by P McCormac
The Legend of Keane O’Leary
When outlaw chief Keane O’Leary decides it’s time to retire from a life of banditry, he is unaware he is about to unleash a bloody sequence of events that will make his past misdeeds seem like a hillbilly shindig. His three daughters are the inheritors of his empire of crime, and hell hath no fury like a woman who covets her sisters’ inheritance.
Brothers Alward and Monday Gallagher are caught up in the vicious infighting unleashed by the retirement of the bandit chief and the consequent rivalry of the sisters, and have to wade through blood and bullets as mayhem ensues. The arena soon becomes littered with the dead and dying as the fateful sequence of events play out right up to the blood-spattered finale.
By the same author
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Writing as Elliot James
Hot Spur
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Carson’s Revenge
The Legend of Keane O’Leary
P. McCormac
ROBERT HALE
© P. McCormac 2018
First published in Great Britain 2018
ISBN 978-0-7198-2848-5
The Crowood Press
The Stable Block
Crowood Lane
Ramsbury
Marlborough
Wiltshire SN8 2HR
www.bhwesterns.com
Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press
The right of P. McCormac to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him
in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
CHAPTER 1
Gallagher was seated in one corner of the saloon at a green baize table. This was where he normally conducted his business. Any outlaw wanting to operate within his domain did so only on paying a cut of his proceeds to the saloon owner. It was from here he bought stolen goods and sometimes financed forthcoming crooked deals. Gallagher raised his greying head when he heard the batwings swing open. From habit he touched the butt of the Navy Colt clipped to the underside of the table.
Three men slouched inside. Their sharp eyes searched the room like animals sizing up unfamiliar terrain. It was early in the day and there were not many customers in the saloon. A solitary bartender worked behind the bar, sorting bottles and glasses. Spotting Gallagher, the three men sauntered across towards him. From under lowered brows Gallagher sized up the trio.
That they were down on their luck was evident from their tattered clothing. All three were unshaven. Gallagher guessed they wouldn’t have washed in a long time either. In spite of their down-at-heel appearance all three wore holstered pistols that looked well cared for. An uneasy feeling was growing in the saloon boss as the trio approached.
‘You Gallagher?’
‘Yep.’
The speaker, tall and thin with drooping moustache, hooked a saddle bag from his shoulder and dumped it on the table in front of Gallagher.
‘Wore tole you might be interested in buying some quality goods.’
‘Mebby. What you got?’
The man reached over and undid the strap of one wallet and emptied the contents onto the green baize. A collection of cheap jewellery and silverware tumbled onto the table.
Gallagher had seen such assortments before. These men were trash, preying on poor families travelling towards the gold fields of the West Coast. The paltry baubles lying on the table were tokens of misery. They were the gleanings of numerous hold-ups. In some cases there was blood on the booty. For men reduced to petty theft, making the shift to murder was just a step further down the slippery road to perdition.
‘Five dollars,’ Gallagher said.
The outlaws took a moment to digest this.
‘Yore joshing, man. There’s at least fifty dollars’ worth there.’
‘Not from where I’m sitting.’
‘You thieving son of a bitch. There’s three of us to divvy up. How about thirty?’
Gallagher sat relaxed but watchful. He was the town boss and founder of California Crossing – a motley collection of shacks and false-fronted buildings well removed from any civilized habitation.
California Crossing specialized in catering for the lawless breed. Bandits, cutthroats, rustlers, bank robbers and holdup men could find a haven among its brothels and saloons. Rustlers found a ready market for the beeves they stole. All brought their stolen wares and bartered for dollars, goods or drink or services.
No lawman would risk his life to take in the sights and sounds of California Crossing. For the law to brace the town would take an army of deputies and so far, that option had never been seriously considered by the law enforcement officers who operated within the vicinity of the outlaw town.
Gallagher raised his eyes and stared coldly at the men in front of him. He was aware the goods lying on the table were worth much more than the sum he offered. He was also aware of the unhappiness these men wreaked on impoverished travellers struggling to reach the promised gold diggings of California.
‘Five, fellas, take it or leave it. I got cupboards bulging with this junk.’
‘Son of a bitch, that’s daylight robbery.’ The words were spoken without any hint of irony. ‘Fifteen. You know we’ll spend it here anyways.’
Gallagher stared implacably back at the mean eyes glaring down at him.
‘Can’t do it, fella. I gotta living to make. Five’s my best offer.’
Gallagher could see the signs – could see the anger and frustration building. He fumbled in a small drawer beneath the table and extracted a five-dollar bill. When he placed the note on the table his other hand remained out of sight. The spokesman for the trio stared at the money, nervously licking his lips.
‘Come on. Yew can do better than that. I’ll take fifteen. That’s five each.’ He turned to his companions. ‘Hey, fellas? That’ll do us, eh?’
The signal must have been passed then. All three palmed guns. The hidden Colt sent a slug into number one’s leg. The heavy bullet broke his thigh and sent him stumbling and cursing back into his companions. As Gallagher unclipped the gun and was bringing it up to fire at the remaining triggermen there came an explosion from the direction of the bar. Lead shot flailed the gunmen. They yelled curses and although one got off a shot, it went somewhere into the ceiling.
Gallagher fired steadily at the two desperados. They staggered under the impact of the bullets – blood pumping from chest and belly wounds.
Gallagher’s weapon clicked on empty and he fished around inside his jacket for the Colt in his shoulder holster. With the fresh gun in his hand he hesitated, watching cautiously. But the gunmen were on the floor, clutching ineffectually at blood spilling from the bullet holes stitched int
o their bodies. Gradually, as he watched, all movement ceased as the men succumbed to their wounds.
Slowly the saloon owner stood and walked around the table. The man who had been negotiating the sale lay in the sawdust, both hands clamped around his thigh, his pants leg soaked in dark blood.
‘Son of a bitch, why’d the hell yew shoot? We woulda took the five.’
‘Monday, get some help and get this scum across to the sawbones.’
The barkeep, a swarthy skinned youngster, came around the counter, still carrying the shotgun.
‘Will I need this?’ he asked.
‘Nah. I guess we pulled their sting. Thanks, son. That was good work with the Greener.’
Gallagher turned back to the table and scooped the trinkets back into the saddle bag and handed it to the bartender.
‘Take this with you. Tell Doc it’s for patching up this scum. I’ll keep bar until you come back.’
Recruiting help from among their patrons, the young barkeep gradually cleared the saloon of the dead and wounded. Muttering under his breath, Gallagher went behind the bar and poured a glass of bourbon. Gunplay always upset him and it would take a while for him to settle back into his normal routine.
Moodily he sipped at the drink, staring into space. The batwings creaked and drew his attention. He watched wryly as the hairiest human he had ever seen barrelled inside. With a sweeping glance, the newcomer took in the almost empty saloon then walked over to the bar. He rested both hands on the top and affected to read the bottles lining the shelves behind Gallagher’s head.
Tangled iron-grey hair hung to below the man’s shoulders. An equally unkempt beard sprouted from his face and hung to mid-chest. To enhance the hairy effect the man wore animal skins. A coonskin cap complete with tail perched atop his head. The sleeveless sheepskin jacket had seen better days and appeared to be moulting.
‘Howdy, stranger,’ Gallagher said, ‘can I get you anything?’
‘I’m looking for a drink that’ll quench my thirst and still leave my tonsils in place.’
‘Red Nugget whiskey should do the trick,’ Gallagher said breezily. ‘Smoothest drink this side of the Rockies.’
He plucked a bottle from a shelf and poured a measure into a glass.
‘Try that.’
The newcomer put the drink to a gap in the beard and slurped noisily. When he put the empty glass down he sucked at the hair around his mouth then expelled his breath in a fierce gust.
‘Umm. . . I’ve drunk mule’s piss and it tasted better’n that poison,’ he said speculatively. ‘Better try another just to make sure it is whiskey and not piss.’
Gallagher’s hand tightened on the whiskey bottle.
‘Mister, if you don’t like our drinks you can always try somewhere else.’
‘I was told when I got to California Crossing to make sure and call in and sample Gallagher’s hospitality. I surely don’t like your attitude. You go and get Gallagher down here. I want to make a complaint.’
‘You son of a bitch, I am Gallagher. You can have that first drink on the house. Now turn around and go crawl into whatever rat hole you crawled outta.’
Any further conversation was interrupted by the return of Monday. The barkeep came behind the bar.
‘OK, Pa. I can take over now,’ the youngster said and then seeing the tension in Gallagher’s face, glanced shrewdly at the bearded man. ‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine, son. This fella is just leaving.’
The stranger eyed up the barkeep. Monday was a handsome youth with a narrow face. The nose was long and straight above a slightly petulant mouth. The eyes were deep-set and there was a hint of arrogance quickly hidden when he saw the bearded man scrutinizing him.
‘Sure, Pa,’ the youth said, and awaited developments.
A broad grin split the bearded face of the stranger.
‘Gallagher, you’re sure one mean old galoot. What way’s that to greet an old friend?’
Gallagher’s eyes narrowed and he peered closely at the stranger.
‘Old friend? I sure didn’t know I had a monkey for a friend.’
‘Monkey, my ass – Marcus Cogan, you old coot. You remember me – Marcus Cogan from the old days.’
‘Well, I’ll fart in a ten gallon hat. Marcus Cogan! You had me going then for a moment. Marcus Cogan! I was about to chuck you out in the street.’ Gallagher slapped the bar. ‘I’ll be danged.’ He poured from the bottle. ‘Here, have another shot of piss.’
The whiskey disappeared into the hairy mouth. Cogan smacked his lips.
‘Just kidding about the whiskey,’ he said. ‘It is good stuff.’ The hairy head nodded towards the barkeep. ‘Did I hear right – he call you Pa?’
‘Yeah, he’s mine all right,’ Gallagher replied. ‘My very own kith and kin.’
‘I didn’t know you married a squaw.’
‘Married! Hell, no. She was a whore as I took a fancy to. Right handsome female she was too. We had good times together afore she upped and went back to her people. Left me with Monday here. Called him that on account he was born on a Monday.
‘Nah, I was married to a respectable gal – a preacher’s daughter from Kansas. She gave me a right proper legit son, afore she went and died of fever. Alward’s his name. He looks after the practical end of the business – warehousing, supplies, keeping the accounts and all that. Anyway, what brings you here to this neck of the woods?’
‘O’Leary sent me.’
Gallagher placed his hands on the bar top and stared earnestly at Cogan.
‘Keane O’Leary,’ he said slowly. ‘How is that old reprobate?’
‘He’s doing OK. Wants to throw a jamboree and he wants you to organize it.’
CHAPTER 2
Gallagher ran two saloons, a dance hall and a couple of brothels. He decided the dance hall would be best suited to O’Leary’s needs. In preparation for the function, he posted a notice cancelling Saturday night’s fandango. This caused a bit of a stir among the dance hall patrons but the saloon owner ignored the protests and got on with the more important job of making sure O’Leary’s function was a success.
‘How many guests has O’Leary in mind?’ he enquired of Cogan.
‘Humph! You know Keane. He’s liable to ask everyone he knows. My guess is about a hundred. You’d better lay in food and drink for that many at least.’ The scout tossed a bag of gold dust at the town boss. ‘O’Leary sent that as a down payment.’
Gallagher’s two sons sat in on these discussions. Alward was delegated to organize the decoration of the hall as well as the entertainment. Monday got the task of stocking and running the bar and providing grub.
‘O’Leary’s developed a hankering after wine,’ the bearded Cogan informed Monday. ‘Better lay in plenty. Everyone’ll want to drink what he drinks.’
Keane O’Leary was renowned in California Crossing. He was rather more infamous amongst the mine owners of the Californian gold fields. The notorious bandit had created a climate of fear amongst the bankers and gold merchants. Somehow he seemed to know just when gold was being moved around. Shipments of bullion attracted O’Leary like a buzzard to a dead body. His raids were well planned and he hit only the large consignments.
After each successful attack he disappeared without trace until the next raid. His whereabouts during these lulls was a mystery. That his hideouts were effective was evident by the inability of the law to track him down and bring him to justice.
As soon as news of the coming celebrations leaked, and that O’Leary was coming to California Crossing, the citizens decided they were being honoured by the visit of such an eminent personage, albeit an outlaw and killer. Subsequently a delegation approached Gallagher and suggested a civic reception.
‘Goddamn it,’ Gallagher protested, ‘it’s a private function and only his friends are invited.’
‘We just want to decorate the town some and have a holiday when he comes. He can’t object to that. Goddamn it, we want to honour the Bandit
King of the Californian Gold Fields.’
‘All right, all right.’ Gallagher threw up his hands in surrender. ‘Do as you see fit.’
Keane O’Leary rode into California Crossing on a big sturdy roan. Ten of his men had ridden in earlier to make sure the town was safe pending his visit. O’Leary never left anything to chance. An outlaw town would attract bounty hunters on the lookout to make some reward money by roping in a man wanted by the law. The price on O’Leary’s head was enough to set up a man for life.
Flags and bits of coloured cloth had been hung out in honour of his visit. The inhabitants of California Crossing lined the sidewalks and called out greetings as the famous bandit chief entered the town. O’Leary ignored the crowds, staring straight ahead as he rode in with his entourage.
O’Leary was a lean built man. His face was the colour and texture of dried rawhide. Deep lines of encroaching age were etched into his hard face. His mouth was a straight slash – the lips barely discernible in the texture of his weather-beaten skin. Cold narrow eyes stared out beneath sparse, grey eyebrows.
His daughters rode behind him. If the populace were anxious to view the king they were doubly eager to see the daughters of the king – the youngest was Catlin, the eldest Gertrude and the middle daughter, Rachel.
Around O’Leary rode a bunch of hard-eyed gunmen. It was said the bandit leader never travelled anywhere without a bodyguard of at least ten men. Counting the men already in the town and the main body of riders now riding in, Cogan’s estimate of one hundred guests was not far off the mark. They rode straight to the dance hall where Gallagher waited to greet him.
‘Dang my hide, Gallagher, you’re getting nearly as old as myself.’
The two men shook hands warmly. They were old friends. Gallagher had been one of the original members of O’Leary’s gang before branching out on his own. The old-timers knew and trusted each other.