hit last night and his bruised face blanched with fear when he saw Corey charging up at him. His pistol whipped up, but Corey was already there. This time there was a shot before Corey's fist was reintroducing itself to the man's face.
It happened quickly. The man stumbled backward, dropping his gun, and Corey grabbed him by the shirt, pivoted, and hurled him through the air and down the stairs.
The door to Miss Parson's room was open and she was struggling with a man on her bed. His fist raised to strike her and Corey grabbed hold of it, wrenching hard until the bones snapped.
Jack Russel screamed, but Corey wasn't finished with him. He threw the outlaw up against the wall and began to brutally punish him with his fists.
Something crashed hard to the floor in the next room, reminding Corey that Patrick was somewhere up here as well. He yanked Jack Russel away from the wall and tossed him down the stairwell after his partner.
The door to Patrick's room opened, revealing
the old man standing in his long johns, breathing hard. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek from his temple. “Miss Parson?” he asked.
"I'm right here,” she said, coming to the door of her room. Unlike Patrick, she was fully dressed. “I'm right here and I'm all right, thanks to the both of you."
"Maybe this will end it this time,” Corey said. “I'm pretty sure I heard Russel's wrist snap."
He stepped past Patrick to check on the outlaw the old man had been struggling with. The man lay sprawled unconscious on the floor.
"They pistol-whipped me when they burst in here,” Patrick explained. “But when you arrived and distracted him, I was able to get back up and finish things."
Corey smiled at the pride in Patrick's voice. It was so like what he was feeling himself.
Mrs. Kettle looked up from the pile of men groaning at the bottom of the stairs to glower at Miss Parson. “You're no better than us!” she shouted.
"Yes, I am!” Miss Parson insisted. Her quiet voice yielded no ground to the older woman. “And so are my friends."
"I want you out of here!” Mrs. Kettle screamed.
"No,” Miss Parson told her. “We'll be staying until tomorrow morning."
* * * *
The stagecoach left Perdition twenty minutes after ten o'clock the next morning with Corey, Patrick, and Miss Parson squeezed inside with three other passengers. All had the look of businessmen, which upon reflection, Corey decided they probably were. After all, outlaws needed men to sell their stolen wares and despite the marshal's statements of two nights before, it seemed likely that at least some of the inhabitants of Perdition were semilegitimate citizens.
Despite the beating he and Patrick had given the Russel gang yesterday morning, Corey had halfway expected the outlaw and his men to confront them again. If Jack Russel had dropped matters after Corey surprised him in the saloon, he could have laughed things off. But after yesterday morning he would need to keep face with his men. Tuesday night Corey had suckered him. Wednesday morning he and Patrick had beaten the Russel gang. Pride would make him want to restore his reputation, but evidently the broken arm and the beatings were too much for him because no one tried to prevent the three friends from getting on the coach.
AHMM, July-August 2008 Page 10
