“In this corner, all the way from Ireland by way of Boston, Denver, and Cheyenne, we have the granite fists of Rock Quarry Callaghan!”
Again the crowd went wild. It was a grand feeling for Corey, being the center of all of these peoples’ hopes for the afternoon.
“And facing him across the ring, from the cotton fields of Alabama, we have the incredibly dangerous Thunderin’ Joe Bullock!”
Again that mixture of cheers and howls filled the square, but Bullock seemed just as pleased as Corey with his ovation.
The judge motioned to both men to join him in the center of the ring. “Now we’re all here for a good show,” he reminded them, “and we don’t care what you have to do to each other to give it to us! Forty dollars is a lot of money! When the bell rings, I want you both to come out hard and earn it!”
The crowd cheered again and Corey and Bullock went to their corners.
“Remember now, Corey, me lad,” Patrick cautioned. “Hit him hard and fast right from the start. You dictate this fight to him! Don’t give him a chance to push back.”
The bell rang and Corey bounded into the center of the ring. Thunderin’ Joe lumbered out to meet him doing a fairly good impression of a charging freight train.
Undaunted, Corey stood his ground, left fist jabbing out to take Bullock on the right side of the mouth.
An ungodly massive fist plowed back through the air to take Corey on the temple. It was only a glancing blow. Corey sensed the danger at the last instant and pulled back just enough to keep the punch from solidly connecting. But even so, the blow staggered him a half step to the right, and Thunderin’ Joe stepped straight in behind it and hammered Corey with four more punches.
It was the unbelievable speed which unsettled Corey. Big men were strong and tough, but they rarely had that added touch of lightning that leaner fighters so often acquired. Thunderin’ Joe Bullock had all three advantages, and he knew how to exploit them.
Corey ducked his head behind his arms to ward off the blows, but he couldn’t get his feet planted firmly beneath him. His head was swimming and he knew that he needed to drop to the mat to give himself those few critical moments with which to pull himself together, but Bullock had Corey pressed up against the ropes and he literally couldn’t fall to save himself.
It was already bad and starting to get worse. If Corey couldn’t act, he would lose the fight here and now. Thunderin’ Joe’s fists were like sledgehammers to his head. Another few blows and the fight would be ended.
Reaching deep down into the core of his courage, Corey bulled himself forward and shoved Bullock back a step.
A high-pitched whine passed Corey’s left ear followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. Thunderin’ Joe grunted even as Corey pulled back in surprise. A line of blood welled up across the crease between Bullock’s neck and shoulders. A sudden hush stilled the crowd. Every eye was on the two boxers and the bleeding wound on the black man’s flesh.
A fancy-dressed man at the front of the crowd collapsed against the ropes, a bright red blotch blossoming across the front of his shirt. He hung there for a moment, arms hooked over the ropes, then his legs slowly gave way beneath him and his body slid to the ground.
A woman’s scream shattered the silence, and pandemonium erupted behind it. Suddenly every person in the crowd was shouting and running off in a different direction. Most had the sense to run out, away from the ring and the presumed targets of the assassin, but others fought the sudden press of bodies, searching for missing loved ones in the throng.
Corey and Bullock stared at each other for a moment before their fighting reflexes reignited. Then they moved quickly past each other, scanning the crowd for the source of the threat while simultaneously looking for their own friends among the masses.
Corey saw Patrick standing straight and tall, while his head whipped wildly back and forth as he tried to understand what was happening. Corey vaulted over the ropes to land beside the old man, then grasped him roughly by the front of his shirt and pulled him to the ground.
“What? Who? Why are they shooting at you?” Patrick sputtered.
Corey didn’t stop to answer. With Patrick low enough to receive at least some cover from the ring he ran off in a crouch to search for Miss Parson. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe Bullock’s back as the big man ran off with the dregs of the crowd, herding his grizzled trainer and the boy Corey thought was Bullock’s son ahead of him.
Corey rounded a corner of the ring. The bulk of the crowd was truly gone now, making it easier to determine the identity of the people who had stayed. A few, like Patrick, were hugging the base of the boxing ring. Others ran frantically to and fro, unable to figure out that the people they were searching for had fled with the crowd. Miss Parson was huddled over the fancy-dressed man, trying desperately to staunch the flow of his blood with her all-too-delicate handkerchief.
Despite the apparent risk to himself, Corey dropped to his knees beside her to see if he could help. Blood was still spreading from the wound. It had saturated Miss Parson’s small cloth and Corey in his boxing shorts had nothing with which to help close the wound. The stranger’s life was literally flowing away in front of them, if it had, in fact, not already gone.
Patrick crawled up beside them. “Who do you think is shooting at us?” he asked. He was already pulling off his own shirt in a probably futile effort to save the dying man. The old trainer had treated a bullet wound once before, Corey remembered, but the blood had merely seeped from that injury. By contrast, this wound gushed.
“I don’t know,” Corey answered Patrick. “It’s sure that there are enough people out there who hate us, but I didn’t think any of them were around these parts.”
They pressed Patrick’s shirt against the wound and watched as it too began to soak with blood.
“Has he said anything?” Patrick asked.
Miss Parson shook her head. The man’s face was growing very pale. “I wish we could do something for him.”
“Where’s the doctor?” Patrick asked. “Doesn’t this town have one?”
“I hope he had the good sense to run like everyone else,” Corey said. “Otherwise, this poor man is likely him.”
“I don’t think he’s breathing anymore,” Miss Parson whispered. “Poor unlucky man — he came to see a fight and got murdered instead.”
Patrick pulled the cap off his head and held it against his own heart. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I think he’s gone.”
“God rest his soul,” Corey whispered. He reached up and closed the dead man’s eyes.
All three were silent for a few moments.
“Do you think the killer is gone?” Patrick asked.
The question immediately reminded the three that they were still very vulnerable.
“We’d better hope he is,” Corey said, “or he’s likely to hit us the next time.”
“It seems probable,” Miss Parson stated in her calm, matter-of-fact manner, “or surely there would have been more shots fired by now. Hopefully the town marshal is searching the rooms and rooftops across the square to see if the killer left any clues to his identity.”
“We were mighty lucky, Corey me lad,” Patrick said. “If you hadn’t fought your way off the ropes an instant before he pulled the trigger, you’d be dead and I’d be stuck in Flat Rock forever.”
Miss Parson frowned. Clearly something in what Patrick had said troubled her, but it took her a moment before she decided to share it. “Or maybe it was Mr. Bullock who was lucky,” she suggested. “He was, after all, the man in the ring that the bullet actually injured.”
“That’s just because it missed Corey,” Patrick protested.
“Perhaps,” Miss Parson considered. “It certainly could have happened that way, but we would still be wise to speak to Mr. Bullock about it.”