When the rites were completed, the various sections broke up, but the Guards and the Light Guards stayed together. It was evening before they reached Broadway and Canal Street, where a building was undergoing demolition. There, unknown to the Poole men, a number of the Morrissey faction had concealed themselves. The Original Hounds and a crowd of the Morrissey shoulder-strikers waited until the Poole men came within easy range, and then they cut loose with a shower of bricks and stones. Several Poole men went down, but they were the better-armed and charged the Morrissey faction with fixed bayonets. Scattering, the Morrissey men took to the alleys and roofs. Yet all of them were not to escape, for later that night the Poole men attacked the engine-house where some of the Original Hounds were holed up, destroying the place and putting them to flight.
Despite the victory, the Poole forces were never again to wield their former power. Some of them, filled with hatred for Morrissey, had joined Childers. Although Morrissey still maintained an interest in the old Gem Saloon, he no longer owned it. After operating other gambling houses, he had confined his interests to places on Barclay and Ann Street.
From Boynton's place, Shanaghy had gone on to find Finlayson. A thin, wiry man, he stared at Shanaghy and shook his head. "John's been beaten this time," he said, "beaten! They waited until he was out of town and then they moved. They've too much power."
"You believe that an' you'll believe anything," Shanaghy said. "Old Smoke has power where they've got none, an' Tammany will help him ... if he needs it. But if we move fast-" "Time ain't right," Finlayson objected. "They've got it all goin' their way. If John was only here ... "
"You won't help?"
"Time ain't right," Finlayson shook his head. "You'll get yourself killed. I-" "Forget it." Shanaghy could see that the man was frightened, his confidence shattered. "We'll do it without you."
He left on the run. He moved fast. He found O'Brien and then Larry Aiken and Linn. They were ready to move and glad somebody was doing something. "At ten," Shanaghy told Aiken. "Don't wait for me, just move. By that time most of them will be drunk or sleeping it off."
Seated over a table he showed them on a sheet of paper how each move would be made, and when. Little did he guess that he would never be there to take part. Yet Larry Aiken was a good man, a tough man.
He remembered the night well. After leaving Aiken, he had come out on the street and started for a livery stable. He needed a rig now. There was a place up the island where he could get some guns. Unless he missed his guess, all of Childers's men would be armed.
He hired a rig. As he was hooking the trace chains, the hostler whispered to him. "Boy, I'm a friend of McCarthy's, so watch your step. Eben's got five hundred dollars for the man who brings you in alive-to him." The hostler paused, looking around warily. "They're after you, boy. He aims to cripple you and blind you. He's said as much."
"I'll be careful," Shanaghy said. He stepped into the rig and gathered the reins. "Open the door, then. And thanks. I'll not forget, nor will Morrissey." He drove into the street and turned uptown. No hurry, now, he told himself. Take it easy. Five hundred? That was enough to turn all of the Five Points after him, and many another besides. Who could he trust?
He left Delancey Street behind him and felt better. He drove on, holding the speed down so as not to attract attention. He put his hand on his gun. It was there. He felt for the other ... it was gone! Dropped from his pocket, probably, while he hitched up the horse. He swore softly, bitterly. Well, now. If he could get to that man on Twenty-fourth Street, he'd have guns aplenty.
Almost an hour later, after driving around the block and seeing no one, he pulled up in an alley and stepped down. Suddenly, he was uneasy. He knew about this source of weapons, so might not Childers as well? It was dark and silent, with only the rain whispering on the street. He put a hand on the horse's shoulder. "You wait, boy. I'll be back." Yet he did not move. The bricks of the street pavement glistened wetly. He saw the dark maw of an alley opening toward the north, and beyond it a row of houses, each with steps and iron railings. He felt for the gun again, still irritated with himself. When had he ever trusted to a gun? Yet if there were too many of them, he must.
He studied the house where he must go. A faint light showed from under the shutters. What was the man's name?
Schneider ... He stepped around the horse and went quickly up the steps. There were eight steps and an iron railing on either side. Under the steps there were other steps leading down.
He lifted the knocker and rapped, not too loud. There was a sudden movement within. A chill went up his spine. Was that a movement behind him? He turned sharply ... nothing.
Within there was a rustle of movement, and then a voice through the door. "Who is it?"
"Shanaghy," he said.
A chain rattled and the door opened ... not a crack, but suddenly thrown wide.
There were three men! They had him then ... No, by the ... ! Behind him there was a scurry of feet, and Shanaghy did the unexpected. Instead of trying to turn, of trying to escape, he went at them. He was shorter than any one of the three, but he was stronger. He went into them with a lunge, and he swung a fist at the nearest. He had hit for the man on the right, knocking him into the way of the others. Then he had the gun out and he fired.
There was a muffled blast and the hit man screamed. Turning sharply he fired into the crowd suddenly closing in behind him, then darted down the hall. He smashed open the first door he came to, saw a frightened blonde woman catch up a blanket and hold it before her, and then he was past her and throwing a chair through a window. He went out, hung for an instant, then leaped across the areaway and crashed through the glass of the window opposite. The room was empty. He ran through it, tried to gauge the best way to go, then ran down a hall. Behind him, somebody yelled and a door slammed open. "Stop, thief!" a woman shouted.
He went up the steps three at a time, turned at the landing and ran on up. At the end of the hall he saw a gap, then a slate roof opposite him. It was wet and slippery. Behind him he heard screams and curses. He stepped to the windowledge and leaped, catching the edge of the gutter with his hands. It broke loose at one end and he clung to the metal as it swung him toward the ground. He dropped the final ten feet and ran through a gap between the buildings. After running down an alley, he ducked across a street, up another alley, then along a street toward the north. He paused there once, to listen. They were coming, all right. They were scattering now.
Think ... he must think.
The railroad yards, with all those cars standing, it would be dark there. He ran.
With all his hard work, he was in good shape, in better shape probably than any of his pursuers, unless some of Childers's footracers were among them. Footracing was a popular sport, and most gamblers had one or two on the payroll. He ducked down another alley and turned into a street lined with trees. He paused, then walked on, catching his wind. He felt for the gun. It was gone ...
It must have fallen from his pocket back in an alley somewhere. He hoped they had not found it, that they wouldn't know he was unarmed. Somebody crossed the street behind him and he heard a shout. He ducked into an alleyway ... blind!
He turned back and went up the street, but they were closer now. They were spreading out, coming at him. Ahead of him there was a low fence, and he smelled wet cinders and coal smoke. Then he saw the cars. Over there was an engine, puffing thoughtfully as it waited. He dropped a hand to the fence rail and vaulted it easily, then slid down a bank and lost himself in the darkness. A train whistled and he heard the chug-chug of a starting engine. Somebody fired a shot and it ricocheted over a car ahead of him. He ducked under a row of standing cars and saw some moving cars ahead of him. He ran, caught the ladder rung and swung himself up and over into an empty gondola. The train gathered speed. Behind him there were shouts and yells. They were searching. A shot ... not aimed toward him, apparently. Gasping, he dropped to a sitting position against the side of the car.
God, wa
s he tired!
The train whistled and he looked up to see roofs going by. It was raining harder now.
Chapter Three.
When Shanaghy awakened again he lay for some time, just thinking. There was no sound but the trickling of water from the small creek and the chirping of birds. Somewhere the birds were singing an endless variety of songs. He did not know much about birds.
After a while he sat up and looked around. He wrapped his arms around his knees and rested his chin on his arms. He had never known a morning so still ... Yes, he had-when he was a boy in Ireland and walked to the upper pasture to bring the horses down. It had been quiet in Ireland, too. He got up, went to the stream. After taking off his shirt, he bathed his face, head and shoulders in the cold water. It felt good. Then he rolled up his blankets. Finding a few coals left in the fire, he rekindled it and broiled some bacon.
Then he examined the guns. The pistol was a good one, brand-new, apparently. Whose outfit did he have, anyway? He belted on the gun, tried it for balance and feel. It felt good.
He had to get back to New York. That meant returning to the railroad and finding a town or a water tank. Some place where a train might stop. He had to get back. Morrissey would need him.
Shanaghy walked back to his blanket-roll, but instead of picking it up he sat down again. Damn, it felt good! Just the stillness, the peace. After the hectic life he had.been living ...
He knew the sound of horses' hoofs when he heard them, and he heard them now. For a moment he remained where he was, just listening. Then he got up, moved the blanket-roll out of sight near a tree and leaned the shotgun against the tree. The coat he wore effectively concealed the pistol. Shanaghy walked down to the ashes of the fire. Now maybe he could find out where he was and how far away was the nearest town.
There were four of them and they came down the slope toward the stream, riding together. One man, on a gray horse, trailed a little behind. "Hey!" He heard one of them speak. "Somebody's ... "
They rode through the stream and pulled up about twenty feet away from him.
"Look," one of them said, "it's a pilgrim!"
"How are you?" Shanaghy said. "I wonder if ... "
"It's an Irish pilgrim," another said. "What d' you know about that?" Three of them were about his own age, one of them probably younger. The fourth was a lean, wiry older man with a battered, narrow-brimmed hat and an old gray coat and patched, homespun pants. This man had his hands behind him. Shanaghy squatted on his heels, stirring the ashes and adding a few sticks.
"Headin' for town," he said casually. "How far is it?"
Some of the sticks caught a small fire.
The heavier-set of the riders took a coil of rope from his saddle and shook out a loop. He moved toward a large cottonwood. "How about here?" he suggested. "Wait a minute," another said. "What about him?" A man in a white buckskin vest had looked on but not yet spoken. He had sat, staring at Shanaghy. Then slowly he smiled. "We can always make it two," he said.
The heavy-set one looked startled. "But we don't even know him. He ain't done any harm."
"How do we know? He looks to me like a sinful man." He turned his full attention to Shanaghy. "Where's your horse?"
" I don't have one." Shanaghy was wary. He was in trouble but he did not know how much, nor had he quite understood what they were talking about. "I dropped off a train."
"Out here? You must be crazy! It's forty miles to the nearest town."
"I can walk."
"Walk? Now I know you're crazy."
The man in the white vest spoke again. "He shouldn't be here. He's in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Shanaghy was growing irritated. "This looks like a good place to me," he said.
"I like it."
"You hear that?" White Vest said. "He says he likes it." There was a moment of silence, then the man on the horse with his hands behind him said, "I always knew you were rotten, Drako." "Bass?" Drako glanced at the man with the coiled rope. "Take him." Shanaghy had never seen anybody rope steers, but he had heard stories from his old friend who taught him to shoot. He saw the rope go up, saw the loop shoot at him and as the horse gathered itself to leap he threw himself toward a tree. The trunk was no more than six feet from him and he was quick. For Shanaghy, to think was to act. He threw himself past the tree, then around it in a lunge. The loop caught him as he had known it would, but as the horse leaped to drag him he had a turn around the tree, then a second. The horse hit the end of the rope with a lunge and the girth parted. The horse charged on, then man, saddle and rope hit the ground hard.
Drako swore and the third man grabbed for a gun. Shanaghy never knew how he did it but he had not stopped moving. When the girth broke he had thrown off the rope and when the third man grabbed for his gun, Shanaghy shot him.
He intended to shoot him through the body but the man was moving and the bullet caught his left arm at the elbow, breaking it.
"Next time," Shanaghy covered his miss, "I'll break the other arm. Now get out of here ... all of you."
"Mister?" The man with his hands behind him spoke softly, desperately. "Mister, I never begged for anything in my life, but-" For the first time Shanaghy realized that the man's hands were tied behind his back.
"Leave that man here," Shanaghy said. "Let go of that lead-rope and leave him."
"I'll be damned if I will!" Drako shouted.
"You'll be dead if you don't," Shanaghy replied. "I was mindin' my own affairs. You come bargin' in here an' you just tried to sweep too many streets all at once. If you want to live long enough to see sundown you'll get out, and if you come back you'll deserve what you get."
"Oh, we'll be back, all right!"
Drako dropped the lead-rope and turned his horse away. "We'll surely be back!" Shanaghy watched them ride away and then he walked over to the bound man and cut his hands loose. "Don't know what they had you for, chum," he said, "but that's a bad lot."
The man rubbed his wrists. "You're new in this country," he replied grimly.
"They was fixin' to hang me. If you hadn't been here I'd be dead by now." Shanaghy walked to the tree where he had concealed his blanket-roll and the shotgun, and took them up.
"My name's Tom Shanaghy," he said.
"Josh Lundy," the older man said. Then he added, "We got but one horse. No use killin' him carryin' double. You ride awhile, then I will." Lundy reached for the bed-roll but stopped abruptly, his eyes on the shotgun. Then slowly he took the roll of blankets and tied it behind the saddle. "You carry a shotgun all the time?" he asked. Something in his tone drew Shanaghy's attention.
"No ... Why?"
"Wondered."
Yet suddenly Lundy's manner had changed. The friendliness was gone from his tone and he was somehow cool and remote.
"You come far?" he asked suddenly.
"New York."
"On a train, you said?"
"Uh-huh. Railroad bull bounced me off back yonder a ways. I walked for a while, then saw this stream and followed her to here." "Got you an outfit there. Didn't figure you fellers in New York carried blanket-rolls."
"We don't."
"You were almighty quick with that gun," Lundy said. "I never seen a man no quicker."
"Fellow taught me. I never used a gun very much. Where I come from it's knuckle-and-skull, the boots if you go down."
Tom Shanaghy was used to walking and he stepped off briskly. He was puzzled by all that had happened and waited for Lundy to explain, which he seemed in no hurry to do. In fact, since seeing the shotgun he had said very little. Shanaghy looked around as he walked. As far as he could see there was nothing but grass and sky and the twin ruts of the trail cutting through the grass ahead. Here and there along the road there were sunflowers in bloom. He paused suddenly. "Lundy, what in God's name do they do with all this country?
There's no farms."
"Cattle country," Lundy replied, "grazin' land. Used to be buffalo." Something moved in the distance, a moment of tawny-red when
caught by the sun's rays, then a flicker of white and they were gone. "What was that? Cows?"
"Antelope," Lundy said. "There's a good many of them."
"Who they belong to?"
Lundy glanced at him. "God, I guess you could say. They're wild."
"Can you hunt them?"
"Uh-huh. Not the best eatin' though. They're good enough, but not so good as buffalo or deer meat." He walked the horse in silence for several minutes and then asked, "What do you aim to do now?"
"Me? Catch a train back to New York. I piled on that train in a hurry and I was dead tired. I never wanted to get this far away." He hesitated, suddenly thoughtful. "Say, how far is it to New York, anyway?" Lundy shrugged. "You got me. Maybe a thousand miles."
Shanaghy pulled up short. "A thousand ... ? It can't be!"
"It is. Maybe more. This here's Kansas you're in." Lundy pointed ahead. "Colorado's right over there. You must have been really knocked out when you hit that train."
"Well ... I'd been movin' a lot. Hadn't slept much, that's true. I was dead beat." He scowled, thinking back. "I woke up now and again but it seems the train was always movin'. One time I looked out and there was nothing but four or five buildings across the street and some riders ... I don't know where that was."
"Least, you had you an outfit."
Shanaghy offered no reply. He was growing increasingly uneasy. The best thing he could do was get to a station and buy a ticket for New York. There, at least, he knew what was going on.
"Those lads back yonder," he said suddenly, "what were they going to hang you for?"
"I stole a horse. That's hanging out here. But this one I stole back. Belongs to a girl-kid. That Drako ... he wanted the horse." "The girl got the horse now?"
"Uh-huh."
Shanaghy looked at the saddle. "That's a heavy piece there. That saddle, I mean."
"Stock saddle. It's a work saddle. A man handlin' cattle and rough stock needs a good saddle to work from and this here's the best. Most cowhands spend most of their lives settin' in saddles just like this.
the Iron Marshall (1979) Page 4
