CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Captain Barrie Delaney stroked his beard and turned to Kate, his eyes as black and bright as a sparrow’s. “It is a thing you are asking, Kate, that has puzzled many a man and has sent a multitude of others on a quest to find it. Nirvana, is it? There’s a word for a man to rassle with, and I’ll grab it by the throat soon enough, lay to that.” Black Barrie beamed, grinning from ear to ear. “Now look around you, Kate me darlin’, as you can tell this house now stands steady enough to brave the fiercest tempest. There’s no mighty wind or rain that will stove in her timbers, and you can lay to that.” He waited, expecting Kate to say something, but she only stared at him, a slightly irritated glint in her eye. “So, says you, how did this miracle happen? Because, says I, I had that Chinese blacksmith of yours brace the frame with iron—”
“Marco Salas is Mexican,” Kate said.
“Is that right? Well, I took him fer some kind of foreigner. Kate, we scoured the countryside around for iron and used it to support every stud and joist. And there she stands, a dwelling that will soon be fit for a queen . . . or a Kerrigan.”
Kate stood in what would be the hallway of the house and looked around her. “It seems you’ve finally started to do a good job and earn your wages, Captain Delaney. And that’s good, because I dislike hanging rogues on a Monday. Now, what about that word Nirvana?”
“Ah, well, here’s the explanation of it, as best as I can describe,” Delaney said. “In the Orient, in heathen Cathay and such places, the natives have a name for Heaven and they calls it Nirvana. It’s a place where all suffering and carnal desire ceases and souls live in a constant state of bliss. Now that’s not for a man of my ilk. Black Barrie wants a heaven where he can sail the old Octopus along o’ the likes of Captain Kidd and Edward Teach, the one they called Blackbeard. A willing wench and a bottle of rum is nirvana enough for any lively sailorman, I’ll be bound.”
“You won’t be lively, Barrie Delaney, not when you’re dead,” Kate said. “And by the way, that’s not raindrops you feel. It’s the Holy Virgin shedding tears over your sacrilege. Willing wenches and rum in heaven, indeed. I have never heard the like. Well, I won’t talk of this again until later. Now, show me my columns and introduce me to the man who’ll build them.”
Delaney bowed. “Step this way, milady, and meet the finest worker in stone the world has ever seen.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Then to Frank Cobb, “Could the KK Ranch be Nirvana to those people on the wagons?”
“Kate, I think anyplace they can escape the cholera will be their heaven.”
“I’m worried, Frank.”
“Sooner rather than later we need to make a decision, Kate, but let’s wait to hear what Trace has to say. Maybe the wagons have stopped or turned.”
“Is that likely?”
“No. I can’t say that it is.”
“It will be a terrible thing if we have to go to the gun,” Kate said. “I don’t even want to think about it. Women ... children ...”
Delaney said, “Beggin’ your pardon, Kate, but me and my lads haven’t built this fine house to see it destroyed by others. Aye, we know about the cholera. How many times have I seen it shipboard? Too many if the truth be told. But if it comes to slaughter you can depend on me and my brave lads to do our share and there’s my hand on it.”
Kate’s hand disappeared inside Delaney’s massive paw as she said, “I’ll hope and pray that we will find another way.”
“Aye, that’s the ticket. While you sharpen your cutlass pray to the good Lord, Kate. That’s always worked for Barrie Delaney. A divine hand has oft times guided my steel.”
“You’re a bloodthirsty rascal, Captain Delaney, and I doubt that the fear of the Lord is in you. I will say a prayer for you at my devotions tonight.”
“And a sweet mercy it will be, Kate, for there’s no worse sinner in all the world than the poor, frail wretch that stands before you,” Delaney said. “And while you’re at it, say a prayer for me poor auld father, hung as a pirate off Tortuga by the Portuguese on this very day twenty years ago.”
“You’re about as frail as a grizzly bear,” Kate said, “but I’ll pray for your father’s soul. And now I’ll see your brick mason.”
Delaney led the way to a ratty tent city he’d set up for his crew. Where he’d gotten the tents, most of them bearing US ARMY on their canvas, Kate did not dare guess. He stopped at one of the smaller tents guarded by a scar-faced ruffian with a Henry rifle.
“Kate me darlin’, the name of the gentleman inside is Mr. Hargate Webbe, from Boston town, and he’s an excitable cove, much given to hollering at the top of his voice.” Delaney tapped the side of his nose. “But here’s a lark. I can have my man Mad Fern Reed here cut out his tongue and shut his yap permanent, like.”
“That will be quite unnecessary. Now raise the tent flap, Captain Delaney, if you please.”
“I’ll come with you, Kate,” Frank said.
“No, I’ll interview Mr. Webbe myself. The poor man needs compassion, not more threats,” she said as she stepped into the tent.
“I have no wish to hang you, Mr. Webbe. Not over a trivial matter like a pair of columns.”
Hargate Webbe was so outraged he spluttered, saliva flying from his mouth like water from a ruptured drainpipe. “That, madam, is unheard of. A threat against my person while a captive in your custody. The law shall hear of this.”
“Oh, I know how menacing I must sound, dear Mr. Webbe, but in this neck of the woods I am the law.”
“But—but I was kidnapped by thugs and dragged here against my will,” the little man said. He wore a long leather coat and a top hat with goggles above the brim. A large pair of canvas gloves were thrust into his pocket. Tiny scars pockmarked his narrow face, the result, Kate guessed, of chips of stone flying from his chisel.
“You must forgive Captain Delaney,” Kate said. “He’s trying to make a life ashore for himself and he can be quite impulsive. I gave him the job of building my new home out of sympathy for his plight. His brig, the Octopus, lies anchored in Corpus Christi Bay, and I fear he vows to never walk her deck again.”
“Black Barrie Delaney vows never to walk her deck again because he knows half the world’s navies want to hang him,” Webbe said. “For a full week the Boston newspapers were full of his exploits after he captured the clipper ship Southern Cross and stole her cargo of Chinese tea and porcelain. Many a God-fearing mariner went to the bottom that day and Black Barrie was the one who sent them there.”
“Very distressing indeed, Mr. Webbe, but we can’t believe everything we read in the papers, now can we?”
“Kate, do you need me?” Frank’s voice came from outside.
“No, I’m just fine, thank you. I’m just setting dear Mr. Webbe to rights.”
“Then let me put you to rights, Mrs. Kerrigan—”
“Ah, you know my name.”
“Delaney didn’t keep it a secret,” Webbe said. “He told me you were beautiful, which you are, but he didn’t tell me you hang folks.”
Kate smiled. “Ah, the captain sees only the good in people, bless him.”
“It wasn’t him who kidnapped me from the building site. It was another set of villains, led by a blackguard his men called Coot Lawson. This Lawson rogue sold me to Delaney for fifty dollars and two jugs of Jamaica rum.”
“That is doubly distressing,” Kate said. “Selling a white man like a slave at auction is beyond barbaric. How much did Lawson charge for the columns?”
“Nothing. As far as I know. Lawson and Delaney are friends, sailed together before the mast on some pirate scow back before the war.”
Kate decided to tread carefully, half-fearing what Webbe might have to say. She asked the question anyway. “Where were you building the house and for whom?”
“Where? Southeast of here on the Trinity. For whom? A gentlemen by the name of Lester Moorhead. He plans to use the house as a winter retreat away from the ice and snow of
Vermont.”
Kate smiled. “Ah, so he’s a carpetbagger.”
“What you Texans would call a Yankee, I suppose.”
“No, Mr. Webbe, we never use the word Yankee to describe a northerner,” Kate said. “We always put the word damned in front of it.” She moved to the tent flap. “I’m so relieved it wasn’t Texans building the house. Of course, I’ll reimburse the owner for the columns. You’ll enjoy working here, Mr. Webbe and I’ll pay top wages once the columns are erected to my satisfaction on either side of my front door.”
“Mrs. Kerrigan, I have no intention of working for you,” Webbe said. “And I insist that you and your pirates release me instanter.”
“That’s not a very helpful attitude,” Kate said, frowning.
“I’m not trying to be helpful.”
Kate opened the tent flap. “Frank, could you step inside for a moment and shoot Mr. Webbe through the heart?”
“Here, that won’t do.” Webbe looked at Kate like a man with a toothache eyes a demented dentist. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Kate smiled. “Please forgive our little Texas ways. We do tend to shoot stubborn stonemasons out of hand.” She placed her forefinger in the center of Webbe’s chest. “Right there, I think, Frank. Do you wish me to take my finger away?”
“No, Kate, I can shoot around it.” Frank raised his Colt.
“No! No! Stop!” Webbe said. “You’re all mad. I’ll build the columns.”
“Are you sure, Mr. Webbe?” Kate said. “I don’t wish to cause you any inconvenience.”
“It’s no inconvenience.” To underscore the point, “No inconvenience at all.”
“You’re such a dear,” Kate said. “Now go talk with Captain Delaney and he’ll put you to work. Frank, you may put your revolver away. You’ve made poor Mr. Webbe come over all pale.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Trace Kerrigan and Hank Lowery rode into the KK Ranch under a Comanche moon that bathed everything in mother-of-pearl light and deepened the shadows to an intense, cobalt blue.
Usually Trace was one of those bolt-upright riders who look as though they’ve an iron poker for a backbone, but that night he was bent over in the saddle supporting the slumped Lowery, and his hands were covered in blood.
“He’s hurt bad,” Trace said to Moses Rice, who a moment earlier had been one with the darkness.
“What happened?” Moses said.
“He got shot. Rifle shot.”
“We’ll get him into the cabin.”
“Moses, what’s going on?” Kate emerged from the gloom, dressing gown hurriedly tied around her waist. She carried a short-barreled Colt and the question on her face.
“Mr. Lowery got shot, Miz Kerrigan.”
Frank appeared from the bunkhouse, pulling his suspenders over his vest, and asked the immediate question of a man schooled in the ways of gun wars. “Trace, who did it?”
“A fellow named Dobbs,” the young man said. He and Moses helped the unconscious man out of the saddle. “Hank was shot after he tried to save an Indian woman.”
“Gently now, inside with him,” Kate said.
“The bunkhouse?” Frank said.
“You’ll do no such thing. Bring him into the cabin.”
Kate’s daughters Ivy and Shannon, pale in the moonlight, moved aside from their position at the doorway as Lowery was carried inside.
Quinn had left the bunkhouse and said to Frank, “What happened?”
“Lowery got himself shot. That’s all I know.”
“Is he badly hurt?”
“You’re standing on his blood. What does that tell you?”
Quinn leaped aside. “Damn!”
“Man bleeds like that, he’s been hit hard.”
* * *
“The bullet went right through him,” Kate said.
Jazmin Salas stood with her. “Is that a good thing?”
“Good and bad. It means I don’t have to dig for the bullet, but it means he’s got two wounds instead of one.” Kate looked up as Frank and Quinn stepped inside. “Frank, the bullet entered Hank’s back just under his left shoulder blade and came out through his shirt pocket.”
“He can’t survive such a wound, Kate,” Frank said. “All you can do is make him comfortable. He’ll die soon.”
“No. That is unthinkable,” Kate said. “Hank will not die because I won’t allow him to die. Quick, help me get his shirt off. We have work to do.”
“Ma, do you want to know what happened?” Trace said.
“Once I save Hank’s life you can tell me. Now move the lamp closer. Jazmin, tear up my most worn tablecloth for rags and then wash them well with carbolic soap. And before you do that I’ll need my sewing scissors. Trace, Quinn, you and the girls find a quiet place and say a rosary to Saint Fiacre of Breuil that he may ask the Blessed Virgin to assist my healing endeavors. Saint Fiacre was an Irishman born in County Kilkenny, so he will not turn a deaf ear to our prayers.”
To Frank’s considerable distress, Kate ordered Moses to bring the jug of the best Irish whiskey and then help Frank raise Lowery’s upper body. Using a US Navy pocket surgical kit supplied by a concerned Barrie Delaney, whose massive presence, even wearing his blue coat over his nightgown, seemed to fill the entire cabin, Kate snipped away damaged tissue from the entry and exit wounds and then probed for and removed any foreign material, such as bone fragments, pieces of clothing, or dirt. By its very nature, this operation had to be thorough, and it took all of thirty minutes before she was satisfied that there was no more debris in the wounds. Lowery had groaned a few times as the pain of the probe lanced into his comatose brain, but he was now silent, his head lolling on his shoulders as Frank and Moses held him upright.
Kate picked up the whiskey jug. On its side, written around its entire circumference, were the words, Jas. Connell & Sons Irish Whisky ∼ The Best in Ireland By Far.
Black Barrie Delaney cast an anxious eye on the jug. “And what will you do with that fine grog, Kate me darlin’?”
“I’ll pour it on Hank’s wounds to stop any possible infection.” Her forehead was beaded with sweat, the strain and the heat of the cabin taking its toll.
“Ah, then maybe just a little will do it,” Delaney said. “Is that not so, Mr. Cobb?”
Frank nodded. “I would guess so, Captain.”
Kate ignored them both and poured the amber liquid liberally into Lowery’s wounds. The jug made a glug-glug-glug sound as its contents rapidly diminished. “Now, Jazmin, bring the bandages, both the washed ones and some dry.”
Kate passed the jug to Delaney, who quickly gauged the lack of liquid within and looked crestfallen. He tilted his head back and held the neck of the jug above his mouth. A single fat drop teetered on the rim for a few seconds and then fell. A miss. Sadly, Delaney wiped the bead of whiskey off his mustache.
After Kate bandaged Lowery, she said, “Now we’d better get him in bed.”
“Trace and me will carry him to the bunkhouse,” Frank said.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Kate said. “This man was at death’s door until I saved him. Hank will rest in my bed.”
Delaney winked at Frank. “Hey, Cobb, want to shoot me where it don’t hurt too much?”
“And I will sleep with the girls,” Kate said, slowly and with great emphasis. “Captain Delaney, if you knew that every time a Catholic has an impure thought Our Lady hides her face for shame, would you be as quick to say what you just did?”
“Ah, no, Kate, I wouldn’t. It is a poor sinner that I am, and the Blessed Virgin has shed many a salt tear over me.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Kate said. “Now you men help me get Hank into my bed. And Barrie Delaney, don’t you say another word.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“The hour is late, but Trace must now tell us what happened and why Hank was shot. Captain Delaney, it’s so kind of you to stay.”
“My villainy has few limits, Kate, but when it comes to you I’ll fight at your
side, aye, even unto death,” Delaney said.
With a teenager’s forthrightness, Quinn said, “Why, Captain? You hardly know us.”
“Hardly know, yes, that is right. But heard? Ah, I’ve heard much. Talk of a beautiful, flame-haired Irish lass who’s building a cattle empire out of a wilderness and whose dear husband was killed in battle at Shiloh, leaving her young children orphans. That’s why me and my lads came to this place, to see this lovely wonder of womanhood for ourselves ... and to offer my hand in marriage.”
“To who?” Quinn said.
“To whom?” Kate corrected.
“To you, dear Kate,” Delaney said. “It is to you and to no other that I wish to pledge my troth.”
Kate was flustered and Frank hid a grin behind his coffee cup.
“Captain Delaney, now is not the time to talk of such things,” she said finally. “Trace, please relate the happenings of yesterday and let us know the whereabouts of the cholera wagons.”
“What does ‘pledge my troth’ mean, Ma?” Shannon said. Her seven-year-old eyes round as coins were fixed on Delaney.
“I’ll tell you later,” Kate said. “We have much more urgent matters to discuss. Trace, you have the floor.”
“The wagons are a day’s ride to the west of us. Hank and me drew rein a fair piece away and I studied them through the brass telescope that Captain Delaney was kind enough to loan me.”
“Did you hear that, Kate? Kind. Aye, Barrie Delaney is as kind as ever was and he’ll be a kind and considerate husband, lay to that.”
“Please, Captain Delaney, let Trace speak. You studied the wagons though a telescope and what did you discover?”
“I counted thirteen wagons drawn into a circle. They had fires going, so there are folks still alive. But one wagon was drawn off a ways by itself, maybe a quarter mile, and a man stood guard with a rifle while another sat by the fire and drank coffee.”
“Did anyone see you?” Frank said. “Somebody that considered you a threat?”
“I don’t think so, at least not then,” Trace said. “It’s rocky, broken country out that way, pretty flat, but we were hidden by some scrub oak. At least I thought we were. Then we saw the murder and that’s the reason Hank got shot.”
Journey into Violence Page 15