The Brothers O'Brien

by J. A. Johnstone

  Patrick stopped and grabbed his brother’s arm. “No, Jacob. There’s been too much killing already. It’s over, can’t you see that?”

  “It’s not over while Whitney and his hired killers are still alive.”

  “Jacob, Clay Stanley murdered Nellie on Whitney’s orders,” Patrick said. “Those others had nothing to do with it. Go after Whitney with my blessing, but don’t shoot men down in cold blood.”

  Jacob brushed past his brother, cold death in his eyes, but he stopped when he heard the triple click of a Colt’s hammer. He turned and saw Patrick’s gun pointed squarely at him, the muzzle unwavering.

  “Jacob, I won’t let you gun down those men like dogs.”

  It took a few moments, but eventually Jacob smiled. “You’ve got sand, big brother.”

  Patrick shook his head. “No, I haven’t. Right now I’m scared. I saw you shoot today.”

  “All right, you can let the Texans go, Pat,” Jacob said. “I never cross a man who’s holding a .44 on me.”

  Patrick holstered his gun. “Hell, I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger anyway.”

  “I know you wouldn’t. You’ve got balls, brother. They don’t clang when you walk like mine do, but you got them nonetheless.”

  “So that’s what I keep hearing,” Patrick said, grinning.

  Everything that had stood between him and Jacob was made right again.

  The Texans were escorted off Dromore land by vaqueros. They went meekly enough, uneasily aware that the hard-eyed Mexicans were fingers looking for triggers.

  After Samuel promised to do right by Nellie, Jacob saddled a fresh horse and rode out after Whitney.

  As his brothers watched him go, Shawn turned to Samuel. “I sure wouldn’t want to be in Whitney’s shoes. Would you?”

  “No I wouldn’t.” Samuel smiled. “Did you know Jacob took his cat with him?”

  “Why would he do that?” Patrick asked

  “Maybe he doesn’t intend to come back to Dromore.” Samuel looked at his brother. “Jacob does what he does, and sometimes there’s no reason to it.”

  “What did you think today, Sam?” Shawn stroked the neck of a packhorse loaded with blankets and food.

  “About Jacob?” Samuel saw his brother nod. Slowly, as though he was talking thoughts as they came to him, he said, “I think he may be the fastest with a gun there is. Maybe one man in ten thousand can do what he does. Maybe one in a hundred thousand. He’s wired differently from the rest of us, is all.”

  “Is Jacob a killer?” Shawn said.

  “He’s got some of the killer in him. It would be stupid of me to deny it. But a man who was all killer couldn’t play the piano as he does, or cry as he did for Nellie, or fuss over a kitten.” Samuel shook his head. “Shawn, I can’t tell you what Jacob is. What he’s not is an uncomplicated man.”

  “I can shuck a gun as fast as any of them,” Shawn said. “But I’m no match for Jacob.”

  “Well, like I said, I don’t think any man alive is.” Samuel glanced at the black sky, and then collected the reins of his horse. “Mount up, you two. Let’s go find the colonel and my wife and son.”

  It was Silas Cade, turning up like a bad penny, who pointed the way to White Bluffs. “Seen your pa over to there, boys. Gave him what I could spare of my coffee an’ grub. He’s got a passel of folks with him, and a whole scad o’ young ’uns.”

  The O’Briens had ridden up on Cade just north of the V-shaped Arroyo San Cristobal as the old prospector led his burro through falling snow heading for . . . only he and God knew.

  “How are they?” Samuel said, his voice unsteady with worry.

  “Seem to be doin’ fine.” Cade frowned. “Colonel told me about losing his ranch an’ all. I always knew that little Whitney feller was a bad ’un.”

  Samuel touched his hat. “Thank you for the information, old-timer. Now we’ll be on our way.”

  Patrick took some money out of his pocket. “This will compensate you for the coffee and grub, Silas.”

  The old man waved it away. “No need for payment, sonny. I was right happy to do it.” He grinned. “The colonel says that when he gets his ranch back, I can come sit by his fire anytime.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the burro. “Me and Lucy is sure lookin’ forward to that.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  Donna Aracela laid aside her copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s book, A Vindication of the Rights of Women, and said, “Enter,” to the scratch at the door to her study.

  A servant girl stepped inside, her eyes averted from her mistress as Aracela had decreed. “There is someone here to see you, Lady.”

  “Who is it, girl?”

  “He wouldn’t say, Lady. He—”

  Joel Whitney pushed the servant girl aside and stepped into the room. The shoulders of his fur coat were covered in snow and his face showed the strain of a long and difficult ride. In one hand he carried the money valise Aracela had given him. “We have to talk.”

  Aracela dismissed the servant, and looked at her visitor. “I think you bring news, Mr. Whitney, and none of it good.”

  The little man collapsed into a chair, and laid the valise at his feet. “Brandy,” he croaked out.

  Aracela rose, her green morning dress rustling. “As you wish.” She stepped to the drinks trolley and poured brandy into a glass, then handed it to him, Before she sat again, she asked, “What of Dromore?”

  Whitney drank deeply. His voice husky, he said, “I had it, and lost it again.”

  Aracela sat and her beautiful black eyes narrowed. “Why, whatever do you mean, Mr. Whitney?”

  “I . . . persuaded Colonel O’Brien to sign his ranch over to me, but his sons took it back. They killed Clay Stanley and half a dozen others.”

  “I see no wounds on you,” Aracela said.

  “After I watched Stanley get killed, I got the hell out of there. I’m not a gunfighter.” Whitney’s face paled. “Oh, my God . . .”

  Aracela said nothing. Waited.

  “The contract O’Brien signed . . . I left it at Dromore.”

  “How very careless of you.”

  Whitney got to his feet and refilled his glass. “I’ll get Dromore back, you’ll see. But I’ll need more money.”

  “Did you spend all the money I gave you?”

  “Of course not. Every penny of it is in the valise. The riffraff I ended up hiring I paid with pocket change.”

  “How much more do you need?”

  “Another ten thousand at least. This time I plan to spend every penny I have on an army of men who know how to use a gun and who won’t quit on me when the going gets tough.”

  “Mr. Whitney, you had an army, and lost it.”

  “I lost it because I ran into a demon by the name of Jacob O’Brien,” the little man said. “No man should be able to draw and shoot like him. It’s unnatural. Clay Stanley was the best of them, and his gun didn’t even clear his holster before O’Brien killed him.”

  Aracela nodded. “Jacob is a most remarkable man.”

  “And I am, too, Aracela.” Whitney threw himself at the woman’s feet. “Come with me to Texas.”

  “Isn’t this rather sudden?” Aracela’s smile was as warm as a grinning skull.

  “Aracela, all the time I was away from you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Whitney said. “Your body, the way it moves, haunts my waking hours and disturbs my sleep. I tried to resist, but . . . but it’s as though you’ve cast a spell over me.”

  “I’m a witch, didn’t you know that? Ask any of the peons, they’ll tell you.”

  “I don’t care what you are. Come with me to Texas and share my life and my bed. When we return to the Estancia Valley we’ll ride together into Dromore as conquerors.”

  Aracela was silent for a few moments, then said, “Of course I will . . . Joel.”

  Whiney looked up at her face and smiled. “Aracela, you’ve made me a very happy man.”

  “And I am a happy woman.”

 
“Get your vaqueros mounted. I’m sure the O’Briens are tracking me.”

  “I have no vaqueros,” Aracela said. “One of them tried to rape me, and I was forced to shoot him. The others left after that. They blamed me for Otilio’s death, as though it was my fault.”

  “Damn him. I would’ve shot him myself.”

  Aracela smiled and stroked the little man’s stubbled cheek. “Of course you would have, Joel. Of course you would have.”

  Whitney chose a fresh horse from the hacienda stable and Aracela mounted a beautiful Appaloosa that had been her dead brother’s favorite traveling horse. She wore a split, canvas riding skirt, a man’s canvas coat, and a wide-brimmed hat. Under her knee she had a booted Winchester Model 1866 Yellow Boy.

  “Riding light, aren’t you, Aracela?” Whitney said, seeing that the woman carried no bag, only a small, drawstring purse.

  “I have everything I need, Joel. The rest I can buy in Texas.”

  “But the money? Where is it?”

  “I had none on hand, but I can wire my bankers when we get to where we’re going and have money sent to us,” Aracela said.

  “I figure we’ll head for El Paso,” Whitey said.

  “Then I’ll send a wire from there, Joel. Now let’s ride and stop worrying so much.”

  “Now we’re together, I don’t want anything to go wrong this time. I want us to get Dromore back.”

  “Nothing will go wrong, Joel,” Aracela said. “Trust me.”

  They rode south, parallel to the snow-streaked Manzano Mountains, their rawboned peaks lost in black cloud. Around them lay broken country, wild and lonely, flayed that morning by snow, wind, and grim cold. Juniper and piñon thrived in the lower flats among shoulders of granite rock and higher, closer to the mountains, grew pine and higher still where the air was thin, aspen and then ponderosa near the timberline.

  Whitney rode in front and chose the trail, his breath clouding. Behind him Aracela rode with slack reins and let the mountain-bred Appaloosa pick its way. She was freezing cold, her toes numb in her boots, and the sight of Whitney hunched over in his fur coat and hat repelled her. He looked like an overgrown rodent, lifting his wet, red nose every now and then as though sniffing cheese.

  She figured she’d had quite enough of this charade.

  Easing the Winchester out of the leather, a round already in the chamber, she thumbed back the hammer. By her reckoning they were about a mile north of the ruins of the old Quarai Mission. It was time.

  Aracela shouldered the rifle, laid the sights on the middle of Whitney’s back, and squeezed the trigger. She saw the man jerk in the saddle, and then he turned his head, his face horrified. She fired again. Whitney fell off his horse, hit the ground, and rolled on his back.

  Levering another round, the woman walked her horse closer until she was looming over him.

  “Why, Aracela?” Whitney’s eyes had a look of utter devastation, like a man who’d just been gut shot by his sweet old granny.

  She smiled, her rifle trained on his chest. “You failed me, little man. I wanted Dromore and you lost it.” She shrugged. “Oh well, now you’re dead and I’ll take back the Estancia, so all is not lost.”

  “I thought you might have loved me,” Whitney said.

  Aracela laughed out loud. “Love you? You poor fool, whatever gave you that idea?”

  Whitney’s face turned ugly. “You evil bitch, you’ve killed me. But, damn you, I’ll take you to hell with me.” His hand dived into his coat for his derringer.

  Aracela let time stretch for a few moments before she pulled the trigger. The pleasure of killing was so exquisite—it should not be hurried. She fired. The big .44 drove through Whitney’s right hand and into his chest and he died—all his dreams and ambitions and lusts wiped away in an instant.

  She dismounted and removed the valise from Whitney’s saddle horn. She stepped into the saddle again, gathered up the reins of the little man’s borrowed horse, and headed north toward the hacienda. She was cold, chilled to the bone by snow and wind, yet she’d never felt so alive, as though she could feel the blood surging through her body, pulsing in her blue veins.

  After a mile, she became aware of the man watching her from a stand of juniper atop a ridge to her west. He was young, a peon by the look of his ragged serape and straw hat, and he sat astride a yellow mustang.

  Someone from the village, Aracela decided. But why is he out riding on a day like this? She shook her head. Peons were strange people, incredibly stupid for the most part, so who could even guess? She dismissed the man from her mind and rode on.

  Aracela had no way of knowing it then, but the man on the yellow horse was her death.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Jacob O’Brien lost Whitney’s trail a long time before he rode into the town of Estancia, cold, hungry, and in a bad frame of mind. He knew the man was heading south, but to where? Texas was the obvious answer, but states didn’t come any bigger than that, and the little man could easily go to ground and vanish.

  Jacob stepped into the hotel lobby. Mrs. Hazel stood behind the desk.

  No, she had not seen Whitney, but Mr. O’Brien looked exhausted and would he like something to eat and a room and, by the way, how was that nice Mr. Ironside?

  Jacob told the woman about Luther’s wound. “My brothers plan to bring a doctor from El Paso, so I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  Mrs. Hazel sighed. “I won’t sleep a wink worrying about him. He’s such a fine, distinguished gentlemen.”

  “Yup, he’s all of that.” Right then Jacob was a little chagrined. Eve was purring in Mrs. Hazel’s arms and she seemed to prefer the woman’s company to his own. Well, he always knew females were fickle, and that obviously also applied to the cat.

  “I have a roast in the oven, if you’d care for some,” Mrs. Hazel said.

  “Maybe later,” Jacob said. “I’m going to check at the saloon, see if anyone’s seen Joel Whitney.” He rubbed Eve’s pointy ears. “Do you mind keeping her until I get back?”

  “No at all, Mr. O’Brien. She can stay here as long as she wants.”

  “I have the feeling she’d like that,” Jacob smiled. “She’s not much of a cat for long, cold trails.”

  Jacob led his horse into the barn and forked him hay and a scoop of oats. Then he crossed the street to the saloon under a gray sky that offered not even a hint of blue.

  The bartender hadn’t seen Whitney, either. In fact business was slow.

  “It’s the weather,” Jacob said. “Everybody’s holed up until spring.”

  “Seems like,” the bartender said.

  Jacob refused a drink but accepted coffee, then another cup.

  He took his cup, stepped to the window and looked outside. It was snowing again. He’d read a newspaper that said it was the worst winter on record and that the cattle industry from Mexico to Montana had been devastated. “Blizzards of ’87 Spell An End To Open Range Ranching” the editorial trumpeted.

  Staring gloomily into the blustering snow and the ice-bound valley, Jacob could believe it. He figured ranchers would keep their herds fenced and close, and that would not only spell the end of the open range but the sound of the wind through barbed wire would sing a requiem for the cowboy way. A pity, Jacob thought, because it was a good way. But time makes changes and no man can halt its march.

  Depressed, he stepped back to the bar.

  “That feller Whitney,” the bartender said, “you hunting him?”

  Jacob saw no reason to lie. “I aim to kill him.”

  The bartender didn’t flinch. He’d heard that kind of talk many times before. “Where you figure he’s headed?”

  “Could be Texas. Or the Arizona Territory or Old Mexico.” Jacob smiled. “Take your pick.” His smile slipped. “Hell, maybe my hunt ends right here in Estancia.”

  “Has he kin hereabouts, this Whitney feller?” the bartender asked, refilling Jacob’s cup.

  “No kin, only enemies,” Jacob said. “And one of them is
Don Manuel Ortero, another man who wants Whitney dead.”

  “Not anymore he don’t. Didn’t you hear? The old man’s dead, killed in a gun battle, I hear. They say it was with Texas outlaws, but I don’t know about that.”

  Jacob was stunned. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as I’m standing here and you’re drinking free coffee.”

  Jacob felt that sixth sense niggle him. With the old man out of the way, had Whitney made some kind of devil’s deal with Aracela? Was he with her now? Nah, that was unlikely. And yet, it was just possible.

  It was a long shot to be sure, but it was the only lead Jacob had and a sight better than hanging around Estancia kicking his heels. He rang a dollar on the counter. “For the coffee.”

  He turned away as the bartender said. “You don’t have to do that. The coffee is free.”

  Jacob stopped at the door. “Times are hard and coffee is expensive. I like to pay my way.”

  “Sure you can keep her, Mrs. Hazel,” Jacob said. “Eve doesn’t much like trailing with me. I guess she wants a fire and a place to curl up o’ nights and a mouse to catch.”

  “I’ll be good to her, Mr. O’Brien, depend on that. As for mice, I’ve got plenty of those.”

  “I know you’ll take good care of her.” Jacob touched his hat. “Well, so long, ma’am.”

  He swung away from the hotel porch and headed in the direction of the Hacienda Otero. He had little confidence that Joel Whitney had made a pact with Aracela and would actually be there. But it was the only lead he had on the little killer and he had to check it out.

  Besides, if nothing else, it would be a real pleasure to see the beautiful Aracela again.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  The maid cried and tried to turn back when she saw that Donna Aracela was dragging her toward the Ortero crypt. Aracela stopped, slapped the girl hard across the face, then grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to the tomb door.