The Brothers O'Brien

by J. A. Johnstone

  Ironside grinned. “And what does all that crying amount to, Colonel?”

  “Well,” O’Brien said, “when you hear the cry of the banshee you can be sure that someone around you is going to die. She brings the bad news from the spirit world, you see.”

  “Oh Miz O’Brien,” Nellie wailed, “I’m afraid. Are we all going to die?”

  “No. No one here is going to die for a long, long time.” Saraid smiled. “Come sit by me, Nellie.”

  The girl did as she was told and Saraid put her arm around Nellie’s trembling shoulder.

  Saraid glared at her husband, then Ironside. “Shame on you two, a pair of grown men scaring this child half to death, to say nothing of Samuel. Don’t you think Nellie has been frightened enough recently?”

  O’Brien looked contrite. “I’m sorry, Saraid.”

  “We were just funnin’, Miz O’Brien,” Ironside said.

  “For heaven’s sake, Luther, call me Saraid. You’re one of the family now. As for fun, you and Shamus will have plenty of that tomorrow. I want you to do something for me.”

  “And what might that be?” O’Brien said.

  “You’ll find out in the morning, and this time tomorrow evening you’ll both be so tired you’ll have no appetite for funnin’.”

  Chapter Six

  “There it is, on the slope,” Saraid said. “See there, in the clearing between the junipers?”

  “Saraid,” O’Brien said, “it’s a rock.”

  “I know it’s a rock, and I want it.”

  “But it’s halfway up the mesa.”

  “Then you’ll have to bring it down, won’t you?”

  O’Brien drained the last of his morning coffee from the cup and stared at the slope over the rim. “Why do you want it? Is this another of your pregnant female notions?”

  “Shamus O’Brien, bring me my rock,” Saraid said.

  “Do it now before the sun rises higher in the sky.”

  “It’s flat,” Ironside said. “I mean, the rock is flat, at least what I can see of it.”

  “I know it’s flat.” Saraid’s voice was tinged with impatience. “And it’s a pink color, and I want it.”

  “Must weigh a ton, Saraid,” Ironside said, with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

  “Then hitch up the team, and haul it down here.” Saraid glared at her husband. “And don’t you dare break it, Shamus.”

  O’Brien and Ironside exchanged the kind of glance men give each other when they come up against the unconquerable rampart of a woman’s will and realize their only option is surrender.

  “Hitch the team and get some rope, Luther,” O’Brien said. “Let’s go get the rock.”

  “It’s sure gonna take a heap of gettin’, Colonel.”

  O’Brien’s shoulders slumped and he spoke through a long sigh. “Don’t you think I already know that?”

  Ironside grinned. “Yup, Colonel, I guess you already do.”

  Nellie and Samuel stepped beside Saraid. “I saw Mr. Ironside leave,” Nellie said. “Are they getting you your rock, Miz O’Brien?”

  “Reluctantly,” Saraid said.

  “Saraid, it ain’t going to be easy,” O’Brien said. “Like Luther told you, that’s a ton o’ rock.”

  “You’ll have the horses, Shamus. If you get into trouble, let them do the thinking for you.”

  Saraid was on a tear and O’Brien figured talking to his wife in her present mood was like walking naked through a briar patch.

  He looked from her to Nellie and was met with scowls, the female of the species banding together against the common enemy. Gathering what remained of his dignity around him like a ragged cloak, O’Brien tried for the last word. “When we come down from the mesa, we’re going to be mighty hungry.”

  “You’ll eat when you get my rock,” Saraid said. “And not a minute before, Shamus O’Brien.”

  The pink rock was as large as a tabletop, about four inches thick, and the part that stuck out of the slope was roughly oval shaped.

  The horses had declined to climb the rise. After a few tentative steps they’d backed away, deciding that the loose shale underfoot was too dangerous. But O’Brien and Ironside, lacking horse sense, made the ascent and attacked the dirt around the rock slab with pick and shovel.

  After an hour, another foot of the rock was exposed with no end in sight. Ironside said, “Hell, Colonel, this here boulder might go all the way through the mesa and come out at t’other side.”

  “It might at that.” O’Brien wiped sweat from the band of his hat with his fingers. “No matter, Saraid would still want it.”

  “Now tell me, what does she plan to do with it?” Ironside said.

  “The hell if I know, Luther. Like I always say, pregnant women take on some strange notions.”

  Ironside spat on his hands and grasped his shovel again. “One reason I joined the cavalry in the war was because I don’t like digging holes. Now I know why.”

  “It’s never been one of my favorite occupations,” O’Brien said.

  “Didn’t you dig holes in Ireland, Colonel?”

  “Yes, plenty of them. It wasn’t one of my favorite occupations there, either.”

  The sun rose in the sky and burned like a white-hot coin. Jays quarreled in the junipers and crickets played scratchy tunes in the brush. The mesa stood more than eight thousand feet above the flat, and on its wooded slope the air was sharp and smelled like fresh-sawn timber.

  O’Brien and Ironside had stripped to the waist and the sun highlighted the sweat on their broad backs and strong arms, their bunched muscles shining as though they’d just been oiled.

  By two in the afternoon, the pink slab was almost free, held in place by only a ledge of shingled dirt.

  Now that it was visible, O’Brien figured the pink slab measured about eight by five feet, its thickness of four inches constant throughout its length and width. “Luther, ’tis indeed a mighty stone,” he said, breathing hard.

  “How do we get it down the slope, Colonel?” The expression on Ironside’s face showed that he feared the answer.

  “We’ll rope the thing well, then hold on as its own weight slides it slowly down to the valley floor.”

  “That should work, Colonel, with you and me at the ends of the ropes to slow her some.”

  “Yes, I believe so.” O’Brien crossed himself, glancing at the sky. “God willing.”

  After they looped the rock like a steer for branding, O’Brien laid out the ends of the rope where they’d be handy for grabbing.

  “Chip away the dirt now, Luther, and easy as you go.”

  Ironside held the pick high up the shaft and gently scraped dirt from under the slab. The rock held stubbornly firm.

  “Maybe you should dig deeper,” O’Brien said.

  Ironside swung the pick more forcibly. Dirt and shale flew as the pick sank again and again into the slope of the mesa.

  “Now you’re getting it, Luther,” O’Brien said, pleased.

  The front of the slab dropped an inch, then another.

  “She’s going,” Ironside said, stepping to the side.

  “Grab a rope, Luther. We’ll guide her down, slow and easy does it, mind.”

  But the slab suddenly dropped onto the slope like a falling domino and touched off an unfortunate chain of events.

  “Hold on!” O’Brien yelled, grasping the rope with both hands. “We’ve got her.” He dug in the heels of his boots to give him traction, his chin set and determined. Opposite him, Ironside did the same, bracing himself to take the weight.

  But, with the cussedness of inanimate objects, the pink rock stayed right where it was aslant the slope and refused to move.

  “I’ll give her a nudge, Luther.” O’Brien reached out with his boot and shoved on the end of the slab.

  That’s all it took.

  Suddenly the rock slid, gathered momentum, and then hurtled down the slope like a runaway freight train.

  O’Brien and Ironside, taken unawares, st
umbled after the slab, hauling on the ropes for dear life. But the weight and speed of the rock was too much for them and they were yanked off their feet and followed the hurtling slab downward. They bowled head over heels down the side of the mesa like shotgunned rabbits, scattering showers of shale.

  O’Brien was vaguely aware of the world cartwheeling around him as he bounced down the slope. He yelled a wild Gaelic curse every time he slammed into the ground—until all the breath was knocked out of him when he hit the flat with a thud.

  A moment later Ironside thumped beside him. He still had breath enough to let go a string of curses that turned the air around him blue.

  “Where’s the bloody rock?” O’Brien gasped.

  “Hell, I don’t know and I don’t care.” Ironside’s left cheek was badly grazed, and he had a lump on his forehead the size of a pigeon’s egg.

  “We have to find it.” O’Brien struggled to his feet when he heard Saraid scream.

  She hurried toward her husband, her skirt hiked up, her face a mask of concern.

  “I’m all right. Don’t worry, Saraid, there’s nothing broken.”

  “I’m worried about my rock. Is my rock all right?” Saraid wailed, rushing past him. She frantically looked around her. “Oh, there it is.”

  She stepped quickly to the pink slab. “It’s fine. Oh my, that’s such a relief.”

  She turned and looked at her husband. “Shamus, hitch the team to my rock, and I’ll show you where I want it.”

  For a moment O’Brien was stunned. “Saraid, did you notice that I fell off the mesa?” He held up his hands. “Look, I’ve got a rope burn and cuts and bruises all over me. I could’ve broken my bloody neck, you know.”

  Ignoring him, Saraid walked to Ironside, who was arched backward, groaning as he worked out the kinks. “How are you, Luther?” Before the man could answer, she said, “Well, that’s good. Now you and Shamus hitch the team to the rock and follow me.”

  “This way, Shamus, and please avoid the hole there.” Saraid pointed to her right. “It’s not far now.”

  O’Brien led the straining team around an old buffalo wallow and followed his wife. Ironside, muttering under his breath, walked beside the rock and Nellie and Samuel followed behind him.

  Saraid smiled as she walked, looking behind her often to encourage the others. “We’ll soon be there.” Finally, exasperated, O’Brien said, “Saraid, where are we taking this thing?”

  “To the creek,” his wife said. “Well, close to the creek.”

  “What in heaven’s name for, woman?”

  “You’ll see, Shamus.”

  A huge cottonwood spread its branches near a level area of ground, shading it like a vast parasol.

  “This way.” Saraid eyed her distance from the tree and the foot of the mesa where the piñon and juniper grew, then stopped. She pointed to a spot under her feet. “Shamus, here. Put the stone right here.”

  O’Brien maneuvered the slab into position, removed the ropes, and led the team away. When he returned he said, “All right, Saraid, now what?”

  The woman didn’t answer, at least not right away. She called everyone closer, and when they stood near she stepped onto the slab. “This is my hearthstone. Around it we will build our cabin and our lives, and we will call this place Dromore.”

  Chapter Seven

  New Mexico Territory, October 1866

  When Samuel O’Brien was old enough to have a past, two events would remain in his memory.

  The first was when his mother gave birth to his brother Patrick. The second was when the Apaches came.

  By the end of October, as winds sharked chill off the peaks of the Santa Fe Mountains to the north, the building of the cabin was almost complete. The bases of the walls were stone, rising to a height of four feet, then another five feet of logs and a sturdy sod roof. A pole corral with a lean-to was erected for the horses, and an outhouse was built well away from the river.

  Inside, O’Brien and Ironside had built a stone fireplace, and Saraid, very big with child, loved to sit of an evening and watch the play of the flames reflected on her polished hearthstone.

  What furniture they possessed was rough, made from unplaned pine. Only the cast iron stove and an assortment of pots, pans, and crockery were store bought.

  O’Brien, mindful of the Apache, had cut only two windows into the logs, both at the front of the cabin. Having no glass, they were closed by heavy wooden shutters with rifle slots.

  The door was solid, made from mountain oak, the forged hinges of hammered iron.

  Saraid had her hearthstone, and Shamus had his motto.

  Above the door he nailed a painted sign that read:

  Lamh laidir au Uachtar

  The Gaelic words meant, “The strong hand from above,” and were taken from the ancient heraldic crest of the O’Brien clan. Ironside said the motto looked like gibberish, but O’Brien was very proud of his sign and would hear no criticism of it, even from Saraid.

  Winter came early to the valley that year, and on the morning of October twenty-eighth, snow flurries swirled in the chill air and ice stitched both banks of the creek like lace on a lady’s collar.

  By noon, the mercury in the outside thermometer dropped to twenty degrees. When O’Brien went out to check on the horses, his breath smoked.

  Saraid went into labor at one o’clock that afternoon. She lay on the rope bed, her mattress stuffed with pinecones. Despite the cold, her forehead was damp with sweat, and the labor pains were coming at faster intervals.

  O’Brien had been soldiering when Samuel was born, and seeing childbirth for the first time, he was beside himself with worry. He sat on the bed beside Saraid and took her hand. With a man’s clumsy sincerity, he said, “How are you feeling, Saraid?”

  His wife smiled. “Shamus, I’m not sick. I’m having a baby.”

  “Yes, yes I know.” O’Brien tucked the sheet around his wife. “Can I get you something?” He thought about it for a few moments. “A bite to eat? Some fried bacon, maybe?”

  Nellie put her hand on O’Brien’s shoulder. Reflecting Saraid’s smile, she said, “Colonel, I’ll see to Miz Saraid. It’s going to get cold and I reckon the fire needs more wood.”

  O’Brien jumped at that like a drowning man clutching at a straw. “First class idea, Nellie.” He rose to his feet, and looked down at his wife. “Saraid, I’m going to get more wood for the fire.”

  A fresh spasm of pain helped Saraid hide her amusement. “Yes, Shamus, please do that. It’s going to get much colder.”

  But O’Brien hesitated. When he looked at Nellie his eyes were questioning, but somewhere in their blue depths the girl saw a plea for assurance.

  “Do you know anything about birthing babies?” he asked.

  “My ma had nine,” Nellie said. “I helped deliver the last three. A girl learns how to do a lot of things on a plantation.”

  O’Brien swallowed hard. “Nellie, take good care of her.”

  “I will, Colonel.”

  “And if you need me—”

  “I’ll holler.”

  O’Brien turned his attention to Saraid again. “I’m going now.”

  Before his wife could answer there was a knock on the bedroom door. Ironside called out, “Colonel.”

  It was a single word, but hearing it, sudden fear spiked at O’Brien. He’d heard Ironside’s tone many times during the war, a mix of apprehension and anxiety as distinctive as a wrong piano note. It was the tone a soldier uses only when he sees the enemy advance in force on his position.

  Without a word, O’Brien stepped to the closed bedroom shutters and bolted them in place.

  Saraid watched her husband as he left the room, then her pained eyes moved to the black girl. “Nellie, when the baby appears, I will shift for myself. The men may need you to load rifles.”

  “How many?” O’Brien asked as he pulled Samuel close to him.

  “Hard to tell, Colonel. They don’t stay long enough in one spot to be counted.
But I’d guess at least six.”

  O’Brien looked through the rifle slot. Outside, the spinning snow flew thicker, and small drifts had formed around the bases of the trees like wind-scattered white laundry.

  “Why the hell are Apaches out on a day like this?” O’Brien said. “Damn it, they should all be home with their wives and youngsters.”

  Ironside nodded. “It’s hard to tell why an Indian does what he does. But when Apaches ride out half-a-dozen strong it means they’ve got raiding and killing in mind.”

  “Are they just watching us, or will they attack?” O’Brien said.

  As though in answer to his question, an arrow thudded into the shutter close to the rifle slot, then another.

  Both men had buckled on their Colts, and each held a sixteen-shot Henry repeating rifle.

  O’Brien peered through the rifle slot. “Damn it, Luther, I don’t see them.”

  “I’ve heard that when you see an Apache it’s too late because you’re already dead.”

  “Samuel, you stay here with Luther,” O’Brien said, his throat tight. “I’ll take the window in the bedroom.”

  “Can I see Ma?” Samuel asked.

  “No, not yet, son. Soon. When the baby is born.”

  O’Brien moved to the bedroom door. He stopped and said to Ironside, “Luther, may St. Patrick and all the saints and angels in Heaven protect you.”

  Ironside smiled and nodded. “Thank ye kindly, Colonel. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll put my faith in this here rifle gun.”

  Henry in hand, O’Brien stepped to the bed. “How are you doing, Saraid?”

  “It will be soon now, Shamus. The baby is trying to be born.”

  O’Brien looked at Nellie.

  “She’ll be fine, Colonel,” the girl said.

  A ball slammed into the bedroom shutter and it rattled noisily on rawhide hinges. The report of the gun echoed until it was borne away by the wind.

  Saraid, her legs open wide, gasped as pain hit her. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Shamus, your place is at the window.”