the Man from Skibbereen (1973)

by L'amour, Louis

  He had taken the time to hold his burned hand in cold water after the fight, while saddling the colonel's horse when he was beside the trough, but it hurt. Yet his hand had been in the coals only a moment, a swift dash of the arm that had given little time for burning or anything else, and still its tip had been slightly cauterized. That surprised him.

  Far on the horizon, low down, he saw a red star. And then he was sure. It was no star at all, but the station, and there was a red lantern burning there. They had not been far from it at all.

  He slowly drew closer, looking to the welcoming light as to that of his own home, and eager to be there. Now it would be only minutes...

  They had dipped down into a hollow and were coming out of it when he heard the galloping of a party of horsemen. Suddenly there was a shot and the welcoming light was gone and he heard wild rebel yells and shots, and he swung down from the horse. "Hold them!" he said. And dropping to one knee, he leveled at the dark mass where the riders were and opened fire with his rifle, two quick shots, then a dash off to the left, and another shot. Back to the right and another, trying to make them believe they faced several riflemen.

  Bullets replied, most of them from pistols and too far off, and then they wheeled their horses and rode off, not wishing to come up against riflemen on the ground and hence in a better firing position.

  Keeping on the side of the low embankment on which the station stood, the man and the woman walked forward. Fifty feet off, Cris stopped and called out in a low voice. "Is it you then, Reppato?"

  "Sure it is! Come on in!"

  They walked in, leading their horses, and Rep came to the door, a gun in his hand, then Colonel McClean. Barda ran to him and for a moment they clung together, each demanding to know if the other was all right.

  "Crispin took care of me, father. I am all right, but he's got a burned hand and a finger shot off."

  "I taken care o' you, too," Reppato said grumpily, "for awhile."

  "Of course you did! And I am grateful for it."

  "Was that you shooting?" McClean asked.

  "It was. I saw them against the sky, and knew them for what they were; then they opened fire and I had them flanked."

  "Good man! I doubt if they'll try again tonight, and there will be a train with soldiers on it at daybreak. The train will take us through to Fort Sanders."

  Reppato Pratt walked to the corner of the room where Crispin was already settling down with an extra blanket from the bedroom. "You lost a finger?"

  "From the first joint only. He was showing his marksmanship to her. I knew he'd put one in my belly soon, or break a knee first, or something, so I swept coals in his face and went after him. His name was Murray."

  "Murray!" Rep grasped his shoulder. "Did you kill him? If not, you better go back an' do it."

  "I did not. But he will remember me. I broke his nose over his face and I'm thinking he has some staved--in ribs. I gave him a fearful beating and I'm thinkin' he will not wish to come for me again."

  They slept then, while the colonel and Rep kept watch, and in the clear, cold hour before the dawn they heard a far--off sound, a sound they all wished to hear... a train whistle, winding lonesomely against the hills, and like it there is no other sound.

  Crispin Mayo came to his feet, then sat again and drew on his brogans. He was dog--tired and his hand hurt in every bit of it, but soon he'd be on the train again. It would be a few days before he could handle a pick or a hammer, but his hand would heal.

  The train whistled again and Rep struck a light in one of the lanterns. He waved it and the churning wheels of the train ground to a stop.

  They stood on the small platform, and the conductor stepped down. It was Sam Calkins. "You?" he said to Cris. "I thought you'd run out on our fight."

  "I left one man last night with a broken nose and ribs, and I can leave another. Get a ramp down and load the horses, man, the colonel cannot wait."

  Calkins started to reply but McClean interrupted. "Do as he says, and quickly."

  Seated in the train again, Crispin Mayo leaned his head against the back of the seat and put his hat over his eyes. "Do not disturb me until we're there," he said to Rep, and went to sleep.

  The whistle whined lonesomely against the dying night, and the steam engine chugged away, dragging its many--eyed dragon behind.

  Far out upon the prairie, Justin Parley watched it go. "There will be another day," he said, "and soon."

  Chapter Ten

  Fort Sanders was a frontier settlement, formerly known as Fort John Buford, established to protect the tie--cutters and grading crews working west of Cheyenne. A few squatters had appeared before the railroad, but by the time the rails reached the site there were several hundred buildings, shacks and cabins of logs, sod, canvas, railroad ties and old wagon boxes, near the fort, and within hours Laramie, as it now called itself, was a booming town.

  Crispin Mayo and Reppato Pratt stood on the narrow platform at what passed for the station. "Seen towns like this before," Rep said; "if'n you got money you can git yourself trouble. Without it you cain't git the time o' day."

  Cris fingered his few coins, not enough to take him anywhere. "We must make some money, then. This isn't a town to be hard--up in."

  "How you gonna do that? Rob somebody?"

  "That conductor now... Sam Calkins? He fancies himself. I wonder if he's known here?"

  "He's won three fights, London Prize Ring rules, at end--of--track towns. I seen one o' them, an' he's good. He's a bruiser."

  "That's it, then." Cris was looking at a sign over a walled tent. It said, BRENNAN'S BELLE OF THE WEST--SALOON & GAMBLING.

  Cris strolled down the street and went in. A dozen games were going, the bar was crowded, girls were circulating among the tables. There was a board floor under their feet and board siding to the tent. He pushed his way through the crowd, Pratt following, protesting.

  A man leaned on the back bar. His hair was slicked down upon his large head, his mustache was walrus in style, but neatly trimmed. His face was florid, and looked hard as polished oak. He was a big man and a gold chain with an elk's tooth hung across his chest.

  "Brennan?"

  Cold eyes turned upon Crispin.

  "I am."

  "And I am Crispin Mayo, from County Cork."

  Brennan took the cigar from his mouth. "I am from Donegal, and we're full up. I need no help. Seven of any ten men on the track are Irish, so don't play on that. I've no free drinks, no free lunch, and no money to give or lend."

  "I said I am Crispin Mayo from County Cork, and I don't give a damn for your money, your beer, your food, or your manners. I've known folk from Donegal before this, and they were gentlemen, which you obviously are not."

  Brennan dusted the ash from his cigar. "If I had the time I'd throw you out," he said, "but I'm going to be kind enough to let you walk out. If you don't do it soon, under your own steam, I'll have it done for you."

  "It's a poor man who'll hire his fightin' done for him," Cris said coolly, "but I'd be pleased to whip the lot of what you have here except that I've come on business. Do you know Sam Calkins?"

  "I know him."

  "He does not like me. Nor does he like the Irish."

  "So?"

  "He has spoken of fighting me when the mood is on him, and I've a thought the mood would come if there was a purse and maybe a side bet."

  "You wish that I'd bet on him to whip you? I would. Sam is a good fighter, and I've never seen you before."

  "No man who runs a gambling house would be the fool you'd have to be to bet against a man you did not know. I want to fight him."

  "Why?"

  "I need the money. I want a purse raised. Two hundred dollars."

  Brennan was amused. "So you take a beating and collect part of the purse?"

  "I want to fight winner--take--all."

  Brennan put his cigar down on the edge of the bar. There was a row of burns where other cigars had been left. "You would be the fool he takes y
ou for, then. Sam Calkins is no whiskey--soaked loudmouth. I do not like him, but he is a first--class fighting man. No country boy from Ireland is going to whip him."

  "Winner--take--all, I said. You are from Donegal. Have you heard of Bully Crogan?"

  "I have."

  "Three summers ago I threw him three straight falls at the fair in Mallow."

  Brennan was no longer contemptuous, but he was a cautious man. "Crogan was a strong man and a good wrestler," he said, a grudging respect in his tone now. "But he was not a boxer. This is not wrestling."

  "Nor am I a wrestler by any manner of preference. I wrestled because that was what Crogan did."

  Brennan glanced at Cris' knuckles. "It seems to me you've been busy already."

  Cris shrugged. "It was not that kind of fight. There was a man named Murray, one of Parley's outfit, and he had Barda McClean, the colonel's daughter. It was a bad thing he had done, and I wished to take the girl to her father. Murray objected."

  "I expect he would." Brennan watched Cris with cold, curious attention. "You took her from Murray?"

  "I did that."

  "Be careful, then. Murray is a vengeful man and he'll be coming for you with a gun."

  "Not for a few days, I'm thinkin'. He'll have trouble breathing with a broken nose and caved--in ribs."

  Brennan took up his cigar. "Do you think you can beat Calkins?"

  "I do."

  "Have you ever seen him fight?"

  "I have not. It is a feeling I have. I can beat him."

  "All right, then. I will arrange it, but if you welsh on me I'll have you killed."

  Cris looked into the cold eyes and had no doubt of it. "I'll not welsh, and I'll beat him."

  He started to turn away, but Brennan's voice stopped him. "You'll need eating money." He placed a twenty--dollar gold piece on the counter, then his eyes slanted to Reppato Pratt. "I know you, Pratt. Are you a friend of his?"

  "You could say that, I reckon. Cris is all right."

  "Then stand by him and keep your gun handy. Calkins has some rough friends who'll back him in a fight. I'll arrange it for the day after tomorrow, when Calkins is in town from his run."

  They walked away. "We will eat now," Cris said, "and then we will relax a bit."

  "Do you know what you let yourself in for?" Pratt asked, drily. "Sam Calkins is a pure terror with his fists, and he got no use for you. He'll be out to tear you apart."

  "He can try."

  Pratt glanced at him. "Maybe you are good," he said. "I'd ruther you was. Calkins needs a whuppin'; you give it to him an' you'll have friends about. But I dread the man's fists. I can use a gun or an Arkansas toothpick, but fists ain't for me."

  There was a tent with a sign MEALS across the front, and they went in. A long plank table stretched down the center of the tent, benches lined either side. It was past the hour, but a dozen men were scattered along the table eating from high--piled platters of buffalo and venison steaks, bowls of beans, and a big pot of coffee.

  They paid twenty--five cents to a burly man with immense forearms and rolled--up sleeves, and they loaded their plates. "This here's not much of a genteel town. Cock--fightin's the thing, dog--fightin', too. Onct they matched a bear an' a bull... bear won. They'll be wantin' a fight, not no fancy stuff, and Sam Calkins knows it. You know any dirty fightin'?" Rep inquired doubtfully.

  "I do."

  "You'll be needin' it, then. Sam knows ever' trick there be."

  Maybe he did and maybe he didn't, but Irish farmers and fishermen were rough men, and the fighting at county fairs had been nothing like a pink tea party. And of course, when it came to really dirty fighting, he'd learned that along the waterfronts and aboard the sailing ship.

  "What about your hand?"

  Cris glanced at it. He'd have to tape that little finger. Bandage it good. When he had started off with a fight in mind he had forgotten that finger, but they were broke and he knew no other way of getting money quickly. Now for the first time he considered the finger. The bleeding had been stopped long since, and he thought maybe the finger was in good enough shape. And there were two more days for it to heal.

  Brennan was not interested only in a fight. He was a betting man and if his protege could beat Calkins... over the bar he was giving it thought. He liked the look of Cris Mayo. A tough young Irishman strong enough to throw Bully Crogan might whip Calkins. Brennan remembered Crogan well, a rough man, powerful, brutal and sadistic. He would have liked fighting a clean--cut youngster like Mayo, would have enjoyed beating him down.

  He scowled suddenly. Suppose it was a put--up job? Mayo admitted he had met Calkins, had come in on Calkins' train... suppose they had conspired to take his money?

  He liked the look of Mayo, but who was altogether honest? He glanced around the room and recognized a tall young cavalryman, a man who he was quite sure had been one of the guard for Colonel McClean.

  "You!" he called. "Come here a minute!" The young man got up from his table and walked over, beer in hand. "Do you want a drink? A better drink than that?"

  "I'm satisfied. What's on your mind?"

  "Were you with that train? The one that picked up McClean and his daughter?"

  "Sure was. I was on the train when he was taken, too, and they'd put me up at the front and there was no time to do anything. We heard nothing, saw nothing until there was no proper signal at the station, and then we stopped and found the colonel was taken. It was a nervy thing."

  "What about this Mayo fellow? What did he have to do with it?"

  Briefly, the young cavalryman explained, then added, "He's a tough one. He faced right up to Calkins, who didn't like it one bit."

  "They are going to fight."

  "Fight?" It dawned on the boy suddenly. "You mean in the ring? I want to see that!"

  "How did he look to you? Mayo, I mean."

  The calvaryman considered that. "He's well set--up. I'd say he is heavier than he looks. Wider shoulders than most, a slim waist, and he's strong. He put down that ramp all by himself when he took the horses off. It usually takes four men, though two very strong ones might do it."

  Brennan took the empty beer glass and slid it down the bar. "Fill it up!" he said, and then casually, "He and Calkins talk much?"

  The calvaryman laughed. "Not so you could notice it Sam tried to run over him and he got just nowhere." He looked up quickly. "If you're thinking this might be arranged, forget it. I was there. Nothing tricky about it, and I'll bet Mayo is hell on wheels in any kind of a fight."

  "Thanks," Brennan said. "And have another beer."

  "Two's plenty. Mr. Brennan, I want to see that fight I want very much to see it. I am Tom Halloran."

  Brennan was startled. "You? Halloran, the foot racer?"

  "I was, until I joined the Army. Unfortunately, I may not be able to come. I'm one of the escort for the generals. They're going on a buffalo hunt."

  Brennan brushed out his cigar. He was thinking rapidly. He knew all about Halloran: Irish blood, of good family, a college man. He was a foot racer who had begun to run in contests in the East at a time when foot racing was a focal point for gamblers. More money was wagered on foot racing than on fighting, and in some areas, more than on horse racing. Many a sprinter was drifting about the country, passing himself off as some country bumpkin until he could find men to bet against him.

  Halloran had run a number of times... then there had been a shooting. He remembered that. "You're a good man," Brennan said quietly, "and Mayo will need such a man in his corner, one who understands physical conditioning."

  "I've worked behind a number of fighters," Halloran said, "but it will depend on two things: the possibility of my being free from duty, and the certainty that you want Mayo to win. I'll have no part of a fix."

  "That's why I want you," Brennan said quietly. "How many here know who you are?"

  The trooper chuckled. "I am Trooper Halloran, that's all."

  "Keep it so," Brennan said.

  As Halloran l
eft, Brennan lit another cigar and leaned his forearms on the bar. Rolling the cigar in his teeth, he considered the situation. Sam Calkins had numerous backers who were close friends of Sam's and believed him unbeatable. Brennan, who knew most things happening along the right--of--way of the Union Pacific, frowned thoughtfully. Sam Calkins had curious associates, but for a man who was a pugilist as well as a railroader, that was not surprising. Having told himself that, he took the cigar from his mouth, regarded it with sudden distaste that had nothing to do with the cigar, and placed it on the bar's edge.

  Owen Brennan had come to America as a laborer, had given himself a modest education through reading, beginning with a day--to--day study of the newspapers in order to acquaint himself with current beliefs, opinions, and affairs. He saved cuttings from the papers and soon had a file on politicians, sports figures, and military men, as well as a scattering of those in business.

  His purpose was simple. He wished to know what was going on and who was making it go, in order to plan his own affairs. Soon he had won a place as a policeman in New York and followed that as a contractor in road building. Not long thereafter he owned a dozen teams and fresnos, those two--handled scoops for the moving of earth that were drawn by horses.

  The building of the Union Pacific enabled him to get some right--of--way contracts as well as a chance to do some freighting. The saloon had been an afterthought, but a profitable one that moved westward with the tracks, and besides the selling of much drink it provided a convenient listening post.

  Tom Halloran was to be one of the escort for the generals' buffalo hunt. Well, Brennan knew the lad's first sergeant. He could get him out of that.

  Chapter Eleven

  Cris Mayo finished his meal and refilled his cup. Reppato Pratt sat beside him, lean, tough and watchful. "I don't like it," he muttered after awhile.

  Cris, busy with his own thoughts, asked, "What do you not like?"

  "Justin Parley an' them. They'd ruther die than quit. They're a murderous lot, an' they want Gen'l Sherman's scalp so bad they can taste it. Fair's that goes, they'd like to kill the whole passel o' them high officers."