Gunsmoke

by T. T. Flynn

  "Is he alive?" Brent asked.

  "I don't know. He was arrested in Monterey, by order of General Ampudia. I have heard he was sent to Saltillo under heavy guard, and I have heard he is still in Monterey. Ampudia has offered ten thousand pesos if I am brought back to Monterey. That I know. It makes me think Father is still alive. Or perhaps not."

  "What is your father's name?" Brent asked.

  "Michael O'Brien."

  "Miguel O'Brien!" Tucker exploded softly in his black beard. "Big Mike O'Brien, of Chihuahua. Lord bless ye, gal. I've heard the wagon men back from Chihuahua to Santa Fe spin tales of Big Mike O'Brien. An' the wonderful purty gal he had who was called the Chihuahua Rose. You ain't ... ?"

  "I'm Mike O'Brien's daughter, and we're wasting time," she said crisply, and she wheeled the big dark horse and was away through the night.

  Brent spurred and rode beside her, half forgotten scraps of talk out of the past racing through his mind. He was trying to remember something, and he got it.

  "Mollie O'Brien!" he called across to her. She looked instinctively, and Brent laughed. "It's a nicer name than Rosita. What do we find at this Plaza Ladrones?"

  "A bullet for a loose mouth and knives for a back without eyes," Mollie O'Brien answered clearly. "I'll thank you to keep your mind on riding, Senor Brent. I've no wish to die until I find out about Mike O'Brien."

  Brent marveled that night that a girl could ride so surely through this wild and lonely country. They left the trail and followed the stars across open, broken landscape where tall-armed ocotillo cactus and stately Spanish bayonet and beds of prickly pear grew on the parched ground. The coyotes were with them in the near and far distance; the night chill belied the blazing sun that would hang overhead in a few hours. They passed no water, no ranches; only once did they see the faint glow of a small campfire miles away.

  Mollie O'Brien reined to a slow walk, standing in the stirrups as she studied that tiny uncertain red eye in the distance.

  "We will ride quietly poco a poco," she said softly. "This is the range of Canales, the bandit, and the rancheros who are riding with him. They'll slit your throats, companeros, and perhaps decide to sell me to Ampudia ... and perhaps not. Canales has sworn death to all los America nos."

  For half an hour they rode cautiously, and then faster. The feel of dawn was in the east when they came in among small, barren hills. For the first time Mollie O'Brien seemed uncertain. The warning of light was across the stars and the first pale touch of gray on the eastern horizon when Mollie said: "Wait here."

  She spurred up the slope to the left and vanishedwas gone.

  They dismounted, stretching, examining cinches on the tired horses. After some minutes Tucker said: "Some gal."

  Brent stood looking up the slope, his thoughts musing on that slender, boyish figure that had come tirelessly over the long miles. She had left many things unsaid, but undoubtedly Captain Blandon knew what he was doing.

  Then dawn was across the sky, and they could look up the rough slope and see the first light strike Mollie O'Brien, sitting her horse just under the crest, looking over and beyond. Tucker nodded approvingly.

  "She ain't a squaw, boys, but watch her keep outta sight on the downslope."

  Mollie wheeled her horse down to them in cascading dirt and small rocks.

  "Bueno," she said, smiling. "Now we will sleep today."

  "Then we better find water, ma'am," Tucker warned. "Canteens is low."

  "And a fire to cook is dangerous," said Mollie cheerfully. "Senores, I am sorry it is hard for you."

  Tucker was chuckling as he climbed into the saddle. Brent heard a snort in the black beard. "Sorry for me," Tucker chuckled to himself. "Never seen the beat of her."

  That day they slept beside hobbled horses in the shade of a high bank, with the barren hills around and one man taking watch on higher ground. A dry camp, a hard camp, and, before it was Brent's turn to rise and take watch, he stepped softly to Mollie O'Brien and stood looking down at her. She slept quietly in her single blanket, one small firm hand crossed to the opposite shoulder. The brown hair was curly about her damp forehead, and she looked young. Too young to be here.

  His gaze must have penetrated her slumber. Eyelids stirred, opened wide at sight of Brent's figure. Then Mollie recognized him, and lay looking at him with sleep-dimmed eyes. The ghost of a smile came on her mouth. The arm shifted up over her eyes and she drew a long, contented breath and went back to sleep.

  When the four of them waited beside the saddled horses for the slow twilight to fold in, Mollie O'Brien was unsmiling, earnest as she talked and scratched a crude map in the dirt with a stick.

  "We are here. The Plaza of Thieves is here, about ten miles southwest, in those hills you have seen. This man Murphy should be there tonight."

  "What is the place?" Brent asked. "A bandit camPOT I

  "Long ago, they say. Now only honest people live there. The best man there is my father's old friend, Don Santiago Trujillo, who is not unknown to General Ampudia in Monterey. Don Santiago will perhaps go into Monterey with me to ask about my father."

  "But Murphy, ma'am?" Tucker Mossby urged impatiently. "What's he doin' here? There's a heap we don't know about that feller an' you an' that business over in Texas. Cap'n Blandon might be satisfied, but I ain't. Dead babies is dead babies. How come you know so much about what this skunk Murphy is doin' now?"

  "I think I know Murphy," Mollie said slowly. She poked the stick at the ground and looked as if her mind was back in the thorn brush where the white bones lay in the high grass. "He worked for my father, and stole, and was hurt badly in a terrible fight he had with Father when he was discharged. Since then, he has hated and lived like a bandit. We knew that, because all news came to Miguel O'Brien sooner or later over the trails. In Matamoras, where he fooled Captain Blandon and was spying for Canales, Murphy heard that Miguel O'Brien had sensed war was coming and had sent a large amount of gold north across the Rio Grande, to be buried and safe if needed. It was true. The gold was sent in bundles of goatskins in charge of the man my father trusted most. Old Pedro Galego. His wife had been my nurse. They went with the gold to their youngest son's place across the Rio Grande and buried it at an agreed spot."

  "And Murphy went after it?" Tucker growled.

  Mollie nodded. "With scum he had found in the army at Matamoras. He did not trust his Mexican friends. For gold"-Mollie drew a finger across her throat and took a long breath. "I didn't know that when I rode across the river to get away from Ampudia's reward of ten thousand pesos. I needed some of father's money, and I needed Pedro Gallego's help. A cousin of old Pedro's guided me. Murphy and his friends found us. I thought they were Indians at first. They killed Pedro's cousin, and made me dress like an Indian boy, and turned back with me. Murphy was sure I knew where the gold was. He wouldn't believe me when I said I was going to meet a party of my father's friends at Pedro's place. A large party, all armed."

  "Were you?" Brent inquired.

  "No. But I tried to pretend. I think it made Mur phy cautious. His men were still planning to return as soldiers to Matamoras, with the gold, if possible, divided and hidden again. They had met a small party of Indians and decided to ride like Indians, so they'd never be suspected. I did not know where we were when they met you men. I knew they wanted to be sure they wouldn't be discovered. They tied me and scattered out in the brush. The shooting started, and Murphy came running back and ordered me to ride away with him. You know the rest."

  I don't know why you rode away from me," Brent said.

  "Gold is gold," Mollie said, shrugging. "How did I know who you were? Senor Blackwhiskers was not gentle. And when I saw the bodies and the little blue boots..." Mollie swallowed hard. "I had bought them myself for Pedro's wife to take to her little grandsons. Her hair was there! All I could do was ride fast to get away from everything."

  "You showed up in a queer place, ma'am," Shorty reminded. "When did Chihuahua O'Brien's gal start kickin' her heels in a
cut-throat cantina?"

  "In Matamoras," Mollie said, smiling again. "That was fun. I like to dance. Murphy's sweetheart, Polly Morales, did not know me, or know that I knew who she was, and that she was spying for General Canales. She forgot that all talk reached the O'Briens."

  "One of Murphy's men told me before he died that Polly was dancing in Matamoras, and he warned me to watch the Rooster," Brent said. "I still don't understand why he did so."

  "A young man with brown hair?"

  "Yes."

  Mollie punched the dirt with her stick and frowned. "That man listened hard when I accused Murphy of spying for Canales. I don't think he liked it. For gold he would kill, but he was an American. I think perhaps he disliked Murphy after that. But he was with them and could do nothing until he was dying. He had that look all day when his glance was on Murphy. So you knew about Polly Morales? Well, she has been helpful."

  "In what way?" Brent countered.

  Night was closing fast about them. Mollie O'Brien was becoming a slim and indistinct figure.

  "The O'Briens will never be safe while Murphy is alive and knows our money is buried across the Rio Grande. It may be the cause of Mike O'Brien's death, if he is still alive. If Murphy can't get that money alone, he'll have help. Canales, Ampudia, a dozen men would like to find it. That red-headed Gallo who kills babies would do worse for the money. I know him. So I told Polly Morales where I was going, and Captain Blandon has done the rest."

  "Yes?" said Brent.

  Her voice came out of the blue-black shadows patiently, almost lightly. "I am on my way to see Don Santiago Trujillo, at Thieves' Plaza, and ask him to go into Monterey with me to find news of Miguel O'Brien. Polly Morales left Matamoras quickly after I told her. There has been time for her to talk with Murphy, and for Murphy to travel to Plaza Ladrones to meet me."

  "You ain't sure he's there?" Tucker asked in a disappointed tone.

  "I'm sure Polly Morales saw him. I had her followed. The man was found dead, so I know she saw Murphy," Mollie said calmly. "And I know Murphy. That gold has built a fire in his greed that won't go out. He'll be at the plaza to meet you. You'll see. I don't know how many men will be with him. No one knows we are here. I will ride ahead to Don Trujillo's house, and you will follow me." Mollie laughed softly. "I am the bait. You are the trap. Murphy is the coyote. ZVerdad?"

  "No!" Brent differed hotly. "Tucker, Shorty, are we going to let her? Blandon had no right to let a woman do this!"

  "He couldn't stop me," said Mollie defiantly.

  "I'd have stopped you. I'd have locked you up."

  "You were ordered to do as I say!" Mollie said angrily. She struck the ground with the stick. "Do you think I rode this far to hear such talk? No! Not while Mike O'Brien needs help."

  "We'll decide this," Brent told her coldly. "Tucker, how about it?"

  Tucker was silent for a moment.

  "We jined," Tucker said slowly. "The cap'n made a point of orders. Guess he thinks it's worth the risk. Johnny, I'm ag'in' you."

  Mollie O'Brien settled the matter by swinging lightly into the saddle.

  "Don Santiago lives in the biggest house," she spoke down to them. "His mustache is white and he is fat. You will know him, if necessary. Now I will go first. You will wait where the trail crosses Arroyo Ladrones. If there is no danger in the plaza, I will send a man and you will ride in quietly. If the man does not come in an hour, or if there is a gunshot, Murphy is there."

  She spoke the final order in Spanish, almost gaily.

  "The rest is with God. Adios, companeros."

  She rode from them on the big dark horse, and they had to follow to keep her in sight.

  Arroyo Ladrones dropped, deep and cruelly scoured, through a steep draw in the harsh and low hills to which they had ridden through the early starlight. The trail dipped down over moist sand in the bottom of the arroyo, angled up the other side steeply, and vanished up the draw. Dogs barked in the direction that Mollie O'Brien had taken. Brent sat restlessly in the saddle, waiting. The distant clamor of coyotes ranged through the lonely vastness behind them.

  Brent's comment was an angry breath to the other two: "You were wrong. A man who'll kill old people and young for the feel of money shouldn't have an hour."

  "Orders is orders," Tucker muttered uncomfortably.

  "Hold my horse and don't wait for me if you need to move," Brent said.

  He left them there, and in the damp arroyo sand his feet were mere whispers of sound and he was only a darker blot that advanced through the dark shadows. He came to rock ledges over which he had to climb, once to the height of his chest, and presently the smell of goats and the sweet acrid scent of wood smoke warned that he was near the Plaza Ladrones.

  A small place, Mollie O'Brien had said, that had been larger long ago when mines in the mountains not far off were being worked. Brent came up out of the harsh arroyo like a drifting memory. Low walls of sheds and houses lifted before him in the starlight.

  The dog that barked to the left, downwind, was not barking at him. The guile of the northern mountains was in his feet and at his nerve tips as he moved between low rock and mud hovels into the open before them.

  This was the plaza; he could see the scattering of habitations on either side, with the hills hemming in and the rough trail going out at either end. Eight or ten families, Brent guessed, and the rest only ruins from the past. If he had ridden or walked up the trail, he would have been challenged by the rider who now waited quietly at the lower end of the plaza.

  The horse blew and shook its head, chinking bit chains softly, and, when Brent drifted a little nearer, he made out the vague silhouette of the rider. While Brent watched, the horse was sent walking slowly on the downtrail. The rider might have been lazily taking word to Tucker and Shorty, could possibly be Mollie O'Brien, and most likely was not.

  The peace in Plaza Ladrones was the peace of death, of thieves, bandits long dead. But it was more. Brent resisted fear that an hour was too much to have granted Mollie O'Brien.

  She was too young, too reckless; she was still the girl of quick tears over the white hair of her old nurse and the little blue boots she had bought for a child. This business should never have been for her. Sick regret was in the slide of Brent's fingers over the leather haft of his belt knife and the cool hard handle of the Colt revolver. He had left his rifle with Tucker and Shorty, and was glad of it when he stalked the largest building on the plaza and saw tobacco glow like an aroused eye in the doorway.

  The house seemed to be without light, but within the thick walls voices stirred faintly as Brent drifted past the corner and came quietly as the night's own hush to the side of the doorway.

  The man was still there. The smell of corn shuck smoldering around fragrant tobacco drifted out of the doorway, and then the man whistled softly between his teeth, and turned back inside and opened a door.

  "Ain't a stir outside," his voice stated. "You want me to go hustle the boys with the horses?"

  "Keep watchin'. I smell somethiri wrong an' don't mean to be surprised."

  Brent was a sliding shadow through the doorway as the answer came from deeper in the house. He saw a slit of weak light where the other door was opened, enough light to show the low roof and side walls of the narrow passage that ran through to the back, with rooms on either side. He glimpsed the rifle the man carried as the door closed, and then the blackness was absolute as he stood with shoulders against the mud-plastered stone.

  The tobacco glowed again as the man stepped past him toward the doorway. Brent gripped the knife and stepped at his heels, and then in mid-stride Brent switched from knife to heavy Colt gun. He still could shrink from putting steel into an unsuspecting throat while there was another way.

  He struck with the gun barrel, hard at the base of the skull, below the hat brim. The meaty crunch of metal on bone brought an involuntary grunt from the victim. The rifle thudded softly down and the owner collapsed on it.

  Brent got knife and revolver
off him, rolled the inert figure against the wall, shoved the rifle over beside it, and stepped on back and opened the same door the width of a finger. Spanish was being spoken inside, bitterly.

  "You will take her from my house to Monterey for the ten thousand pesos, I see. But take me, Santiago Trujillo, her father's friend, with her."

  Mollie O'Brien said: "Keep quiet, Don Santiago, before there is trouble."

  "Never, while I am a man in my own house. I will go to Monterey or..."

  Brent heard the dull blow, like the one he had just delivered. Mollie O'Brien cried out in English: "Oh! You didn't have to do that!" Her voice shook. "He's an old man! You've killed him!"

  "He ain't the first, lady. We'd sure have had to kill him if he started to Monterey with us." The speaker chuckled. "How about it, Red?"

  "I know you aren't taking me to Monterey," Mollie's unsteady voice said. "You men aren't riding to join the San Patricio company as you told him. Murphy has been looking for me."

  "Found you, didn't I, honey?" a heavy and amused voice said. "This time we'll ride back across the river and get that money. An' if we don't find it, Ampudia can have you for ten thousand pesos. I'd send word to your old man if I knew where he was. He'd pay highest."

  "And he'd never stop tracking you down this side of hell!"

  "He won't track nobody when I tell General Ampudia how he was working with the Yanks before the war started. Sending reports straight to Washington."

  "A lie!"

  "Good enough to get O'Brien shot. Since Palo Alto and Hesaca de la Palma, Yanks don't get coddled in Monterey. I've waited a long time for this, honey. It tastes sweeter every time I chew on it."

  "Like a mad cat, ain't she, Red?" the first voice joined in. "Look at her."

  "Kill her like a mad cat if she tries to get away," the heavy voice said. "She's Mike O'Brien 's daughter, and she'll get us shot yet if she gets the chance. She won't forget."