The Sons of Grady Rourke

by Douglas Savage

  “Is this the Tunstall store?”

  “Yes, mister. Can I help you?”

  “We're looking for a Mister Shield. Supposed to be a lawyer.”

  “He's in the back. I'll fetch him. Who shall I tell him?”

  “We're Rourkes.”

  The young man nodded as if his early morning customers were expected.

  “What about you?” Patrick said toward the clerk’s thin back.

  The boy stopped, turned and grinned. “William Bonney.” He waited with a look of cheerful anticipation on his clean-shaven face. For a moment, he studied each brother’s blue-gray eyes.

  “Mr. Shield, please,” Sean said impatiently.

  When the clerk continued on his way, he looked disappointed and continued to watch the brothers over his shoulder until he disappeared into an open room. He quickly returned with a tall, well-dressed man behind him.

  “I’m David P. Shield. May I be of service?”

  The boy returned to his post behind the counter.

  Sean and Patrick removed their hats.

  “I'm Sean Rourke. And my brother, Patrick.”

  “Grady’s sons?”

  “Yes, sir. Come to see Mr. McSween. His letter three months ago is what brung us home.”

  “Yes. Of course. We were sorry to hear about old Grady. Won't you come back, please?”

  The dapper, middle-aged gentleman with a handlebar mustache led the brothers through the rear of the Tunstall store. He stopped at a small cubicle and gestured for his guests to enter first. The brothers took seats close to the adobe wall and their host settled into a wicker chair on castors close to a rolltop desk.

  “I'm Alex McSween’s partner and a lawyer. We all felt bad about Grady’s accident. Didn't find his body for a week. His friends buried him behind the house, beside your Ma and their babies.” The lawyer nodded gravely. “Your father’s will is in our files and I am authorized to share it with you in my partner’s absence.” He paused to collect his thoughts. “I have to report that Alex was called away on legal business to Mesilla. I don’t expect him back for several weeks.”

  “We heard he was in some kind of trouble.” Sean was already out of patience and it was not yet ten o'clock.

  “So he is,” Mr. Shield nodded with discomfort in his calm voice. “Trumped up charges of abusing an estate in his care. Dolan’s people and the House are behind it.”

  “Oh. Who’s Mr. Tunstall what owns this store?”

  “I can tell, Sean, that you don’t dance around the issues. I like that in a man.” The lawyer reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a wooden box. “Cigars, gentlemen?”

  Sean reached into the open box held open in front of him. Patrick waved it past. The lawyer took a cigar and returned the box to his drawer. He struck a match on the bottom of his boot and offered the fire to Sean.

  “No need, sir.” Sean bit off two inches of cigar and began slowly chewing it. Shield smiled and brought the flame up to his own cigar.

  “As I was saying, how long has it been since you boys were home in Lincoln?”

  “Five, maybe six years,” Sean said with his lips barely opening. Shield handed his guest a brass spittoon. Sean nodded and used it.

  “That’s long enough to be out of touch with Lincoln affairs and all of the players. Do you want to get to your father’s papers first, or get reacquainted with local politics?”

  The brothers glanced at each other. In the brief silence, Shield took a drag on his cigar and spoke first.

  “You planning to stay here? Maybe work your father’s ranch?”

  “I suppose,” Sean said before spitting again.

  “Then perhaps a little local history would do you both good.” Shield spoke to Sean whom he now knew did the talking for Grady Rourke’s heirs. The lawyer leaned forward toward the older brother. He looked for an instant at Sean’s scarred face and then forced his eyes to study his cigar that he rolled in his fingers, clean as a woman’s hands.

  “You asked about Mr. Tunstall. John Tunstall is the business partner of Mr. McSween. They own this store. The other mercantile in town is Dolan and Company, known here as the House.” Shield’s lips curled slightly. “Dolan and his kind think they own the town. Except for Alex and me, they probably do. They own the law, for sure.”

  “Who’s the law?”

  “Sheriff Brady. William Brady. To be fair, I have to say that there was a time when Brady’s heart was in the right place. But not any more. When Jimmy Dolan hums a tune, Brady starts dancing.”

  The brothers looked sideways at each other. Sean spit into the brass cuspidor.

  “John and Alex formed this general store in the spring of ’77. Tunstall is the controling partner and Alex is buying into it. They bought this place from Lawrence Murphy who was the founder of Dolan’s store before he sold the House to Dolan. Murphy started the House at Fort Stanton, but had to move off the fort in ’73. Your Pa ever mention Murphy?”

  “No. Never mentioned Tunstall neither.”

  “Tunstall’s not from the territory. He’s from England, near London. Alex met him up in Santa Fe two years ago. John was running his daddy’s business in Victoria, British Columbia, before Alex talked him into going into business here.”

  “Why would they set up a mercantile across from Dolan’s if Dolan owns the town?”

  “Alex knew that the House was financially shaky. Thought Tunstall could take them on.”

  “How would McSween know that?” Sean spit and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

  “Alex was the attorney for the House for three years. He knew the books.”

  “Is that legal?” Patrick looked closely at the lawyer with the well scrubbed hands.

  “This is Lincoln, boys.”

  “How'd that sit with the House?” Patrick’s eyes narrowed as the town’s political situation took root in his mind.

  David Shield smiled easily and pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. The brothers noticed for the first time that the shutters on the windows were made from plates of half-inch-thick steel. And the windows were set into massive adobe walls. The Tunstall Store and the McSween-Shield law office was a fortress. Patrick nodded.

  “I see. What about Pa’s papers?”

  “Right here, Sean.” The lawyer opened a drawer and pulled out a large paper envelope tied with a string. He pulled the string, untied a neat little bow, and opened the packet. Two folded documents fell onto the desktop. “Alex saw to your father’s affairs all clean and legal-like. I can assure you of that.”

  Sean thought of Alexander McSween using his confidential knowledge of J. J. Dolan and Company to compete against him.

  “We come home yesterday to cattle running over Pa’s ranch. Looks like the Chisum jingle-bob mark. How’s that?”

  Shield leaned back and his wicker chair creaked. He dragged on his cigar.

  “You boys have been away a long time. It’s Chisum cattle, all right. John Chisum bought a spread south of here. Guess Texas got too small for him.” Shield chuckled to himself. “Chisum started ranching in the territory back in ’68, I guess. He ran his herd on a two hundred mile spread in Pecos Valley. Built his South Spring River Ranch where the Rio Hondo meets the Pecos, sixty miles from Lincoln. Chisum sold out—lock, stock, and barrel—to Hunter and Evans out of St. Louis about three years ago. But they kept Chisum on to round up the cattle and manage things. He’s probably running forty thousand head by now. Your daddy leased Chisum grazing rights to his pasture land.” Shield laid his white hand atop the empty envelope that had “Grady Rourke” written across the flap. “Alex and I have kept the rents in Tunstall’s bank until you boys could get home. We have all the records for you, too.” Shield nodded with sudden gravity. “Records to the penny.”

  “Tunstall’s bank?”

  “Yes, Patrick. The only one in town.” The lawyer’s smile was the face of a man who held all of the aces. “Here’s the lease for the cattle.”

  Patrick picked up the document
and leafed through its three pages. When he handed it to Sean, the older brother merely glanced at it.

  “Where’s Tunstall now?” Sean asked as he handed the document to Shield.

  “Home. Ranch a few miles out of town. He was laid up all summer with the small pox. He’s still getting his strength back.” Shield looked up at a large, colorful calendar that hung from a nail in the adobe wall. Monday, January 21st, 1878, was circled in ink. The lawyer nodded toward the wall. “He'll be back here in three days, Monday.”

  Sean made another deposit into the spittoon.

  “Could we get to the will, sir?”

  “Indeed. I should wait for Justice of the Peace Wilson to disclose this instrument to you, but we can dispense with the formalities, if you have no objetions.”

  “We rode hard for three hundred and fifty miles, Mr. Shield. Just give us the high points and we can do the legal business when Liam gets here.”

  “Your brother. Yes. Alex wrote to him, too, through the War Department. That letter did not come back, so he must have received it.”

  Shield stood up and walked to the doorway. He leaned out toward the spacious store area.

  “Billy? Come on back for a minute, will you?”

  “I ain’t got no one to cover the counter,” a voice called from beyond the little office.

  “Won’t take long, Billy.”

  The boy with the cheerful face stepped into the office. His thick hair curled over his ears. His smile was filled with protruding, front teeth. Only his merry eyes showed any trace of intelligence to the sitting brothers.

  “This is William Bonney. He clerks for Tunstall.”

  The brothers nodded and fidgeted with their hats in their laps. Bonney studied Sean’s wounded face until the older brother blinked. Then the youth leaned against the door frame. His hands were clasped behind him.

  “You witness this, Billy.” Shield took his seat and adjusted steel-framed spectacles on the end of his sharp nose. He opened the document very carefully and studied it silently for an instant to allow the drama to rise until the Rourke brothers leaned forward.

  “‘I, Grady Rourke, an adult white man of sound mind and disposition, do declare this instrument to be my Last Will and Testament dated this 19th day of August 1874. I have three living children, Sean, Patrick, and Liam Rourke. My wife, Shannon O’Casey Rourke, has predeceased me. I hereby devise and bequeath all of my property, real and personal. . .’”

  Shield looked over the tops of his spectacles directly toward Sean. Then he looked back to the document.

  “‘. . . real and personal, to my sons Patrick and Liam. I specifically disinherit my oldest son, Sean, who left home last year and is fully emancipated and able to make something of himself on his own.’”

  Sean’s mouth dropped open revealing a half-dissolved piece of cigar and browned teeth. Billy inched away from the wall and stood with his hands at his sides. Patrick looked at his brother as the lawyer continued to drone.

  “‘I nominate Alexander McSween, Esquire, to serve as my executor without bond . . .’ et cetera, et cetera. The rest is pretty much legal boiler plate. And it’s duly witnessed here at the end by Lawrence Murphy and George Peppin—he’s Deputy Sheriff now. That’s it, boys.”

  Sean sagged in his seat. He looked stricken to the heart. The last time he had felt such a sickening churning of his stomach was the sixth day of April, 1862. His regiment of Confederates had stumbled into a stand of trees at Shiloh Church near the Tennessee River. They were met by two divisions of General Grant’s Yankees. By the end of the day, both bleeding armies would call the woods The Hornet’s Nest. After two ferocious days, one hundred thousand men did battle there and twenty-four thousand fell. Sean’s face now twitched the way it had twitched at Shiloh—moments before a red-hot fragment of iron peeled back his face, down to teeth and bone.

  Without a single word, Sean’s hands dropped hard upon the arms of his wooden chair. He pushed himself out of the seat before Shield or Patrick could rise. Billy had to step sideways so Sean would not have to walk over him as he stomped, spurs jingling, through Tunstall’s store. The front door slammed before Patrick had moved.

  “I’m sorry, Patrick.” Shield stood beside his cluttered desk. “I have no idea why your father made his disposition cutting Sean out of his estate. According to Alex, Grady never gave a reason. He seemed sane and in possession of his faculties when he wrote this. Nothing more was required. We certainly didn’t influence your father, one way or the other.”

  Patrick stopped at the doorway where Billy Bonney stood, slightly wide-eyed.

  “Mr. McSween didn’t have to put ideas in Pa’s head. He always done what he wanted to. We’ll come back to finish this.” Patrick walked quickly past Billy toward the door. The younger brother pulled his hat low over his eyes as the Tunstall Store door opened into piercing sunshine exploding against the snow-white street. Sean was already across the road.

  “Whiskey!”

  The barkeep was wiping yesterday’s glasses when Sean Rourke threw open the front door closed tightly against the high-country January. Men and women stopped toying with the dry goods stacked floor to ceiling at J. J. Dolan and Company. They cleared a quick path for the tall man’s long strides to the bar.

  “Whiskey!” Sean said again as his open palm slammed down on the bar. The unburned left side of his face grimaced at the pain in his hand, which seemed to surprise him.

  “There’s womenfolk shopping here, Mr. Rourke.” The barkeep still sounded pleasant, but with a trace of tightness in his voice. He swallowed his next word when Sean pushed his furry greatcoat back away from the Peacemaker hand-iron on his right hip. The saloon keeper held his breath until Sean reached deeply into his pocket in front of his iron. He retrieved a five dollar gold coin that spun atop the bar.

  “Keep ’em coming until that there half-eagle is drunk up. It’s late enough for me.”.

  When the few men in the House started to back toward the open door, the barkeep put a bottle next to one of his clean glasses in front of Sean.

  “I don’t take to hard talk or spittin’ when there’s women in here to shop, young fellow.”

  Sean’s voice softened, but the live side of his face was flushed and angry.

  “It’s your store. Them rules is fine.”

  Sean picked up the bottle and glass with one hand, turned, and walked to a little table. He passed in front of a round woman and her small child who clutched her dress, which carried white snow and brown manure along the long hem. The woman gasped when sunlight from the window shone full on the dead side of Sean’s face. The wounded man turned away and sat down with his back to the woman and the front door. He did not turn around when Patrick entered with a light step. Patrick’s spurs rang softly with the clean, clear tone of Mexican silver.

  The younger brother followed the barkeep’s glance toward Sean’s hunched back.

  “May I sit down?”

  Sean did not look up. He spoke into his glass, already emptied for the second time.

  “It’s my table, Patrick. You get the ranch.”

  Patrick sighed so loudly that the woman with the child turned around from the pile of calico. He pulled out the chair opposite Sean and sat down. Both men still wore their filthy hats.

  “It’s not my fault, Sean. You know that.”

  “Yes.” Sean did not look up. “Son of a bitch. I never done him wrong. Pa had no cause for cutting me out like that. I worked them fields till my hands bled just like you. And Liam weren’t even in long trousers yet.” He spoke only to the bottle. “I only went to California cause there weren’t dirt enough to feed us all after the war. I sent money home, too, after Ma passed.” Sean looked up from under his wide-brimmed hat. Patrick could see that the corners of his brother’s eyes were wet. “Did Pa tell you that I sent money home?”

  Patrick wanted to nod, but mumbled “No” before he could stop himself.

  “Old man got the last laugh after all.” Sean lowered his
face. “Said he would.” He filled the shot glass again and passed it to Patrick. Amber liquid dripped down the side when it stopped against Patrick’s gloved hand. Sean lifted the half-empty bottle. “To Pa,” he said, sucking at the bottle. Patrick did not lift the glass.

  Before Patrick could speak, Sean swallowed a fiery gulp and pushed the bottle toward his brother.

  “You can finish it. I’ll take a room across the street. Pick up my things maybe tomorrow.”

  Sean stood up unsteadily. The cheap whiskey was already working. He shuffled to the bar.

  “Do I have another one coming for my money?”

  “If you want it, Mr. Rourke.”

  Sean opened his ungloved palm and held it out until the barkeep laid another full bottle in it. Sean nodded.

  With the bottle in his right hand, he walked slowly to the door. He waved with the other hand toward Patrick. The younger brother watched the brilliant halo of sunshine swallow Sean when he slammed the door behind him. Sean’s long coat cut a man-wide path through fresh snow between the House and the Wortley Hotel across the street.

  Chapter Three

  A MAN CAN GO INSANE LIVING ALONE. AFTER FOUR DAYS IN the haunting silence of his father’s empty house, Patrick brooded about how long it might take, precisely. By Tuesday, January 22nd, the night wind whining across the roof sounded like a woman crying. Patrick as a grown man of twenty-five years lay awake in his bedroll on his father’s bed. The night wind reminded him of a four-year-old boy's wide-eyed memory of the sounds his mother had made when Liam was born at first light. He knew that a sane man living alone should be dreaming about another kind of woman.

  At Sean’s side on the long ride across desert and mountains toward Lincoln, Patrick could ride a hundred miles without exchanging a single word. But that was a different kind of silence. It was not at all like the loneliness of an empty ranch house creaking with memories and ghosts.