The Long-Knives 6

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “’Tis beaten we are, Jimmy lad. Beaten far sure,” O’Callan sighed.

  “Perk up, Terry. Think o’ it this way. Sean Casey’s given us a means to recoup yer losses, has he not? So’s what say we ... What is it yer starin’ at, lad?” O’Callan had despaired of another lecture about working in a saloon for another man, or even owning one in so impermanent a place as Slaughter. He had begun to search the hillside again to take his mind from Brannigan’s more-than-practical words. Suddenly he had seen the glint again, and gawked at it open-mouthed.

  Ignoring his friend’s questions, O’Callan began to slog his way upward toward the vein of rock. “I don’t believe it. Sweet Ja-sus, tell me it ain’t so. Sure an’ if it is, fartune smiles upon the Irish.”

  Brannigan bounced along behind, demanding over and over after each sentence O’Callan spoke, “What is it? What is it?”

  O’Callan extended a shaking hand. “Look! See fer yerself. ’Tis gold, Jimmy lad. Gold! We’ve struck it rich!”

  ~*~

  Hiram “Dawg” Godfrey felt miserable. His head throbbed and his mouth tasted like the bottom of a privy, while every bone in his body ached, his muscles stiff as frozen leather. The back of his clothing felt dank and chill from sleeping under the trees on sodden ground. He groaned aloud his discomfort, and slapped both hands to the sides of his aching head as if to hold it together.

  Dawg Godfrey deeply regretted the drinking bout he and Big Red had gotten into the night before, after liberating those two pilgrims of a fairly promising looking claim. Afterward they had sent the pair off to sit at the foot of God—as Preacher Tyson, the third member of their claim-jumping gang, so nicely put it. But his regret for his overindulgence wasn’t as great as his feelings toward the yammering gyrations of the two men on the slope across the canyon from the hillside where he’d come to sleep off his hangover. How he wished they’d stop slappin’ each other on the back and dancin’ around, shoutin’ about how they’d struck it ... rich!

  “Dawg it!” Godfrey exclaimed. “They’s them fellers lost their digs in the mudslide. Now they gone and found gold. No marker piles out yet, but sure’s grits and grease fer breakfast, they’ll have ’em soon. Then they’ll have to go down to Slaughter to register. Ooooh!” Dawg broke off the painful effort at logical, verbalized thought as his head reminded him of his condition by thumping like a charging herd of enraged elephants.

  He groped inside his scruffy voluminous black coat and withdrew a pint-size crockery jug. Them fellers findin’ a gold strike was sure a good sign. Soon’s he had a little rest and a few swallows to make himself well, he’d go look up Red and the preacher and they’d see what might be done. These fellers looked pretty able to take care of themselves in a scrap, though. Maybe Red’d want to call in those other three who worked with them some times. Shame to split it so many ways, really. Well, time enough to worry about that after a little medicine.

  ~*~

  “Here we are, comin’ inta Slaughter fer the second time in a week,” O’Callan shouted cheerfully from atop his horse. “Might as well we’d stayed the first time.”

  “Then we wouldn’t be comin’ back rich,” Brannigan reminded him. “That’s right—rich, Terry me lad. How’s it feel?”

  “Like the mellowest whiskey, the softest woman, an’ the sweetest meal I’ve ever eaten, all rolled into one.”

  “I’ll be headin’ down to the assay office with our sample to register our claim. Now don’t ye be dawdlin’ b’twixt here and the outfitters. We need them supplies an’ equipment right away.”

  “I kin look to a simple task like that, Jimmy Brannigan.”

  “No offense. An’—say, it’s sorry I am, ye havin’ to be dippin’ inta yer savin’s again to pay far all this stuff. But what will that matter a week from now?”

  “Right ye are, Jimmy. Now let’s get on with it.” O’Callan smiled warmly at his friend. He was well pleased. After their discovery they had put out claim markers, gathered samples, and rounded up their horses. Urging the sure-footed animals to the fastest possible pace, they had made the ride to Slaughter well before dark. O’Callan still found it hard to believe that they poised on the brink of being rich. The vein was thicker than a man’s upper arm, nearly the entire length of the face and who knew how deep. A vast fortune. O’Callan shook his head ruefully and turned off, leading the mule toward his destination while Brannigan continued down the main street toward the assayers.

  Three blocks from his destination, Brannigan’s progress was stopped by a small crowd spilling out into the street. It appeared to continue all the way to the assay office door. He looked around, shrugged, and dismounted, leading his horse. A block and a half from the office he tied up and started out on foot through the constant mass of miners that never lessened, day or night.

  “Great is the name of the Lord! Eternal happiness is his who will shout the name of the Lord. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hosanna in the highest! Glorious is the name of the Lord. Sa-ay, brother, have you been saved?”

  The scrofulous, itinerant preacher who blocked Brannigan’s path was three days past his last shave and at least that many months beyond a change of underclothes or a bath. His eyes were rheumy and he stank of cheap whiskey. Jim Brannigan looked him up and down, his lips curled in distaste.

  “I’ve no dealin’s with the likes of you. Now if ye’ll step outta me way, I’ve important business down the street.”

  The evangelist was not to be moved. “Stay a minute, brother,” he commanded, pressing a hand against Brannigan’s chest. “Surely you’d not refuse to join me in joyously shouting to the glory of the Lord?”

  Brannigan’s anger increased with each passing second. “I’m o’ the Roman persuasion and haven’t time fer yer heretical foolishness. Now get outta me way!”

  “Ah, alas. Then you’re in thralldom. It’s your eternal happiness with which I am concerned. Step over this way, and I’ll liberate your immortal soul.” Brannigan snatched the man’s hand from his chest. “I’ll liberate yer head from off yer shoulders if’n ye don’t let me go about my business.”

  Preacher Tyson jerked at Brannigan’s belt, pulling him off balance, while at the same time two pairs of strong hands grabbed the sergeant’s shoulders and dragged him partway around. All four men stumbled into the mouth of a narrow alleyway. There, three more men, led by Big Red Clay, began to gleefully punch, kick, and stomp Brannigan into bloody unconsciousness.

  It didn’t go quite as expected, though. Before Brannigan succumbed, Preacher Tyson’s right eye had puffed up to a respectable mouse and his upper lip had swollen, drawn upward to reveal a chipped tooth he explored with a timid tongue. One of the men Red Clay had brought into the scheme with them lay against a wall, curled into a ball. He clutched his belly in agony and retched up the contents of his stomach. A third hardcase rubbed his jaw, his eyes slightly glazed. When the gang recovered from their efforts, Dawg Godfrey spoke up.

  “He was easy. That’s what I like,” he rambled on as he searched Brannigan for the claim papers. “Rob from the rich and give to ourselves. My favorite way of makin a livin’.”

  A fresh trickle of blood ran from Brannigan’s smashed mouth. Godfrey jumped back. “Are you sure he’s dead?” he asked the six-foot-six man beside him.

  “Do you think you coulda lived through the stompin’ we gave him?” Big Red retorted.

  “No ... no, I guess not. Well, I got it, let’s get outta here.”

  “Hallelujah! Your soul is liberated now, brother!”

  While Red Clay’s gang had occupied themselves beating and stomping Jim Brannigan, O’Callan had been busily outfitting them with the tools and equipment they would need to dig out their new-found gold vein. He’d hemmed and hawed over the matter of explosives for a while, then settled on the new substance, dynamite. Gently, O’Callan had loaded the greasy-feeling, cotton-packed sticks on the mule. He’d heard stories among the other prospectors of how the gritty, yellowish explosive could go off without warning, even
when no one was near it. Nitroglycerin and sawdust, wrapped in oiled paper. Most old-timers swore they wouldn’t work within a mile of it. Terry thought it to be right fine stuff. Besides, its touchy reputation kept men at their distance and helped him avoid probing questions.

  So far, O’Callan had resisted all attempts by the store owner to determine the location of his strike and discounted as ridiculous—in light of their discovery—the man’s belief that the whole gold strike was playing out. He paid up, mentally wincing at the deep dent this put in his reserve of cash—the savings with which he intended to purchase the saloon of his dreams one day in Tucson or Tombstone. Rigged at last, he started out to find Brannigan.

  O’Callan wasn’t too worried when he didn’t find Jimmy Brannigan at the assay office. His concern increased, though, when his first sergeant didn’t show up at Casey’s or the Carter sisters’ place. He searched for Brannigan until long after dark, often passing the missing man’s horse, tied always in the same place. A bit of a mystery. After partaking supper with Sean Casey, O’Callan continued the quest.

  It wasn’t until nearly midnight that he located Jimmy Brannigan. He lay on his side in the filth of the alley where the Clay gang had left him to die. O’Callan turned him gently, stabbed by concern at the faint moan that came from his friend’s mangled lips. A quick inspection of Brannigan’s clothing revealed the theft of their claim information. In mounting fury, O’Callan left the alley—first to find help for Brannigan, then to call on the assayer.

  At the assay office, O’Callan awakened the surly agent and learned that the very same piece of ground had been filed on not four hours earlier by a nice gentleman named Benjamin Clay.

  ~*~

  It is strange, Halcon thought as he sat astride his pony overlooking a wide valley near his rancheria. The pony-soldier chief who is touched by the Spirits said he would be here but a few days, that he came alone. Now more white-eyes come to the sierra. Were they sent by him, in his madness, to learn more of the secrets of the birds? If so, why then did they dig and scoop in the waters and wash the same bowls over and over? Are they as Spirit-touched as the coronel? If it is so simple a thing, it is harmless. Even so, he reasoned, it would be better to let them know they are watched.

  Halcon kneed his pony, who responded with a gentle walk that took him down the slope toward the spot where six prospectors took test pans from a shallow stream. So intent were they on their efforts to locate gold that they didn’t hear the soft footfalls until Halcon had nearly ridden in among them. Then one man looked up and saw the war chief. His eyes bugged and he dived for his rifles.

  “Apaches!” he shouted, warning the others.

  To prevent water damage, most of the men had left their arms under a low paloverde tree on the creek bank, and they lost precious seconds scrambling out of the shallows and heading for their weapons. One young man, however, drew an old percussion-cap revolver and loosed off a shot. The bullet clipped a twig about ten inches to the right of Halcon’s head.

  “Hold! I come in peace. Are you sent by the big chief of the pony-soldiers?” Halcon asked in his own language, then repeated it in Spanish for the benefit of the strangers.

  “Hey, Lum, what’s he sayin’?” a bearded prospector asked his friend.

  “I dunno. Sounds like Mezkin talk to me,” Lum replied, then he called out, “Luis, c’mere an’ tell us what this Injun’s yappin’ about.”

  Another man, slighter built and darker than the others, stepped forward. “Hola. Llamodo Luis Garcia de Sonora. Que queres, indio?”

  Halcon repeated his question about Colonel Patterson and added his name. Luis translated. “He says he’s Halcon.”

  “Halcon. Well, I’ll be damned. He’s some kind of war chief, ain’t he?” Lum asked. “Why don’t we just shoot him down right now?”

  “Not here, we don’t,” Luis hissed. “If he rode in here like that, you can bet there’s about fifty warriors watchin’ every move we make, amigos.”

  “What’s that about the big chief?”

  Luis asked Halcon about that, and was told of Colonel Patterson’s expedition to research the chaparral cock. After the Mexican gold-seeker relayed that to his companions they began to get a glimmer of a way to stay without danger. Smiling and nodding, Lum and the others assured Halcon that they had indeed been sent from Colonel Patterson. They offered him tobacco—which he accepted—and sugar, coffee and tea—which he refused. Talk through an interpreter being slow and difficult, the conversation lagged. Luis ended it by saying they had to return to their important studies. He wished Halcon and his family well and walked away.

  Halcon rode out of the prospectors’ camp puzzled and unsure of what had transpired. The men said they were from the Spirit-touched Coronel Patterson, but they did not act like men who studied the secrets of the land, nor were their horses and mules marked with the big bend and snake—U.S.—like those of the pony-soldiers. He would send others to watch and report back what these strangers did.

  ~*~

  Jim Brannigan was alive and conscious, though barely. He lay in a crude cot at the back of Doc Philbert’s Dental Salon—the nearest thing to a hospital or a doctor that Slaughter could boast of. Terry O’Callan, his face pinched with worry, sat beside him. When Brannigan rolled his eyes in O’Callan’s direction, the blue glitter hardly discernible in the welter of swollen, dark-smudged flesh, he tried to shape his battered lips into a reassuring smile. O’Callan’s first question did not concern Brannigan’s condition or comfort.

  “Do ye know who did it, Jimmy? What’d they look like?”

  Brannigan struggled a moment, the soreness in his jaw holding back the words. “Puh-reacher. One was a preacher. Big red-haired guy an’ a bunch more. All saw.”

  “That’s enough. Ye rest now, an’ I thank God yer alive. I’ll tend ta them that done this. I got a name from the assayer. Fellow named Clay filed our claim.”

  “That’d be Big Red Clay,” Doc Philbert offered from the doorway. “He’s mean medicine to be foolin’ around with.”

  “He’s not seen the likes of Terry O’Callan when he’s hot fer revenge,” O’Callan snapped as he shoved past the dentist and out the door. Behind him, Doc Philbert shook his head sadly, fully expecting to have a second patient soon.

  In the third low-ceilinged, dimly lighted, filthy dive O’Callan visited, he located his first lead. A medium sized, sallow-faced man spoke up when O’Callan asked his usual question.

  “Big Red? Sure I know him. Nicest guy a feller ever rode with.”

  O’Callan moved in fast, pushed up against the man, and hid from other eyes what he did. “Now,” he said softly to the thoroughly frightened man, “if ye don’t have a wish to get the top o’ yer head blowed off by this six-gun I’m ticklin’ the underside o’ yer jaw with, ye’ll oblige me by providin’ the place where I can find Mr. Clay or names of someone who will know.”

  “I—I—I unnnh, dunno wh-where Red is. B-but I know someone who might. Pete or Dane Hansen, Joe Fletcher ... they run together. Or maybe Preacher Tyson.”

  Preacher Tyson’s name satisfied O’Callan the man told the truth and as much of it as he knew. He slipped the Colt .45 back under his coat and stepped away from the bar.

  “I thank ye kindly. ’Tis been a pleasure talking with a gentleman like yourself. Here”—O’Callan flipped a cartwheel silver dollar onto the bar—“Buy yerself a drink.”

  Joe Fletcher and the Hansen brothers were at home in their tent near the edge of Slaughter. O’Callan found them there, snoring soddenly. The air hung thick with stale liquor fumes. The angry cavalry sergeant awakened them and questioned the trio gently and cunningly.

  When they had collected an impressive number of bruises, broken ribs, and teeth, and Joe Fletcher had his jaw cracked, they became convinced of the wisdom of cooperating with the fiery-haired terror who had tied them securely before he began to work on each in turn.

  They admitted, readily enough, that they had seen Big Red riding out of to
wn the previous night, heading toward the gold-strike area. Preacher Tyson, Dawg Godfrey, and three men they didn’t know had gone along. O’Callan consulted his watch.

  It was high noon of the day following their discovery and loss of the rich vein of gold. He thanked the men politely, tapped them back to sleep with the barrel of his service revolver, and headed for the stable to collect his animals.

  Twenty-Five

  Moonlight frosted the stunted pines and naked limbs of aspen in the small side canyon. In the distance a coyote howled a plaintive love song to its mate. At a short distance an owl made scratchy readjustment of his clawed feet on a branch and twoo-hooted a mournful call.

  “Sure an’ I needn’t have exerted meself all that hard,” O’Callan thought as he lay on the hillside opposite the gold strike he and Brannigan had located. He watched the flickering of a fire.

  “I might o’ known this is the first place they’d light out for. Now, ta wait until they’re proper sleepy, jest befar dawn. Then I’ll pay a little social call.”

  When the sky above the canyon turned a pale slate-and-pink with first morning light, O’Callan slipped soundlessly into the claim-jumper’s camp. He carried a three-foot length of weather-hardened Manzanita, the root bowl a gnarled knot at one end. His improvised shillelagh brought down an early-rising outlaw, who had come forth to put a pot of coffee on the rekindled fire. The pot’s clatter alerted the others, who came swarming out to find the cause of the disturbance.

  O’Callan set upon them before they had fully realized the situation. He held three men at bay, swinging the Manzanita weapon and working in close where those not threatened were unable to fire a shot for fear of hitting their comrades. With careful effort, O’Callan forced the trio backward.

  Preacher Tyson tripped over a loose rock and O’Callan moved in, switching hands with the cudgel to bring it down from the left. It smashed the crazed claim-jumper into unconsciousness with a loud klonk. As he did this, O’Callan’s right hand groped under the thick jacket he wore and came up with his revolver. He eared back the hammer and got off a shot at one of the others who maneuvered to take him from the rear.