“Good.” Corey looked over his shoulder, plotting his path to the door.
“You coming with me?” the banker asked.
“Rock Quarry Callaghan is ten times the man you are!” Mrs. Baker told her husband and the gathered crowd.
“I think I’d better not,” Corey said, then fled through the crowd toward the far side of town.
Corey didn’t know where to go after escaping the potluck. In truth, Flat Rock wasn’t that big and he didn’t have a lot of options. There was the boarding house off the square where he, Patrick, and Miss Parson were staying, but he didn’t want to feel caged up. He decided instead to go look up Bullock at the barn loft where the man was sleeping and find out how he felt about staying on to fight.
Bullock and his son weren’t there, so Corey exchanged friendly greetings with the manager and left again. He was only a few steps back out of the barn when Mr. Baker appeared in front of him. The determined expression on his face was matched by the serious looking rifle the man was pointing in Corey’s direction.
“I told you, Mr. Callaghan,” Baker began, but Corey wasn’t waiting. At first sight of the rifle he understood what had really happened during the match and flung himself desperately back into the barn.
A shot rang out and Corey had no idea where it went or what it hit.
“I told you, Mr. Callaghan,” Baker repeated as he jacked another round into the firing chamber. “I just won’t stand for it.”
“What the— What’s happening?” Bullock’s old manager shouted.
“It looks like the killer is still trying to kill me,” Corey shouted back.
“Kill you?” the old man shouted. “Then get out of here!”
“The old man’s correct, Mr. Callaghan,” Baker said. He had yet to truly raise his voice. It appeared that unlike his wife, Mr. Baker didn’t enjoy shouting. “You should come out and take your medicine.”
A silhouette appeared in the barn door — a fine target for a person who carried a gun and knew how to use it well.
Baker swung in Corey’s general direction and fired into the shadows. Corey retreated deeper into the barn and hid behind a too-thin wooden post.
Baker stepped in after him, jacking another round as he moved.
“I never touched your wife!” Corey shouted.
The rifle swung about, trying to pinpoint where Corey’s voice was coming from.
“I won’t stand for it.”
“Mr. Callaghan?” Miss Parson shouted, her voice ragged as if she’d been running. “Mr. Baker is—”
The rifle fired. The bullet came nowhere near Corey, and he forced himself to neither move nor speak in response. Baker’s eyes would already be adjusting to the darkness. He had to think of what to do soon. He was rapidly running out of time.
“Mr. Baker, this is Marshal Blake. Why don’t you put down the rifle and come on out of there?”
“Eugene?” It was Mrs. Baker’s voice this time. “Are you really in there fighting for me?”
“I told you, Alice, I’m not going to stand for it.”
“You’re really in there!” she said. Her voice was flushed with pride and excitement.
Corey could make out Baker’s blurry shape, a darker blotch in the lighter shadows near the door. If he could find something to throw he might distract Baker long enough to get near him.
“Mr. Baker,” it was the marshal again. “You’re only making things worse for yourself. Come on out of there.”
Baker stepped deeper into the barn and closer to Corey. He was fidgety, nervous, and his voice contained a slight tremor when he answered the officer.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t follow that instruction just now. Besides, I’ve already killed one man. Killing another can’t make things much worse.”
There was a bucket on the floor about three feet from Corey. It was currently out of reach, but perhaps Baker was distracted enough by his conversation with the marshal that he wouldn’t notice Corey moving.
“You don’t mean Collins, do you? I’d have never thought that you were a good enough shot to hit him at that range.”
Baker sounded bitter. “I am a terrible shot, Marshal. And I wasn’t aiming at Mr. Collins. That was just an unfortunate accident.”
The marshal actually chuckled. “Well I don’t suppose it matters if it was on purpose or by accident. Half the men in town are glad that Collins is dead. I can’t see finding twelve men for a jury who’d all be willing to convict you for it, although they might reward you with a round of drinks at the Hogs Head.”
As the marshal spoke, Corey eased himself down into a crouch and carefully leaned forward to take hold of the bucket.
“Really?” Baker asked.
“I can almost guarantee it!” the marshal assured him.
There was a moment where Mr. Baker appeared to be considering the marshal’s words, but when he spoke again there was a decisive quality to his voice. “I’m sorry, Marshal, but I can’t accept your offer. I just can’t abide the way this man is leading my Alice on.”
“Oh, Eugene,” Mrs. Baker said. Her voice purred with pleasure.
“Well let’s just kick him out of town,” the marshal suggested.
Corey threw the bucket. Baker was looking right at Corey, but the rifle followed the bucket and the bullet missed both targets.
Corey was out of his crouch and moving forward before Baker could bring the rifle back to bear upon him. His clenched fist cracked against the smaller man’s chin, sending the rifle flying and Baker staggering backward to fall on his back in the entrance to the barn. The sunlight flashed off the glass in Baker’s spectacles.
“You brute!” Alice Baker threw herself to her knees beside her husband and cradled his head in her lap. “You animal!” she continued, nearly growling the words as she stared into the barn at Corey. “You just punched a man wearing spectacles.”
Mrs. Baker’s comments pushed the marshal over the edge as his wide grin broke into bellows of laughter.
“I was simply mistaken,” Miss Parson apologized. “It’s just that it seemed to me that you had backed Mr. Bullock into that bullet. If he had kept you pinned against the ropes I didn’t think either of you would have been shot. That meant Mr. Collins was most likely the intended target. It simply didn’t occur to me that the killer might be a poor marksman.”
She was sitting in Marshal Blake’s office together with Corey, Patrick, and the marshal.
“I don’t think you should be too hard on yourself,” the marshal told her. “We all thought Collins was the target.”
“But you said—” Patrick began.
“What else was I supposed to say?” the marshal interrupted. “Gerald Collins was a louse of a man, prying in among the womenfolk where he had no business being. He’d been warned but he wasn’t listening. The only surprise is that the man who shot him was Baker. I still can’t believe it.”
“Is that why you let him go?” Corey asked. He had seen a lot since coming west and realized how little his life really mattered to most men out here. But a marshal letting a man go free the very same day that man had tried to kill him disappointed Corey nonetheless.
“I didn’t free him,” the marshal corrected Corey. “I paroled him. Or actually, the judge did.”
Corey opened his mouth to say something further, but decided there was no point.
“You afraid he might try for you again?” the marshal asked.
“The thought had crossed my mind,” Corey admitted.
“Not tonight he won’t!” the marshal assured him.
“How do you figure that?” Patrick asked. “It seems to me that Baker’s already tried to shoot Corey twice. Maybe he’ll feel he’ll get lucky on the third time.”