Steed was clearly sizing up Corey as well. “I needed to do that,” he announced at last, “because I wanted to see just how much trouble you can cause my Lightning. You were beaten rather soundly by Tom McGee. Frankly, I wasn’t certain how much spit you could muster after just a half week.”
Steed carried a walking stick — for hitting people, Corey assumed, since the Easterner did not limp. Steed leaned on the stick now, still staring intently at Corey. “I have an offer for you,” he told the boxer. “I don’t want your answer now. I don’t want you to act rashly. Men do stupid things when they act without thinking. My Lightning will beat you. Have no doubt about that. I’ve seen you fight twice now, and at your best you’re just not fast enough to challenge him.”
Corey snorted. What Steed had actually witnessed was Corey win two fights against great odds. And the second time without great effort.
Steed ignored the interruption. “My Lightning will beat you, but you are just tough enough and just lucky enough that you might hurt him while he does it.” Steed shrugged, taking his weight off the stick and standing straight again. “And I can’t afford to take that risk. I’ve too much invested in the boy to be letting a dumb mick like you bust him. So here is what you’re going to do,” Steed leaned close again, returning his weight to the stick, “you’re going to put on a show. You’re going to dance about. And in the fourth round you’re going to let my Lightning knock you out.”
Corey’s left foot swept out and knocked the stick out from under Steed. Suddenly overbalanced, the Easterner fell heavily to his hands and knees. The thug who had taken Corey’s punch and stayed standing started forward, but Steed stopped him. “Get back, Jed!”
Steed struggled to his feet and retrieved his walking stick and hat. “I warned you against acting rashly!” He paused to fix the hat back on top of his head. “I warned you. Now you will reap the consequences.”
Steed turned, pushed through his men, and started back into the shadows between the buildings. “We’ll speak again, Mr. Callaghan, and then you will regret your actions this morning.”
Corey grinned broadly as the four men stalked away.
Corey leapt backward as the plank creaked and cracked beneath him. His right foot caught on the broken wood, and he fell hard off the porch on his seat in the dirt road before the Emporium. He was lucky he hadn’t twisted or broken his ankle; the foot had popped free just before the fall could damage it. Corey sat in the road for a moment wondering if he’d been lucky not to be hurt or unlucky to have stepped on rotten wood. A soft, feminine voice recalled his attention to the world around him. “May I give you a hand, Mr. Callaghan?”
Corey looked up to find the red-haired young woman standing next to him. He scrambled to his feet in embarrassment. “I don’t know what happened,” he explained. “The plank just broke as I stepped on it. Most peculiar thing...”
The redhead was not concerned with the porch of the Emporium. “I was hoping to speak with you, Mr. Callaghan. I’m afraid we may not have much time, and I’m not sure that we will have another opportunity.”
Corey pulled his attention away from his fall and the porch and focused completely on the red-haired woman. He suddenly remembered that he had last seen her with Steed. His budding suspicions seemed confirmed by the woman’s next statement.
“I need your help, Mr. Callaghan. If I could just have a few minutes to explain.”
A commotion erupted within the Emporium, distracting both of their attention. It was a sudden and complete disruption of the normal sounds emanating from the place. First the sounds of laughter and conversation abruptly ceased, followed quickly by a rush of footsteps toward the back of the building. The loud call for a doctor restored the din of voices, and before too long, men burst through the front door of the building.
“Damn!”
Corey twisted back to stare at the redhead, shocked to have heard a woman curse.
She took no notice of his surprise. “I was afraid this would happen. There’s nothing to do now but make the best of it and use it if we can.” She laid a hand on Corey’s upper arm, gripping the muscles tightly with her fingers. “Mr. Callaghan, you’ll have to go in. Unless I miss my guess, Mr. O’Sullivan will need you—”
“Mr. O’Sullivan? You mean Patrick?” Horror crossed Corey’s face as he began to realize what might have just happened. He began to pull away from the woman, but she held on fiercely.
“Mr. Callaghan,” she hissed, still trying to keep her voice from carrying. “You must listen a moment longer! You must speak to me before you confront Steed! If we work together...”
Corey stopped struggling for a moment to look at her again, wondering just what she thought she was suggesting. Then he jerked his arm free and hurried into the Emporium to check on Patrick.
There was blood, and quite a lot of it.
Patrick had been laid on his stomach across one of the tables. His gray hair was dark with the liquid seeping up from the crack in his skull. A towel had been pressed against the back of Patrick’s head, and it was quickly turning a dark, wet red. The old man was conscious but not quite rational, moaning something about blackhearts and cowards.
Corey pushed his way through the crowd and crouched down beside the table so that Patrick could see his face without moving his head. “What happened, Patrick? Who hurt you?”
“Corey, me lad?” Patrick asked, sending a shiver of dread the length of Corey’s spine. How could Patrick not recognize him?
“Corey, me lad?” Patrick asked again.
“I’m here, Patrick. What happened to you?”
Patrick groaned. “Hit me from behind, the cowards. Stole me money, and I was winning tonight...” The last statement trailed off in a mournful whine.
“Hit you in here?” Callaghan started to straighten up, searching the faces of the men around him.
“Not here, Callaghan, outside.” The voice belonged to John Pope, one of Patrick’s circle of card players. “He was winning, sure enough, and drinking up the still. He went out back to pass his water, and someone cracked his skull. Pete Miller found him, and we carried him back in here.”
Pete Miller had Patrick’s blood on his hands and shirt and still looked deathly concerned about the old man. “I’m obliged to you, Pete,” Corey told him.
“He’s a tough old geezer,” Pete acknowledged. “Just wait until the doc gets here. Old Patrick will pull through.”
“When the doc gets here,” Corey muttered, looking around the room. “When is the doc going to get here?”
Patrick only needed seven stitches. Corey was shocked that it took so few. All of that blood — but the doc assured him that all head wounds bled like that. “He’ll have a hell of a headache when he sobers up,” the doc informed him. “And he should stay off his feet, at least until Friday night’s fight.”
He wouldn’t take money. “Just win for me on Friday,” he said with a grin. “I’ve bet enough on you to cover this little visit.”
“Friday night,” Corey repeated, his voice cold and grim, already wondering how to get Steed.
When all else fails, use the direct approach.
Corey was standing outside the Golden Nugget — Steed’s hotel. Patrick was safe at home in bed. Safe for now, that is. Corey was about to do what he could to keep him that way by knocking Steed through a couple of hotel walls. He took a deep breath, then strode up the steps into the hotel.
No clerk was behind the counter. Corey paused for a moment, trying to decide if it was better to ring the bell and wake him, or simply leaf through the register himself. Corey was not concerned about being recognized. He had no doubt that after beating Steed within an inch of his life he was going to find himself spending several years in jail. The trick was to make certain that Steed paid for hurting Patrick before the sheriff arrived and interrupted things. The clerk might raise a ruckus. Corey would check the register himself.