“That’s right,” Patrick said, clearly thrilled that Miss Parson agreed with his analysis. “We’ve got to reschedule this fight just as soon as Bullock is fit. We’ve got a forty dollar purse to win.”
Both Corey and Pandora stared at the old man for several moments, but he seemed oblivious to their disapproval. Finally, Corey turned to Miss Parson. “Why do you want to speak to Bullock?”
“Well I think it’s obvious that we have to find this killer if we’re going to be certain he’s not going to shoot at you again. The marshal might catch him, but most small town law officers I’ve met aren’t up to a challenge like this. They do quite well when they catch the culprit standing over the body with a pistol in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other. But a case like this? No, I think if we want to really know what happened we had best depend on ourselves. We can bring in the marshal when we know who killed this man.”
“And you think the place to start is Bullock?” Corey asked.
Miss Parson shrugged her shoulders. “It would certainly make things easier if someone here in Flat Rock had threatened to kill him.”
“All right then,” Patrick agreed. He poked up his head and looked around. “It seems like the killer’s gone. Let’s go find Bullock and find out who is behind this.”
“Patrick,” Corey said quietly. “We were the last people with this poor gentleman when he died. I think we should keep right on staying with him until the marshal arrives. It’s the right thing to do, and the marshal might have some questions.”
“I don’t appreciate you folks bringing your trouble to my quiet little town,” Marshal Blake announced. He was a small man, thin and wiry, with a determined expression that suggested he believed he was a lot more competent than Miss Parson thought was likely.
“We don’t like bringing any trouble,” Corey told him.
“Well, we have a dead man here who says differently,” the justice of the peace contributed.
It had taken about half an hour, but now most of the town’s officials had found their way back to the square. There was Marshal Blake, his deputy, the justice of the peace, and the town mayor. Other citizens had begun to return as well, drawn like flies to the dead body.
“We don’t actually know,” Miss Parson observed, “that the murderer was shooting at Mr. Callaghan.”
“The hell we don’t!” the mayor shouted. “We’ve got three hundred people who saw him do it.”
“Actually, Mr. Mayor,” the marshal’s voice was like an island of calm in the growing storm, “the little lady is right. There were two boxers in the ring. The killer might have been aiming at the colored boy.”
“Then where is he?” a man in the crowd shouted.
“He ran off like the rest of you, Lou,” the marshal said. “Don’t you worry about it. He’ll be around when I want to talk to him. It’s not a crime to be shot at in this town, just to do the shooting.”
The marshal turned back to Corey, Patrick, and Miss Parson. “So am I to take it you don’t think the killer was gunning for you?”
“He might have been, Marshal,” Corey answered. “I don’t rightly know. The truth is that getting shot at was the last thing on my mind when the rifle was fired.”
More than one person in the growing crowd chuckled.
“I’ll bet it wasn’t!” one of them shouted.
“He was beating you something fierce!”
“You’re lucky the fight got called short!”
Patrick’s face flushed deep with anger. “Now that ain’t true!” he shouted. “My Corey wasn’t finished. He was fighting back. You all saw it.”
Corey put a calming hand on his trainer’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Patrick. They’re partially right. Bullock’s speed caught me by surprise. Can’t blame them for not seeing the fight was a long way from over.”
“Say,” the mayor exclaimed, “maybe the little lady is right. Maybe the killer didn’t plan to shoot anyone today, but when the fight started to go bad for Callaghan here he realized he was about to lose all the money he bet on him. So he grabbed a rifle, hightailed it to a rooftop, and shot to end the match. Poor Collins here was just an unexpected accident.”
The crowd was quiet for a moment, considering the mayor’s suggestion.
“It’s an interesting idea, sir,” Miss Parson suggested, “and it might work if the fight had gone on longer. But that’s an awful lot for your killer to accomplish in the minute or two the fight actually lasted.”
The mayor was unconvinced by Miss Parson’s logic. “I still think it’s worth considering,” he insisted. “What do you think, Blake?”
“I’ll have to think deep on it,” the marshal said. Corey couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. “There just may be something to what you say.”
The mayor beamed at the marshal’s words.
So did Patrick. “Say, that means we’ve got nothing to worry about. As soon as that colored boy’s scratch is healed, we can finish this match.”
“It might be wise,” the marshal observed, “for you to wait until I catch the killer first. That way he won’t be taking another potshot at the boxers if the fight goes against him again.”
The marshal’s words hushed the crowd.
“Now what I want to do,” the marshal continued, “is walk with the three of you back to my office so we can talk about who might dislike you enough to take a shot at you.”
“You arresting them, Marshal?” a man in the crowd asked.
“Of course I’m not arresting them,” the marshal retorted. “Do any of you really think that Callaghan here shot that rifle? I don’t want to have to say this again: It is not a crime in Flat Rock to be the man that gets shot at! Now why don’t you all let the doc here tend to poor Collins’s remains? And Ben,” the marshal turned to his deputy, “why don’t you go find that colored boy and tell him and his manager to come down to talk to me?”
Marshal Blake extracted two names from Corey, Patrick, and Miss Parson: William Steed and Ted Perkins. Both had lost a lot of money because of Corey, and both might wish to see him dead. Neither man, as far as they knew, had ever been in Flat Rock, but a lot of strangers had come to town for the fight and it was fully possible that one or both of the men were among them.
As the three left the marshal’s office, Thunderin’ Joe Bullock, his son, and his manager were entering the building behind the deputy.
“Bullock,” Corey greeted him.
Bullock accepted Corey’s hand and the two men flexed to see which of them was weaker. They stared at each other while the pressure built and then, as if by mutual agreement, relaxed their hands and stepped apart.
“How’s your neck?” Corey asked.
“Stings,” Bullock answered.
“You know anyone who might be taking a shot at you?”
Bullock was silent, but his son wasn’t. “A white man don’t need no reason to shoot a colored man.”
Bullock slapped the side of the boy’s head. “You hush now.”
Corey looked directly at the boy, meeting his eyes. He figured the child was about ten years old. “I guess that might be true for some folks,” he said, “but it doesn’t help us now if someone took a shot at your pa because he’s colored.”
“I thought he was shooting at you,” Bullock said.
“Might have been,” Corey agreed. “The way we were moving he might have been aiming at either one of us. The marshal’s taking names, but...” Corey spread his hands helplessly.
“I see what you mean,” Bullock said.
“So are you up for another fight when we get this straightened out?” Patrick asked.
Bullock’s manager stepped forward. “Is your boy that anxious to get his face pounded again?”