The Sons of Grady Rourke

by Douglas Savage

  Sean wanted the child to be elsewhere. But she looked determined to remain perched on Cyrus’ knee.

  “Jesse and I are going to fetch Melissa tomorrow morning early.”

  Abigail smiled and pulled on Cyrus’ Army-blue shirt. He patted her head.

  “How early?” Patrick asked. His eyes narrowed and he looked hard at Jesse.

  “Before daybreak.”

  “I see.”

  “We thought you three might want to ride with us. There ain’t but a handful of cavalry left in town.” Sean looked first at Patrick then Cyrus. It was too hard for him to look into Liam’s empty eyes.

  Cyrus glanced over the child toward Patrick, then at Bonita. The woman’s eyes were worried eyes.

  “When?” Patrick asked.

  “After we finish.” Sean avoided Bonita’s face when he looked at Patrick. “You rode with them Regulators. There are warrants out for all the Regulators, you know. It could be ugly if you’re seen in Lincoln right now.”

  “Don’t matter.”

  “Then let’s eat,” Cyrus said.

  Within half an hour, all of the plates were empty except Liam’s. Abigail ate from Cyrus’ plate.

  When the table was cleared, Cyrus and Patrick put on their heavy gunbelts. Liam watched, said nothing, and walked slowly into the sunshine in the direction of the garden. Cyrus watched him leave before going into Bonita’s bedroom. Jesse, Patrick, and Sean lingered at the table. Abigail sat smiling in Sergeant Buchanan’s chair.

  Bonita sat on the edge of the bed. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap.

  “There’ll be trouble,” she said softly so the child would not hear.

  “Jesse’s men will be there. I don’t expect no trouble.” He stopped directly in front of her. “You keep an eye on Liam.”

  Bonita looked up with moist eyes.

  “He should go with you. His brother got Melissa into this.”

  “It ain’t his fight.”

  “It ain’t your fight.” A tear rolled down her left cheek.

  “Liam can’t fight no more.”

  “But you’re not a soldier anymore, Cyrus. You done your share. Liam should go instead of you. Abbey and I need you.” She wept freely.

  “He can’t. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Then tell me why. You said he went back for you in the battle last year. Why can’t he go without you?”

  Cyrus sighed. He owed her the story. He stepped to the door, closed it softly, and returned to sit beside Bonita. The tall man put a large hand on each of his knees and he spoke to the floor.

  “Liam ran that last time. He couldn’t fight no more. He seen too much killing. When we was attacked, he ran. He cut himself with a saber half a mile from the real fight and said he were wounded. It happened twice before, but that was the first time he had to hurt himself to stay out of it. When the others found him, they told him I was dead. That’s why he went back. He didn’t want them devils to cut me open like they done sometimes. The Sioux cut the cahones off our dead at Bighorn. That’s why our boys in the Fourth under Mackensie went crazy at Red Fork in ’76 against the Cheyenne. Liam just seen too much, Bonita.”

  Bonita sniffed hard. Cyrus patted her knee and stood up.

  “What I told you, no one knows but me and the boy.”

  The woman nodded. Tears ran off her chin. Cyrus had to look away and walk quickly toward the door.

  “Let’s go,” Cyrus said to Jesse and the brothers.

  “You’ll bring Mama back, Cyrus.” Abigail spoke with certainty absolute.

  “What about Liam?” Jesse asked. He looked through the open door to the garden where the youngest brother stood against the purple sky. His outline looked dark and sharp and as desolate as an old, bare tree standing alone under a gray, winter sky.

  “He’ll stay with the womenfolk.”

  Cyrus touched Abigail’s face as he walked into the May sunshine.

  Chapter Seventeen

  IF A WOMAN COULD WALK, THE GUNFIGHTERS PRETENDING TO be Texas Rangers ran her down like an animal and raped her face-down in the streets of El Paso. If a Mexican woman could not run, the posse took her where she dropped.

  When the El Paso Salt War erupted in west Texas in the fall of 1877, a race war gripped the town. For eight generations, local Hispanics harvested and sold salt from El Paso’s salt beds. The mineral was community property available for everyone. White businessmen then claimed the salt as private property. After El Paso’s sheriff and two Anglos were killed, the new sheriff deputized John Kinney. a Mesilla Valley gunman. He hired thirty of his own kind to put down the protest by Hispanic citizens. The sheriff swore the gang in as Texas Rangers.

  Ranger Kinney unleashed his Rangers on El Paso. In October, they gunned down nine Hispanic men and began a rape rampage of Hispanic women. Any woman captured was stripped in broad daylight and violated. The proud Rangers called their mob of animals in rut, the Rio Grande Posse. Five thousand citizens fled to Mexico in terror.

  During the last week of May 1878, John Kinney shined his tin star and ordered the Rio Grande Posse to take horse.

  “One riot; one Ranger,” John Kinney shouted as his men mounted in column of twos and rode north toward Lincoln County.

  * * *

  SHERIFF COPELAND’S OIL lamp burned dimly in the courthouse window two hours into Tuesday, May 28th. A faintly yellow glow fell gently on water-filled hoof prints in the dirt street.

  Sean, Cyrus, Jesse, and his Boys had been drinking lightly at the Wortley since an hour before midnight. On the same side of the street and five doors closer to the courthouse, Patrick looked out the window of the darkened Tunstall store. Patrick had gotten word to Billy Bonney at San Patricio to get word to Sue McSween to leave the back door open. She did, and Patrick stood inside a coal mine that smelled strongly of clove, turpentine, and molasses. He did not pace during his three-hour imprisonment to avoid knocking something over and calling attention to himself. The daytime cavalry sentries left behind by Colonel Dudley to keep the peace had retired to their tents erected behind the jail.

  The cantina crowd had thinned out since midnight. But two dozen men still played cards and drank bad liquor. No one paid any attention to Jesse’s company at their usual table at their usual hour.

  By one o’clock in the morning, the men around the largest table at the Wortley’s saloon stopped tipping whiskey and began to sip black coffee. Manuel, from the front desk, was doing the night-shift duties since both Bonita and Melissa were gone. The first round of bitter coffee did not impress him. But with the second, he looked into Jesse’s eyes and out the dark window and back at Jesse. The out-of-work rustler looked away.

  “Ain’t no charge for the coffee,” the Mexican said softly, pouring the third round of coffee. “Via con Dios, Capitan.”

  Jesse Evans only nodded. He pulled a pocket watch from his vest, flicked the case open, and studied the face.

  “Two-thirty,” Jesse said to Sean.

  Sean turned to the only black man at the table who sat at his side.

  “You still don’t have to do this, Sergeant.”

  The big man smiled and touched his handiron on his hip.

  “All right then,” Jesse said. He pushed back from the table and the men around him stood up. When all ten walked into the smoky hallway, only Manuel watched them until the last one disappeared. Then he pulled back the curtain on the adobe wall and peeked into the pitch darkness.

  Like one great shadow, the men kept close to the buildings on the north side of the street and walked toward the courthouse. They passed Sue McSween’s home where oil lamps still burned. Jimmy Dolan’s home across the street was dark. One door past McSween’s, they paused in front of Tunstall’s store and waited for Patrick who came out quickly. Sean took position at Patrick’s side without a word. Cyrus walked on Patrick’s other side. The three men led the way with Jesse behind Sean. The Boys walked behind Jesse in two ranks of three gunmen.

  At the east end of Lincoln, th
e silent group paused in the darkness just outside the light cast by the courthouse window’s lamp. An overcast sky kept the night close to the ground and the air was still, humid, and utterly silent.

  Sean was surprised at how the moist air made cocking his Peacemaker sound like a dry twig snapping. Jesse gestured and Sean took five steps toward the courthouse door. His handiron hung at the end of his arm. Patrick and Cyrus pulled their weapons in one motion when the door opened and bathed everyone in ghostly light.

  “Come on in, boys,” Sheriff Copeland said with stunning civility. He folded his arms so the party outside could see that his did not wear his gunbelt.

  “Well, come on. The coffee’s hot, but I ain’t got enough cups, it looks like.”

  Copeland stood out of way so Sean could enter behind his raised revolver. He looked behind the open door and surveyed the single-room structure. No other deputies hid in the shadows. Sean lowered his weapon but did not return it to leather. Jesse put his piece in his holster but he left it cocked.

  Melissa sat on the side of a cot. The other cot in her cell was empty. Two other cells were also empty. The woman wore baggy trousers and a heavy cotton shirt. Her boots looked five sizes too big. The cell door was wide open and Melissa looked through the cage toward Sean.

  The last man inside closed the door and Sheriff Copeland took his chair—William Brady’s chair—behind the desk. Jesse looked puzzled.

  “It’s a small town, Captain,” Copeland smiled. He was completely calm and looked up at Sean who still had his handiron drawn. “You hardly need that, Deputy Rourke.”

  Slowly, Sean put his iron into its holster. The sheriff eyed the bothers.

  “This must be Patrick? You have your ma’s eyes, boy. Ain’t there a third one?”

  “At the ranch,” Cyrus said for the brothers.

  “Sergeant Buchanan.” The sheriff nodded respectfully. “I rode with Custer, you know, in ’68 when we killed Black Kettle on the Washita River. Guess you and I have a lot in common—killing heathens and such as that.”

  “I suppose,” Cyrus said with a low voice that carried no pride.

  The lawman reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. Deep lines around his eyes creased when he studied it

  “Damn near three.” Copeland put the watch away, looked up at Jesse and shrugged toward Melissa. “I fed her good and kept her blankets clean, boys. She’s all yours. Now go on.” He put both hands palms-down on his desk. His gunbelt and sidearm hung conspicuously from a peg on the wall near the open cell.

  “Just like that?” Sean was still surprised.

  Sheriff Copeland reached for a crumbled piece of paper on his desk. He handed it up to Sean who immediately handed it to Jesse who looked at it for a long moment.

  “Peppin?” Jesse laid the telegram back on the desk.

  “Effective tomorrow,” Copeland smiled weakly. “Governor Axtell is putting me out to pasture. I should be grateful. What with the House armed to the teeth and them Regulators cooling their heels down San Patricio way. Yes, sir, I should be damned grateful.” Copeland’s tranquil gaze stopped at Patrick and then returned to Jesse.

  “Well, all right, Sheriff. Come on, Melissa.” Jesse moved sideways so Sean could approach the cell.

  Melissa hesitated and looked down at an empty tin plate on the coarse wood floor.

  “Let’s go, Melissa,” Sean said gently. “Abbey is waiting for you at the ranch.”

  Without looking into Sean’s face, the woman stood and walked head-bowed into the front office. Her too-big boots flopped against the floor boards.

  “Oh, boys,” Copeland said when Jesse opened the front door. The sudden coldness in the cordial man’s voice made the hair on Sean’s neck bristle. “George Peppin becomes sheriff again, tomorrow morning. But there’s more.” The retiring officer stood up with his long arms at his sides. His three-day beard opened into a chilling grin. He faced Patrick squarely and he waited for Patrick to focus on his eyes. “Tell Billy and McSween and them others that Peppin sent for help.” Copeland savored a pause. “John Kinney and his posse is coming to town. Let them Regulators chew on that stew.”

  Jesse said nothing. After all, he and Sean still rode with the House and, now, with Sheriff Peppin. But the wind left Patrick’s heart in one long breath. Copeland kept grinning.

  “Night, boys.”

  * * *

  AFTER DELIVERING MELISSA into Abigail’s arms before daylight, Sean rode back to Lincoln. Drinking Bonita’s coffee and eating her biscuits, he never even wondered if Melissa would have asked him to leave or begged him to stay, if she could speak. Sean knew only that he could not bear to look at her face. Rocking the child on her lap beside the hearth, the firelight played brightly on the woman’s face. From across the room, Sean could clearly see new lines around her shining eyes. He had put them there and he could not stay. By full daylight on Tuesday, he was in his lonesome bed at the Wortley Hotel.

  TWenty-five hard men rode easily into town from the west on the weekend. Each wore a star pinned to the breast of his trail duster caked with Texas mud. John Kinney led his regiment of rapists directly to George Peppin’s office as if he knew the way. Sean watched them pass from his hotel window. He let the curtain fall back against the whitewashed adobe. For two weeks he only left the smoky sanctuary of loud men and cheap whiskey to brush his horse and pick out its feet to prevent a thrush infection from rotting out the hooves of the only real friend he had.

  PATRICK TOOK TO Melissa’s silent ways. The feelings the blue-eyed woman fired in him made him uncomfortable. If she and Sean were finished, she could not tell him. And without knowing, touching her would be a bitter trespass. When she moved into Abigail’s bed, Bonita Ramos moved into Cyrus Buchanan’s bed in the greatroom. Patrick bedded down in the barn with Liam rather than trying to sleep in the loft and laying awake all night thinking of Melissa sleeping in the room beneath his floor.

  By the time Melissa joined the widening family circle, Liam’s hair had grown down to his ears. With his scars covered, he no longer frightened the child who still kept close to Cyrus. Liam spent his time riding the fences or weeding the garden that flourished from what John Chisum’s steers left behind. Melissa liked Liam’s quiet ways. The pain in his eyes matched her own and a peculiar kinship of silence warmed between them. When Melissa lingered in the garden with Liam, Abigail would help, too. Liam learned to enjoy the child’s cheerful company although her heart clearly belonged to Cyrus.

  For two weeks, when bedtime came, Abigail would put her head in Melissa’s lap by the hearth, which was still needed during the chilly, high-country nights even into the first two weeks of June. Long after Abigail closed her eyes for the last time, Melissa would sit and listen to the night’s tall tale, riding blue pipe smoke over Cyrus’ head. The mother would watch her daughter sleep and gently stroke her brow. Bonita would rock in the corner in Grady Rourke’s chair and watch Cyrus tell his stories.

  Patrick welcomed the diversion from thinking about Melissa when Billy Bonney rode casually up the lane on Saturday, June 15th.

  “Mr. McSween and Mr. Chisum sent me.” Billy and Patrick walked through the handsome garden to keep distance between them and the women. Bonita welcomed Billy like she would greet a toothache. “Sheriff Peppin is supposed to be rounding up a posse to come down on the Regulators hard. Those Rio Grande boys is riding with him. We need your three guns.”

  Patrick knelt and examined the lush green leaves growing near his parents’ grave.

  “We’re like a family out here, Billy. With the House closed up for good, Melissa and Bonita have made a home for themselves here.”

  Cyrus and Bonita stood at the front of the house two hundred yards away. Bonita kept looking toward the garden and Cyrus appeared to be comforting her.

  “Sort of salt and pepper,” Billy smiled, nodding toward the man and woman.

  “It don’t matter out here.” Patrick stood up, several inches taller than the scrawny boy. “The Regulators
hardly need us. They got plenty of men.”

  “Them Rio Grande Posse men ain’t like normal shooters. They’re stone cold killers, Patrick. You know that. The Regulators is farmers. You know that, too.” Billy sounded anxious. Chisum had sent him to do a job.

  “I’m a farmer, too,” Patrick smiled. He liked the idea.

  Billy looked down and poked the rich earth with his boot between a row of vegetables. When he looked up, his eyes were narrowed against the brilliant June sunshine.

  “You saw what they did to Mr. Tunstall. You remember that? And you was there when we done Morton. You’re part of us, Patrick.”

  “I never killed no one.”

  Billy stifled a smile. He had just won.

  “You think John Kinney knows that? You’re a Regulator to him and his man-killers. Where you think his posse is going to ride if they make it past us?” Billy looked down the hill toward Bonita who now had Abigail under her arm. Melissa stood behind the child. “You know what the Rio Grande Posse does to womenfolk?”

  When Billy turned to face Patrick, the eyes which met his were hard and cold. They were the eyes Billy had been sent to find.

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  Patrick shook his head slowly as his mind rejected every argument shouting between his ears.

  “I’ll talk to Cyrus.”

  “And Liam.”

  “Liam’s fighting days is over. He can guard the women.”

  Billy shrugged. “It won’t make no difference where he gets skinned alive if we can’t hold them.”

  Patrick led Billy back to the house. Bonita glared coldly at him and he never allowed their eyes to meet. When Bonita made supper, she dropped a plate in front of Billy so hard that gravy splashed onto the table.