He rode deep in thought, the pain in his lower back gnawing at him like a rabid beaver. The ransom note had come late, probably when Nellie eventually revealed that she was from Dromore. The kidnappers had suddenly seen their chance and taken it. The carpetbag, bulging with paper and empty burlap sacks, hung on Shawn’s saddle horn. Shamus smiled to himself, his face grim. He’d pay all right, but in lead, not gold.
The four riders took a cattle and game trail that climbed upward toward a pine-covered saddleback, a clearing about twenty-five yards wide at its crest. Had the Apaches not been far to the south raiding with old Geronimo, the O’Briens would’ve approached the gap in the trees with more caution. But, led by the colonel, they rode into the clearing . . . and into an ambush.
“Hold it right there.”
A man wearing a black-and-white cowhide vest stepped out of the trees, a Greener in his hands. A second man, also holding a shotgun, walked out of the pines opposite.
Vest Man read something in Shamus’s eyes and said, “Don’t get any ideas, Pops.”
“I don’t argue with scatterguns,” he said.
“You got the money?” Vest Man was a tall, gangling drink of water, and he grinned constantly, something that always put the colonel’s teeth on edge.
“I have the money,” he said. “All of it. Do you have the woman?”
“We’ve got her. She’s back at the cabin with the boss.”
“And who might he be?” Samuel spoke for the first time.
“Maybe it’s best you don’t know, cowboy,” Vest Man said. “I don’t want to scare you away afore the money is paid.”
“Mister,” Samuel said, “I don’t scare easily.”
“All right. Does the name Jesse Tanner mean anything to you?”
“Not a damn thing,” Samuel said.
But Shawn had heard the name before. Jesse Tanner was an outlaw and sometime lawman out of Deaf Smith County, Texas. He was a named gun hand of reputation, and the talk was that he’d killed six men in draw fights. Shawn didn’t know if that was true or not, but he’d no doubt that Tanner was a bad one, and lightning fast with the Colt.
Samuel’s answer to the outlaw’s question had irritated the man, and it showed. “Let’s see the money.”
“You’ll see the money when we see Nellie,” Shamus said.
“You’re difficult,” Vest Man said.
“Uh-huh, can’t argue with that,” Shamus said.
“Only a damned Irishman would be difficult.”
Shamus nodded. “Yes, that is so.”
Vest Man thought it over for a while, and then became more aggressive with the business end of the Greener. “You boys shuck your guns.” He pointed into the trees. “See that boulder there? We’ll pile ’em up for you on top of that, and you can pick them up on your way back.”
“Leave us our rifles,” Samuel said. “The Apaches are out.”
“There ain’t an Apache within miles of here,” Vest Man said. “Now shuck them guns like I told you.”
The outlaw saw the O’Briens hesitate and he pinned his grin back in place. “Boys, if’n you don’t drop your guns it will lead to a shootin’. An’ ol’ Jesse says to tell you that if he hears a gunshot, just one, he’ll gut that woman like a hog.” He moved the muzzle of the shotgun until it pointed at Shawn. “I’m pegging you for the gun hand, handsome. You’ll git it first.”
“Drop your guns, boys,” Shamus said. “I won’t endanger Nellie’s life.”
“But, Pa—”
“Do as I say.” Shamus unbuckled his gun belt and let it drop to the ground. His rifle followed. The O’Brien brothers did the same.
Vest Man’s grin stretched. “Now that’s what I call bein’ right sensible.” He looked at his companion. “Lem, pick up them guns and stack them over there where I said.”
“Mister,” Shamus said to Vest Man, “you’re a sorry piece of trash.”
“Yeah, and you may be a damned foreign Irishman lording it over half of creation, but I can still blow you clean out of that saddle if I hear any more of your sass.”
“Pa,” Patrick said, “let it go. We came here to rescue Nellie, remember.”
“Since I’m a sorry piece of trash, maybe I don’t understand the words real good, but it seems to me you should’ve said ransom. Not rescue.”
“Yes,” Patrick said. “You’re right, and I stand corrected.”
“Rescue sets better with me,” Shawn said.
Vest Man gave him a mean look. “Don’t get any fancy ideas, handsome. I can gun you an’ spoil them good looks real easy.”
The hogback led down into a canyon about a hundred yards wide. After a mile or so, the walls opened into a flat and Lone Mountain came into view. Behind it the peaks of the saw-toothed Ortiz Mountains stood purple against the sky.
A cabin stood near the base of the mountain, near what looked like the entrance to an abandoned mine shaft. The cabin was a windowless log structure that probably dated from the 1850s, when hard-rock miners had moved into the area. They’d moved on after they failed to hit pay dirt.
Shamus kneed his horse closer to Shawn. “In the carpetbag,” he whispered.
Shawn nodded, knowing instantly what his father meant.
Shamus had seen Shawn use a gun and he reckoned of all his sons, only Jacob was better, and not by much, though that narrow margin was the difference between life and death.
The outlaw named Lem rode on ahead. He drew rein at the cabin and yelled, “Jesse, it’s me. We got the money.”
The door opened and a tall man stepped outside. He wore a frilled white shirt and tight riding breeches tucked into English boots. His hair was long and fell over his shoulders in cascading black waves. His crossed gun belts held a pair of Colts, the holsters low on his thighs.
This was a flashy, tinhorn rig, a fact that did not escape Shawn O’Brien.
Tanner was a draw fighter all right, and Shawn knew he’d be almighty sudden. Such men went into a gunfight like coiled springs, their nerves taut as violin strings. It was the very source of their speed. The sudden release of this tension manifested itself in explosive motion, giving them the edge. But facing unarmed men, Tanner was relaxed, smiling, his fast draw distant from his mind.
When Shamus and his sons drew rein, Tanner said, “Why, Colonel O’Brien as ever was. It is indeed a great honor to meet you, sir. You are a true hero of the South.”
Shamus ignored that. “Where’s Nellie?”
“In the cabin, of course.”
“If you’ve harmed her, Tanner, I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing, Colonel. I can’t abide threats from a man in no position to make them. Can you, sir? I mean, really?”
Tanner affected the costume and manners of a Southern gentleman, but Shamus considered him white trash, and he was not a man to hold back his opinions.
“Get Nellie out here, you damned thief.”
“Thief, am I?” Tanner said, his face reddening.
“When you took Nellie you stole from Dromore, and that makes you a common thief and criminal. Now get her out here.”
Tanner’s men had dismounted. Rifles at the ready, they flanked him, tense.
“Since you wish for no courtesy between us,” Tanner said, “I’ll get right to the point—show me the ransom money.”
Shawn O’Brien held up the carpetbag. “I have the thirty thousand here. You’ll get it when we see that Nellie is unhurt.”
“We had some fun with her, is all,” the man in the cowhide vest said. “She’s a mite wore out, but she ain’t hurt.” He grinned. “You know how it is when men pass a woman around.”
“No, I don’t.” Shawn opened the carpetbag. “I have the money, now show me Nellie.”
Tanner stared hard at Shawn, his instincts clamoring. The O’Brien brother had the look and self-assurance of a gun hand. He’d be dangerous in a fight, if he were armed.
The outlaw relaxed a little. Without looking away from Shawn, he said, “Hank, get her out here
.”
The man in the vest said, “You sure, Jesse? We don’t have to show these people nothing.”
“You heard me, Hank, get her out here.”
His face ugly, Hank stepped into the cabin and returned with Nellie. He threw her onto the ground. “There you are, good as new. Now you ’uns can wear her out.”
“Nellie, get over here,” Shamus said.
The woman rose to her feet and stumbled toward him, but Tanner’s voice stopped her. “You stay right there, woman. First, the money, Colonel, then we’ll parley some more.”
“My talking is done, especially to a lowlife like you, Tanner,” Shamus said.
“Yeah, well maybe I’ve decided to keep her. If that turns out to be the case”—Tanner smiled—“it’ll cost you a heap more than thirty thousand to get her back.”
“Are you reneging on our deal, Tanner?” Shamus said.
“Seems like, don’t it?” Tanner turned to Hank. “Get the bag.” To Shamus he said, “While we count the money I’ll decide if you can have the woman back or not.”
Shawn tensed, his hand near the open top of the bag. He was ready to throw the dice. But the Mexican boy decided it was the moment to cut and run.
All three outlaws turned their heads to look after the fleeing boy. Shawn plunged his hand into the bag and found a three-inch barreled Colt. It was a gun for close work, but it would do.
Hank carried his rifle, unhandily, in his right hand. His eyes widened in horror as Shawn brought his revolver up and fired. The bullet crashed into the middle of Hank’s forehead, and before he hit the ground, Shawn had already kicked his horse toward Tanner, the more dangerous of the two surviving kidnappers.
Tanner was surprised, but he recovered quickly. His Colt cleared leather as Shawn swung his mount to the right and lashed out at the gunman with his left boot. The kick caught Tanner square in the chest. He made an “Oof ” sound as the air drove out of his lungs and he fell back against the cabin wall.
The man named Lem stepped to the side, his rifle coming up to his shoulder. He and Shawn fired at the same time. Lem’s bullet split the air beside Shawn’s right ear, but the outlaw staggered back a step when Shawn’s bullet hit him low in the belly. The man sank to his knees and Shawn was vaguely aware that Samuel had charged his horse at Tanner.
Samuel launched himself from the saddle and tackled the gunman. Both men fell to the ground, Samuel punching hard on his way down.
Screaming obscenities, Lem tried to get to his feet and Shawn shot him a second time. The man went down and stayed down.
Shawn controlled his rearing horse and turned in time to see Samuel haul Tanner to his feet and connect with a tremendous right hook to the jaw that sent the outlaw crashing to the ground, his chin hanging slack.
“Samuel, get that piece of trash to his feet,” Shamus said. He yelled to Shawn, “Bring me the Colt, Patrick.”
Patrick kneed his horse to Shamus’s side and handed him the revolver. “Samuel, stand clear there,” his father said.
Samuel picked up the gun Tanner had dropped, jerked the one from his left-hand holster and stepped aside.
“Jesse Tanner,” Shamus said, grim and terrible, his eyes on fire, “you stole from Dromore when you took this woman captive. That is a thing I cannot forgive or forget. An attack on Dromore is an attack on me and my kin and it can’t be allowed to stand. I’ve hanged better men than you for stealing a single cow, not because they were thieves, but because the theft of just one steer weakened Dromore in the eyes of men and God.”
His eyes locked on Shamus’s terrifying, merciless face, all the self-assurance went out of Jesse Tanner. Without his guns, the man seemed to shrink, becoming less significant.
“Have you anything to say?” Shamus said. “I will wait if you wish to bow your head in prayer.”
Tanner said nothing. Then he salvaged some dignity and stood tall, his eyes defiant. “Get it over with, damn you.”
“Then go to your Maker with a curse on your lips.”
Shamus fired, and shot again. Tanner fell, and all the life in him fled.
The Colonel turned and looked one by one at his sons. “I will not tolerate any attack on Dromore, and when I’m gone, neither will any of you.”
He waited, got no answer, and said, “Samuel?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Samuel said, “It will be as you say, Colonel.”
“Patrick?”
“As you say, sir.”
“Shawn?”
“Dromore will always be, Pa. And I will do my best to make it so.”
Shamus smiled. “Then I am well content. Let us go home now.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dromore, Winter 1886
The terrible winter of 1886 that devastated the cattle industry from Montana to Texas spared Dromore, a blessing Shamus O’Brien ascribed to the will of God.
The O’Brien brothers and the vaqueros were out all winter long, checking on range conditions and their herds. Luther Ironside put the die-off at no more than ten percent, and, unlike many others ranchers who lived constantly on the edge of bankruptcy, it was a loss Dromore could absorb. Shamus turned a profit in December of that year when he shipped a thousand head by boxcar from Santa Fe to the San Carlos Indian reservation on an army contract.
But on Christmas Eve came bad news, the arrival to the south of a four-legged plague that threatened the very existence of Dromore and the O’Brien family.
A cowboy riding the grub line showed up at the ranch house and was immediately invited to set and eat, as was the custom.
During the meal around the great table in the dining room, the vaqueros and their families were dressed in their Christmas finery. Even Luther Ironside and the local ranchers had been persuaded to take off their chaps and spurs and wear broadcloth and white linen.
Patrick, a more sensitive man than any of his brothers, felt a reserve in the drifting puncher, a Texan by the name of Jim Lawson. The young man played his part in the festivities and even pulled an English Christmas cracker—the first one he’d ever seen—with Nellie. Although he happily wore the paper hat he’d found inside, he seemed a little distracted the entire evening, as though he was holding something back. Patrick was sure Lawson had a secret of some kind he didn’t want to tell the others.
At least not yet.
After the ladies retreated to the drawing room for bonbons and sherry, the men settled down to port and cigars, and Patrick made a point of sitting next to Lawson.
As the conversation at the top of the table turned to the great blizzard and its devastating effect on cattlemen, Patrick held a match to Lawson’s cigar and said in his quiet way, “Are you on the scout, Jim?”
The cowboy blew out a cloud of blue smoke, then shook his head.
“Then what’s on your mind?” Patrick said.
Lawson was quiet for a while as though dabbing a loop on his thoughts, then he turned guileless blue eyes on Patrick. “I came up through the Estancia Valley yesterday and stopped at a sheep camp a mile east of the salt lakes.” He smiled. “First time I ever ate sheep meat stew. It ain’t half bad.”
Patrick nodded, letting the man tell his story at his own pace.
“Well, anyhoo, I got to talking with a greaser and he said a couple gringos showed up in the valley last week,” Lawson said. “Seems they were this lawyer feller from Boston by the name of Joel Whitney and his brother James. They claimed they’d bought a land grant for the entire valley from the government of these United States, said they’d been to Albuquerque and got a court order of eviction, and that the sheepherders were squatters and they’d have to get off the land, pronto.”
“How many sheep are we talking about?” Patrick said.
“Thousands. Hell, maybe tens of thousands. Too many for a body to count, I reckon.”
Lawson studied the end of his cigar, then said, “All them woolies got to go somewhere and from what the herder told me, somewhere is north where there’s still open range.”
/> “That’s Dromore range,” Patrick said.
“Well, it’s wide open as far as them herders and their sheep are concerned.”
Lawson poured port into his glass from the decanter. “I never tried this before. What’s it called?”
“Port. It’s a kind of wine.”
“Sure beats forty-rod to a pulp.” Lawson sipped his port. “There’s worse to come.”
“Hell,” Patrick said, “I reckon it couldn’t get any worse.”
“It does.”
Patrick suddenly became aware that there was a silence at the head of the table. He turned and saw his father’s eyes locked on Jim Lawson. Sitting beside Shamus, Zebulon McCoy, a hard-bitten old rancher from the Conchas River country, looked as though somebody had just shot his favorite dog.
“Tell us about them woolies, son,” McCoy said.
Lawson was flustered. In the crystal and polished wood room with its silent servants, he was a far piece from the bunkhouse.
Patrick smiled at him. “Just tell it, Jim. How did things get worse?”
Lawson swallowed hard, and fortified himself with a slug of port. “The original owner of the valley through a Mexican land grant is a feller by the name of”—the cowboy took a tally book from his shirt pocket—“I wrote this down when the greaser told it to me, because it’s a right fancy handle. Yeah, the feller’s name is Don Manuel Antonio Otero.” Lawson smiled at Patrick. “Don is a funny handle for a Mex, ain’t it?”
“Well, it’s a title,” Patrick said, “like duke or earl.”
Zebulon McCoy thumped the table so hard, the glasses jumped. “Damn it, boy, tell it straight, I want to know about them woolies.”
Beside him, Shamus’s face was like stone, a man who didn’t like the writing on the wall.
“Well, the dook or don or whatever the hell he was, asked for a parley with the Whitney brothers to settle who really owns the valley,” Lawson said. “Joel Whitney arranged the meeting. Don Manuel didn’t come in person, but he sent his son Felipe along with a couple vaqueros. The Whitney boys invited their brother-in-law, a pretty fair gun hand, as it happens. I don’t know his name.”
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