The Sons of Grady Rourke

by Douglas Savage

  “You had business with the Englishman.” Evans did not ask a question.

  Patrick wondered who had watched him.

  “Yes. Banking”

  “Oh. The Englishman and McSween think they can put the House under. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s none of my business, really.” Patrick was not about to be drawn further into the village’s civil war.

  “That’s my brother,” Sean said quickly. “Keeping his nose to his own affairs.”

  “Admirable quality,” Jesse Evans nodded. “Understand Chisum is grazing on your daddy’s land?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Chisum paying you rent?”

  “Not directly. It goes into our father’s account at the bank. For a while yet.”

  “Tunstall’s bank, you mean. Tunstall and Chisum.”

  “There ain’t no other bank in town,” Patrick shrugged. “There weren’t no choice.”

  “Guess not. If Tunstall and the lawyers had their way, we’d all owe our souls to their bank.” The older man in the clean shirt beside Jesse Evans spoke. “I’m Jimmy Dolan.”

  Patrick looked Dolan in the eye. He wanted to see the rest of the story when it came at him. Dolan spoke without an Irish accent.

  “The Englishman and McSween are swindlers and thieves. The ranchers here abouts have to trade their government script for real money at their bank. Tunstall gives them two-thirds of the face value. The exchange rate is thievery, pure and simple. And townsfolk who farm or want to buy land have to get credit at Tunstall and Chisum’s private little bank. When they can’t make the payments, the bank gets their land. They’re breaking the ranchers’ backs. You best not have nothing to do with them people.”

  Dolan was visibly angry. His words hissed out through clenched teeth. Patrick listened politely.

  “And that there Britisher is buying up land what ain’t legal for someone what ain’t a real citizen.”

  “How’s that?” Patrick leaned slightly toward Dolan.

  “Your daddy and most of the folks around here bought their spreads by the new Desert Lands Act. Passed about a year ago. Folks can lay temporary claim to a whole section of U.S. Government land for twenty-five cents an acre if they promise to work it and irrigate it for three years. After that, they can buy clear title for another dollar per acre. But it’s only open to real Americans, not Englishmen. Tunstall had local people buy up over three-thousand eight-hundred acres in their names and then sell it to him. It’s thievery and it ain’t even American thievery! You keep clear of them Protestants. The House is Irish: Murphy started it and I bought him out. I come to this country back in ’48 when I was a boy. The potato famine in ’45 is what sent the lot of us over. Joined Mr. Lincoln’s army when I was only fifteen. Served till ’69. At least we’re citizens now. Not like the Englishman and his Protestants. You hear me?”

  “Yes,” Patrick nodded. He glanced sideways toward Sean. “But it’s too late. I’m thinking of going to work for Chisum. I ain’t got help for Pa’s ranch and I ain’t got money to keep it going much longer. If Chisum wants to rent grazing rights, I got to sell it to him.” When Sean looked away, Patrick turned back toward James Dolan. “I ain’t got a choice. Leastwise not till Liam comes home.”

  The owner of the House and the Wortley Hotel—who hired the likes of Jesse Evans to rustle Chisum cattle—shook his head as if truly disappointed.

  “That ain’t much of a choice, Patrick.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me that you can’t live in Lincoln without you make a choice of sides. It don’t make any sense to me. But I suppose I done what I had to do. I choose Tunstall and Chisum. I ain’t going to lose Pa’s ranch.”

  “All the same,” Evans said, “you ain’t chose right. Not like Sean here. He’ll be riding with us and the House.”

  Patrick looked at Sean until the older Rourke brother had to tum his head to face Patrick squarely.

  “I can come over here if you’ll come back to the ranch, Sean.”

  “No. I’m part of the House now. And the House don’t take to Chisum cattle or to their bank.”

  Before Patrick could respond, a sturdy middle-aged man entered the cantina. He was tall, in his late forties, and had black hair and a black mustache that curled down past the corners of his mouth. He wore a silver star on his shirt. Jesse Evans the bandit smiled broadly and waved. The lawman nodded and walked toward the table. Two of Evans’ men moved their chairs sideways to make a chair-size space between them. The new man pushed a seat between them and sat down. He immediately looked at Patrick.

  “You’re Grady’s other boy?”

  “Yes. Patrick.”

  “I’m Sheriff Bill Brady. You’re the one who ain’t never soldiered?”

  “Yes,” Patrick stammered and looked down at his dirty hat atop the rough table. “Sean here and our brother Liam was soldiers. And our Pa. But I ain’t been.”

  “That’s all right, son. I didn’t mean no disrespect. I wore the blue, like Jimmy here, in the war. I know Sean wore the gray. But it don’t matter out here. I was a major in the New Mexico Volunteer Cavalry. Fought more Navajo and Apaches than Rebs during the war anyway.”

  Patrick nodded. He wished for a drink so he would have something to fidget with instead of his hat.

  “You staying at Grady’s place?”

  “Yes. I’m running the ranch now.”

  “Alone?”

  “I ain’t got no help.”

  Sheriff Brady looked at Sean, then back toward Patrick.

  “Guess not.” The County Cavan–born sheriff spoke with a thick Irish accent. “Well, Lincoln’s a good town. Hard, but good. When we get rid of McSween and the Englishman, it will be even better. Good place to raise children.”

  “Brady ought to know,” Jesse Evans laughed. “He’s got eight of them and another in the oven.”

  “That ain’t no way to talk about my wife, Jesse,” Brady said without malice.

  “Well, it’s true, ain’t it?”

  “It’s true.”

  “The sheriff is a politician, too,” Jesse offered to break the momentary tension. “First Lincoln delegate to the Territorial House of Representatives back in ’71.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Brady smiled to reassure his outlaw friend. “Been sheriff here since ’76.” He looked over at Patrick. “When you get settled, you come on over to my place at Walnut Grove, four miles east of town. My wife, Bonifacia, will show you some home cooking like only a Mex woman can make.”

  “That would be welcome, Sheriff.”

  William Brady nodded and stood. He touched the brim of his hat, smiled warmly at Dolan, and walked over to the bar where he joined a few men drinking and laughing.

  Turning back toward the company at hand, Patrick saw Melissa Bryant enter carrying a wooden tray. She set some plates in front of two dusty men sitting two tables away. From their side of the round table, both Rourke brothers watched the woman lean over the table.

  “That’s Melissa,” Jesse Evans said softly. “She don’t talk no more.”

  “I know,” Patrick said without thinking. He watched Melissa standing on the far side of the other table. She faced Sean and Patrick without looking at them or seeing them. When she leaned forward, Patrick saw the weight of her breasts pull her low-cut blouse away from her collar bones. Her long black hair fell forward and covered half of her elegant face. Patrick exhaled so slowly that Jesse Evans turned full around to see what held the younger Rourke’s absolute attention. The leader of the Boys smiled and turned back toward the brothers.

  “You’d need cavalry spurs to ride that, boy,” Evans said in a whisper. “You’d be bucked off for sure.” The rustler’s two friends chuckled without turning around. They knew from Patrick’s face where his squinting eyes were focused.

  “I suppose so,” Patrick smiled. He looked at his brother who wasn’t smiling. “But I have fences to mend and a leaky roof to tar first.”

  “Then you best get an earl
y start to it,” Sean said coldly.

  Patrick regarded his older brother carefully.

  “Yes. You ain’t coming then?”

  “Not today, Patrick. I’m having supper with my friends.”

  Jesse Evans nodded.

  “All right. I’ll see you.” Patrick pushed back from the crowded table.

  “Whenever you come back to town.”

  Patrick stood, looked down at his brother, and walked out of the cantina. When he left, he did not glance over at Melissa as he screwed his hat down low over his forehead.

  Walking back up the street toward his horse in Tunstall’s corral, Patrick was overcome with a strange anger that simmered to a full boil by the time he threw his worn saddle over his horse’s back. He hated feeling like the little brother. But Sean made him feel that way by catching him looking at the mute woman. He thumped down into his saddle so hard that his horse swayed slightly for the step it required to engage its hind legs. Riding slowly west, Patrick was too angry to notice Sheriff Brady watching him from the shadows of the front porch of the House.

  An icy wind blowing down from Capitan Peak above Patrick’s right side cooled his anger quickly. Walking his long-haired horse across the frozen Rio Bonito, his brain was too cold to think about anything other than getting home before his fingers snapped off against the leather reins.

  When he knelt in his fur coat at Grady Rourke’s hearth, Patrick’s hands were so numb that he broke the first two matches when he struck them on the stone. He cursed the logs until they caught with a cold, yellow flame. By the time the fire had thawed his hands, Melissa Bryant had been in his brother’s room for an hour.

  Chapter Five

  SEAN ROURKE DID NOT SPEAK HIS BROTHER’S NAME FOR A week. Friday morning, February 1st, Sean stood clean and sober in Sheriff Brady’s office.

  The single-story abode courthouse stood on the south side of the dirt street. In the bright morning sunshine, the thin air had warmed enough to tum the frozen street into slushy mud. It was comfortable enough to walk from the Wortley, across the street, and on up to the sheriff’s office just past the Tunstall store. Walking past Tunstall’s, Sean glanced left. He did not see Patrick’s horse in the paddock, so he fixed his eyes on the street as he continued eastward.

  Inside the courthouse, Sean could look across the street to the ancient stone tower that early settlers had built as a watchtower against Indian raids. The locals called it the torréon. Looking through a side window facing further up the street to the east, Sean could see early-morning customers staggering out of Ike Stockton’s saloon adjacent to the Montaño store.

  “Thanks for coming, Sean.”

  “Sheriff.”

  William Brady was cheerful in the cozy comfort radiating from a large, pot-bellied stove. He put a cup of coffee in front of Sean and splashed some whiskey into both tin cups. The lawman picked up his cup and wrapped his fingers around it as if to warm them.

  “Any word from your brother?”

  “Patrick? No. Ain’t heard from Liam neither.”

  “Jimmy Dolan says you need some work?”

  “Yes. Two weeks of boarding at the Wortley and Manuel’s cantina have just about cleaned me out.”

  “I see. Well, I can use another deputy if you want.”

  “Law? I don’t know.”

  “There ain’t any profit from riding with the Boys. Fun maybe, but not much profit. You were a soldier and I need another man good with a shooting iron.”

  “You already have more guns than you got criminals, Sheriff.”

  William Brady smiled and nodded toward his steaming tin cup.

  “Maybe. But word is that McSween will be coming home any day from Mesilla. He and Tunstall have quite a bunch of Mexicans riding with them. Thought your gun might even us up some.”

  “What about Patrick?” The brother looked squarely at the sheriff. The sun low in the east came through the window and cast horrible shadows on the burned side of Sean’s face. The sheriff looked into his coffee cup.

  “As far as I know, your brother ain’t been to town since Monday. One of Jesse’s men said that he was busy putting up his fence line. It ain’t like I expect a war or anything. Maybe just a little trouble when McSween comes home. Probably nothing. You need the money and I need another gun. It ain’t much more complicated than that.”

  Sean laid his coffee cup atop the desk between the men.

  “What kind of trouble? McSween’s nothing but a lawyer. He pushes paper.”

  “But he’s got friends. What’s worse, he’s got a little army of cow punchers what protect Chisum’s herd.”

  “From the way Jesse talks,” Sean smiled tightly, “that seems like a reasonable precaution.”

  Sheriff Brady nodded. “I suppose. McSween and Tunstall extort half of Lincoln county at their bank and Jimmy Dolan’s House robs the ranchers by selling them goods at exorbitant prices and taking in the farmers’ produce at outrageously low prices in exchange. Everyone has to choose their poison here.” Brady nudged his cup aside, folded his hands on the desk, and leaned forward to lock eyes with Sean Rourke. “But Dolan ain’t killed anybody; at least not over Chisum stock or money. McSween’s gang don’t seem so polite. Not after how Jimmy done him with old Fritz.”

  The force of Brady’s narrow-eyed glare pushed Sean against the back of his chair.

  “Everyone talks about this Fritz business, but no one will give it to me straight.”

  “Yes. You be entitled to that much, Sean.” The sheriff stood up and moved toward the east window. His coffee and whiskey breath steamed the glass where he studied Stockton’s saloon bathed in glorious high-country sunshine. “You know that Lawrence Murphy started the House. Emil Fritz was Murphy’s partner until Fritz went back to Europe to die about four years ago. When some back-East insurance company refused to pay on Emil’s life insurance, Murphy hired McSween to collect for the estate.

  “Last summer, McSween wrung seven thousand dollars or so out of them. Then he stashed it in a bank in St. Louis, I think. Jimmy tried to get at the money to settle some old House debt of Emil’s. When McSween stopped him, Dolan had Emil’s sister swear out a complaint that McSween embezzled that money from the estate and hid it.” Brady turned from the window and smiled. “Emil’s sister don’t even speak English.”

  Sean looked at Brady with the sun full on his mangled cheek.

  “How come you know so much about all this legal business?”

  “Because, Sean, I was appointed executor of old Emil’s estate back in ’76. I resigned as administrator to run for sheriff. That’s when the House hired McSween to go after the insurance company.”

  “And that’s why McSween is down in Mesilla now?”

  “Yes. Dolan had a warrant issued for McSween’s arrest. McSween, his wife, and Chisum were riding to Las Vegas, New Mexico. Deputy Sheriff Adolph Barrier—an honest man, for out here—arrested the lot of them on the stage road two days after Christmas. He released Sue and Chisum, but dragged McSween down to Mesilla to be arraigned in court. It’s been five weeks now. They ought to be coming back up here any day. I expect the lawyer won’t take too easily to a drumhead hearing.”

  The ex-Confederate knew about drumhead courts martial well enough. Sean nodded.

  “I ain’t seen Mrs. McSween since I come to town. Is she here?”

  “No. She went on east. To St. Louis, maybe. She and McSween come to Lincoln in the spring of ’75. Married about two years before that. She wanted to come out here for her asthma. Her cough got better and her husband got himself arrested.” Brady chuckled to the frosted window. “Funny, in a way. McSween was born on Prince Edward Island. I suppose that makes him and Tunstall both British. But McSween speaks American.”

  Sheriff Brady returned to his seat behind the desk.

  “I could use one more gun, if you want the work. I won’t bother you unless I need you. You won’t have to wear no tin star. The town will pay you two dollars a week just to be something of an auxiliary
deputy—for emergencies and such.”

  Sean nodded and smiled behind his beard.

  “Emergencies and such? Least you’re honest about it, Sheriff. Does the town council have to approve of putting me on the payroll?”

  “Jimmy Dolan approves.”

  Sean nodded. “All right, Sheriff. It’s better than the county poorhouse till we can close my father’s estate.”

  Each man stood up. Sean put on his faded, floppy hat.

  “You could move back into Grady’s ranch with Patrick and forget the whole thing.”

  “No. I can’t. I accept Mr. Dolan’s offer. I’ll thank him when I see him.”

  The lawman pulled two silver dollars from his vest pocket and laid the coins into Sean’s gloved palm.

  “I already done that for you, Deputy.”

  Walking back toward the Wortley, the midday sun hung in the violet sky over Sean's left shoulder. Most of Lincoln had taken root over the years on the north side of the single street, on the narrow strip of dirt-poor land between the road and the Rio Bonito. The hotel, the McSweens’ fenced-in compound, Tunstall’s store, the old torréon with its surrounding fence, and a few tiny homes all stood on the frozen strip of land. Sean walked on the undeveloped side of Main Street where only the Cisneros spread broke the snow-covered monotony between the courthouse and Dolan’s mercantile. He had to pull his fur collar up around his face against a chilling, dry wind that blew across the Rio Bonito’s ice.

  The good side of Sean’s face was red from cold and his nose protruding from his beard was moist by the time he stood at the far end of the half-mile long town. The Wortley was at his back as he looked up at the House.

  Sean tried to smile, but his face was too cold. He kicked snow and slush from his boots before he walked inside the House—his new boss.

  J. J. Dolan and Company owned forty acres around the large building. Sean removed his hat after closing the door behind him. Townspeople milled about the first floor piled high with bolts of cloth, barrels of flour and sugar, and shelves of canned goods brought by wagon down from Albuquerque or west from Texas. A pink-faced boy walked out from behind a counter.