“Are you all right, John?”
The Englishman opened his eyes slowly, as if after a half-minute nap.
“Excuse me? Yes, yes, quite all right. I just get tired. I spent four or five weeks down with small pox last summer. Came down with it at Las Vegas. I should have spent more time recovering. But I had business back here in Lincoln. In the middle of October, I rode back on horseback—forty miles a day for three days. That was three months ago and my bones still ache from that ride. But I’m doing much better now.”
“Good. You were speaking about Jesse Evans and rustling.”
“Yes, the captain—that’s what the locals call Jesse. The Boys even stole some livestock of mine.”
Patrick watched his host intently.
“Back in September. Middle of the month. Stole my horses from my ranch down on the Rio Felix. Everyone knew the gang did it. So even Sheriff Brady had to go after them. Sent Dick Brewer, his deputy. Arrested the captain and three of the Boys down at Seven Rivers and threw them in jail up here in Lincoln. The sheriff of Doña Ana County refused to issue the arrest warrants so Justice Wilson—Justice of the Peace John Wilson—in Lincoln issued the warrants.”
Billy Bonney stepped out of the shadows with a large pot of hot coffee. Without asking, he refilled the two china cups and stepped back.
“Tell Patrick how you got the captain out of jail.”
Bonney looked almost giddy over the story’s climax.
“Nonsense, Billy. Go help those ladies with that flour barrel.”
“Yes, Mr. Tunstall.”
“As I was saying, the captain and his gunmen were locked up. Toward the end of last November, the whole damned gang—twenty-five riders—broke them out of jail. I got a little of the credit just because I sent Evans a few bottles of whiskey while he was in jail. Folks thought I hid a saw in a fruit cake! But his men broke him out, not me.”
Patrick concealed a faint smile behind his beard.
“Did you ever get your horses back?”
“Yes. Jesse promised me that he would return them when he was released. He was and he did. But I didn’t have anything to do with his breakout.”
“Of course not.”
“Well, as I was saying: If your brother stays at the Wortley, he will either run with the Boys or get himself run over by them. He can’t stay long over there without choosing sides. Everyone in Lincoln has chosen sides.”
“Yes. You said that.”
“It’s true. And that’s the end of it.”
Billy came back without the coffee pot.
“Your supplies are ready. Packed small for behind your saddle. Four dollars, please.”
“How much for the coffee?”
“On the house,” Tunstall answered for Billy. “It was nice talking with you, Patrick. I hope things work out with your brother.” The Englishman excused himself, stood up, and walked into Shield’s back office.
Patrick reached into his pocket and laid four silver dollars on the table. Billy picked them up and went to the counter. Patrick followed him and picked up a canvas sack heavy with his purchases. The sack was only two-thirds full so it would dangle from the saddle’s cantle.
Outside, the sun was well up and seemed to stop dead in the purple sky to the south. It was noon and Patrick regretted having already burned up half of the day. He walked to the paddock on the side of the store and waited for his horse to come over. Tunstall’s blind horse followed the swishing tail. Saddling quickly, Patrick heaved the sack across the back of his saddle. The saddle was a cattleman’s saddle designed for roping and cutting John Chisum’s cattle: long toward the rear and secured by two belly cinches.
Patrick rode at an easy walk toward the west. The sun was shoulder high to his left. He pulled his fur collar up high on his neck to keep the cold breeze out of his thick flannel shirt.
He glanced right as he walked his mount past the Wortley. Patrick did not see Sean. But Melissa Bryant stood ankle-keep in old and dirty snow just outside the door. Still in her short sleeves, she wrapped her arms across her full chest to keep warm. The brilliant sun was in her eyes, squinted nearly closed. Her long black hair shined against the drab adobe wall behind her.
Patrick looked down and kept going. When his eyes half hidden by his wide hat met the woman’s blue eyes, he nodded and touched his floppy brim with his gloved hand.
The woman blinked and turned quickly, closing the door behind her.
Chapter Four
BY MONDAY, JANUARY 28TH, 1878, PATRICK ROURKE HAD stayed away from Lincoln for six days. During that time, he continued to work at making the ranch house livable. It seemed to him that he cleaned out enough cobwebs to knit a sweater. Mucking out the barn felt like working in a mine. The frozen piles of manure were like shoveling rocks. With the fences down, the cattle with mutilated ears strolled the brown and yellow snow up to the front door as if they were the real tenants of Grady Rourke’s home. When mornings came cold and bright under a purple sky, dozens of them huddled to stay warm on the front porch. Patrick wondered if the weight of their thin bodies had shattered the front window—through which the night wind still blew hard against the faded curtain nailed across the sill and sash.
By Monday, six days had passed since the woman who had no voice had walked behind Patrick’s chair in the cantina. He had felt or had imagined that he felt the coarse linen of her skirt just touch the back of his neck. She did not walk through his dreams until the third night.
Because of the woman, Patrick thought over hot coffee in a tin cup, because of the woman the cattle dozed this morning on his front porch. Since his third morning in his father's bed, each day he awoke from dreaming of Melissa Bryant. Instead of stepping out of his warm bedroll onto the ice-cold hardwood floor the instant his eyes opened, he lay there with his hands folded under his head and thought of Melissa. Each morning, he wasted an hour trying to conjure every detail of his dream in his mind. Inhaling sleepily, he would imagine that he had her scent on his beard, instead of the stench of the night’s cow droppings steaming on the front porch and seeping through the billowing curtain.
The morning hours spent remembering her were hours that would have been better spent on mending fences and patching the roof. But instead of stoking the fire in the hearth and baking a sourdough biscuit to go with his morning coffee, Patrick sat thinking about shining black hair, white shoulders, and sparkling blue eyes. In the moment when he had ridden past her and she had looked up and turned away, Patrick had seen eyes full of sunlight and a distant blind terror that haunted her memory. Each morning, as he lay there remembering the fleeting glance of pain in the comers of those violet eyes, he tried not to imagine that skin and that face screaming under a dozen brown bodies taking her, one at a time. For eight years, she had not used that voice again.
The only way to shake the last vision was to climb out of his blankets and let the deathlike cold of the floor snap his mind back to the business at hand. So Patrick had rubbed his eyes and grimaced when his stocking feet touched the floor. He built a fire and now sipped hot coffee at the small table in his dead mother’s kitchen.
Rummaging through the old house, Patrick had found a loose board in the floor of his parents’ bedroom. Investigating further, he saw that the timber was not nailed to the framing underneath. When he lifted the plank to inspect for rot or termites, he discovered a rusted, metal box no larger than a loaf of bread. Inside were gold and silver coins, just under one hundred fifty dollars. Within the treasure was a yellowed citation naming Master Sergeant Grady Sean Rourke a brave soldier at the battle of Chapultepec, Mexico, September 12, 1847. The citation was signed by Brevet Lt. Colonel Robert E. Lee and countersigned by Winfield Scott, General of the Army. The long-hand signature at the very bottom belonged to James K. Polk, President of the United States.
Patrick had counted the coins into neat piles on the kitchen table, kept twenty-five dollars, and put everything else back into its place under the bedroom floor. The little box and a few hun
dred dollars under Grady’s name at Tunstall’s bank were all of Grady’s life savings. The money, the rundown ranch, and a Presidential citation were all Grady Rourke had in the world-that, and three sons should Liam still be alive.
By the sixth day, Patrick knew that he could not repair and manage the ranch alone and that Grady’s hidden money would not last long. To keep the ranch, he would need either a brother or a hired hand. That would require renting the pasture to Chisum’s herd—up to the front porch, if necessary. And since Grady’s estate could not be released until Liam returned or was declared dead by the Army, Patrick knew that he needed a job.
So on this cold and bright Monday, Patrick saddled his horse and rode again into Lincoln.
“Run out of sourdough already?” Billy Bonney asked cheerfully from behind the counter.
“No. I would like to see Mr. Shield, please.”
“He”s gone for at least a week."
“Gone?”
“Yep. Went down to Mesilla to see about getting Mr. McSween loose.”
“What about Mr. Tunstall?”
“He’s in the back. You can go on in, I suppose.”
“Thanks.”
John Tunstall stood up when Patrick knocked on the door frame of the open door.
“Good morning, Patrick. Have a seat.”
“Thanks.” Patrick sat down and set his hat on his lap. He opened his fur trailcoat wide in the room warmed by the fireplace.
“Is Billy getting more supplies for you?”
“No. I come in to ask for work. Seems I can’t get at Pa’s account in your bank till our other brother musters out of the cavalry. I can’t get by just on the ranch. I don’t even know what the cattle rents are.”
“Chisum’s herd?”
“Yes. I suppose I could go down to his place. Maybe he needs another hand?”
The Englishman put his paperwork aside to give his guest his full attention.
“John Chisum’s ranch is South Spring River, fifty-five miles east of here where the Rio Hondo meets the Pecos River. It’s a long haul if you’re also running your father’s spread alone. The cattle are probably putting twenty-five dollars a month into your father’s account here at the bank. I’m pleased to tell you that the Lincoln County Bank is the only one in town. There are only two other banks in the whole territory. I’m an owner, but I’m carried on the charter as just the cashier. John Chisum is president and Mr. McSween is vice president.”
“Chisum’s in the banking business, too?”
“Yes, indeed. It’s the three of us against the House and their whore sheriff. John probably runs eighty-thousand head now. He might pay you to join his operation here in Lincoln. Can you handle that sidearm?” Tunstall nodded toward Patrick’s Peacemaker high on his right hip.
“My piece? I’m passable with it. But I was thinking of cow punching for Chisum, not using my Colt.”
“You don’t seem to understand yet.” There was no trace of impatience in Tunstall’s voice. “John Chisum has taken up with McSween and me. That puts him on our side of the fence. Dolan’s gang is on the other side.”
“Over cattle, too?” Patrick had never seen anything like this, not even in the far western gold fields where men killed each other over a scrap of bread.
“Especially cattle. Dolan’s henchmen—the Jesse Evans Gang—have made a fine living stealing Chisum cattle and selling it back to the Indian Agency for the Apache reservation. They hide the cattle down around Seven Rivers. Remember: That bunch wasn’t above stealing my horses from my ranch down on the Rio Felix. And make no mistake,” Tunstall leaned forward, resting his elbow on the lawyer’s roll top desk, “Jimmy Dolan is at the bottom of that cesspool. He owns the House, and the Boys rustle and murder for him.”
“Murder? I thought Dolan was just another shopkeeper.”
“Murder, Patrick. Just last year, he shot and killed Geraldo Jaramillo. Sheriff said it was self defense. But he shot him three times. Dolan is a killer and a rustler. He just lets Jesse Evans do his dirty work so Dolan can keep his hands clean. That’s why Chisum could use one more gun here in Lincoln.”
Patrick looked down toward his hat balanced on his right knee. He toyed with its faded crown. He had not come home to become a gunman.
“My brother’s still at the Wortley, you know.”
“Yes. And I’ve seen him—not in here, of course, but on the street—with some of Jesse’s men. Sean is in rough company, I’m afraid.”
“And if I hire on with Chisum?”
“Then you and Sean might very well end up on opposite sides of the street.”
Patrick nodded.
“Then I can’t do it. I can’take no job with Chisum.”
Tunstall leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. His brow pursed with a moment’s deep thought. He seemed genuinely concerned.
“Well, Patrick, even if you could hasten the probate process of your father’s estate, Mr. Shield has gone to Mesilla for a week, maybe longer. Perhaps Liam will be here by the time Mr. Shield and Alex get home. I’m just thinking: Chisum has his men based out of South Spring River. No one really works this end of his spread. You’re living on your father’s ranch anyway. Why not hire on just to watch the Chisum cattle grazing on Rourke land? I can just about guarantee he’ll pay two dollars a week for that. The Evans men shouldn’t bother you much—especially with Sean living at the Wortley in House territory. Besides, I could probably arrange an increase in the grazing rents if you need it.”
“What authority do I have over the grazing rights?”
“You seem to be running the spread. Sean has elected not to participate. Even though Chisum’s lease was with Grady, you have certain rights as one of the heirs to the estate. After all, the lease will descend to you and Liam once the will is probated. I think Mr. Shield or Alex could get some kind of temporary order giving you power of attorney when the judge visits here on his circuit.”
“Would I have authority to cancel the lease altogether, if I wanted to?”
“I suppose. But you need the money.”
“Yes. That’s true.”
“Then you’ll continue the cattle grazing, for the time being?”
“Yes. I don’t have much choice.”
“Fine. I’ll tell John when I see him. Now, about your hiring on to protect the cattle on Rourke land?”
“Do you speak for Mr. Chisum?”
“No one speaks for John Chisum except John Chisum. But we’re partners. I can hire you until he disapproves. His money is good until then. And I’m quite certain he’ll approve. One more gun is one gun not in Dolan’s service.”
Patrick looked down again. He studied his spurs where he crossed his legs.
“All right. Till Liam is accounted for and we can settle up Pa’s business.”
Tunstall patted his blackclad knees before he stood.
“Splendid. I’ll have Billy put you on the payroll at once. Do you need an advance?”
“No, thanks. I still have some coin. I’ll be on my way, Mr. Tunstall.”
“John. Please. I’m John. Chisum is Mister.” He extended his hand, which Patrick took. “And I hope that you can talk some sense into Sean before ity’s too late.”
“Yes. I’ll try. I’ll look forward to meeting Mr. Chisum.”
“Good. I’ll send word to you if I have need to ride overto South Spring”
Patrick nodded, fixed his hat low over his eyes, and walked out of the office. Billy Bonney looked up and nodded cheerfully.
The Rourke brother’s pace was brisk when he walked down the frozen street toward the Wortley. He left his horse in Tunstall’s paddock where the animal rubbed noses with blind Colonel. Patrick’s spurs made no sound on the packed snow that crunched underfoot. For a town where there were two clearly drawn sides and everyone was on one or the other, the townspeople were friendly. They nodded and touched the brims of their hats when Patrick passed them. Anglos in black suits or ranching clothing and Mexicans uniformly dressed like
Indians or cow punchers were equally civil to the new man in town.
The crowd inside the adobe hotel surprised Patrick. The boarding house was full of hungry-looking men in shabby trail dusters and baggy pants. The dark-faced clerk at the desk nodded.
“He’s in the cantina.”
“Thanks.”
Hat in hand, Patrick found Sean sitting at a large table where all seven chairs were filled. There were three bottles between them but Sean was the only one without a glass at his place.
“Patrick? Come to visit your ex-brother?”
“Sean.”
When Sean stood up, Patrick noticed that his brother’s eyes were not bloodshot and his breath did not smell like kerosine. He could smell strong tobacco instead. Sean pulled a chair from a nearby table and wedged it in close to his. He gestured toward the empty seat. Patrick remained standing and eyed the strangers at the table: young men in their mid-twenties with unkempt hair, scruffy beards, and heavy gunbelts. One of the men looked older, in his thirties. He alone wore a business suit and a clean, white shirt.
“This here is my little brother Patrick.”
The strangers nodded.
“This is Jesse Evans,” Sean said as if he had known all of his life the man smiling without pretense.
“Mr. Evans.”
“They call me Captain. It’s an honorary.” Jesse Evans chuckled. When he stood up for a moment until the brothers got seated, Patrick was surprised that the cattle rustler was rather stocky and short, maybe 150 pounds on a 5-foot, 6-inch frame. His gray eyes were not killers’ eyes. Greasy, blond hair fell over his forehead. “Come to join the Boys? Sean has decided to ride with us.”
Patrick looked sideways toward his clear-eyed brother. Sean blinked and looked down at the table.
“Don’t think so, Captain. I’m running our father’s ranch until the lawyers get back and our other brother gets here. Then we’ll settle up and get things back to normal.” Patrick kept looking at Sean who did not look up. He sat on Sean’s good side and could not see his shattered face.
The Sons of Grady Rourke Page 5