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Steed took a third step back. As he was not looking behind him, he did not see that he was walking at an angle and moving closer to the wall of one of the buildings. He also did not see that two of the rats had left the dubious shelter of the deeper shadows to examine Steed and Miss Parson more closely. He took a fourth step and put his heel squarely down upon the tail of one of the rats. It was an extremely improbable occurrence, but unlikely mishaps had plagued Denver since Steed’s arrival some two weeks past — had in fact been following him for the seven months since he had refused to allow Miss Parson to redeem her mother’s ring.

The rodent shrieked in pain.

Startled, William Steed looked down at the street behind him.

Miss Pandora Parson twisted in his grasp, moving the muzzle of the derringer out from against her back.

And Corey Callaghan charged forward three steps and drove his right fist into the bridge of Steed’s nose.

Cartilage crushed and blood spattered. Steed lost his grip on Miss Parson and staggered back into the wall. His head cracked against wooden planks, and he fell heavily on his backside in a half-sitting sprawl. Corey moved in against him, catching Steed’s arm with his left hand as he struggled to bring the gun to bear on him. His right fist punched Steed in the face again. The Easterner’s skull cracked against the wall, and his eyes rolled up in his head.

Corey took the derringer out of Steed’s hand and tossed it to the other side of the street. “I’m presuming,” he said to Miss Parson, “that he didn’t give you your ring back.”

Miss Parson finished straightening her dress. “No, Mr. Callaghan, he did not.” She smiled, just a tired little turning of the lips, “but he taunted me with it earlier. It’s in his waistcoat pocket.”

She stepped over next to Corey and looked down on the unconscious William Steed. Blood from his disfigured nose painted his face and continued to seep from his nostrils. “That was quite a punch, Mr. Callaghan.”

Corey shrugged and offered an embarrassed smile. “I like to work with my hands.”

Miss Parson squatted down beside Steed and felt inside his waistcoat pocket. For a moment, her fingers were frustrated, then they touched metal, and a brilliant smile illuminated her face. She pulled the ring clear of the pocket and looked at it in the weak moonlight. A simple silver band was all that Corey could see — no stones, no real finery, just a thin band of unpretentious silver. Miss Parson brought the ring to her lips and closed her eyes. Corey thought she might be praying. Then she opened her eyes, slipped the ring upon the fourth finger of her right hand, and offered Corey her left. He took the hand and steadied her while she found her feet. They stood facing each other for a moment before he reached out and took hold of her right hand as well.

“Thank you, Mr. Callaghan,” she whispered.

“My pleasure, Miss Parson,” Corey began to tilt his head down toward her lips.

“Callaghan, thank God you’re alright!” Gentleman Tom McGee came around the corner into the side street. The doc was with him, and some fifty other men were crowding the street behind them.

“When Patrick told me you took off after Steed, I was afraid there was going to be trouble.” The Gentleman broke off when he saw the battered body lying next to the boxer. “I guess I should have known you could handle it.”

Corey let go of Miss Parson’s hands and stepped around her to face the crowd. “Well I did,” he confirmed. “Steed didn’t like his boy losing in the ring, and he tried to welsh on his bets.” That comment produced an angry mutter from the crowd, but Corey continued over it. “He tried to drag Miss Parson along with him, but she had more honor than that. There’s a woman who thinks a man should pay his debts.”

That was a second blow against Steed’s reputation. It was time to go for the knockout. “His little gun is over there,” Corey announced, “by the side of the building.”

The muttering in the crowd increased in volume. Unfortunately for him, Steed chose that moment to stir and groan. Ben Johnson stepped forward. He was a local mine owner and one of the Gentleman’s dangerous and unforgiving men.

“You did well tonight, Callaghan. I truly enjoyed the way you suckered that fool Lightning Dan.” He snorted with laughter. “As if anyone would believe you were afraid of that fancy pants.” His cold and merciless eyes swept down to where Steed was touching his hands to his battered face. “You did well tonight,” he repeated. “But if you’ll excuse us, Callaghan, these gentlemen and I would like to have some words with Mr. Steed.”

Corey dropped Patrick’s suitcase in the street beside the stagecoach station, then swung his own duffel down beside it. Instead of drinking in celebration, he and Patrick had stayed up late in the night and discussed the situation. Corey had laid out everything for the old man. Steed’s threats, the attack, the pressure to throw the fight, the plan to get Steed. Patrick had listened to everything — at times red-faced with anger, and at times so proud of Corey he was almost crying. They had agreed that leaving Denver was the prudent thing. They had no roots here like the Gentleman and his family. And they really couldn’t be certain that Ben Johnson would permanently deal with William Steed.

So they had decided to move on. They’d start for Cheyenne and if they didn’t like it, well, the West was large. Corey’s only regret was that they weren’t taking leave of their friends. They’d made a lot of them in Denver, and not just the McGees and Miss Parson. It was rude to just up and leave, but Steed had threatened to kill Patrick, and Corey had severely beaten the man. All things considered, both men were ready to head north and take their chances in Wyoming.

The stage driver stepped out of the station and touched his hat. “Pilgrims, why don’t you throw your bags back on top of the stage. We’ll leave in a few minutes.”

Corey picked the bags back up and walked over to the coach. He tossed both bags easily onto the roof.

“Damn,” Patrick muttered. “Didn’t that lass cause enough trouble?”

Corey followed Patrick’s gaze and found Miss Parson, carpetbag in hand, walking toward them. A gentle smile lit her face. Her mother’s silver wedding ring adorned her finger. She walked directly to them and set down her bag. “Good morning, Mr. O’Sullivan, Mr. Callaghan,” she greeted them.

Corey and Patrick tipped their caps.

She faced Corey directly. “I’m sorry we were interrupted last night. Are you and Mr. O’Sullivan traveling to Cheyenne?”

“Interrupted?” Patrick sputtered, realizing that Corey had not actually told him everything that had happened.

“Aye, we are,” Corey answered Miss Parson, realizing he was grinning like an idiot. “It seems like a good time to hit the trail.”

“I quite agree.” She looked down at her bag. “If you’d help me stow this, Mr. Callaghan, I think I’ll find my seat.”

She stepped past them, leaving both men staring after her as she climbed into the stage.

Patrick shook his head. “No good will come of it, Corey me lad. How many times must I tell you? Bad luck follows women — especially that one. You know what they say in the Emporium?” He craned his neck looking around them, seeking some path of escape. “Maybe we should go south to Tucson. If we go with her, we may not make it to Cheyenne. The stage will probably break a wheel halfway down the road.”

Corey was still grinning. “That’s okay, Patrick. I can fix a wheel. I like to work with my hands.”

Copyright 2006 by Gilbert M. Stack

Closing Time

by Dave Zeltserman

When I walk into Donlan’s there’s a loud chorus of “Dev,” just as the bar patrons used to yell “Norm” in the old sitcom Cheers. These days I am going by the name Devlin Smith. Over the years I’ve gone by a number of different names, which is important in my line of work. My current business card reads: DEVLIN SMITH — DEALER IN ANTIQUITIES AND RARE OBJECTS. While the name’s phony, for the most part the rest of the card’s correct, although you could argue how rare the objects really are that I collect.