Tom Platt finished that sentence in whatever place awaits dead rustlers. Ironside, sick of the entire business, slapped the horse out from under him, then did the same with the other two.
Shamus O’Brien stared at the swinging bodies for a long time and listened to the creak of the tree limb. Finally he reached into his pocket and withdrew his tally book. He wrote the same two words on three pages: Cow Thief. He tore out the pages, rolled each into a tight cylinder, then pushed them one by one into the shirt pockets of the dead men where they’d be seen by others.
Without a word he rode away from the tree and his men followed.
Samuel rode beside Ironside and neither of them felt like talking.
But Samuel O’Brien knew he’d lost something that day. His boyhood had died with Tom Platt and the others.
And he would never get it back again.
Chapter Twelve
Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory, later that year
By the middle of September, the aspens in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains had turned yellow and the skies above Santa Fe were a clear, cobalt blue.
When Samuel O’Brien and Ironside rode into the town, the fiesta season was well under way, and the streets thronged with people. The sporting crowd had already arrived. Elegant gamblers, painted whores on their arms, rubbed shoulders with miners, soldiers, punchers from the surrounding ranches, dance hall loungers, frontier toughs, and the dark, laughing, ever-present Mexicans and their sloe-eyed women.
Huge freight wagons, drawn by ox teams, jostled for space in the clamoring streets. A couple bullwhackers, in a bid to determine who had the right of way, pounded each other in a rolling fistfight in the dust that drew a cheering crowd.
The sharp tang of dried peppers hanging in the booths lining the streets competed with the musky aromas of perfume, human sweat, spilled beer, and cigar smoke. The stink of fly-blown oxen and horse manure overlaid it all.
Samuel was fascinated by the town’s sights and sounds, his eyes wide. “I didn’t know there were this many people in the whole world.”
Ironside smiled. “It will get busier, Sam. We’ll make the deal for the Hereford, then get back to the ranch.”
“But we’ll stay for a while, huh?” Samuel said.
“Long enough to make a deal with the Scotsman.” Ironside looked around him. “Place like this crowds in on a man after a while.”
“Not me, Luther,” Samuel said. “I would never get bored with this. Not ever.”
Dressed in dusty range clothes, they led their horses through the crowds, their eyes searching for the Bon Chance saloon. In his letter, the Scotsman, a cattle broker by the name of McKenzie, wrote that he made the saloon his headquarters and could be found there most times of the day.
Ironside stopped a miner in the street and asked the whereabouts of the Bon Chance. The miner, bearded, belligerent, and already half-drunk, pointed farther along the street. “Down thataway, and be damned to ye fer stopping a Christian man going about his business.”
“Friendly town,” Ironside said.
But worse, much worse, was to come. And for Samuel, the day’s events would complete the farewell to childhood that began at the hanging of Tom Platt. The man he was destined to become was born that early fall in Santa Fe.
The Bon Chance occupied an entire street corner, with wide tinted glass windows on each side. A porch ran the entire length of the building, held up by ornate iron pillars. A dozen horses stood hipshot at the hitching rails, drowsing in the heat along with the old-timers who sat in rockers on the porch. Nursing beers, they gravely consulted nickel watches the size of saucers, as though their time mattered a damn to them or anyone else.
“Sam,” Ironside said as he led the way up the wooden steps to the saloon door, “stay close to me.”
“I can take care of myself, Luther,” Samuel said with a teenager’s confidence.
“Just stay close, is all.” Ironside glared at the boy. “And you heed me.”
The saloon was crowded with miners, townspeople, mule-whackers, businessmen in broadcloth and high celluloid collars, and a few drovers who were as dusty as Ironside and Samuel. The place had a fair-sized stage and a top floor where cribs were lined up in a row behind the carved wooden rail. A dozen girls in knee-length red, blue, and yellow dresses mingled with the crowd, laughing loud and false at the men’s dirty jokes.
The mahogany bar ran the whole length of the saloon. Five exquisite, pomaded bartenders, diamond stickpins glittering in their cravats, served up drinks behind it.
What Ironside saw and Samuel didn’t were two young men affecting the fancy garb of professional gamblers sitting at a card table near the far wall. They had a bottle on the table but seemed to drink little, their insolent, challenging eyes constantly scanning the crowd. Both wore tooled cartridge belts, ivory-handled Colts in the holsters.
Ironside recognized them for what they were, wannabe gunmen on the make, eager to kill a man to add to their reps. He decided then and there to step wide around them. Such youngsters would be mighty sudden and quite dangerous.
Angus McKenzie had not exaggerated when he wrote that the saloon was his headquarters. He sat in a far corner behind a huge desk, papers and ledgers spread out on the top. Behind him stood a filing cabinet and an oil lamp. Close at hand was a bottle of whiskey and a glass.
The man himself was small, wizened, his wrinkled face shaded by a green visor. He wore a broadcloth suit, much frayed at the cuffs, and a collarless shirt that had, years ago, been white.
“I think,” Ironside said to Samuel, “that’s our man.”
The ringing of their spurs as they stepped toward McKenzie attracted the attention of the two young men at the card table. The eyes of the taller of the two lingered on Ironside, perhaps noting the older man’s graying hair and his high, horseman’s way of wearing a gun. One of them said something, making the other laugh, and Ironside became aware. Both men had the cold, reptilian eyes of predators, and he knew he was being targeted.
He ignored the gunmen, his mind on the Hereford bull.
“Are you Mr. McKenzie?” he said when he stopped in front of the desk.
“Who wants to know?” The Scotsman’s voice sounded like a rusty gate opening.
“My name is Luther Ironside, foreman of the Shamrock-D. If you are Mr. McKenzie we exchanged letters about—”
“I’m McKenzie and know what we exchanged. Get chairs and sit yourselves down.”
The Scotsman waited until Ironside and Samuel were seated, then said, “Are ye sharp set?” Without waiting for an answer he pushed a plate of dried-up cheese and crackers across his desk. “It’ll cost you a dollar, though.”
Ironside and Samuel declined.
“A drink?” McKenzie lifted his bottle. “That will cost you a dollar as well.”
Again the two men refused and the Scotsman didn’t try to hide his disappointment. “Weel then,” he said, scowling, “since I can see you’re all business, Mr. Steelside—”
“Ironside.”
McKenzie ignored that and continued, “We’ll discuss the Hereford bull.”
“Where is he?” Ironside said.
“Weel, he’s no in my back pocket, is he? He’s biding at a farm a mile out of town. The farmer is charging me ten cents a day for board, the damned robber.”
“I’d like to see him. The bull I mean.”
“And so ye will, and you’ll no see its like again, I tell you that.” McKenzie’s face grew crafty. “Do you have the siller with ye?”
“I have the money, if that’s what you mean,” Ironside said, not liking the man.
Though Samuel was interested in the bull, he was much more fascinated by the deep, blue-veined cleavage of the plump woman in a red dress who stood at the bar, smiling at him.
He was vaguely aware that McKenzie was saying, “If I had the bull in Scotland, I’d ask no less than five hundred pound sterling for him, and I’d be taking a loss at that . . .”
The woman winked
at Samuel, and he blushed and glanced away.
Filled with a strange urge he’d never felt before, Samuel forced himself to become aware of the conversation again.
“Surely, sir, ye jest,” McKenzie said. “Three hundred dollars for a fine bull like the one I have not a mile from here? I’ll take six hundred, and at that such a loss I’ll end up in the poorhouse.”
As the bargaining went back and forth, the plump woman walked to Samuel and stood by his chair, her small, rounded belly just inches from his face.
Ironside glared at her. “Beat it, Rosie. We’re talking business here.”
“My name’s Chastity,” the woman said.
“He’s too young,” Ironside said, smiling. “He’s fifteen and he’s been raised gentle.”
The woman took off Samuel’s hat and ran her fingers through his hair. “I’ve never seen hair like this, as yellow as sunlight.”
Samuel blushed, and for the want of anything else to say, he managed, “My ma cuts it.”
“Well now,” the woman said, her voice too loud, “isn’t that a good boy.”
Over at the card table, the two young men laughed, and Samuel blushed a deeper red.
“Have you ever thrown a leg over the bucking pony before?” Chastity said.
Samuel was unaware of the reference, but was smart enough to understand its meaning. He shook his head, his ears bright red.
McKenzie leaned across the table, scowling. “She’s talking about the carnal pleasures of the flesh, boy, sinful pleasures to be sure.”
“I know,” Samuel said, still blushing.
Ironside had been watching intently, and then made up his mind. “How much, Rosie?”
“For you or the virgin?”
“For him.”
The woman’s eyes hardened. “Two dollars. It will be quick.”
Ironside reached into his pocket and brought out a coin. “Here’s five. Teach him all you know.”
“That’s a lot.”
“Teach him. I don’t ever want to see him get red in the face with a woman again. It ain’t manly.”
“Then it’s agreed,” Angus McKenzie said. “Four hundred and fifty dollars for the bull, and you’ve robbed me.”
Ironside smiled. “Mr. McKenzie, I don’t think you’ve ever been robbed in your life.”
The Scotsman grinned for the first time that day. “Yer no tellin’ a lie, Mr. Ironside, but you paid a fair price for the bull. Now I’ll give you a bill of sale.”
McKenzie pretended to busy himself with the papers on his desk. Without looking up, he said, “Beware, Mr. Ironside.”
“I see them.”
His eyes still on his desk, the Scotsman said, “The laddie on the left killed a man a couple days ago, right here in the saloon. He’s very skilled with the revolver.”
Ironside nodded. “I would guess he is.”
“And the other lad is just as quick.”
“I have no quarrel with them.”
“But I think they have with you.” He looked up for the first time. “Those old breeks you’re wearing are Confederate cavalry issue. I know, since I wore the gray myself.”
“I reckon their heads are full of strange Yankee notions,” Ironside said. “I’ll step clear of them.”
“You and the boy, if he ever gets done with that fancy woman.”
McKenzie dropped his head again, picked up a pen, and scrawled a bill of sale. Then he told Ironside how to get to the farm.
“Now, if ye don’t like the bull for any reason, you just come back here and I’ll refund your money,” the Scotsman said. “Of course, I’ll have to deduct a hundred dollars for expenses, you understand.”
“What expenses?” Ironside said.
“Oh weel, wear and tear on the bull and the extra paperwork. It all adds up, you know.”
“Mr. McKenzie, I have the feeling you’ll end up a millionaire.”
“And what makes you think I’m no one already?” The Scotsman’s eyes twinkled.
Fifteen minutes later Samuel came down from a crib upstairs, Chastity hanging onto his arm.
“Sam did just fine.” She smiled. “As a teacher, I’m a credit to my lousy profession.”
“How are you feeling, Sam?” Ironside said.
The boy grinned. “Good, real good. It was fun.”
“It usually is. Now let’s get the Hereford bull and head home.” Ironside rose from his chair and stabbed a finger at Samuel. “Don’t tell your mother what happened or she’ll skin us alive, then have us doing penance for the next year.”
“Aye, that’s right, because in the female mind there’s no greater sin than fornicatin’ with loose women,” McKenzie said.
“There are some things Ma doesn’t have to know,” Samuel said.
He and Ironside shook hands with McKenzie and stepped toward the saloon door.
Then big trouble came down.
Chapter Thirteen
“Hey, cowboy!”
It was not a friendly greeting, it was a challenge. The edged words cut through the clamor of the saloon like a knife.
Ironside, a man with nothing to prove, would’ve kept on walking, leaving the threat to hang in the air and wither like a leaf. But Samuel, younger, less wise, turned.
Ironside realized the boy had made a mistake and cursed under his breath, but he stood by Samuel’s side, his eyes on the two grinning young men walking slowly toward them. He knew there was no way out of it. Maybe there had never been.
Both men had killed before, and they were eager to stack up against somebody and kill again. He could read that in their eyes. Their white-handled Colts hung lower than most, and the younger man on the left was pulling on skintight black gloves, a tinhorn’s trick used to scare and intimidate. It might have worked on farm boys, but not on Luther Ironside.
“Are you talking to me?” he said.
“Yeah, you, and your boy there.” The man’s eyes shifted to Samuel. “What the hell were you doing with my woman, boy?”
“I’m not a boy,” Samuel said, his anger flaring.
“My woman says you are, says you pecked away at her like a scared little chicken.”
“Take it easy, Sam,” Ironside said. To the grinning gunmen he said, “If you’re trying to pick a fight, pick it with me. I’m the one who paid the whore.”
“You calling my woman a whore, old Johnny?”
Ironside smiled. “Yeah, I took you for some kind of Yankee, all gab and no guts.” He was sick of this; sick of the two wannabe bad men, sick of the pre-gunfight ritual they felt was necessary. “My talkin’ is done, boy. Now let’s open the ball. Skin your iron and get to your work.”
The youngster knew he’d made a mistake. The big man with gray hair showing under his hat was not scared, but was standing easy, confident, waiting to make his move, almost relaxed. The thought clamored into the gunman’s head, Damn it, he’s been through this before.
His voice thick, the man said, “My quarrel’s not with you.” He looked at Samuel, an easier target. “It’s with him, the damned woman-stealer.”
Samuel stood still, as though he’d absorbed the insult and had decided to let it go. But he was Shamus O’Brien’s son, descended from a people with an ancient fighting tradition, and he would not back off. Samuel would take only so much sass and he’d reached his limit.
He drew and fired.
Shock. Horror. Disbelief. One by one the emotions registered in the young gunman’s face. When Samuel made his play, the gunfighter had gone for his own gun. Too slow. Samuel’s bullet crashed into the man’s chest, high center, and he staggered back a step, then dropped to his knees, stunned at the time and manner of his dying.
“I’m out of it! Don’t shoot!” The second gunman’s hands were in the air. He looked like he’d just been punched hard in the belly.
“Unbuckle the gun belt, let it drop,” Samuel said, gun smoke wreathing around him.
Beside him, his own Colt still in the leather, Ironside stared at Samuel as tho
ugh he was seeing a complete stranger.
The thud of the gun belt hitting the floor was loud in the hushed room.
“Take him out,” Samuel said, nodding at the dead man on the floor. “Find him an undertaker.”
A couple men stepped to the body, but Samuel’s cold voice stopped them. “Not you.” He pointed to the gunman. “Him.”
The man hesitated; saw something in Samuel’s eyes he didn’t like, then bent to his task. He dragged his friend out the saloon door, and a rush of conversation began.
Ironside silenced it. “All of you saw it. He was notified.”
“What was his name?” Samuel asked. When nobody answered he asked again. “Anybody know his name?”
Chastity stepped forward. “Yeah, he called himself the Blue Springs Kid. He’d told me he’d seen the elephant and had killed seven men, and that’s all I know about him.” She looked at Samuel. “You learn everything fast, don’t you, my boy?”
“I’m not your boy or anybody else’s boy,” Samuel said.
The woman nodded. “No, I guess you’re not.”
Ironside and Samuel were on Dromore land, the big Hereford bull plodding in front of them. Between them there had been little talk since Santa Fe, both men marooned on an island of their own thoughts.
When Samuel saw the mesa and the big house of Dromore in the distance, he said, “Will the bull live through the winter?”
“Yes, Sam, I believe he will,” Ironside said.
“He must if he’s to improve the herd. Four hundred and fifty dollars is a considerable capital investment for one bull.”
“He’s not a longhorn, but he’s tough.”
“I want to see Hereford crossbreeds come spring,” Samuel said.
Ironside smiled. “I can’t guarantee it, but I’m pretty sure you will.”
Samuel turned his head and stared at the older man. “I don’t want pretty sure, I want certain.”
“Then, I’m certain you’ll have calves on the ground.”
“You will see to it, Luther.”
“Yes, boss.”
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