“We’ll see who does the pounding next time,” Patrick assured him.
“And it will be my Joe!” his counterpart answered.
“You are almighty fast,” Corey told Bullock. “It took me by surprise.”
“Knowing won’t help you,” Bullock promised. His lips split into a wide grin.
Corey loved the implicit challenge.
The marshal came out of his office to join them. “Save your fighting for the ring, people.”
“This ain’t fighting,” Corey told him. “It’s just managers shouting.”
“You get out of here,” the marshal told him. “I’m finished with you for now.”
The order was firm, but there was no meanness in it. “You Bullocks get in my office. I’ve got some questions for you.”
“Yes, sir,” Bullock said, and stepped meekly toward the marshal’s door. “Shame about that gent that got shot,” he told the marshal as he passed.
“Yes, it is,” the marshal agreed.
“Did he have family?”
“Thank God, no,” the marshal muttered as the manager and Bullock’s son filed past him. “He was too new in town. A lawyer, don’t you know, just setting out his shingle.”
The marshal closed his door and Corey could hear no more.
“So where do we start?” Corey asked.
They were standing on the street outside the marshal’s office and he wanted to know which way they should go.
“I don’t know,” Miss Parson answered him.
Her admission surprised Corey. Miss Pandora Parson always seemed to know what to do. “Well, it doesn’t look like the man was gunning for me unless he just came to town,” Corey said. “If we keep our wits about us, we’ll likely spot someone like Steed or Perkins or even Lightning Dan. So how do we figure out if the person is really after Joe Bullock?”
“That’s just the problem,” Miss Parson explained. “You both heard him in there. He obviously can’t think of a single person who would follow him to Flat Rock and try to kill him, and we really can’t either. I think I made a mistake at the beginning of this.”
The very possibility of Miss Parson making an error brought a wide smile to Patrick’s face. “Now Miss Parson,” he said with a teasing lilt in his voice, “surely my ears just deceived me. Did you just confess to being wrong?”
Miss Parson did not find the situation nearly as amusing as Patrick did. “I just think we’re all going about this the wrong way. Because the bullet actually injured Mr. Bullock, we’re all assuming that either he or Mr. Callaghan was the intended target. But what about the dead man? What about the man the murderer actually killed? Why doesn’t anyone think he could be the one the killer wanted dead?”
They mulled that idea over for a moment, with Patrick actually rubbing his chin to help his concentration. “I don’t know,” the old man said at last. “This marshal seems to know what he’s doing and he doesn’t think that the lawyer was the man the killer was after.”
“If you’re right,” Corey said, “then this really isn’t our problem. We only felt we needed to look for the killer because he might be gunning for me. If he wasn’t after me at all—”
“Now wait a minute,” Patrick said. “Didn’t the marshal also say that he didn’t think we should hold the fight again until after he finds the murderer? I want that prize money! We have to help the marshal.”
Miss Parson closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she opened them again any detectable trace of uncertainty had departed from her. “I admit to some curiosity about why this man was killed, as well as some embarrassment that I was fooled into thinking he wasn’t supposed to be the victim. Because Mr. Callaghan was nearly killed by the assassin’s bullet, I think we have a legitimate interest in making certain of the facts. Why don’t we go talk to the doctor and see if there’s anything more he can tell us?”
“I can agree to that,” Corey said, “as long as we stop and let me get properly dressed again before we go visiting.”
Dr. Green worked out of a small house on the south side of the square which combined reception and examination rooms with living quarters. He was a small man with very tiny hands and very thick lenses in his glasses. His reception room was quite crowded when the three friends got there, with very little room for new arrivals.
“Oh, the poor, poor man,” one matronly woman said as she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “He was so young.”
Patrick followed Miss Parson through the door and Corey squeezed in behind him and doffed his cap. Squeezed truly was the appropriate word. Dr. Green’s reception room was that packed with people. Perhaps eight or ten women were huddled together in the center of the room talking excitedly while their husbands and fathers lined the perimeter conversing in far lower tones.
“What’s going on?” Patrick wanted to know.
“It would seem,” Miss Parson suggested, “that Mr. Collins is going to be dearly missed.”
Corey could understand her satisfaction. Two of the women were actually quietly weeping, but none of the husbands or fathers appeared particularly upset. The contrast was quite striking.
“What do you want to do?” he asked Miss Parson.
“Well obviously we need to speak with Dr. Green,” Miss Parson said, “but I think I should speak with these women first. Why don’t you and Mr. O’Sullivan talk to the men?”
She was off into the crowd before Corey could answer her. Patrick also immediately abandoned him, darting off to the right to join with the men there.
Corey could have strangled them both. Miss Parson and Patrick liked to talk, but Corey hated mingling with a crowd: Introducing himself, striking up a conversation, he simply hated all of it. He was a fighter, not a talker. He liked to work with his hands, not his mouth. So he stood uncertainly in the doorway, wringing his cap in his hands, until his size caught the attention of one of the men in the room.
“Aren’t you Rock Quarry Callaghan?” the well-dressed stranger asked him. He was an older gentleman with thinning white hair. He crossed the room and clasped Corey good naturedly on the arm. “That colored boy nearly handed you your head this afternoon. I’ll bet you were almost glad to get shot at to stop him pounding on you.”
The words were said with a friendly smile, but Corey found his spine stiffening just as if the man had been scowling when he said it. “It wasn’t as bad as all that,” he said. “Bullock took me by surprise at first, but I was setting him back on his heels when the shot was fired.”
“Well I wouldn’t go that far,” the man laughed, “but I’m willing to agree that the fight wasn’t over yet.”
He thrust out his hand. “I’m John Winslow. I own the Flat Rock Bank.”
“Mr. Winslow,” Corey acknowledged as he shook the banker’s hand.
“There was a lot of excitement when you came to town,” Winslow continued. “My new teller and his wife saw you fight in Cheyenne. Why that little filly might be your biggest fan. She convinced me to support the mayor’s plan to host this fight. I invested quite a bit of money in it.”
“Well we’re already talking with Bullock,” Corey told him. “We’ll re-schedule the fight. You won’t be disappointed.”
“Glad to hear it,” Winslow said. “Hopefully without all this,” he waved his hand at the room, “next time.”
“Did you know Mr. Collins well?”
Winslow grunted. “He was pretty new. We already had a lawyer. I don’t think there’s enough work for two.”
“Did that cause bad feelings?”
“No.” Winslow was clearly dismissive of the notion. “Most everyone who matters continued to consult the judge. Just a few of the townswomen seemed to want to talk to Collins. I can’t imagine what they thought they needed him for.”