by Clyde Barker
He spurred on his horse and was soon galloping hell for leather through Grey John’s Gap towards the little town of Archangel, which lay on the north bank of the Rio Grande, just across the border from Mexico.
Archangel was a dead and alive little burg, with nothing much to recommend it other than the fact that a cable-drawn ferry linked it with Mexico. Inevitably a good deal of smuggling took place across the border at this point. Liquor, tobacco, gold, guns and even women were trafficked to and fro; the movement of goods taking place both from south to north and vice versa.
The authorities on both sides of the border regarded Archangel as a pest-hole but, short of stationing a regiment of infantry permanently on both banks of the Rio Grande at that point, there was little enough to be done about it. Every so often matters got out of hand and it would be found that, say, Gatling guns rather than just a few rifles were being taken across on the ferry to arm Mexican rebels in the northern provinces. At that point there might be an attempt to crack down for a week or even a month, but sooner or later the forces of law and order would retreat and business would resume.
The ride to Archangel had been uneventful. O’Shea had reined in now and was staring across the broad river from where, almost out of sight on the horizon, could be glimpsed the white-painted houses of what he took to be the village of Chuchuverachi. According to Jack Flynn, the stolen child might well be secreted in or near this village. O’Shea gazed from the landing stage and wondered just how hard this row would be to hoe. Surely Yanez would not be expecting anything so reckless as a raid upon his home territory? The very daring of the thing might take him by surprise and, before the abductor knew what had happened, Rick O’Shea would be back here with the rescued child.
He wasn’t one to underestimate the hazards of such a venture: far from it. On the other hand he had been party to some pretty desperate endeavours in the past, which had come off against all the apparent odds. It said something about O’Shea’s character that having accepted that he had to do this thing he never once looked back or considered giving up on it. He was a man who, if once he said he would do a thing, would do it, no matter what chanced. That he had unwillingly taken on this little job imposed upon him mattered not a jot.
Restoring that poor little girl to her family was the right and proper thing to do and now that he had been roped into it he knew that he wouldn’t rest easy at the thought of the child having her throat cut by some villain who was simply aiming to make a point about his ruthlessness to any future victim.
It was coming on to evening and there was no percentage in setting out across the border now without having looked around a bit and examined the lie of the land. O’Shea decided therefore to book into one of the little town’s two hotels. Although the permanent population of Archangel numbered only 500 souls there was a constantly changing and wildly fluctuating group of transients who needed beds in which to lie. The two so-called ‘commercial’ hotels catered for these drifters and entrepreneurs.
After booking his room and making provision for the mare in a livery stable on the edge of town, O’Shea thought it might be interesting to hang out in the bar which occupied the ground floor of the hotel at which he was staying. He could see at once that most of the types drinking there were as rough as all get-out. He’d never been to Archangel before and nobody there knew him, at least as far as he was aware.
It would not therefore do to start asking too many probing questions of the clientele, such as When did you last see Valentin Yanez, the famous bandit leader? Such a course of action might lead to his being identified as a spy or paid informer, which might in turn end in his being knifed in a darkened alleyway. Better by far to listen to the conversation and see what might be picked up.
Two hours spent in the bar-room yielded absolutely nothing that was germane to O’Shea’s purpose. He overheard guarded discussions about shifting ‘the gear’ in two days and other conversations about men he’d never heard of who would be ‘heading south’ the next day, but not, as far as he was able to apprehend, any reference, even indirect, to Yanez. He hadn’t really thought it likely that he would pick up casual gossip about such an important figure, but it had been worth a try. O’Shea decided to turn in for the night.
Rick O’Shea had always counted it a great blessing that he was possessed of the ability to sink into unconsciousness almost as soon as he laid his head upon the pillow. Come to that, it was the same out on the range, or even lying on a floor somewhere. In the present instance he kicked off his boots, removed his pants and was sound asleep within minutes. He was accordingly slumbering like a baby when he was suddenly catapulted into wakefulness by the unmistakable sound of a pistol being cocked near his ear.
Just as he had a knack or gift for falling easily asleep, so too was Rick O’Shea able to wake instantly with all his senses alert and ready for action. Although the room was in darkness he knew without the shadow of a doubt that somebody was holding a gun to his head. That sharp metallic click as the hammer was pulled back and cocked was one clue, but the clinching proof was the smell of oil from a well-maintained weapon. Impossible to mistake that particular scent for anything else in the world. Without moving a muscle, he said quietly:
‘Who are you and what do you want of me?’
‘That’s the sensible dodge,’ said a gruff voice, approvingly. ‘I’ll light the lamp now, but I can do that with one hand. My pistol’s still pointing at you and if you so much as twitch and I’ll blow your damned head clean off your shoulders.’
O’Shea was quite prepared to take the man’s word for this. He lay still to see how matters might develop. He had no idea why anybody in this town would have taken against him and he was hoping that this was not somebody from his past with an ancient score to settle. The fact that he had been woken up and had not simply had his throat cut while he was sleeping was at least encouraging.
There came the sputtering and flaring of a match and then the soft glow of lamplight spread through the room. Without otherwise moving, O’Shea turned his eyes to see who was menacing him. He beheld a grizzled-looking man well past the first vigour of youth. He had a bristling, iron-grey mustache and two of the coldest and most determined eyes that one could hope to find in a human visage.
‘Sheriff Jackson,’ said O’Shea amiably, ‘this is an unexpected pleasure, to be sure. Had I known you were planning to drop by I would have laid in some comestibles – cakes and ale perhaps, so we could chat over old times.’
‘Shut up, O’Shea. You needn’t think your blarney is going to do you any good and that’s a fact. You’ll hang for your work up at the Gap.’
‘I’ll allow I was up that way, but do you think it would have been such a shambles if I’d been a part of the operation?’
Sheriff Jackson was seated comfortably in the only chair in the room, a rickety wooden structure that had probably started life in somebody’s kitchen.
‘Like I told you,’ he said, ‘you ain’t going to talk your way out of this. You been dancing ’tween the raindrops for a long, long while and this here’s where you get caught in the storm.’
‘Mind if I sit up? I can’t talk easily sprawled down like this.’ Without waiting for an answer O’Shea wriggled about until he was clear of the bedclothes and sitting upright.
‘Just bring your hands out from under those covers, real slow, and let me see them,’ Jackson said.
O’Shea did so.
‘I know you and me got crosswise to each other in the past, Sheriff, but you can’t mean to pin that train robbery on me. What happened after I left?’
‘After you ran out on your partners, you mean? It was a massacre, that’s what happened. Four of your friends were killed and three of my men. That mad fool Flynn lobbed a stick of dynamite, which killed one of his own men and then I shot him. After a bit more fighting they threw down and I sent the two survivors back to San Angelo in charge of my deputies. Then I came down here to pick you up as well.’
‘Is that wh
y you want me? To boost your number of prisoners?’ enquired O’Shea innocently. ‘I can see where losing a bunch of your men like that would look lousy when you’re coming up for re-election soon. But you’re backing the wrong pony this time. I was just passing through the Gap on business of my own.’
‘Never mind my election. That’s my affair. You think I’m going to believe that you just happened to be there when that train was ambushed? I don’t think so.’
Rick O’Shea’s mind was racing furiously, partly to avoid being sent to jail or even hanged for a crime in which he had had no part, but also because he saw the germ of an idea that might aid him in his own quest.
‘I reckon you and me can do business together, Sheriff Jackson,’ he said. ‘I might be able to do you a good turn.’
Jackson snorted. ‘If you think you can bribe me, then you don’t know me at all, that’s all I can say on that subject.’
‘Lord, but you are a suspicious one. Bribery? Nothing o’ the sort. I was thinking maybe of a way to put you in good odour with the citizens of Pecos County and guarantee you get voted in again next month.’
It was obvious from the look on Jackson’s face that this was the right tack to take. O’Shea had heard how the good people of San Angelo and the surrounding areas were getting mighty sick of the crimes that were plaguing them. After the train robberies it wasn’t hard to guess that the grabbing of a little girl would prove the last straw. You could see where Pecos County would be having a new sheriff if Emily Covenay wasn’t recovered safe and well.
‘You think you can wriggle off the hook with your smooth words,’ said Jackson contemptuously. ‘Don’t think it for a moment. What good turn could you do me? Come on, get dressed. We got a long ride ahead of us in a few hours.’
Rick O’Shea didn’t stir, but said instead: ‘First off is where I was coming through the Gap because the priest back in San Angelo asked me to help him. It was chance alone that brought me there when those fools were after blowing up the railroad train.’
‘Father Flaherty? What’s your connection with him?’
‘I’m Catholic. I was talking to the father, day before yesterday, and he told me of the terrible plight of a fellow Catholic: Mr Covenay.’
‘Tom Covenay? You talking about the theft of his child?’
O’Shea could see that he had the sheriff’s attention now and no mistake. It was only a question of reeling him in. It wouldn’t do, though, to let Jackson think that he, Rick O’Shea, was acting under duress. His best bet was to represent himself as voluntarily offering to rescue the little girl.
‘We Catholics stand by each other, Sheriff,’ O’Shea said. ‘Soon as I heard of this awful business I resolved at once to do all I could. I offered my services to Father Flaherty and – well – here I am.’
Sheriff Jackson said nothing for a space, mulling over what he had been told. At length he said:
‘What’s this to me? You talked of a good turn; how does that work?’
‘Why, man, I’ve no wish for any glory in this affair. I’d be happy for you to take all the credit for bringing the child safely back to the bosom of her family. We’ll work in tandem, as you might say, then I’ll be happy just to see the child back home. You can tell everybody as how you did it all by your own self. Do you a power of good when the election’s held, I’ll be bound.’
‘There’s more to the case than you’re letting on, O’Shea, of that I’ve no doubt. Still and all, there might be something in it. Father Flaherty, he’d back up what you say, would he? Don’t bother lying to me, now.’
‘I was with him for half an hour, day before yesterday, a little after noon. He’ll confirm that.’
‘I’m telling you, you better not be lying to me,’ said Sheriff Jackson in a threatening tone of voice. He may not have been quite as agile and sharp mentally as Rick O’Shea, but he had already run through the angles in his mind. He had the train robbers, or what was left of them, in the bag, and he had aimed anyway to bring home little Emily Covenay. Set against that, just adding one more name to the train-wreckers already in custody would profit him nothing. He uncocked his piece with his thumb and slipped it back into the holster.
‘Tell me what you got in mind,’ he said.
Chapter 3
Since neither man completely trusted the other, by tacit consent Jackson and O’Shea chose to abandon sleep for the night. As it was only a couple of hours until dawn they left the poky little room and went down to the deserted riverbank to talk over the best way of proceeding. As they strolled through the empty streets O’Shea said:
‘I’m guessing that you know as Yanez is at the back of the business?’
‘The devil he is!’ replied Jackson. “Who told you so?’
‘Ah, I can’t reveal my sources, Sheriff.’
‘You better had,’ said Jackson, stopping dead in his tracks and staring hard at O’Shea.
‘Since you put it so, it was Father Flaherty his own self who gave me the tip.’
‘What does he know about it? I find he’s been holding out on information relating to this matter and I’m going to be mighty vexed with that priest.’
‘He is a priest. It’s the kind of thing they get to know. I’ll warrant he knows more secrets than a prostitute’s dog, that one.’
‘I suppose it comes of hearing all those confessions.’
This was not an angle that Rick O’Shea wished to explore, so he changed the subject.
‘You got no jurisdiction away over the river, I dare say?’
‘Not a bit,’ replied the sheriff cheerfully. ‘But that don’t bother me none. I been over there in the past, bringing back fugitives and such. The government in Mexico City don’t mind. They’d be glad to see Yanez given a black eye and made to look foolish.’
O’Shea shot a quick glance at his companion.
‘We ain’t aiming for to give anybody a black eye, are we?’ he said. ‘Just bringing that child safely home.’
‘Ain’t even said yet that there is any “we” in the case. If we do act together though, I wouldn’t mind causing some harm to Yanez in the process. I owe him a bad turn.’
They breakfasted in a little cantina on the waterfront, which began serving meals as soon as dawn broke. It was agreed that the two of them would cross over on the ferry that afternoon, after gathering a few provisions. Jackson was not a sociable companion, whereas Rick O’Shea was always in the mood for chatting away about this and that. Halfway through their meal, Sheriff Jackson said abruptly:
‘You talk more’n a woman, you know that?’
‘Sure – and what’s the purpose in being alive if we can’t enjoy ourselves and so forth?’
‘Beats me,’ said Jackson. ‘I suppose we’re stuck here with it. Until we die, that is.’
‘That’s the hell of a gloomy way of looking at life, you know. Look at me now. I take things as they come, as you might say.’
‘Yes and you take other folks’ belongings as they come as well, O’Shea. It’s not a way of life I’d care for. Listen, there’s one thing always puzzled me about you. Is Rick O’Shea your real name or is it an alias? It’s a strange coincidence, living as an outlaw and having a name that sounds just like “ricochet”, you’ll have to allow.’
‘I’ll tell you the truth of it. Back home – in the old country, I mean – I was known as Dick, in the English fashion, my given name being Richard. But it sounded not quite the thing here to be calling meself Dick, if you take my meaning. Not so dignified, so I came up with “Rick O’Shea”. You have to admit it suits me well enough.’
Sheriff Jackson grunted and turned his attention back to his coffee. Rick O’Shea realized that riding with Jackson was not going to be a bunch of laughs, by any stretch of the imagination. In the usual way of things O’Shea got on well enough with lawmen. Indeed, he often found that he had more in common with them than he did with ordinary citizens. Villains and lawmen were both playing the same game in many respects, although of course being,
nominally at least, on opposing teams. They played by rules of whose very existence the average law-abiding person was unaware, and both sides worked according to a set of cynical assumptions that would perhaps have shocked most people.
At the back of his mind Rick O’Shea had half-thought that a trip across the border like this, working together with a sheriff, might prove to be quite a diverting and entertaining affair. With anybody other than an out-and-out stiff ’un such as Seth Jackson, that might indeed have been the case. As it was, he was seemingly destined to embark upon this enterprise with one of the dullest and most humourless men who ever drew breath. Well, so be it!
Once the stores in the little town had opened Jackson and O’Shea gathered together some provisions for their expedition. It was obviously necessary that they should travel light, so they limited themselves to food and to powder and shot for their weapons. The two of them agreed that in addition to these necessities several other useful items such as a coil of rope and one or two other bits and pieces might come in handy.
Even as they prepared for crossing the river later that day Sheriff Jackson did not once make the rules of play clear by assuring O’Shea that he would not at some future time arrest him for his supposed involvement in the ambush of the train. The question lay unspoken between them and Rick O’Shea took it as read that the sheriff’s intention was to keep him in a state of constant uneasiness regarding his future prospects.
For his own part, as soon as he had rescued the little girl and restored her to her family O’Shea had no intention at all of waiting around in or near San Angelo to see what the sheriff’s pleasure might be. He would be off to New York at once and if anybody tried to hinder him, then so much the worse for them.
The fellow operating the ferry did not run his service according to any particular schedule, but took men and goods across as and when required. He charged varying amounts, according to what he perceived to be the personal risk to himself and his livelihood. If he were to be caught shifting arms across the border he might reasonably expect to suffer some penalty, along with those in actual possession of the weaponry. He had a quick eye for wrongdoing and was generally able to gauge quickly enough how much his services were worth to a potential customer, and also to assess the possible hazard that he would be exposed to if the thing miscarried.