Clay looked far less happy now than he had a moment ago. He glanced around the shop at the other customers as if looking for an excuse to refuse. Miss Parson stepped forward and placed a hand on Clay's arm. “If it wouldn't be too inconvenient, Mr. Clay, I would be ever so grateful if you'd tell us what happened after I left the game."
Clay flushed, then glanced nervously at Corey. “Why, it wouldn't be inconvenient at all.” He looked around again. “Why don't we go into the back room? My boy can help these other people."
He led the way and waited while they arranged themselves around a small table. “I really don't know what I can tell you,” Clay began. “I'd never played with any of you before, so I don't really know the people involved."
"That's all right, Mr. Clay, if you could just tell us what you saw happen."
"Well, I was playing pretty good, if you'll remember. Not winning a lot like Farley and Tanner, but not losing like Peters, O'Sullivan, and..."
"It's all right, Mr. Clay,” Miss Parson assured him. “You can say it. I won't be offended."
Clay wet his lips with his tongue. “And you, Miss Parson."
Miss Parson smiled. “It's why I left the game, Mr. Clay. Sometimes when the luck turns against you all you can do is fold and leave."
"Well, it's a shame Mr. O'Sullivan doesn't have your sense.” Again he glanced nervously at Corey. “The more he lost the angrier it made him. Time and again he'd look disbelieving from his cards to the winning hand. When Bob Tanner finally cleaned him out O'Sullivan completely lost his temper. He leapt up from the table and accused Tanner of cheating."
"Could he have—” Corey stopped speaking when Miss Parson kicked him in the leg.
"Oh, I don't think so,” Clay continued. “Some gents are just lucky."
"So what happened when Mr. O'Sullivan made his accusation?” Miss Parson asked.
"Well, he was hopping mad, and Tanner was laughing at him, and O'Sullivan wanted to take it outside and settle it with their fists."
"And Mr. Tanner did not agree?"
"No, he just kept laughing and calling O'Sullivan an old fool. He wouldn't even stand up to face him. He didn't have to, I guess. When O'Sullivan tried to make him stand, Tanner's man, Dunn, cracked him on the back of the head with a half empty bottle of whiskey. O'Sullivan dropped to his knees. He's a tough old coot. He never did lose consciousness. But while he was stunned and wondering what had happened to him, Dunn dragged him to the front door and kicked him out into the street."
Clay paused as if that was the end of the story, so Miss Parson leaned forward and touched his hand. “And what happened next, Mr. Clay?"
"Well, we went back to playing cards. Tanner still had the luck, but mine had turned sour. I started losing pretty fast.” He smiled sheepishly. “I probably would have gotten cleaned out myself if Tanner hadn't excused himself to make water, and O'Sullivan got his knife into him."
Corey was having a hard time keeping silent through Clay's story, and this last comment was just too much for him. “Patrick didn't—"
He cut off sharply when Miss Parson kicked him again.
"And was Mr. Tanner the only big winner?” she asked.
Clay pulled his attention back to Miss Parson. “Tanner and Farley were both doing well, but Tanner was clearly doing better."
"And how much money do you think he had won?"
"Well now.” Clay had to think about that for a few moments. “I'm not sure I know precisely what Tanner won, but he and Farley between them must have brought in five hundred dollars."
"And Mr. Tanner was doing better than Mr. Farley. He would have been carrying most of the money."
Clay thought about that for a moment as well. “Yes, he was."
"Add the winnings to Mr. Tanner's stake and how much do you think he was carrying when he left the game?"
"Hmm, I don't know if I ever knew the size of his stake, but Tanner had to be carrying four or maybe five hundred dollars."
"None of it left at the table?"
Clay shook his head. “Absolutely not. Tanner grinned when he was picking up his cash and said ‘Not that I don't trust you boys, but I like to keep my money close to me.’”
"And no one followed Mr. Tanner out of the saloon?"
Clay shook his head. “Not that I noticed. Of course, none of us were really looking out for Tanner. We were talking at our table and drinking our whiskey."
"Yes, of course.” Miss Parson reached across the table and patted Clay's hand. “I didn't mean to imply you should have been looking out for him. But what I can't understand, and it's the reason I asked the question, is why didn't Mr. Tanner's hand go out back with him? I thought that that was why Mr. Tanner brought him—to protect his money."
Clay's eyes widened with surprise. “Why, don't you know? Dunn wasn't with Tanner anymore by then. They had a big fight after he threw out O'Sullivan."
"A fight?"
"Yes, of course, Dunn wanted Tanner to replace the broken bottle of whiskey, and Tanner just laughed at him. When Dunn got mad, Tanner fired him. Said he wouldn't take sass from a man that worked for him."
* * * *
"So did Dunn do it?” Corey asked.
"We don't know that yet, but it's a possibility we must explore,” Miss Parson said.
"But if he did it, then Patrick's free!"
"Only if we can prove that Dunn, and not Patrick, is guilty, and only if we can do it before Bob Tanner's son arrives."
"How do we do that?” Corey asked. They were walking down the side of the dusty main street. The sun was high overhead and very hot as the day slipped past morning into afternoon.
"I don't know,” Miss Parson conceded. “We need to know more, and I'm just not certain who to ask for the information."
They walked on in silence for a few moments before Corey changed the direction of their conversation. “Why didn't you want to ask Clay if Tanner was cheating?"
Miss Parson sighed. “Because I already knew the answer and it doesn't help us."
"Well, if he was cheating..."
"What?” Miss Parson asked. “If he was cheating it justifies murder? Remember, our position is that Mr. O'Sullivan did not kill Mr. Tanner. Uncovering justifications for murder will only help the marshal hang him."
Corey walked back through her logic. “So you're saying if Tanner was cheating it makes Patrick look like a murderer?"
"No, Mr. Callaghan, I'm saying that whether or not Mr. Tanner was cheating is irrelevant to Mr. O'Sullivan. We need to figure out who did kill Mr. Tanner, and it doesn't help us that Mr. Clay didn't see anyone leave the saloon after Tanner did."
"So what's next?” Corey asked again. “We talk to Farley or Peters?"
"No, I don't think so. Mr. Farley and Mr. Peters are much more clever than Mr. Clay, and they were far less impressed with me. I don't think we want to talk to either of them yet."
"Then what do we do?"
"Why was Mr. Tanner killed, Mr. Callaghan?"
"We don't know yet, do we?"
"No,” Miss Parson agreed, “but we can surmise. The marshal believes that Patrick stabbed him out of a thirst for vengeance and a sense of greed. Both of those are good motivations. And both could equally apply to Mr. Dunn.” She considered for a few moments, then decided on a plan. “I want you to ask around the saloons. Find out if Mr. Tanner had enemies, and find out what happened to Mr. Dunn."
Corey agreed. “What will you be doing?"
"I'm going to try and talk to the marshal again. There are two separate ways to attack this problem, and if he's willing, the marshal could help me with both of them."
"Do you think he'll be willing?” Corey asked, trying to puzzle out what Miss Parson was thinking.
"It can't hurt to ask."
* * * *
Corey found Miss Parson at the Silver Lady around dinnertime—visiting the scene of the crime. They had intended to meet at Mrs. Shaw's after their errands, as the evening meal was part of the board they both paid, but one
of the other tenants had passed on a message asking Corey to meet Miss Parson here instead. He found her sitting quietly at one of the small tables.
"Mr. Callaghan,” she smiled faintly when she caught sight of him. She looked tired and worried, not at all her usual evening self.
"Miss Parson,” he greeted her as he pulled out a chair to claim a seat.
"I'm sorry not to have waited for you at the boarding house, but I'm afraid that Mrs. Shaw was irritating me. The other guests really weren't much better. They are all so curious about Mr. O'Sullivan, and they were making it impossible for me to think."
"And did you learn anything?” Corey asked.
"Yes,” Miss Parson replied, “but I haven't yet decided how to use the information."
Corey nodded, waiting for Miss Parson to share more with him, but the waitress Patrick liked to flirt with appeared at their table, and he paused to order their dinner. When she left, he returned his attention to Miss Parson, but she asked him her question first.
"What did you learn?"
Corey frowned. He had passed through a lot of saloons this afternoon and was feeling a few of his beers. Not that he was drunk, for he wasn't, but he had been forced to have a draft in every establishment he visited. He thought back through the many conversations before forcing himself to concede defeat. “Not much,” he admitted.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Callaghan, surely you learned something. Is Mr. Dunn still in Cheyenne?"
Corey brightened. “No. I can be pretty certain about that. Several men I talked to knew who he was, and nobody had seen him. They had looked for him too. With Tanner being murdered, people were curious as to Dunn's take on the killing."
"And where do they think he has gone?"
Corey lost his smile. “That's not so good. Just about everybody thinks he rode back down the trail to find Tanner's son. John Tanner is herding the BT cattle to the rail station here in Cheyenne, but everyone figures he'll leave the herd with a couple of men and ride ahead to settle things."
Miss Parson drooped a little in her chair. “I suppose that's better than him riding off for parts unknown, but it makes it hard for us here. Did they have any idea when John Tanner might get here?"
Corey shrugged. “Tomorrow morning? No one knows for certain."
"Then we have one more night to figure out what to do.” She sighed and Corey was struck again by how tired she looked, as if Patrick's fate rested on her shoulders alone. Then Corey realized that was true. They both knew he was never going to clear Patrick of murder. If the old man had a chance, it was Miss Parson who would find it.
"How did things go with the marshal?” Corey asked.
Miss Parson brightened slightly, trying to smile. “The marshal wasn't there. It seems he's left town on business. But Deputy Poole was surprisingly helpful."
"Deputy Poole?"
"The big burly man who came to the marshal's defense when you started shouting in his office this morning."
Corey's eyebrows shot toward the roof. “That man? He's the one who wouldn't let me speak to Patrick last night. It's hard to believe that he was helpful."
Miss Parson found her smile. “Oh, he's really quite nice. He answered all of my questions and even showed me the evidence against Mr. O'Sullivan."
"Nice?” Corey was astounded. Then his mind registered the rest of Miss Parson's statement. “Evidence? How can there be any evidence? Patrick didn't kill the man."
Miss Parson's smile broadened and the signs of fatigue began to fade. “Actually, the evidence tends to help Mr. O'Sullivan. I'm not sure Mr. Poole fully realizes that. Information like this is a sort of trump card, and we'll have to be careful how we play it."
Corey tried his best to forget about Deputy Poole and to concentrate on what Miss Parson was saying. He shook his head in frustration. “I'm sorry. I guess I'm just a stupid man, but I really don't understand what you're saying."
"You're not stupid, Mr. Callaghan,” Miss Parson quietly reassured him. “We're both out of our depth here. I'm just saying that I have some pretty good cards up my sleeve now. They aren't great cards—they aren't kings or aces—but they're good cards if we find the right time to play them."
"Fair enough,” Corey agreed, “but would it help if you showed me the cards or would I simply get in the way?"
"You're never in the way, Mr. Callaghan, but with your temper, I'm not certain how much I want to expose our hand. You already know the basic facts. Patrick doesn't carry a knife, and there was less than a dollar found in his pockets."
Corey straightened, feeling triumphant at the confirmation that Patrick's pockets had been empty. His voice rose with his body. “Then Patrick didn't steal anything! He is innocent!"
"Quietly, Mr. Callaghan,” Miss Parson admonished him.
Corey slouched back over. “Then we can prove his innocence,” he repeated more quietly.
"With the right jury I think a good defense attorney can keep Mr. O'Sullivan from hanging. But as to proving his innocence? That is possible, but by itself, I think it is unlikely."
The news deflated Corey's sudden burst of enthusiasm. “That's better than nothing, I guess."
* * * *
After dinner they talked about what Corey had learned about Bob Tanner.
"He's really not from around here. He's got a ranch way out near Lamar and drives his cattle down here once a year because the prices are better near the railroad. Not many people seem to know him. The few who did called him ‘hard’ and ‘shrewd.’ They respect him, I guess, but I don't think they like him."
Pandora nodded. “That might be helpful. If the people of Cheyenne are more interested in the murder than angry about it, then they might be willing to give Mr. O'Sullivan a fair trial."
There it was again—the trial. Somewhere during the afternoon, Miss Parson had stopped thinking about a way to free Patrick immediately and started thinking about a trial he might never have. “Miss Parson, I appreciate everything you've done for Patrick, but I keep thinking about what the marshal said. There won't be a trial because Tanner's men will lynch him. What are we going to do about that?"
Miss Parson's shoulders slumped in defeat. “I don't know. I've learned a lot that casts doubt on the guilt of Mr. O'Sullivan, but nothing that proves his innocence. I need something more if we're to convince young Mr. Tanner, but I just don't know what that is."
"So we need more time.” Corey thought about that for a moment, but however he looked at it, time was the one thing they didn't have. “Well, I'm no good at figuring out who killed who,” he admitted, “so I'll stick to the part of this I am good at and go camp out beneath Patrick's window in case Tanner's men get here even earlier than expected."
Miss Parson looked concerned. “Mr. Callaghan, what can you truly do? These men will be armed, and you don't carry a weapon."
Corey shrugged. “I prefer to work with my hands."
The distress rose in Miss Parson's voice. “They will shoot you."
"I'm betting they won't want to commit murder."
"Then what do you think they're riding to the jail to do?"
"That's different. They think Patrick stabbed Bob Tanner in the back. A lynch mob thinks they're making justice, not murder."
"That makes no sense at all."
Corey sighed. “All right, then think it through with me. Let's assume I can get my hands on a weapon and wait for Tanner with it. I'd have to use a shotgun because I'm a terrible shot, and I'm not going to hit anything with a pistol or a rifle. Now picture Tanner's men arriving. I'll be shooting at them while they are shooting at me. Who do you think will win: all of those rifles or my double-barreled shotgun?"
"I see...” Miss Parson reluctantly conceded.
"Most men don't like the idea of shooting an unarmed man. If I take a gun, Patrick will have no chance. If not..."
"I've grown quite fond of you, Corey,” Miss Parson quietly acknowledged. “I'd hate to lose you and Mr. O'Sullivan both in the same night."
Core
y walked around the table and kissed Pandora lightly on top of the head. “I'm very fond of you, too, but I can't abandon Patrick."
"No,” she agreed. “We can't."
* * * *
Corey awoke to the sound of running horses. He had dozed off sitting uncomfortably against the back wall of the jail. Now he shoved himself to his feet and tried to shake the cobwebs from his head.
"Do you hear that, Corey, me lad?” Patrick's voice was a frightened whisper.
"I hear it, Patrick,” Corey assured his trainer. “I'm here. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"They'll have guns."
"I know. What I want you to do is sit down with your back against the outer wall and pull that straw pallet over top of you for protection."
"What if the deputy lets them in?” The fear in Patrick's voice was edging toward panic.
"Then I'll charge around this jail fast as I can and knock the devils flat,” Corey promised. “But I don't think the deputy will let them inside to get at you. If he wanted to do that, he wouldn't be sleeping at the jail tonight."
As if to confirm Corey's words, a rifle shot sounded from within the jail, followed quickly by a bellowed warning. “I'll only say this once! Go away! If you try to break into this jail I'll start shooting the lot of you!"
"I want O'Sullivan!” A voice hollered back.
"And I'm telling you, you can't have him! Let the judge hang him! There'll be no lynching here tonight!"
"You're only one man!” The voice shouted back. “We'll get him!” The sound of running horses resumed. Within moments riders were spilling around the side of the building to face the back of the jail."
"Get down, Patrick,” Corey hissed. He heard Patrick scrambling across the floor to take cover against the wall. He had not dragged the pallet after him.
Three riders pointed rifles at Corey, while more continued to join them from the front of the building.
"I'm unarmed,” Corey shouted, holding up his hands so they could see he spoke the truth.
"Move away from there, mister,” one of the men ordered.
"I can't do that, Mr. Tanner,” Corey protested.
"I'm John Tanner,” a final man announced, emerging only now around the side of the building.
AHMM, April 2007 Page 12
