by Clyde Barker
‘There’s three of them that I can see,’ said O’Shea. ‘Most likely more round the front. They don’t know I’m here and aim to take the house and wait for me and Emily to return, so’s they can kill us both.’
‘No doubt,’ said Tom Covenay, and O’Shea marvelled at the old man’s phlegmatic acceptance of the trap in which they found themselves. ‘What d’ye propose?’
‘I’m going to scoot upstairs and work from there. Can you fire a few times through this window? Don’t bother aiming or putting yourself in danger, just give them something to think about. I’ve an idea that they still don’t expect resistance. Probably think there’s only domestics and an invalid in the place.’
‘They’ll learn different,’ said the old man grimly. ‘Go on, off with ye.’
Crawling through the broken and splintered glass was painful; O’Shea found that his hands were bloody by the time that he had gained the hallway. This put him in just the frame of mind to inflict pain on others and, as he strode up the stairs, he cocked the rifle in readiness. The first and most urgent need was to deal with those who would soon be pressing close to the rear of the house, where old Mr Covenay was currently sheltering.
By good fortune the window in the bedroom at the rear of the house was already open: perhaps the room was being aired. Whatever the reason, the open window fitted O’Shea’s purposes perfectly. He wasted no time in thinking things over, but simply crossed the room to the window, took aim at the three men below and snapped off two shots. He had the immense satisfaction of seeing one of the men fall from his horse and the other crying out in pain and wheeling his mount round.
He ducked back out of sight immediately as a ball came whistling through the open window and buried itself in the ceiling, sending down a shower of powdered plaster. From below came the sound of two shots fired from inside the house. Figuring that Tom Covenay would keep the pot boiling nicely on that side of the house, O’Shea sprinted across the landing towards the rooms overlooking the front entrance. He was just in time.
There were three more men at the front of the house, including Yanez, who was mounted on a fine black stallion. His two confederates had dismounted and were making their way to the front door with the evident intention of forcing an entry. Both men died without even knowing that they were in peril.
Perhaps they had thought that seizing the house and waiting for their prey to fetch up there would be an easy job: just a question of murdering a maid and killing an old man lying in his bed. With two quick, well-aimed shots, O’Shea drilled bloody holes in the top of both of the dismounted riders’ heads. He turned to deal in the same way with Yanez, but the Mexican had spurred his horse and galloped round the side of the house to see what was doing there.
There was no time to lose; O’Shea could hear shots coming from the area of the kitchen. He ran back to the bedroom that overlooked the back of the house, hoping to repeat his trick of catching men unawares and disposing of them without their even knowing what had hit them, but the surviving attackers were now alert to the danger they were in and were hiding behind a stone wall running along to the barn.
From what O’Shea could make out at a quick glance there were only two of them, with Yanez presumably hiding at the side of the house out of sight from the windows. One of the men must have caught a glimpse of O’Shea, who had to leap back as a ball passed so close to his head that he heard its passing, as though an angry hornet had just buzzed near his ear. Things were certainly hotting up.
Peering round the edge of the window cautiously, O’Shea risked another shot. He had to withdraw swiftly; splinters of wood flew into his cheek as a ball clipped the window frame. It was a classic stand-off and the battle could easily go on for an hour if both sides were careful and nobody took any foolish or unnecessary risks. Of course, such a confrontation ultimately favoured the coolheaded and dispassionate and, in general, vicious bandits tended more towards the impulsive and aggressive. There was also the little matter of the advantage that defenders always enjoyed in such matches. All that O’Shea and old Mr Covenay needed to do was stay put. It was those who hoped to invade and occupy the house who would, sooner or later, be forced to break from cover.
So it proved, because as O’Shea peeped around the window he saw one of the men behind the wall jump to his feet and begin jinking towards the kitchen door. As O’Shea was about to draw down on the fellow, the remaining man, firing from the cover of the wall, let loose with three or four rapid shots, so that O’Shea was unable to take careful aim himself.
From down below there came a spintering crash, which O’Shea guessed was the kitchen door being kicked in; it was followed by two shots that sounded almost simultaneous. At pretty much the same moment the other man got to his feet, left the cover of the wall and began heading for the house. Unfortunately for him he had nobody to cover him; O’Shea shot him down like a dog before he had covered more than a half-dozen paces. Then he raced down the stairs, wondering as he did so what he might find.
The first thing to be seen on entering the kitchen was the body of one of the bandits sprawled across the threshold, a stream of blood snaking across the paved floor from a wound in the man’s chest. He was plainly dead, so O’Shea turned his attention to Tom Covenay, who was drenched in blood and looking none too good.
‘God almighty!’ cried O’Shea. ‘Where are you hit?’
‘Never mind that,’ replied the old man irritably. ‘Have we settled ’em all?’
‘No, the leader’s out there somewhere.’
‘Well, go and kill him, you fool! What are you hanging about here for?’
‘You’ll be all right?’
Tom Covenay made an impatient gesture, so O’Shea, his piece cocked, darted from the house, scanning anxiously with his eyes from left to right, hoping to spot Yanez before the Mexican saw him.
There was no sign of Yanez; the only thing that O’Shea could think was that the man had ridden off when he saw that all his boys had been taken out. He didn’t, perhaps, fancy his chances of mounting a lone assault on the defended position.
When O’Shea returned to the kitchen old Mr Covenay was still in the same position.
‘Where are you hit?’ O’Shea asked.
‘Shoulder. It’s not hit the bone. Sliced through a vein, though.’
‘You want I should put on a tourniquet?’
‘And make me lose my arm? Don’t think it for a moment. You know how a little blood can make much of itself. I’ll do well enough. No sign of the leader of those bastards?’
‘He must have dug up when he saw that all his boys had been killed. He’s finished, you needn’t fret about him. He’ll be lucky to make it back across the Rio Grande. Let’s get you more comfortable.’
‘Don’t fuss. You’re like a woman. I’m fine.’
It was apparent that Tom Covenay was anything but fine, however, for as soon as he got to his feet he proceeded to faint from loss of blood, crashing to the flagstones like a felled oak. Somehow O’Shea managed to get the man propped up against the wall. When he had done so he ripped up a towel and used this as a makeshift field dressing. It would slow down and eventually stop the bleeding. Just as the old man had said, this was a flesh wound, which would bleed freely but not so much that the victim would be put in hazard of his life. A little bloodletting would do the choleric old fellow no harm at all.
Mindful of the fact that Jemima Covenay would most likely be back before too long, O’Shea set himself to making the kitchen look a little less like an abattoir; it was awash with gore and stank of shed blood. The first step was to dispose of the corpse of the man who had kicked down the door and, so O’Shea supposed, had shot Tom Covenay.
He dragged the man out by his heels with as little ceremony as he might have shifted the carcass of a butchered hog. O’Shea had, in the usual way of things, a feeling of respect for those slain violently in this way, but he was exceedingly ill-disposed towards these men, so he simply dumped the body out of sight behind the w
all. Then he dragged the fellow’s two compadres round so that they too were out of sight.
The black maid was a different matter: O’Shea had no intention of just shifting her out of the way like a sack of potatoes. Supposing that she had probably been a servant for whom the family might have had some affection, O’Shea decided to lay her out in the front parlour. He had no idea if he was acting correctly, nevertheless he picked up the poor woman and then laid her gently on the long table in the parlour. Whatever the Covenays might or might not have wanted, he wasn’t about to leave a woman’s corpse lying on the floor like that.
Having dealt with the bodies in the house, O’Shea found a bucket and mop and sluiced down the flags to remove every trace of blood. When he had finished the kitchen looked a little more decent. Old Mr Covenay had come to by this time.
‘Where’s Hannah?’ he asked.
‘Your maid? I laid her out in the parlour. Hope I weren’t overstepping the mark?’
‘No, you did the right thing, Mr O’Shea. She’s been with us many years, poor woman. Thank you.’
‘I ain’t fussing, but I reckon as I ought to get you into bed, sir. You need to rest up.’
‘You’re in the right, of course. I feel as weak as a kitten. No sign yet of Jemima?’
‘No, but I aim to ride back to San Angelo and see what’s become of her. Most like she’s with that priest.’
Tom Covenay’s eyes were shining as they talked of his elder daughter, of whom he was, it was plain, enormously proud.
‘She really shot at those men when you crossed the river?’
‘She really did, sir. I’m a dab hand with a pistol, but I tell you I couldn’t shoot with a rifle the way that your daughter could. She saved all our lives.’
‘Yes, that’s my girl all right,’ said the old man with great satisfaction. ‘See if you can lend me a hand now in getting up those stairs, will you? I’m afeared I’ll not be able to make it alone.’
It was somewhat of a struggle to make their way to the upper floor of the house, for being shot had taken more out of the elderly Tom Covenay than he was willing to admit. By the time they reached his bedroom he was whitefaced and panting.
‘You . . . need a hand . . . getting your clothes off?’ asked O’Shea tentatively.
‘No,’ replied Covenay ungraciously. ‘The day I can’t get my own pants off I might as well be in my grave.’
Rick O’Shea shrugged. From all that he was able to collect he had now done as much for the Covenay family as could reasonably be expected.
Although he had left an item or two of luggage in his room at San Angelo, he didn’t think that it would be a smart move to go back and fetch it. Just his luck if he ended up being hanged for three murders he’d had no part in. No, he would ride along the railroad line and take the train a few miles north of here. Once he was out of Pecos County, he’d be home and dry. New York, here I come!
After establishing that there was nothing at all that he could do for the old man, who wanted only to be left in peace, Rick O’Shea bade him farewell and prepared to shake the dust of that place from his feet, as scripture has it. There were still two corpses to deal with, those of the two men he’d shot in front of the house, so before leaving he hauled them round the side of the house and dumped them with the other men. Then, partly from force of habit, and also because he cared about dumb animals, he untacked the dead men’s horses and turned them out to graze in the field behind the barn. All in all, he thought, as he looked round, he’d tidied up well enough. Nobody would guess that there had been a bloody skirmish here not a half-hour since; one which had left five men dead.
Back in the house O’Shea took a final look in the kitchen and assured himself that there was nothing to alarm Jemima Covenay when she returned. He had the feeling anyway that it would take more than a corpse or two to put that young lady out of countenance. Then he thought he’d set off towards San Angelo and just see if he might meet her on the road. He didn’t plan to enter the town itself, though.
At the last moment he realized that he was carrying Tom Covenay’s rifle and knew that he had best leave it behind. He worked the handle and ejected the remaining cartridges, which he placed neatly on the kitchen table. Then he leaned the weapon itself against the wall and walked out of the kitchen door.
He found himself face to face with Valentin Yanez, who had a rifle held at his hip, pointing at O’Shea.
‘I thought you’d be running for the border by now, Yanez,’ observed O’Shea amiably. ‘Never thought you’d hang round here, not with all your men being dead and all.’
‘You have cost me everything,’ said the bandit. ‘Everything. Even my own mother and brother.’ His voice rose to a scream. ‘My own mother! Dead!’
Although he was perfectly aware that his life was now balanced on the edge of the sharpest knife you ever saw, Rick O’Shea could not forbear to mention his views on this.
‘The old lady had a little girl tied to her like a dog, Yanez,’ he said. ‘You play tricks like that, it’s apt to end badly. Ain’t there something in the Good Book about those who live by the sword dying by the same means?’
It was a wonderful thing to O’Shea that he was able to talk so calmly, now that all his hopes were dashed and he was sure that he would never set eyes on Ireland again after all.
‘As for your men,’ he continued, ‘well, they knew the game when they started. I don’t see as I’m answerable for them. It was kill or be killed.’
‘You will see that my weapon is cocked and I will tell you that I’ve taken first pull on the trigger,’ Yanez told him. ‘Take out that pistol with your left hand and throw it away. Only pull it with two fingers; don’t grasp the hilt.’
O’Shea noted, having tossed away his only hope for living, as though it were happening to somebody else, that even when a man knows that he is to die he will do whatever it takes to live even a few seconds longer. There could be not the faintest doubt that the Mexican was going to kill him and it would make sense now for O’Shea to launch a sudden desperate assault against the man who was pointing the rifle at him.
Even so, he just stood there, hoping to live just a little longer. He felt vaguely disgusted with himself. But then he thought: if a man is to die, isn’t it better that he should face it calmly instead of struggling and fighting?
‘What became of your friend in the house?’ asked Yanez. ‘Does he live still?’
‘Yes, he’s resting in his bed. Took a ball to his shoulder.’
‘Good. After you are dead I shall kill him and then burn down his house.’
‘While we’re talking plain, Yanez, I might as well tell you that you needn’t rely on Sheriff Jackson any more in the future. He met with an accident.’
‘Jackson is dead?’
‘As the proverbial doornail.’
Yanez absorbed this information, not taking his eyes from O’Shea, nor giving any sign at all that he was not giving the other man his undivided attention. He looked to be brooding and O’Shea wondered if a little bluffing might be in order.
‘Tell you what, Yanez,’ he said, ‘you’re pretty much washed up here. You ride off now, I won’t say a thing to anybody. I’ve no interest in seeing you caught. Go off and we’ll be done with each other.’
O’Shea’s words appeared to rouse Yanez from his thoughts.
‘I’m going to kill you very slowly, my meddling friend,’ he said. ‘First, I shall shoot your ankles, then I shall kick you around a little. Then I’m going to fire at your knees, and after that your worthless balls. Then we’ll see how long I let you live before I finish you off.’
‘You talk a lot, Yanez. Let’s be done with it.’
‘You are afraid, I think?’
‘That’s my affair.’
The Mexican raised his rifle and took aim at O’Shea’s legs. It was impossible that O’Shea would be able to jump the man; maybe it would be more manly just to take what was coming without giving the appearance of fear or flinching awa
y like a wounded cur. Better to meet death in this way, like a man.
Yanez sensed that something had changed in the other man’s demeanour and for a moment he looked puzzled, even a little uncertain. O’Shea looked back steadily and fearlessly, and was immensely surprised when Yanez’s head jerked suddenly to one side, as though he had been punched. Instinctively, O’Shea stepped back, so that if the rifle went off, it wouldn’t hit him. But there was no present prospect of that happening, because Yanez plummeted to the ground, where he lay quite still. From all that O’Shea could make out the man was stone dead.
Chapter 10
O’Shea had been so pent up with the nervous effort of bracing himself to meet a painful and humiliating death that he hadn’t heard the shot that had saved his life. He glanced up at the window at the back of the house, with the vague notion that Tom Covenay had recovered sufficiently to wield a weapon, but there was no sign of anything like that. He went over to the body and took the rifle from Yanez’s lifeless grasp. It would do no harm to be prepared when there was shooting coming from an unknown source.
Then everything fell into place as Jemima Covenay stood up from the long grass of a little hillock which lay some quarter-mile from the house. She raised a hand in salute, then vanished from sight again. A short while later she rode round the side of the little hill on her horse, which had apparently been kept out of sight on the opposite slope. The young woman was seemingly in no hurry, for she just let the horse make its own pace, which was a leisurely walk. When she came closer she hailed O’Shea.
‘I guess that’s thrice now I’ve saved your life, Mr O’Shea.’
‘I reckon that’s a fact, Miss Jemima,’ he called back. ‘I couldn’t argue with that. You took that devil with a head shot at . . . what, a quarter-mile? That’s the hell of a piece of shooting, if you’ll forgive my language.’