The Sons of Grady Rourke

by Douglas Savage

  “Too bad,” Liam said listlessly.

  “You going into Lincoln?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For what, for God’s sake?”

  “My brothers is there, both of ’em.”

  “Very well, then. You can ride in with us. We have orders to shoot to kill if anyone looks crosswise at us. You’ll be safer riding with us.” The regimental guidon snapped at the perfect moment in a sudden breeze.

  “I ain’t rode under that flag in almost nine months.” Liam blinked hard.

  “Do you good ... soldier. Mount up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Liam said from a habit imprinted on his heart.

  Lincoln’s only street was quiet Wednesday morning as the four men rode up to the Wortley and tied their animals to the outside of the paddock fence. Sheriff Peppin met them at the door. It was pock-marked with bullet holes.

  The three soldiers retired with Peppin and Liam found Sean. They retreated to a corner of the cantina. With so many men sitting and drinking, two per chair at some tables, they stood in a smoky corner. Oil lamps burned on the tables, since the adobe windows were shuttered tightly against the daily hail of lead.

  “Where’s your brother?” Sean asked.

  “Come in Monday night. You seen him?”

  Sean looked troubled when he answered.

  “No. Must be up the road at McSween’s with the rest of that rabble.”

  “You ain’t exactly keeping church company yourself.” Liam’s blank face did not smile. Sean looked around at Seven Rivers Warriors and Texans with tin stars on their shirts.

  “Suppose not, Liam.”

  “We can leave when them soldiers leave.”

  Sean thought of home.

  “How’s Melissa?”

  “All right. She’s back on her feed and putting on a little weight. She looks good. Abbey, too.”

  A quick smile lighted Sean’s face when he thought of the child. Two hard thumps like hammer blows struck the wooden shutter. No one looked up from their drinks.

  “Is it like that all day?”

  “Pretty much. No real harm done.”

  The three soldiers appeared at the hallway and gestured toward Liam. Sean followed him.

  “We’re done here, Mr. Rourke. This your brother?” Sean nodded for Liam. “Captain Purington said you were at Shiloh.” Sean nodded again. On the day his face was destroyed, the lieutenant was probably still wetting his pants, Sean thought. “We’re going back to the fort now. The sheriff said McSween’s people fired on our man yesterday.” He looked at Liam. “You can ride with us as far as your spread, if you want.”

  “Sean?” Liam looked at his brother.

  “I can’t. It ain’t mine.” He looked down at the sawdust-covered floor. “And Melissa ain’t mine no more. You go on.”

  Liam sighed so hard his shoulders seemed to collapse around his chest.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll stay with my brother.”

  “Suit yourself.” The soldiers carried their hats toward the front door.

  Ten minutes later, a flurry of tiny hammerblows blew dust from the shutters. The throng in the cantina adjourned loudly toward the front room. The door was open and men kept a safe distance from the sunshine outside.

  Through the doorway they watched half a dozen deputies run crouching across the street. They were the men who had manned the hilltop south of town. Regulators at the far end of the street were on the Ellis store roof at Montaño’s. Their broadside into the running deputies caught Charlie Crawford in the hip. He crawled like a wounded animal toward the door. Two of John Kinney’s drunken Rangers walked calmly into the sun and dragged Crawford inside.

  John Kinney patted one of the winded men on the shoulder before he knelt to examine the wound. There was no exit wound from the deputy’s bowels.

  “Be dead in three weeks,” Kinney said dryly as he stood up. Crawford held his bleeding side and whimpered softly. He would last five weeks.

  NATHAN AUGUSTUS DUDLEY would have been pleased and relieved if the Regulators and the House men managed to kill off each other to the last man-killer in town. But pot shots at his troopers crossed the line.

  On Thursday the 18th, he ordered three dozen cavalry-men to prepare for taking back Lincoln on Friday.

  Thursday was quiet by Lincoln standards during daylight. After nightfall, a single round from one of Peppin’s men thudded in to the neck of Ben Ellis at the Regulator-held store which bore his family name.

  Friday morning, the wounded Ellis was in desperate need of medical attention. Billy Bonney crept down the street into Tunstall’s store and begged Dr. Taylor Ealy to come up to Montaño’s to treat the dying patient.

  At nine-thirty, sharpshooters on the Wortley roof blinked in disbelief. Then laughter overcame them. They lowered their weapons and cheered. Taylor Ealy walked into the sunshine. He carried his infant daughter in his arms and his toddler daughter struggled to grip his other hand. The House men held their fire as the physician hid behind his perfect shield all the way to the bedside of Ben Ellis.

  Sporadic gunfire erupted when the surgeon was safely beyond harm’s way. The gunfire trailed off to silence an hour before noon. Colonel Dudley and three white cavalry officers appeared at the western end of the street. They paused until all fire ceased. Then they led thirty-five mounted troopers in two columns into town. Behind them came one menacing Gatling gun and a nine-pound Howitzer. Their limber chest carried three thousand rounds of small arms’ ammunition.

  House men cheered as the troopers rode east. The columns continued past McSween’s fortress and past the stone tower still held by Peppin’s weary men. They stopped directly in front of Montaño’s store where Doc Ealy bent over Ben Ellis. Then the soldiers broke formation in a clearing on McSween’s north side of the street and opposite Montaño’s. As they pitched camp, they trained their deadly Gatling gun on the Ellis store. Within minutes, all of McSween’s Hispanic troops in Montaño’s ran into the sun, mounted their horses, and careened out of town. Mexicans in the Ellis store joined them. Without the Army firing a shot, the Regulators lost half of their guns when thirty men splashed across the Rio Bonito.

  As Colonel Dudley’s men unpacked the stores of war, Sheriff Peppin sent Deputy Marion Turner up the street. The Gatling gun kept the peace as the lawman approached Alexander McSween’s home. Patrick Rourke opened the door. The deputy handed him a warrant for the arrest of McSween.

  McSween answered by spitting a man-size wad of chaw into the cold hearth. Turner walked back to Peppin to report.

  Outraged, the sheriff sent a dozen deputies outside. The sun and the bristling weaponry around them brought perspiration quickly to their faces. They kept close to the buildings on the edge of the street as they made their way closer to McSween’s. They crawled the last ten yards to the northwest corner of the adobe compound, near the stable.

  The men, women, and children inside McSween’s home soon smelled oily smoke. Peppin’s men had set fire to the west wall. But the rock-hard adobe would not catch and the July wind suffocated the tiny flames. As her home filled with smoke, Susan McSween opened the door and marched into the sun. The House men held their fire.

  The woman marched up the street, straight to Lt. Colonel Dudley. She demanded that he put an end to Peppin’s incendiary plans. On whiskey breath, the officer declined unless her husband surrendered his garrison. Furious, she walked back toward her home where she saw deputies piling more kindling next to the wall.

  This fire had more spirit and the straw within the adobe began to smoulder. After taking a swig from his bottle, Colonel Dudley sent a small squad to Tunstall’s house to escort Mrs. Ealy out of danger.

  Black smoke began to rise in earnest from the west side of McSween’s home. At four in the afternoon, the Hispanic Regulators who had fled regrouped on the north bank of the river. They crouched and fired several volleys into the Wortley Hotel, eight hundred yards away. When their rounds did no more than plow the ground behind the boarding
house well out of range, the men mounted, rode north, and never once looked back as flames engulfed one whole side of McSween’s home.

  At five-thirty, the eastern sky was darkening. Sparks and flames lapped at McSween’s. Colonel Dudley sent another squad into the billowing smoke while Peppin’s men held their fire. Under protest, the black troopers escorted Susan McSween, Mrs. Shield, and five children out of the house. They marched the prisoners across the street to Juan Patron’s house.

  Night comes quickly one mile above sea level and the sun went down hard over the Sacramento Mountains. Lincoln’s main street was bathed in the orange glow surrounding the McSween home.

  “It’s time, boys,” George Peppin said with exhaustion in his voice.

  Sean felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He looked into Jesse’s tired eyes.

  “All my Boys will be on the lookout for Patrick. We’ll pull him out as soon as we can find him. He must be at McSween’s. You coming?”

  Sean looked at Liam whose face remained blank.

  “All right.”

  “Good. We’ll stick together outside.”

  George Peppin’s troops deployed the width of the street. They advanced on McSween’s burning home. A volley from the adobe windows broke the formation quickly. Sean, Liam, and Jesse tumbled together behind a water trough fifty yards west of the flaming structure. Gunfire erupted from McSween’s windows.

  At the far end of the street to the east, Susan McSween heard the volley and walked into the darkness. The orange flames from her home reflected in her perspiration and tears.

  The sheriff’s posse and John Kinney’s Rangers returned fire. The cavalry across from Sue McSween did nothing.

  Inside the burning house, Patrick stayed close to Billy who huddled with McSween as half of his compound burned. Smoke and heat swirled through the room where ten stalwarts coughed and cursed. Several men escaped out the back, toward the river.

  “Patrick and I can break for the river like them other cowards just done. But we’ll go out the east side, open on Peppin’s men and draw their fire. When they come after us down by the water, you and the rest can break out of the north side and make for San Patricio in the dark.”

  “Patrick?” McSween looked carefully into his eyes.

  “I agree with Billy. We’ll draw them off you. It’ll work.”

  McSween nodded.

  Outside, Sean looked at the burning home.

  “You stay here, Liam. I’m going in for Patrick.”

  “Not yet,” Jesse protested. “Wait for them to come out. Their Mexicans might be holed up on the river waiting for us to make a move in the firelight.”

  “Take care of my brother.” Sean smiled for an instant, drew his handiron, and rushed across the orange street. He could smell the stench of burning mud when the wind blew into his face.

  A kitchen door on the east side of McSween’s house opened. Two blazing Peacemakers filled the doorway as Patrick and Billy ran into the brightly illuminated corral. The fence ran around all four sides of the building. When the fence splintered all around them, they dropped to the ground and rolled among the horse pies.

  Sean crept toward the burning, western side of McSween’s. As he inched closer, he crawled on his hands and knees. On the far side of the building, Billy and Patrick opened fire through the shattered fence rails. A fusillade from the Rio Grande Posse responded in kind. Patrick bit his lip until it bled.

  Two thousand rounds criss-crossed the street inside the brilliant orange cloud of smoke and fury. Alexander McSween and two men ran from the house moments before the roof burst into flames.

  Harvey Morris, McSween’s law clerk, dropped mortally wounded.

  Five bullets thumped into McSween’s body. He fell into a bleeding heap. Sparks rained down on the dead lawyer’s muddy face.

  Sean Rourke crawled toward a corner of what was left of an adobe wall. Moving on his elbows, his revolver led him toward the corner. At the instant he hesitated, a muzzle eased around the corner from the other side. Sean backed away as the Remington at his face extended further. Gunfire rang so loudly in Sean’s ears that in a moment he could hear nothing.

  As Sean continued to crawl backward, an arm followed the Remington around the corner. Sean rested the grip of his pistol on a hard pile of horse droppings. A sweating face bathed in orange light poked around the corner. The Regulator’s wide eyes met Sean’s face.

  The Regulator earred back the hammer on his revolver. When he looked up, he saw Sean’s face illuminated by the burning house. The Regulator blinked when firelight swirled around the folds of wrinkled, purple skin on Sean’s right cheek. In the instant the Regulator’s face filled with terror at the sight of Sean’s grotesque wound, Sean squeezed the trigger that rested just under the stranger’s chin. Sean blinked when the blast exploded the top of the Regulator’s head in a red and gray slurry.

  The crackling of gunfire trailed off at midnight.

  The shooting from the Regulators trickled to nothing. Only the roar of the fire filled the night and Susan McSween’s face.

  George Peppin and John Kinney walked up the street. Approaching the house, they found Alex McSween’s body beside two dead Regulators. One of Peppin’s deputies lay dead nearby.

  Sean holstered his handiron and rubbed the manure from his knees and elbows. Jesse came up to his side.

  “Did you find Patrick?” Jesse asked. Although the fire was waning and the shooting had stopped completely, Sean could hardly hear the question.

  “Patrick?”

  “Yes, did you find him.”

  “No. Where’s Liam?” Sean squinted into the darkness which quickly rolled over the glowing embers of the destroyed house.

  “He was just with me.” Jesse Evans looked around. Deputies and Rangers walked through the ruins.

  “Over here.” The voice was Liam’s.

  Sean and Jesse found him kneeling by the collapsed fence. He was tossing broken rails into the street. Beneath the pile of wood was Patrick’s limp body. Sean rolled him over onto his back.

  The last of the flames illuminated a ragged and purple, thumb-size hole in Patrick’s forehead.

  Chapter Twenty

  AS THE RUBBLE OF THE MCSWEEN HOME SIMMERED ALL Friday night, the looting started. The Rio Grande Posse cleaned out Tunstall’s store by dawn, Saturday. When the shelves were bare, they broke into Tunstall’s bank and emptied its coffers. When the looting ended because there was nothing left to steal, Colonel Dudley marched his cavalry out of Lincoln at four o’clock in the afternoon. He left a sergeant and two privates behind to patrol the streets.

  As the Army rode slowly out of town, they passed Susan McSween standing beside another hole in the ground between Tunstall’s store and the muddy Rio Bonito. Scowling at Colonel Dudley as he passed, she threw a clod of earth into her husband’s grave next to Cyrus Buchanan and John Tunstall.

  SEAN AND LIAM rode up the lane of Grady’s Rourke’s ranch on Sunday afternoon, July 21st, 1878. The two women and the child met them at the doorway. Liam dismounted. Sean did not.

  Under a dazzling mountain sky, Sean Rourke removed his hat and set it on his saddle horn. Beneath him, Liam stepped onto the porch.

  Bonita spoke first.

  “Patrick’s dead, ain’t he?”

  “Yes.” Sean looked uphill toward Liam’s garden. “Doc Ealy will bring him home tomorrow. Put him, gentle, up there, next to Ma and Pa.” He looked back at the wet-eyed women. Liam unbuttoned his muddy shirt and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Melissa Bryant. Tears ran from her eyes, the color of the Sunday sky.

  “That’s why we didn’t come up yesterday.” Sean spoke slowly and looked down lovingly at Melissa. “McSween’s partner, Mr. Shield, drawed that up for me last night. It’s what he called an election against Patrick’s estate. Pa ain’t left me nothing here. But when Patrick died”—Sean blinked hard and looked back toward the garden—“his half of the ranch under Pa’s will went half to me and half to Liam.” He
looked back at his family. “That there paper is my quarter of the ranch. I’m giving it to you, Melissa. You and Abbey have a home now. Liam will take care of all of you. That goes for you, too, Bonita. Cyrus would have wanted you to stay here. None of you needs to be kept by no Jimmy Dolan no more.”

  “But Sean,” Bonita stepped forward and raised her hand to the mounted man’s leg.

  “No.” Sean squinted in the sunshine at John Chisum’s steers and Liam’s full garden. “This is good land. You can all grow old here. The war in Lincoln is over.”

  “What about you?” Bonita’s face softened and her eyes glowed. It was the face Cyrus had loved.

  “There’s still gold in California. I’m going to find it.”

  Melissa and Abigail stepped to Bonita’s side. Liam stayed in the porch shadows.

  Sean looked at Melissa.

  “Give my brother his soul back, Melissa. Make up for the one in you that I killed.”

  Melissa held her daughter’s shoulder tightly.

  “Maybe one day, I’ll come home.” Sean gathered his reins. “God bless you all.”

  The women and Liam watched the lane until the hot earth sucked up the last of the cloud of dust that followed the first son of Grady Rourke.

  SUNDAY NIGHT WAS closing in on Sean after riding easily for thirty-five miles. On the stage road into the Sacramento Mountains, he reined up beside the Rio Tularosa and Blazer’s Mill. He could still see the bullet holes in the old sawmill under the quarter moon in a perfectly clear sky. He groaned when he climbed down and tied his weary horse to the front porch.

  “Ain’t your ranch the other way?”

  William Henry Bonney stepped out of the shadow.

  Sean looked hard at the boy who was not yet twenty. When Sean saw that he was not wearing his gunbelt, he lifted his hand from his handiron inside his duster.

  “I made some coffee inside,” Billy said with his front teeth shining in the moonlight.

  “Thanks.”

  Sean uncinched his saddle and laid it on the porch.