Legend of Keane O'Leary

by P McCormac

  ‘Let’s get this party rolling,’ O’Leary said. ‘I’m dry as a buffalo chip.’

  While O’Leary pushed inside, Gallagher courteously waited to greet the O’Leary females. The only one of the three that acknowledged him was Catlin. She smiled and kissed him briefly on the cheek.

  ‘How are you, Gallagher?’ she asked him. ‘You never look any different no matter how long it is between seeing you.’

  ‘Miss Catlin, I was born looking like this.’

  ‘God help your poor old ma if that was true.’

  Her sisters ignored their host, striking a haughty pose of boredom and indifference, staring pointedly at the doors of the dance hall. Quickly Gallagher escorted them inside. The hall was rapidly filling with excited men and women. Gallagher hurried to the bandstand and yelled for attention.

  ‘California Crossing welcomes old friends.’

  A cheer broke out at this and he had a job calming the crowd enough to be heard.

  ‘Today we are honoured to have as our guest the famous and most successful gold miner California has ever known.’

  There were hoots of laughter from the floor and again Gallagher had to wait for calm before continuing.

  ‘Mr O’Leary has paid for today’s shenanigans. A big cheer for his generosity.’

  Again a bedlam of hooting, stamping of boots and cheers in the hall.

  ‘There’s plenty of food and drink – whiskey, beer and wine,’ Gallagher went on when the noise subsided somewhat. ‘Should be enough to satisfy the most pernickety amongst you. As my contribution, I’ve put barrels of water for you to dunk your heads in if you feel the need.’ This last jest got him another chorus of guffaws and hoots. ‘Just eat and drink and have a good time,’ he yelled into the ensuing commotion.

  Whatever else he wanted to say was superfluous, as the crowd lost no time in charging rowdily to the bar. At a signal from Gallagher, the fiddlers and harmonica players struck up a lively tune. Soon the hall was abuzz with music, talk, laughter and tobacco smoke.

  When the celebrations were well under way, the old outlaw, in whose honour the party was being held, sauntered up to the band. The music ceased as he motioned to them. Looking towards the bandstand, the mob of boisterous revellers saw what was happening and the noise fell away. All heads turned expectantly towards the gang boss waiting patiently for the crowd to quiet.

  ‘Most of you are wondering what this celebration is all about,’ O’Leary began. ‘Well, it’s a goodbye party.’

  There was some murmuring in the crowd but no one interrupted.

  ‘As you know I’m getting old – too old for the kinda life I bin leading for the past . . . hell, I’ve lost count of the years. Anyhow, it’s time to hang up my spurs and let the young ’uns take over.’

  ‘No way, Keane. You’re still top dog,’ someone shouted.

  ‘Yore a mite too young to hang up your spurs yet, Keane.’

  ‘There’s life in the old dog yet.’

  A murmur of similar sentiments rippled around the hall. O’Leary held up his hands and the crowd quietened again.

  ‘No, I’ve made my decision. I’m gonna put up my feet and take it easy from now on.’ He had to quieten the few more shouts from the floor. ‘However, I don’t think the bankers can breathe a sigh of relief just yet. Things will carry on as before. Mostly ’cause I have children to carry on the family tradition – my three lovely daughters, Gertrude, Rachel and Catlin.’

  Cheering broke out as O’Leary motioned his daughters forward.

  ‘I coulda done with having a son but the Good Lord decided in his wisdom to bless me with three gals. I don’t know what the hell he was thinking but what the hell, a man’s gotta play the hand he’s dealt in this life.

  ‘Whatever, now that I’m stepping down I intend to split my territory amongst my daughters. I have three fine daughters and each will have a third of an area in which there are rich pickings.’ O’Leary smiled benignly at his three offspring. ‘What say you, Gertrude? How does this set with you?’

  ‘Father, you are the best of men – a veritable lion. I’ll be hard put to live up to your reputation.’

  Gertrude had long black hair hanging to well below her shoulders. She favoured black leather clothing. Leather trews strained to contain her lower body. She wore a leather vest studded with silver. A tooled, black leather gun belt and Colt straddled generous hips. Her face was brooding with full sensual lips.

  ‘To you, Gertrude, goes the southern part of our territory. And Rachel, my second daughter – to you goes the northern third. What do you say to that?’

  Rachel stepped forward. In contrast to her sister she was flaxen-haired. She had the face of a cherub but there was a hardness to her eyes that she mostly hid from the world. She wore animal skins but favoured light coloured furs that matched her blonde locks. A cigarette dangled from her mouth as she spoke.

  ‘No one could have had a better father than you. As my sister says, you are a lion among men. The name O’Leary will live on through your children.’

  ‘Catlin.’ The eyes softened as the old man looked at his youngest. ‘For you the middle territory – the richest pickings of the whole region. What say you to that?’

  Her broad handsome face was unsmiling as she stood before him. Like her sisters she too was armed, favouring a .44 thrust into the waistband of her denims.

  ‘Nothing, Father. I want nothing.’

  The old man looked slightly bemused.

  ‘Nothing, come, come,’ O’Leary said, a frown forming on his face. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’

  ‘Pa, I want to live my own life. I’m tired of living on the run. I want to live a normal life and not have to pack up and vamoose every time the law comes hunting us. Frank has asked me to go with him. We want to buy a horse ranch over in Nevada. All we ask is a stake. We’ll need money to buy in stock.’

  A silence fell across the hall. The only sounds the shuffling of boots on the boards.

  ‘Catlin, of all my daughters you are most precious. Now think carefully. The middle region yields the most lucrative pickings. It’s all yours along with the men to operate it. I have divided the territory in three. To you will go the best section. What say you to your old pa? Make an old man happy in the sunset of his life and reconsider.’

  ‘Pa, I have considered long and hard. I want a life away from killing and thievery. Can’t you understand that?’

  The leathery face lost some of its colour. O’Leary’s mouth twitched.

  ‘Ungrateful child!’ he hissed. ‘Have I reared an unnatural brat in my household? You are an imp from the nether regions. For this insult to my legacy I disown you. From now on I have but two daughters. Get out of my sight! I never want to see you ever again.’

  The blazing eyes suddenly focused on the tall, good-looking young man standing with his daughter.

  ‘Frank!’

  The name was spit out like a curse. A gun appeared in the old man’s hand.

  ‘No!’ Catlin flung herself between her father and Frank. ‘Pa, no!’

  The Colt trembled in O’Leary’s hand as his anger grew. Suddenly a shabby hirsute figure pushed forward to stand before O’Leary.

  ‘For God’s sake, Keane, this is your daughter! Put the gun up. This is no cause for gunplay.’

  The fury of the bandit chief was transferred to the speaker.

  ‘Cogan, get outta my way. This is my family and I’ll settle my own disputes.’

  ‘No, Keane, I’ll not stand by and let this happen. No way can this be settled by a shooting spree.’

  ‘You intend to brace me, Cogan? You want to go out in the street and face me – man to man – gun against gun?’

  ‘Keane, you know I’d go to hell and back for you. But this is madness. Your own daughter! Give her what she asks. You can afford to stake her and her man. They deserve better than this.’

  ‘Nothing, nothing! I’ll give them nothing!’ The old man was almost spitting out the words. ‘I have no daughte
r to give to. Get outta my sight. All of you! And you, Cogan – if you’re here come sundown, I’m coming gunning for you.’

  CHAPTER 3

  The pasteboards flicked out across the green baize. Monday Gallagher sat in his father’s chair. The saloon was empty for it was late at night and the bar closed. Monday dealt poker hands and played against non-existent opponents. This was when he thought best – playing cards by himself, late at night. He was mulling over the happenings of the previous few days.

  ‘My father calls me bastard and wishes I was other than half-breed. I think even a white bastard might have been more agreeable to him. But bastard! What did I do to deserve the name, bastard?’

  He dealt two cards and contemplated his new hand.

  ‘At O’Leary’s jamboree, while I tended bar, my brother mixed with the guests. Am I not good enough to mix with my father’s friends? I must be kept out of the way of decent folk. Huh! Decent folk! O’Leary and his gang are bandits and killers, but I’m not good enough even to mix with those one-percenters.’

  Pushing back his chair, Monday drew a knife and thoughtfully tapped the blade against the edge of the table.

  ‘If I cut myself, my blood is red just like my brother’s. I have two things against me. My father lay with my mother but would not marry her. That makes me a bastard. My mother was a squaw. That makes me a half-caste. Two things I have to overcome. In order to prosper, I must go away from here, which might bode an uncertain future.’

  With a quick movement Monday flung the knife. It embedded in one of the wooden support columns.

  ‘Or, I must rid myself of my family.’

  Monday spread out the cards on the table.

  ‘Flush beats a pair. My brother plays away from home tonight. I may make some gain from that.’

  The youngster reached out and picked up the lantern from the table, retrieved the knife and slowly walked from the room.

  Gallagher stood on the balcony overlooking the main street of California Crossing. He fiddled with a lighted cigar and stared out into the night sky. The town was quiet, for it was very late. Most of the drunks had gone home or were sleeping off their excesses in darkened alleys.

  ‘Goddamn world’s gone crazy. O’Leary gunning for Cogan. Catlin kicked outta the family. Is O’Leary mad?’ The saloon owner shook his head in despair. ‘It’s a sad world when a father turns against his daughter. I’m glad I don’t have daughters to make me mad. I have two fine sons to take care of me in my old age. But O’Leary. . . .’

  The saloon owner leaned over to flick cigar ash into the street. As he did so a shot caromed from the alleyway, the muzzle flash lighting up the night’s gloom. The bullet plucked at the shoulder of his jacket.

  Gallagher’s reactions were swift and he dropped to the floor and rolled back against the rear wall. He snatched his gun from the shoulder holster and lay there listening intently. He could hear nothing of any significance. Slowly he crawled to the corner of the balcony. Cautiously he raised his head and peered down towards the mouth of the alleyway from where the gunshot had come. He could see and hear nothing.

  ‘Goddamn, dry-gulching son of a bitch,’ he muttered and wriggled back towards the doorway.

  Once inside he ran swiftly through and down the stairs. As he reached the bottom a figure appeared in the hallway.

  ‘Stand fast or I’ll shoot,’ a voice challenged him.

  ‘Monday, is that you?’

  ‘Pa, what’s going on? I heard a shot.’

  ‘Someone’s took a pot-shot at me from the alleyway. I’m going out back.’

  ‘Jeez, Pa, let me get a light.’

  ‘No time,’ Gallagher flung back as he headed for the door.

  The saloon owner poked his gun outside and peered from the doorway. In the faint moonlight he could distinguish nothing. Cautiously he stepped outside. He could hear the clatter of Monday somewhere inside as he hunted for a lantern.

  Slowly he edged towards the corner of the building. Light suddenly spilled out behind him. Gallagher was about to call out a warning to the youngster when he thought better of it. The shooter would in all probability by now have made his escape.

  ‘Pa.’

  Monday moved up beside him, a lighted lantern in one hand and a revolver in the other.

  ‘See anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Nah,’ the older man replied. ‘I guess he’s long gone.’

  Gallagher stared around the darkened alley. Monday moved into the opening, his lantern held high.

  ‘For chris’sake, Monday, careful. The son of a bitch may still be out there.’

  But his son was shuffling on into the alleyway. In spite of his misgivings Gallagher followed. They walked the full length of the alley, Monday holding the lantern aloft.

  ‘No sign of anybody, Pa.’

  They peered out into the main thoroughfare. Nothing moved in the silence of the sleeping town. The single shot had not disturbed anyone sufficiently to stir them to investigate.

  ‘Who the hell would try to kill you, Pa?’

  Monday turned and looked earnestly at his father.

  ‘Beats me, son. I’ve made enough enemies in the past, though nothing recent comes to mind.’

  Gallagher was shaking his head but still watching the shadows. He holstered his gun.

  ‘Guess we might as well turn in. Ain’t nothing to see out here.’

  As they moved back down the side of the building, Monday gave a grunt and stopped.

  ‘What is it?’ Gallagher hissed, his nerves still taut.

  ‘Just kicked agin’ something.’

  The lantern was lowered. A knife was lying on the ground, its blade shining in the light from the oil lamp. Gallagher grunted as he bent to retrieve it. Monday held the lamp close as they examined the knife.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’

  ‘What is it, Pa?’

  Gallagher proffered the weapon to his son.

  ‘You recognize this?’ he asked.

  Monday held the lantern higher and peered at the weapon.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That’s Alward’s favourite knife. He never goes anywhere without that. He’ll be real pleased we found it for him.’

  There was silence as the older man turned the blade over and over in his hands.

  ‘Does this suggest anything to you, Monday?’

  ‘What do you mean, Pa? It’s just Alward’s knife is all.’

  Gallagher was still turning the knife over and over in his hands.

  ‘What’s it doing in the alleyway?’ he asked.

  The lantern moved as the half-breed shrugged.

  ‘He musta dropped it, is all. Mite careless of him.’

  ‘You ever hear your brother say anything agin’ me?’

  ‘Nah, just the usual grumbles. Did brace me the other night after that O’Leary shindig. Wondered if you were thinking of retiring and letting him take over the running of things. But then he’s always bitching on about that. I told him you had plenty of good years left in you yet.’

  Gallagher could sense his son peering closely at him.

  ‘You . . . you ain’t thinking of retiring are you, Pa? I . . . I told him right, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yeah, son,’ Gallagher said tightly. ‘You told him right. Where is he now?’ he asked as casually as he could.

  ‘He said as he was going out riding,’ Monday answered. ‘Said as he wanted to sort things out in his mind. Don’t think he’s back yet.’

  ‘Listen, son, don’t say a word about this shooting. I’ll hang on to the knife for now.’ Gallagher tucked the knife into his pocket. ‘And Monday, try and find out where Alward was tonight. Someone shot at me and I aim to find out who that son of a bitch was.’

  Monday was turning to go when he stopped suddenly. Slowly he turned back, the lantern held high.

  ‘Pa, you ain’t thinking what I think you’re thinking? No, no.’ Monday was shaking his head. ‘No way, Pa.’

  Gallagher grabbed his son by the shirt front and pushed
him up against the side of the building.

  ‘Listen,’ he hissed, ‘someone took a shot at me tonight. I ain’t ruling out nothing. Now if you know something about your brother, you spill it out now.’

  ‘Jeez, Pa. I don’t know what you’re on about,’ Monday whined. ‘Alward and I, we ain’t that close but . . . but. . . .’

  Monday fell silent.

  ‘But what?’ Gallagher grated out. ‘But what?’

  ‘Nothing, Pa. Honest, I don’t know nothing.’

  Slowly Gallagher released his grip.

  ‘Come on,’ he growled. ‘It’s getting late. Let’s get to bed. It’ll be daylight afore we know it.’

  The men disappeared inside the saloon, taking their lantern with them, leaving the alley in darkness.

  CHAPTER 4

  The mule had a serene look about it that belied its nature. Cogan was not to know that. Having ridden horses most of his life, he knew nothing about mules. He had needed a mount and in his reduced circumstances, the mule was all he could afford. The stable hand that sold it to him lauded the animal’s ability to go for days without food or water.

  ‘That beast saved my life once. I was stranded out in the Sierras. Apaches had raided and taken everything. All I had ’tween me and survival was that there mule. She took me outta that wilderness. Wouldn’t be here today to tell the story but for that there old gal.’

  It hadn’t occurred to Cogan to query why the ostler was willing to part with such a valuable beast at the knockdown price he was asking. He had paid the few dollars from his dwindling resources, purchased a dilapidated saddle and prepared to ride out.

  The Cogan that negotiated the purchase of the mule was unrecognizable as the same man who had argued with O’Leary over his treatment of his youngest daughter. Gone were the masses of hair from face and head. A smooth-faced man now looked out at the world. Baggy overalls and plaid shirt had replaced the skins that had been his trademark ever since he had earned his living as a trapper.

  Cogan’s first inkling that he may have been hoodwinked over the properties of the mule came when he went to saddle the beast. Casually the large grey head came around and two mean eyes regarded his efforts. Too quick for him to avoid entirely, large yellow teeth snapped shut on his hip.