Jacob O’Brien woke to morning light drifting through a small barred window. A few flakes of snow, like pale moths, fluttered in the angled beam.
It took him a while to realize where he was—in a jail cell that smelled rank of urine and vomit—lying on a filth-encrusted mattress on an iron cot.
He moved his fingers to his face. Dried blood smeared his mustache and his lips were cut and swollen. He was sure his nose was broken, for maybe the third or fourth time in his life, and he had a splitting headache.
The cot squealed in protest when he rose and put his feet on the floor and his aching head in his hands. He heard nothing of the outside, but a sly wind whispered around the roof of the adobe jail, its breath iced by frost. As solemn as a courthouse clock, a leak ticked in the adjoining cell and rats scuttled and squeaked in the corners.
He lay back down and an hour passed while he dozed the time away without moving. But he woke with a start when the iron door to the cell opened and Constable Tate stepped inside, holding a smoking cup of coffee.
“Ah, you’re awake, O’Brien,” he said. “For awhile there I figured you was dead.”
“Not hardly,” O’Brien said.
“Well, a good Christmas Day morning to you,” Tate said, smiling. He held out the cup for O’Brien to take. “I brung you coffee.” He reached inside his mackinaw. “And the makings, if you’re a smoking man.”
Angry as he was, O’Brien wasn’t about to cut off his broken nose to spite his face. He took the cup and makings without comment. After he’d built a cigarette and flamed it alight, he said, “Where is Jasper Rhodes?”
Tate, a big-bellied man with a blue-chinned, brutal face, shrugged as though O’Brien’s question was of little importance. “The negro gentleman is no longer with us.”
“You ran him out of town?”
“No, I hung him.”
That last hit O’Brien like a fist. “Damn you, you murdered the man.”
Tate shook his head slowly and seemed to take no offense. “No, I hung him legal, like. He was accused of stealing a Remington revolver from Tom Wright’s rod and gun store, the theft of bonded bourbon and Havana cigars from Bill Andrews’ saloon, vagrancy, and the attempted rape of one Laura Higgins, saloon employee and prostitute. All of those crimes are hanging offenses in El Paso.”
“I took the cigars and whiskey, damn you,” O’Brien said. “And Jasper Rhodes didn’t try to rape anybody. Hell, I was there.”
“Maybe what you say is true, but the law decided otherwise.”
“You mean the vigilantes decided otherwise.”
“They’re the law in this town, so it was all done legal like, as I said.”
O’Brien opened his mouth to speak, but Tate cut him off. “If I hear another word out of you, I’ll forget you’re Colonel Shamus O’Brien’s son and keep you locked up until spring.”
“My father’s got nothing to do with this,” O’Brien said.
“I know. But he’s a rich and powerful man with friends in high places. Jailing his son for months might create a problem.”
“Why don’t you hang me, like you did Jasper Rhodes?”
Tate nodded. “Well, I thought about it, but that might create even bigger problems.” He leaned forward and clanked a key in the lock. “No, O’Brien, you’re getting out of El Paso today, you and your damned cat that’s out there in my office hissing at everybody. I mean, you’re both leaving this very minute.” He reached inside his coat. “Hell, I almost forgot. This came for you this morning.”
He passed O’Brien a telegram that read simply:
COME. SHAWN.
“Not bad news, I hope,” Tate said, “this being Christmas Day an’ all.”
“You’ve already read it.”
“Yeah, I guess I did. But it didn’t mean much to me.”
O’Brien said nothing. He folded the telegram and shoved it in the pocket of his mackinaw.
“Follow me,” Tate said.
After they stepped into the office, cold despite the potbellied stove that glowed cherry-red in a corner, the constable took O’Brien’s gun belt and holstered Colt from the gun rack and laid it on his desk.
“Before you get any fancy notions about gunning me, look out the window,” he said.
O’Brien crossed to the frost-laced window and glanced outside. Eight men carrying shotguns stood outside, bundled up to the eyes against the cold and flurrying snow.
“Those gentlemen will accompany you to the livery and then the railroad station,” Tate said. “Your train leaves at three after ten, and there’s a branch line from here to Santa Fe, though the conductor might let you off closer to home.”
“You don’t take chances, do you?” O’Brien said, buckling on his gun belt. “You must think I’m a real dangerous hombre.”
“Live longer thinking that way,” Tate said. “You’re a draw fighter, O’Brien. You are dangerous, and I hate your kind, seed, breed, and generation of you.”
“I’d say the feeling is mutual in that respect.” O’Brien stepped to the door, and then stopped. “Who hit me and with what?”
Tate’s smile was not pleasant. “Lou Hunt, the piano player. Said you forced him to play Christmas carols, and he despises them things. He hit you with an Old Crow bottle, empty, of course.”
O’Brien nodded. “Lou Hunt, a name to remember. I may ride back this way and put a bullet in his belly.”
“That would be a pity,” Tate said. “He’s the only piano player in town.”
O’Brien loaded his horse into a boxcar and then settled into the cushions in the passenger car with Eve on his lap, the lynching of Jasper Rhodes weighing heavily on him.
A nice English lady sat next to him. Middle-aged and motherly, she asked him if he was leaving El Paso to visit dear parents.
Not eager for conversation, he replied, “Brother.”
“Then we must get your face cleaned up, young man,” the woman said. “One can’t visit loved ones with a bloodied countenance, can one?”
“I’m fine,” O’Brien said. What he really wanted to say was, Leave me the hell alone, woman.
“I can’t in all conscience, as a good Christian on this most blessed day of the year, let you continue on your journey looking like you just went ten rounds with Tom Cribb.” The woman frowned at O’Brien as though she’d fairly stated her case and would brook no opposition.
Her face apologetic, she said, “I’m afraid I don’t have any water, but I do have a bottle of rosewater and that will serve splendidly.”
“When the train stops to take on water, I’ll stand under the hose,” O’Brien said. He was desperate now.
“You will do no such thing,” the woman said. “Stand under the hose indeed. You’d catch your death of cold, and then what would your dear loved ones think?”
She touched the kitten’s head with elegant white fingers. “What a pretty kitty. What’s her name?”
“Eve.”
The woman smiled. “Ah, Eve has found her Adam.”
“As I recall, the last time that happened, it didn’t work out so well,” O’Brien said.
The woman had an honest laugh, clear and light as a ringing silver bell. “Why, how deliciously droll. I declare, you Western men have such a wonderful sense of humor.”
Before he could say anything else, the woman poured rosewater over a scrap of handkerchief and began to dab blood from his mustache and nose.
“I know this must sting, and I do apologize,” she said. “But sometimes one must be cruel to be kind, mustn’t one?”
He surrendered to the Englishwoman’s ministrations, figuring it was best to endure her for a few minutes and get it over with. In fact, it took almost half an hour, and by that time the train was speeding through a howling, cartwheeling snowstorm.
Finally the woman leaned back, her bloody handkerchief poised, and admired her handiwork. She rode the pitching floor of the railcar expertly, like an old salt in a nor’easter.
“Yes, we do look so much
better,” she said. “Your dear brother will hardly recognize you.”
“Thank you,” O’Brien said. “Now I figure I’ll catch up on some sleep.”
“Wait.” The woman rummaged in her drawstring purse, and found a scrap of mirror. “Look at yourself and see the difference Christian charity can make in the lives of others less fortunate than ourselves.”
O’Brien was not a man for mirrors, but he glanced at his reflection to please the woman. His right eye was puffed, already turning a purple shade, his lips were split and swollen after Tate mashed them against his teeth, and he was certain his nose was busted.
“Yes,” he managed a smile, “I look much better.”
“If you need more administrations of rosewater—”
“I’ll let you know.”
The woman smiled and went back to her seat, but she continued to glance at him as though anxious for an opportunity to impart yet more Christian charity.
Aware that he smelled like a two-dollar whore, to the apparent distaste of the grizzled miner who sat in front of him, O’Brien closed his eyes. Eve climbed onto his lap, curled up, and was asleep in seconds.
The train hurtled through the iron gray morning, the locomotive’s chimney white with frost. In the cabin, the fireman and engineer sweated, the glow of the firebox scarlet on their faces. Snowflakes swept past the passenger cars like birds in flight, and ahead the rails vanished into a steel-mesh curtain where the land and sky became one.
Jacob O’Brien slept . . . and dreamed of Dromore.
Chapter Twenty
The snow followed Jacob McBride from El Paso to Dromore, as though reluctant to take leave of him.
Sitting his horse in sheltering pines, he gazed across the timeless land. The mesa still dominated the skyline, as though defying the lowering clouds to obscure its savage beauty. Beyond, rose the peaks of the Santa Fe Mountains, but those were lost in snow and distance.
O’Brien breathed in deeply, enjoying once again the air of Dromore, a heady mix of pine, piñon, sage, and the bubbling waters of the creek where the silver trout swam.
He lit a cigarette and smoked, taking his time. It was good to be home. The big house with its plantation pillars had not changed, looking as though it would endure for centuries at the foot of the mesa, just as it was. O’Brien saw no movement around the house, but then, who would be out on such a cold morning, three days after Christmas?
He was strangely reluctant to enter the house. Perhaps he feared the disappointed, slightly disapproving look the Colonel would lash at him, or the marital happiness he’d see in Samuel, such a sharp contrast to his own lot, the echoing loneliness of the long-riding man who could live no other way.
O’Brien built and lit another smoke, a shivering wind shaking snow from the pines around him. His horse, eager to be going, pawed the ground and tossed its head, breath snorting from its nostrils like plumes of smoke. Eve emerged from under his mackinaw and jumped to the ground, eager to explore.
“Don’t you go far,” he said. “Or the coyotes will get you.”
The kitten paid no heed and nosed into a clump of brush, tail up, interested.
It wasn’t a trick of the wind. O’Brien was sure of that. He was certain there was somebody, or something, close.
Slowly he turned his head and glanced behind him. The pines were set close together, the ground at their roots carpeted with needles, and flakes of snow drifted in the air from the high branches.
Nothing. Not even a shadow moving.
But he was aware. A man was close. O’Brien could feel his presence, the eyes on his face crawling over him like snails. He reached down with his right, freed his gun from the mackinaw, ready for the draw.
“Too slow, little brother, I could’ve plugged you for sure.”
The voice came from Jacob’s right. He turned as his gun came free and saw Shawn grinning at him. His brother sat an Appaloosa horse among the trees. He wore a sheepskin coat and the brim of a gray Stetson was pulled low over his eyes.
“Damn it, Shawn,” Jacob said, fright making him angry. “You know better than to sneak up on a man.”
“Saw you from a ways off, Jacob,” Shawn said. “I came at you slow. This palouse steps through the trees like a deer.”
“How the hell did you know it was me?”
“Who else dresses in old rags, sits his saddle like a sack of grain, and stares at Dromore like a frightened child?” Shawn looked at the kitten rustling around, searching for bugs. “Is that yours?”
“Yeah, her name is Eve.”
“You look thin, Jacob. Did you have a hard time on the trail, driving the cat all the way from El Paso?”
Jacob shook his head. “Shawn, how come nobody’s shot you yet?”
“Just lucky, I guess.” He smiled. “A farmer once took a pot at me when he caught me in the barn with his wife, but that was a couple years back.”
Jacob said nothing. He holstered his gun, reached into his mackinaw, and produced the telegram. Silently he held it up for his brother to see.
“We’ve got trouble, Jacob,” Shawn said.
“What kind of trouble?”
“Well, you could call it sheep trouble, but it’ll more’n likely turn into gun trouble”
“And that’s why you sent for me?”
“Uh-huh. You’re fast with the iron, little brother, and you don’t scare worth a damn.”
Jacob laughed, a rare thing for him. “How can you say that when you just scared the hell out of me?”
“I reckon you knew I was kin, Jacob. It’s only kinfolk who scare you.”
Jacob let that go. “Tell me about the sheep.”
“Later. We’ll go to the house and I’ll tell you then.” Shawn looked at his brother, his face concerned. “Damn, you’re as skinny as a rail. Haven’t you been eating good?”
“I eat when I have money.”
“It looks like you don’t have money too often.”
Jacob nodded. “That’s about the size of it.”
“Better get your cat,” Shawn said. “Then we’ll go talk to the Colonel.”
“I’m missing my last six meals,” Jacob said.
Shawn grinned. “Nellie will see that right off and she’ll stuff you so full of grub you won’t be able to move for the rest of the day.”
“She’s my kind of gal,” Jacob said.
He retrieved his kitten. Then he and Shawn rode to Dromore.
“You have had breakfast, Jacob?” Shamus O’Brien asked.
“Nellie filled me up with pancakes and bacon, to say nothing of eggs, steak, and a gallon of coffee.”
“That is good. You look thin.”
Jacob nodded. “I can’t say I’ve been eating real regular.”
“Your coat is ragged, your boots have no heels left, and your hat is fit only for a scarecrow,” Shamus said. “What has become of you, son?”
“I live, Pa. Hard times have come down recently, but I live.”
“But not well.”
“Well enough. My needs are few and I go where I choose. As you used to say, I have a free foot and a fellow for it.”
“We heard you killed a man.”
“He needed killing.”
“Down on the Brazos we were told.”
“He was a drunken lout who abused his woman and her daughter. He was notified, but went for his gun.”
“A mistake, as it turned out.”
“One he made.”
“You’re gaining a reputation, Jacob.”
“It’s not of my choosing.”
Shamus rolled his wheelchair to the fireplace, where a great log burned, and seemed to take much interest in the oil portrait of Saraid that hung above the mantel.
Without turning, he said, “You know what is happening, the direst threat to Dromore that ever was.”
“Samuel told me. Sheep, he said.”
“They could destroy us, Jacob, if they move north.”
“I’m aware of that, Colonel.”
&nb
sp; Shamus turned. “God forgive me for saying this, but we need your gun.”
“In other words, you need a killer down on the Estancia.”
“None of your brothers has that qualification.” Shamus sighed; a shuddering proclamation that what he was about to say disturbed him greatly. “It’s much I’m asking of you, Jacob, since you are no longer part of Dromore.”
“I’ll always be a part of Dromore, Colonel. I was born and”—he glanced at his mother’s portrait—“raised here. Dromore stays with me constantly, awake or asleep.”
Shamus absorbed that and decided it needed no comment. “Samuel told you what needs to be done?”
“Yes, he has.”
“You and your brothers will go only as observers,” Shamus said. “You will only take action if and when the sheep herds move north.”
“I understand,” Jacob said.
“A man named Joel Whitney claims he has title to the whole valley, and he plans on moving the sheepherders off his land. He has hired Texas gunfighters and that could be a complication.”
“Texans on the prod usually are,” Jacob said.
“I want you to move out tomorrow at first light.”
Jacob nodded, but said nothing.
Shamus smiled. “In the meantime get acquainted with your new nephew. He’s named for me and he’ll be master of Dromore one day.”
Jacob rose to his feet. “I’ll do that, Colonel.”
“Your hand, son,” Shamus said. “I want no ill-feeling between us.”
Jacob shook hands with his father and started for the door.
“Will you play the piano for me tonight?” Shamus asked after him.
“Of course I will,” Jacob said.
Chapter Twenty-one
Snow fell, dimming the morning. Ice frosted the trees, the grass, and the rock faces of the mesa, and gleamed like polished iron on the roof of the house. The creek was frozen and a couple vaqueros were already busy with picks, chopping holes for the cattle. A gray sky hung low over the steely land and the air was hard, snapping in the mouth like stick candy.
Shamus, wrapped in a blanket, sat in his wheelchair at the door of the big house and watched his sons leave. Patrick gathered up the rope of the packhorse and followed Shawn, Jacob, and the vaquero Andre Perez. His stiff-kneed mount walked slowly, unsure of the footing.
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