"What are you? A priest? When did you start preaching, Mac?" "It's a bit of warning, that's all. You're a fine lad, so why become what you're becoming? There's a bigger, wider world than any slum, and a man only stays there because he hasn't the guts to get out. There's other people, other places, and you can make new friends, worthwhile friends." Shanaghy stared at McCarthy with disgust. He picked up his coat and slung it over his shoulder. "Thanks for keepin' them off me," he said, and walked away into the sunlight.
He strode down the street, heading for Morrissey's nearest saloon ... the Gem. Talking to himself as he walked along, he growled angry retorts at the distant McCarthy, saying all the things he had not said. But suddenly they began to sound very hollow and empty.
What was he, after all? He'd ridden a few races but he was too heavy for that now. He'd won a few fights in the ring, but he'd no desire to make a profession of that. He was at the beck and call of Morrissey and Lochlin, who were important men, in their way. But what was he, himself? He shook himself irritably. It was not a subject on which he cared to dwell.
McCarthy ... well, what did he know? Who was he to talk? Yet even as Tom thought this, his good sense told him that McCarthy wasn't worried about anybody laying for him when he came home of a night, and he was sleeping sound. Nor was he beholden to anybody for the money he made. He did his job, he did it well, and he took his pay and went home. Now Shanaghy remembered that time all too well. He had stopped on a street corner, thinking about it. He was no farmer, he'd considered, but still there were towns out west. And if he went to one of them, knowing what he knew, he could become a big man, as big as Morrissey or bigger. He had fiddled around with the idea and decided he liked it. What was that place out west? San Francisco? He'd heard of it ... There was gold out there, they said.
Maybe ... he'd give it some thought.
Two days later he approached Morrissey. "Mr. Morrissey? Have you got some kind of a job for me? A permanent job?"
Morrissey rolled the cigar in his teeth, then spat into the spittoon, "That I have, lad." He paused. "Did you ever do any shooting?" "Shooting? With a gun?" Shanaghy shook his head. "No, I haven't." "You can learn. I've got a shooting gallery. Man who handled it for me turned into a drunk. You learn to shoot, you get one-fifth of the take." He paused. "You try knocking down on me, bye, an' I'll have your hide off."
"I never stole anything from anybody," Shanaghy protested. "That I know, bye. That I know. I've had my eye on you, boy. Honest men are hard to find. Not many of them amongst my lot."
Morrissey took a slip of paper from his pocket. "Take this. You go along down to this address and give them this. I'll send a man along who will teach you to shoot. Practice all you like, and when you're good enough we'll let you win some money for us, shooting with customers."
The shooting gallery was on the Bowery amid dozens of other such establishments, pawnbrokers' shops, third-class hotels, dance houses, saloons, cheap clothing stores. Up near Prince Street was Tony Pastor's Opera House, and further down the street the Old Bowery Theater. In between was all manner of vice, trickery, and swindling, a scattering of beggars and pickpockets alert for the unwary. At five cents a shot, there were prizes to be won-twenty dollars to anyone who could hit a bull's-eye three times in succession, and knives to be given to anyone who could hit a bull's-eye once. There was a trumpeter who, if struck in the heart, gave vent to a frightening blast on his trumpet. Shanaghy liked the noise and confusion. Many of the sharpers he knew by sight or by name, and the same with the girls who paraded themselves along the street. On the third morning an old man walked up to the shooting gallery. He was a lean, wiry old man with white hair and cool gray eyes. "How much for a shot?" "Five cents ... Twenty dollars if you hit the bull's-eye three times."
The old man smiled. "And how many times can I win the twenty?" Shanaghy started to say, "As many times as you ... " Suddenly he hesitated, warned by the amused look in the old man's eyes. "Once," he said. "If you hit it three times."
"Down the street," the old man said, "they let me win three times."
"Nine bull's-eyes?" Shanaghy grinned. "You're puttin' me on."
The old man took up a pistol and placed three five-cent pieces on the counter. "I'm good for business, young fellow." He placed another fifteen cents on the counter. "Six shots in here?" he asked mildly, and before he finished the words he fired. His first shot hit the trumpeter who let go with a piercing blast. People stopped and stared. Instantly, he fired again, another blast.
"Now," he said, "I'll win my breakfast money."
Without even seeming to look or to care, he fired three bullets dead center into the main target. "There ... I'll take your twenty." Shanaghy paid it out while people crowded around. "You got easy targets, boy. Never picked up an easier twenty in my life!" He half turned toward those gathered around. "I don't see how he can afford to operate. That's the easiest twenty I ever picked up!"
The man turned away, winking at Shanaghy. "I'll be back, son, when I need more money."
Men crowded to the counter, eager for a chance. For over an hour he was busy loading guns and handing them to customers. Once the trumpet sounded and a street-boy won a knife. It was good business, but Shanaghy kept thinking back to the old man ... He had never seen anybody shoot like that, without even seeming to aim. The man just glanced at the target and fired ... It was uncanny. On the third day the same man returned and walked up to the counter, when there was nobody around. "Howdy, son. I'm short of cash." Shanaghy, who found himself liking the old man, said, "I expected you sooner." "You did, did you? Well, son, it don't pay to kill the goose. All I want's a livin', an' you fellows can give it to me. Costs me only twenty, thirty dollars a week to live well enough to suit me, and I can pick up that much at one stop. There's fourteen shootin' galleries along the Bowery, an' I call on each of you ever' two weeks. This time I needed some extry." He paused. "Down the street I don't even have to take up a gun. They know I can do it, so they just pay me."
"Not me," Shanaghy grinned at him. "I like to see you shoot. I never knew anybody could shoot like that."
"Where I come from, son, you'd better be able to shoot."
"How come you're back here? Too much for you out there?" The man's eyes chilled. "Ain't too much for me anywhere, son. I got me a sister back here. I come to visit, but there ain't nothing I can do back here but shoot. I punch cows some, yonder. And I was a Texas Ranger for a spell-have to make a livin' somehow. Then I found these here shootin' galleries. I don't want to make it hard for any of you, so I sort of scatter myself around." "Come here whenever you're of a mind to," Tom said. "You're good for business, and I like to see you shoot. I'd give aplenty to shoot like that." "A body needs a mite of teachin' and a whole lot of practice. You got to get the feel for it first."
The old man put both hands on the counter. "This here is an easy livin' for me. My pa used to give me four or five ca'tridges an' I was expected to bring back some game for each loading, else he'd tan my hide for being wasteful. When it's like that, you get so's you don't waste much lead. You don't shoot until you're sure of your target and you make sure you don't miss. "It was like that for most youngsters growin' up along the frontier. Their pa's were generally busy with farm work or whatever, so if they ate it was the meat the boys shot ... or sometimes the girls. We had a neighbor girl could outshoot me with a rifle, but the pistol was too heavy for her." "You didn't ever miss?"
"Oh, sure! There for a while I got my hide tanned right often."
"You never miss here."
"At this distance? How could I? A man gets to know his gun. Each one is somewhat different, some shootin' high' and to the right, some low an' left. You got to estimate and allow.
"But a man who knows guns, he wants the best, so he just naturally swaps and buys until he gets what he wants. There's more straight-shootin' guns than there are men to shoot 'em, although some of those gents out west can really shoot. "A good many western guns been worked over. I mean, most western me
n doctor their guns to fit their hands better, or to shoot better, or to ease the trigger-pull ... although 'pull' is the wrong word. No man who knows how to shoot ever pulls a trigger. He squeezes her off gentle, like you'd squeeze a girl's hand. Otherwise, you pull off target. More missin' is done right in the trigger-squeeze than anywhere else."
"I hear those redskins can't shoot worth a damn." "Don't you believe it! Some shoot as good as any white man. And they're almighty sly about it. They don't see no sense in setting themselves up as targets, so they just pop you off from behind any rock or tree." That was the summer when Shanaghy learned how to shoot.
Chapter Two.
Shanaghy awakened in the cool hour of dawn. For a moment he lay still, trying to remember where he was and how he came to be there. He recalled being kicked off the open gondola, then went back to his thoughts about New York. John Morrissey had gone to upstate New York on some political business, and Shanaghy, now promoted to a position as one of Morrissey's lieutenants, had dropped around to the Gem to check receipts. According to plan he had met Lochlin there. They had barely seated themselves at the table when Cogan, a bartender, stuck his head in the door.
"Mr. Shanaghy, sir? There's some men comin' in that look like trouble." Leaving Lochlin at the table, Shanaghy stepped over to the door. He glanced quickly around. There were four men at the bar, all standing together, and there were others scattered about the room. They all had beers, but there was something about them ...
The place was crowded, but somehow the men Cogan had mentioned stood out, and one of them ... Shanaghy turned sharply. "Lochlin! Look out! It's Childers's men!"
He stepped quickly out into the saloon and pulled the door shut behind him. He had started around the bar when one of the newcomers deliberately knocked the beer from the hand of a bricklayer who stood beside him. The bricklayer turned to protest and the man hit him. Then they started to break the place up. Shanaghy ducked a blow and drove a fist into the middle of the nearest man, and kicked another on the kneecap. The door crashed open and he saw a dozen men coming in, all armed with pick-handles and other clubs. Too many! "Cogan! Murphy! Run!"
Shanaghy spun a table in the path of the advancing men, and when several fell he crowned them with a chair. Ducking around the bar, he armed himself with bottles which he threw with unerring aim.
Another man went down, screaming. A bottle missed Shanaghy by inches and he ducked through the door to find Lochlin. The man was gone. He had scooped up the money he was to count and scrambled out the back door. Slamming the door into place, Cogan, who had joined him, dropped a bar across it and they ran for the alley. There were too many to fight, too many altogether. They had almost reached the back door when there was a shot and Lochlin staggered in, bleeding.
"Upstairs!" Shanaghy told them quickly. "Over the roofs!" He stopped and lifted Lochlin bodily from the floor, holding him in place with one arm while he scooped up the moneybag with the other. He ran up the steps, blessing his good luck for all the years at the blacksmith's anvil, and then they came out on the roof, barring the trap behind them. The sky was covered with low clouds, and it was beginning to rain. Murphy, another aide of Morrissey's, had joined them. "There's a rig at Kendall's," he gasped.
Suddenly, from behind a parapet of a roof, a group of men raised themselves up. Shanaghy's glance counted six. He turned. As many more were coming across the roofs behind them.
"This time," somebody yelled, "ye'll not get away!" Shanaghy dropped the moneybag and drew a snub-nosed pistol from a waistband holster. "I'm givin' y' fair warnin'," he said, "git to runnin' or somebody dies!"
"Hah!" a big roughneck shouted, lifting a club in one hand and a half-brick in the other, ready to throw. "Y'll not git away this .. !" Men had been killed with sticks and stones for millions of years before a firearm was invented, and Tom Shanaghy did not hesitate. He had been well taught, and during the four years he had operated the shooting gallery he had practiced daily.
He palmed the gun and he fired even as the big man spoke. The gun was a .44 and Shanaghy fired three times.
The big man cried out and staggered. Another fell, and then they were all running.
Somehow Shanaghy and his men got to Kendall's, got into the rig and fled. Cogan was holding Lochlin while Shanaghy drove, and never would he forget that wild night drive through the dark, rain-whipped streets. Where should they go? Shanaghy wondered. His own place was known and would not be safe. Lochlin's bachelor quarters would be unsafe, too. Yet there was a hiding place, a place Morrissey kept off Broadway. He drove there. There was a floor safe in Morrissey's bedroom and that was where Tom took the money. He withheld a handful of bills, made a hasty estimate and dropped a note into the safe with the remainder of the money.
Giving Cogan and Murphy each $100 running money. They will hide out in Boston ... you know where. I am taking $500 and leaving $500 with Lochlin. He's hurt bad but I'll get Florrie in to take care of him. Watch yourself.
Shanaghy
He gave money to each of the men and told Cogan to get word to Florrie to come and care for Lochlin. Then he reloaded his pistol and went to Morrissey's desk for another ... There were two there and he took one. He got Lochlin on the bed and bound up his wound as best he could. He'd been shot in the side and was unconscious, his clothing soaked with blood. Florrie came to the door and he let her in, giving her Lochlin's money. "Tell nobody he's here and keep out of sight. I don't think you're known to them anyway."
"What will you do?"
"First, I've got to get that horse out of sight and into a stable. If they see it they'll trace Lochlin to this place. I'll think of myself after." He went out through the kitchen window and down the back stairs. All was dark and silent. Thunder rumbled in the distance and there was occasional lightning. When he came out of the alley, the horse was standing there, head hanging. Shanaghy looked carefully around, then crossed the walk and got into the rig, turning the horse down the street. The top and sides kept most of the rain off. He dried his right hand and felt for his guns.
He had killed a man up there ... perhaps two. But they were coming for him and would have killed him. His quick shooting had saved many other lives ... probably.
He drove down the dark streets.
John Morrissey was a man who had lived with trouble, and so he was constantly aware of its proximity. Wisely, he had prepared hideouts where he could hole up until softer winds blew, and stables where horses could be found. It was to one of these that Shanaghy now drove.
All was dark and silent. There were two horses in the stable and several empty stalls. Shanaghy led his horse inside, dried him off and put oats in the bin. The rig he put into a carriage house out of sight and then he went to the house hard by. Over a cup of hot coffee he considered the situation. Eben Childers had planned well. Obviously they had known that John Morrissey was out of town. The place on Barclay Street had probably been hit as well, and Childers's men would be on all the streets. It was no time to be out and about. Morrissey would know of what had happened within a matter of hours, but Shanaghy, knowing his man, doubted that John would make any move until the force of Childers's drive was spent. Knowing such men as Childers used, Shanaghy knew that within hours, when victory seemed complete, they would begin to drink. Some would simply turn in to rest, others would scatter to find their doxies or whatever. And that would be the time to strike. Sitting alone in the empty house with a coal-oil lamp on the table beside him, Tom Shanaghy plotted the strategy of the days to come. He would have to get in touch with Boynton and Finlayson, and they would gather the boys for him so they could be ready to strike back.
He paced the floor, muttering to himself, trying to plan the counterattack as John would plan it, trying to foresee all that must be done. First, he must get word to Morrissey. Then, when Boynton and Finlayson had gathered the gang together, they would choose their targets and strike. Finally, weary with planning, he went to sleep. He awakened in the light of a chill, rainy dawn and dressed. He ch
ecked his guns and then went down to the street. There was nobody around, but he had not expected to see any people. This was a quiet neighborhood and it was Sunday.
Boynton would be in the Five Points. Shanaghy went through the streets until he reached Broadway and there he hired a hack. When he mentioned the Five Points the driver refused flatly. "No, sir, I'll not be goin' yonder. Not for any man. They'd steal the fillin's from your teeth, yonder. I'll take you within a street or two, that's all!"
No argument would suffice, and Shanaghy didn't blame him. He found Boynton sleeping off a drunk and shook him awake. Shanaghy made coffee and forced a cup on the reluctant giant. Slowly, word by word, he filled Boynton in on all that had happened. "You're to get twenty good men ... tough men." He went ahead carefully with the planning. They would gather in three positions, then strike fast and hard.
John Morrissey had made enemies, and Childers had tied in with some of them. Mostly they were former followers of Butcher Bill Poole, the only man who ever bested Morrissey in a rough-and-tumble fight. Sometime later, Poole had been shot and killed by Lew Baker. That was in 1855, and the funeral procession for Poole had been the largest in the city until that time. Several hundred policemen had led the procession, followed by two thousand members of the Poole Association, a political faction. That was followed by nearly four thousand of the Order of United Americans, and hose-and-engine companies from New York, Boston and Baltimore, as well as Philadelphia. As a special honor guard were two companies of militia named for Poole, the Poole Guards and the Poole Light Guards.
the Iron Marshall (1979) Page 3
