Брендан Дюбуа - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2006

The keg burst when the redheaded beauty entered the Denver Emporium.

It was just a coincidence. The bartender was setting the tap, and perhaps he used a bit too much force. Or alternately, the wood may have been weakened by age and by use so that just at the moment she entered, the seams split and that new Coors beer gushed out onto the floor. A broken old miner who hadn’t seen a town since 1872 dropped to his knees and started lapping like a dog, while the cowhands at the bar jumped up on their stools to keep the beer off their boots. As for the rest of the Emporium, they all turned to laugh and point, while the owner howled in dismay at his losses.

Everyone except the redhead, that is.

She didn’t appear to notice any of it. She just walked into the main room, smiled shyly at the floor manager, and whispered something to him. The manager straightened his jacket, stroked his beardless chin, and escorted the lady to one of the back rooms.

And that was all there was to it, as most men would have told the tale. In truth, it was more than a goodly number had noticed. With the keg breaking as it did and the owner raising such a fuss, few men saw the lady at all. And for those that did, they made the natural assumption. A well-dressed lady could only be in a place like the Emporium if she had come there to drag home her husband or her father. As soon as she had her man in hand, she would just as suddenly be going.

That was certainly Corey Callaghan’s assumption.

He had noticed the woman as she peered in the door, and had only been momentarily distracted by the beer gusher. In his opinion, a woman like the redhead deserved to be noticed. She had high cheekbones and a sprinkle of freckles on the tip of her nose. Long red hair was pulled back behind her and partially concealed beneath a fashionable hat. A slender but appealing figure was modestly revealed through a high-collared, long-sleeved dress. To every appearance, she was a proper young woman — except, of course, that she had just entered a gambling saloon.

Corey, himself, was not at the Emporium to gamble. He did gamble on occasion, if he was feeling really wealthy, but he preferred to bet on himself, which in his eyes, was not really gambling at all.

Corey was a bare-knuckle boxer from the Old Country via Boston, and he was here at the Emporium to make certain Patrick, his trainer, got home safely with their money.

Patrick was a rascal of a man, always with a scheme and hidden purpose, but he knew more about punching and footwork than any man Corey had ever known. They had met four years earlier on the docks, and it hadn’t been too much longer before Patrick had convinced Corey to give up honest work to make some money on the road. And if there wasn’t as much money as Patrick had promised, Corey could still admit that it had been a lot of fun.

Still, seeing a woman like the redhead reminded Corey of all the things a boxer could not have. And a proper young woman like her was foremost among them.

It was time to gather up Patrick and convince him to go home.

The fight started poorly.

Gentleman Tom McGee bounded into the ring and Rock Quarry Callaghan sprang forward to meet him. From that point on, it was all Gentleman Tom’s game and Corey might as well have been a spectator rather than a participant. Where he was fast, the Gentleman was lightning. Where Corey was strong, the Gentleman was Hercules. And where Corey was tough, well, in the early rounds of fighting, the Gentleman’s toughness was never put to the test.

It was exactly the opposite of what Corey had expected to happen.

He just couldn’t land a punch, couldn’t keep his rhythm, couldn’t find his footwork, and couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him. And Gentleman Tom McGee took advantage of Corey’s difficulties as only a true professional could. He jabbed, he suckered, he walloped, he smashed, and basically pounded Rock Quarry Callaghan into a gravel pit.

The fight started poorly, but it wasn’t finished yet.

“One more round like that, lad, and I’ll have to throw in the towel for sure. I don’t care how much we lose. No one can stand that kind of a beating.”

Patrick O’Sullivan was worried. Four long years and he had never seen the lad like this. No rhythm, no spark, no chance at getting back into it. He wanted to throw in the towel now, but he knew in his heart they couldn’t afford it. He’d bet too much. If they lost today, they’d be down to their last twenty-five cents.

“What’s wrong with you, lad? You’re leading with your chin, your heart’s not in your punches, and your mind? I don’t know where your mind is. You’ve got to fight with your wits!”

Patrick stopped speaking when he realized he’d lost Corey. The lad was showing more life than he had all afternoon, craning his neck and looking into the crowd. Looking at what? Patrick twisted around to see, but the only thing unusual out there was a red-haired woman.

With a terrible sinking feeling, he looked back at his Rock Quarry.

The woman spoke to the man beside her, clearly establishing a wager. She looked up, caught Corey staring, and smiled at him. A small jerk of her head directed his attention toward Tom.

Then and there, Rock Quarry Callaghan decided to win.

“Bet dinner,” he ordered Patrick before bounding up to his feet.

Patrick stared for another moment, then loyally reached into his pocket and pulled out the two-bit piece. “Two bits!” he yelled. “Two bits says my Rock Quarry can still win!”

The bell rang even as men gathered to bid for the bet.

Like the Gentleman, they were about to learn that a smile can be dangerous.

The Rock Quarry flung himself at his opponent, the change in his demeanor immediately apparent. Not that he was his old self yet, he hurt too much to be that Rock Quarry Callaghan. Brutal rather than graceful, he pushed himself with everything he still had. He needed to balance the fight, bring the Gentleman down to his level, break through his reserves and demoralize him.

Even so, Corey almost didn’t get him.

The Gentleman danced back out of reach. He’d seen these desperation plays before. He landed a jab to infuriate, then pranced away again while Callaghan chased him. The strategy should have worked. Corey was dead on his feet and only had a few good punches left in him. The Gentleman had already shown himself superior; now, toward the end of the fight, there should be no question as to who was better. But a flash of red hair, unusual at a match, caught at the corner of the Gentleman’s eye. It didn’t quite distract him, but at the same moment his foot came down on the end of a shoelace that should have been tied tight. It was uncommonly bad luck. Still, the slip only cost him a moment. No real threat to his balance, it just threw his timing off a notch. And in that moment, Rock Quarry Callaghan landed a punch with all the remaining strength he had.

Corey’s fist flew straight out from his shoulder as Patrick had taught him and caught the Gentleman on the bridge of his nose. Cartilage smashed and cracked beneath it. Blood splattered in all directions. And Rock Quarry Callaghan never let his opponent breathe again.

By the time Corey’s own vision had cleared, he was being lifted to the shoulders of the miners who had bet on him. Patrick was shouting the praises of God and Ireland. And the redheaded woman had already collected her money and left.

Patrick was drunk.