AHMM, April 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "In the morning, then,” Corey conceded.

  "And don't come none too early."

  * * * *

  Corey made his way around the side of the town jail. The crowd still milling about was more excited than angry. From their scattered conversations they all seemed to believe that Patrick was guilty. He had, it seems, literally been captured red-handed.

  Corey eased up to a barred window in the back of the building and whispered his friend's name. “Patrick?"

  When there was no response he called again, louder this time. Someone in the next cell stirred and came to the window. “Who's there?"

  Corey's actions and Patrick's response attracted the attention of a small knot of men who ambled over to hear what was happening. Corey chose to ignore them, moving over to the window looking in on Patrick. “It's me."

  "Corey, me lad, saints preserve me, but I'm glad to see you. You've got to get me out of here. They think I killed Bob Tanner."

  "That's because you stuck your knife in him!” one of the spectators interjected. His friends laughed heartily and slapped him on the back.

  "Anyone who knows me,” Patrick retorted, “knows I don't carry a knife."

  "Then I guess no one knows you,” the man responded, still laughing, “because everyone knows that's what you did."

  "Ignore him, Patrick,” Corey counseled, “and tell me what happened."

  "Ignore me?” Corey assumed the man had been out drinking. His steps weren't quite right as he made his way closer to the boxer. His friends straggled in behind him.

  "Friend,” Corey told him, “I have no quarrel with you. I have bigger problems. My trainer, here, has been arrested for murder and I want to know what happened.” Corey took a deep breath and suppressed the urge to threaten the man. He was a stranger in Cheyenne, an Irish stranger. If there was a fight here it was he who would wind up in the cell next to Patrick, not any of these men.

  "Why don't you and your friends stand here quietly and listen to what Patrick has to say for himself. Maybe it will give you a story to drink on when he's finished."

  "What's he training you for?” one of the man's friends asked.

  "Boxing,” Patrick proudly announced. “That's Rock Quarry Callaghan you're talking to."

  "Shoot,” the man said with a grin. “I saw you fight Angry Grady. Carl, why don't we let the man alone and listen to what the old one has to say?"

  His other friends seemed to agree with the sentiment, and Carl grudgingly gave way. “All right, I'm not picking a fight here. I just want to hear what the murderer has to say."

  "I ain't no murderer,” Patrick sputtered.

  Corey attempted to calm him. “He didn't mean nothing by it. You've been arrested. Just about everyone thinks that means you did it. Just tell me what happened."

  "Well, I don't rightly know,” the old man admitted.

  "Patrick!"

  "I came around the back of the Silver Lady still mad as hell but needing to use the outhouse. I saw two gents in the darkness ahead of me. One was lying on the ground. The other was leaning over him. I gave a shout and went over to help."

  "Sure you did,” Carl was too drunk to keep his comments to himself.

  Corey wanted to ask Patrick why he was angry, but the men at his back made him uneasy. Instead he asked, “So what did you do then?"

  "I ran over. One of the men ran away as I approached, dropping money all about him. I'd have given chase, but there was the other man lying on the ground with a knife in his back."

  "So what did you do?"

  "Why, I rolled him over to see if he was still breathing, and wouldn't you know, it was that no good cardsharp, Bob Tanner."

  "Who you just murdered!” Carl reminded everyone.

  "I did not!” Patrick protested.

  "Yes, you did,” Carl insisted. “They found him with your knife in his back, and his blood on your hands."

  "It wasn't my knife!"

  "And you'd accused him of cheating at cards not an hour before, and his boy threw you out in the street,” Carl continued.

  "He was cheating!"

  "My point exactly,” Carl finished, as if Patrick had just confessed to everything.

  Corey gritted his teeth to contain his irritation. “Did anyone else see what happened?"

  "Just the man I scared away."

  * * * *

  At the boarding house where the boxer and his trainer were staying, Corey found Miss Pandora Parson sitting in the kitchen waiting up for him. To all appearances she was a proper young woman: well dressed, with brilliant red hair pulled back from the smattering of freckles on her face and her mother's silver wedding ring on the fourth finger of her right hand. In Miss Parson's case, Corey had learned that appearances could be deceiving. He and Patrick had met her in Denver, where she was making her living as a professional gambler and trying to extricate herself from the hold of a less honorable man who was also causing trouble for Corey and Patrick. She chose to travel north with the two men when the opportunity presented itself. In the weeks since leaving Denver, Corey and Miss Parson had developed an easy, if formal, friendship, much to Patrick's chagrin.

  Corey sat down at the table across from Miss Parson. “Have you heard about Patrick?"

  "Oh yes,” she confirmed. “I was back here at the house when Mr. Rett and Mr. Brown came to find you. They shared the news. Mrs. Shaw is not happy and is threatening to throw you out in the morning, and maybe me too. You know how she feels about boxers and gamblers."

  Corey did know. Clutching her worn Bible tightly in her hand, the widow Shaw had been quite clear from the moment she met them that she had no use for people of their sort. But she did, it turned out, have quite a use for the money they paid in room and board. Unless she had other patrons waiting to take their rooms, Corey felt quite certain she would content herself with bluster.

  "Everyone thinks he did it,” Corey complained.

  Miss Parson considered her response before tendering a reply. “Are you quite certain he did not?"

  Corey lurched to his feet. The motion of standing shoved the chair back behind him. “Just what do you mean by that?"

  Miss Parson watched Corey carefully as she answered him. “I'm not accusing Mr. O'Sullivan of murder. I am simply asking if you have any evidence other than your knowledge of Mr. O'Sullivan's character as to whether or not he committed this crime."

  "Well, no,” Corey admitted. “I wasn't there. I only know what Patrick told me."

  "That's more than I know. Why don't you sit down and tell me what Mr. O'Sullivan related? I'm quite surprised the marshal let him talk to you at this hour of the night."

  Corey straightened his chair and sat back down across from Miss Parson. “The marshal wouldn't let me in so I walked around back and talked to Patrick through the window."

  Miss Parson furrowed her brow in what might be concern or disapproval. “The window of the cell looks out on the back of the jail?"

  "Yes."

  She shook her head.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Hopefully nothing. I just wouldn't have thought the marshal would put a man accused of murder where the public can get at him."

  Corey clearly failed to grasp her point. “I guess we were lucky he didn't think of that. Otherwise, I couldn't have talked to him."

  Miss Parson did not press the issue. “And just what did Mr. O'Sullivan have to say?"

  "Why, that he didn't do it, of course,” Corey answered, feeling his Irish temper stoking higher again.

  Miss Parson's lips twitched upward as if she were trying not quite successfully to restrain a smile. “I'm sure he did, but what did he say happened?"

  Suddenly Corey smiled himself. It wasn't that he saw any humor in Patrick's situation, but here he was blundering around like an amateur getting ready to fight a friend. He felt out of control—defeated before he had begun. Words would never be his chosen weapons. “I don't really know. Patrick says he frightened away the real murderer and was blindside
d with the blame."

  "And the money?” Miss Parson pressed. “Mr. Tanner was winning a lot of money this evening."

  Corey scratched his head. “Patrick said there was a lot of money scattered all over the place."

  "I see. Do you know if any money was found on Mr. O'Sullivan?"

  "He didn't say, but you know as well as I do that it's unusual for Patrick to quit for the night when there's more than a few cents in his pocket."

  "It is unusual,” Miss Parson agreed. “I wonder if that knowledge will help Mr. O'Sullivan. I suppose that will depend on whether or not the marshal's reputation truly describes him."

  "Good man?” Corey asked. He hadn't had any trouble with the law in Cheyenne and so hadn't paid much attention to it.

  "Unfortunately not.” Miss Parson slid her chair back from the table and rose to her feet. “I suggest that we retire to our rooms. There's really nothing we can do before we speak with the marshal in the morning."

  "We?"

  "Mr. Callaghan, you are an exceptionally good boxer. I would depend on your skills in a fight under almost any circumstance. But do you really think you can get more from the marshal than I can? He doesn't even have to be polite to you."

  Corey had nothing to say to that. She might even be correct. He was an Irish boxer, and whatever else Miss Parson was, she was still a well-dressed woman in the West. Decision made, Corey pushed himself to his feet. “I guess the only thing I can say is thank you. This isn't your trouble, and I can use all the help I can get."

  "Until the morning, then, Mr. Callaghan."

  * * * *

  The marshal was a burly man, heavy without being fat. He had a coarse growth of beard, and his clothes were in need of washing. He had not a use in the world for Corey Callaghan—had not even shaken the boxer's hand—but as Miss Parson had guessed, he was all politeness and deference to the young woman accompanying him. He even went so far as to invite her back to his office. Corey followed them and quietly positioned himself against the wall. The marshal sat behind a too small desk.

  "Now then, what can I do for you, little lady?"

  Miss Parson batted her eyes and smiled shyly at the marshal. Corey figured she knew the marshal knew exactly why they were there, but he held himself back from interrupting and let them play their game.

  "It's all rather embarrassing,” Miss Parson confided, “but I've heard that you are holding Mr. Patrick O'Sullivan in one of your cells."

  The marshal leaned back in his chair. “That's true, little lady. Do you mind if I ask why you're interested?” His eyes strayed to Corey, hardened, then drifted back to Miss Parson, where they seemed to soften again.

  "Why Mr. O'Sullivan is like a second father to me."

  If Corey had been drinking he'd have spit out the liquid in surprise. While Miss Parson was always the model of schoolgirl etiquette, Patrick was usually boisterously rude. He was afraid that somehow Miss Parson's interest would shorten Corey's time in the ring. Now she said she liked the old man?

  If the marshal noticed Corey's surprise he gave no sign of it. “I see. Then it's my sad duty to tell you,” not that he looked at all sad about it, “that your second father is a murderer. He was caught sticking a knife into Bob Tanner."

  Miss Parson already knew this, of course. “Knowing Mr. O'Sullivan as I do, I'm sure you can understand how much that surprises me. Could you tell me how this was discovered?"

  The marshal considered this request, clearly weighing his conflicting responsibilities to be polite to a lady and the need for a gentleman to shield a young woman from unladylike business.

  "Well, I don't see that this is a fit topic of conversation for a young woman, so let's simply say that two patrons of a nearby establishment found O'Sullivan stabbing Tanner."

  "They actually saw him stab Mr. Tanner?"

  The marshal shrugged. “Close enough not to matter. Tanner's blood was all over O'Sullivan."

  "But why do you think Mr. O'Sullivan would do such a thing?"

  "Can't say for sure. Probably greed or revenge. Tanner had won a lot of money at cards that night.” He stopped talking long enough to eye Miss Parson speculatively. “And his man had embarrassed O'Sullivan, tossing him out in the street after he accused Tanner of cheating. I expect O'Sullivan figured he was due some payback."

  Miss Parson closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and rose to her feet. “Thank you ever so much for your time, Marshal."

  Corey straightened up in surprise. The questioning was done? Why, she hadn't begun to ask the questions Corey wanted answered. “Wait a minute—"

  * * * *

  "Mr. Callaghan,” Miss Parson interrupted him. “Would you come with me please? We are going to have to find Mr. O'Sullivan a lawyer."

  "Oh, I wouldn't waste your money on that,” the marshal suggested.

  Corey and Miss Parson turned back to look at him.

  "Mr. O'Sullivan will likely never face a jury."

  "I don't understand,” Miss Parson said. “I thought you said you believe Mr. O'Sullivan is guilty."

  "Oh, he's guilty all right, but I'd be surprised if this case gets before a judge."

  "But why?” It was Corey who asked this time. He was simply too puzzled to keep his mouth shut.

  "Why, because Bob Tanner's son and the rest of his hands aren't that far from here. Tanner had come ahead into town. His son will be along soon driving the cattle to the railroad. Probably would have arrived tomorrow or the next day, but when they get word of this, they'll come all the faster. They'll want to make sure personally that Bob Tanner's murderer doesn't escape the hangman."

  "And you're just going to let them lynch him?” Corey asked, blood rising in his face.

  "O'Sullivan is guilty,” the marshal noted. “I don't see any reason to stick my neck out for him."

  Corey took a step forward, but Miss Parson took firm hold of his arm. “Mr. Callaghan, I really need you to come with me now."

  Corey didn't move. His eyes were locked on the marshal's, who was slowly losing his grin and growing angry at the implied challenge. “Patrick didn't murder that man!” Corey insisted.

  "Mr. Callaghan,” Miss Parson's voice was urgent now. “Please come with me!"

  The door to the office opened, and a deputy stuck his head into the room. “You all right, Marshal?"

  Corey looked away from the marshal and started past the deputy. “Patrick didn't kill anyone,” he said again.

  "It don't matter,” the marshal called after him. “The dumb mick will hang for it just the same."

  "Mr. Callaghan,” Miss Parson began in low urgent tones as they walked briskly away from the jail. “If we are going to help Mr. O'Sullivan you are going to have to control your temper."

  "But Patrick didn't kill him!"

  "I believe you. What you have to believe now is that the marshal doesn't care. He has arrested a man that everyone is willing to believe killed Mr. Tanner. Better yet, Mr. O'Sullivan is a stranger with no ties to the community. No one in Cheyenne will care when he's dead."

  "I'll care!"

  Miss Parson stopped walking and turned to face Corey, who took another step forward before he realized what she had done. He stopped and turned in her direction.

  "Mr. Callaghan, you're angry. I understand. The marshal has just told us he doesn't care if Mr. O'Sullivan is murdered and you want to hit someone. I really do understand. But you, in turn, had better understand this. Mr. O'Sullivan's only chance to survive this comes from you and me. The deck is stacked against him, and he needs us to help him draw a winning hand. We can't do that very well if you can't control your temper. We can't do that at all if you hit someone and wind up in jail."

  Corey took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “All right, I agree. It's like Patrick always said: Use my anger, don't let it use me. Still, it's an awful shame that this marshal hates the Irish so much he won't even try to find the murderer."

  "Oh, I don't think it's that, or at least it's more complicated
than you're making it sound. After all, Mr. O'Sullivan does fit the crime. He had an argument with Mr. Tanner that got him thrown out of the saloon. What's more, he was found leaning over the body not an hour later. Sure there are facts that don't fit, but the basic story does make Mr. O'Sullivan look guilty.

  "Then you have to consider the marshal's other principal choices for the crime: Ross Clay, Jake Farley, and Harold Peters. Mr. Farley and Mr. Peters are both ranchers like Mr. Tanner, with big enough spreads to have a lot of respect. Mr. Clay runs a dry goods store. He's also a well-respected man. No marshal is going to want to aggravate these men by poking his nose into their business when he's got a nobody stranger already fit for the crime."

  "So Patrick hangs so the marshal doesn't have to offend his respectable citizens?"

  "Not if we have anything to say about it, Mr. Callaghan."

  * * * *

  "Miss Parson."

  Ross Clay walked around the counter, wiping his hands on a dirty apron. “What a pleasure it is to see you again. Things went to hell—” He cut himself off and tried again. “It's a shame you had to leave early last night. Men behave themselves better when there's a lady present."

  "Why, thank you, Mr. Clay. I wish I had stayed longer myself, but lady luck had left me, and you know we womenfolk like to travel in groups."

  Clay chuckled a little too eagerly. His eyes shifted to Corey, who was standing behind Miss Parson, looking at her with mild surprise. It had not occurred to Corey that Miss Parson might have been in the same game as Patrick. It had been his impression that the two rarely played together.

  "This is Mr. Callaghan, a friend of Patrick O'Sullivan."

  Clay had begun to stick his hand out to shake Corey's, but he hesitated when he heard Patrick's name. Corey stepped around Miss Parson and grasped Clay's hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. We were hoping you could tell us what happened last night."