The Brothers O'Brien

by J. A. Johnstone

  The cowboy talked directly to Zebulon McCoy. “It turns out that somebody at the meeting figured his talking was all done because he started shooting. When the smoke cleared, James Whitney was dead, the brother-in-law gasping his last, and Joel was wounded in the wrist.” Lawson consulted his tally book again. “Don Manuel’s son was as dead as he was ever going to be and so were the vaqueros.”

  “And what about them woolies?” McCoy said. “That’s what I want to know.”

  The port gave Lawson confidence. “All I can tell you is what the Mexican herder told me. He said Joel Whitney, after seeing his relatives lying there in a welter of blood, sent to Texas for hired guns. On account of how times are hard, he got some of the best. Felipe’s sorrowing Pa armed his vaqueros and a war is brewing. It ain’t about sheep, it’s about land, and if the Mexicans lose, them herders will be forced out of the valley and move their woolies north.”

  Shamus suddenly looked concerned. “Sheep will cover the range like locusts and poison the grass for hundreds of miles around.”

  Lawson nodded, his face flushed from the wine. “Seems like it’s time for you to take sides, Colonel O’Brien.”

  Normally Shamus would have called that last statement impertinent and jumped all over the cowboy, but worried as he was he let it go.

  Patrick voiced his father’s thoughts. “We must side with the Mexicans, Colonel. Or make a deal with Whitney to move the sheep south if we help him.”

  “Damn it,” McCoy said. “I ain’t a one for making deals. I say a pox on both their houses and we chase them all out of the valley, Whitney and the Mexicans.” He looked at Shamus. “We’ll graze cattle on the Estancia.”

  “Your range will not be affected, Zebulon,” Shamus said.

  “Shamus, if ten thousand woolies move north, everybody’s range will be in danger. They’ll spread across the high country like a plague.” McCoy refilled his glass. “I can bring five hands, all of them good men.”

  “Didn’t you hear what young Lawson said, Zebulon?” Shamus demanded. “This Whitney person, a carpetbagging Yankee by the sound of him, has recruited Texas gunfighters. I will not send cowhands against such men.”

  “My riders will stick,” McCoy said.

  “They’ll stick because they’ll all be in the ground,” Shamus said.

  “Pa, I’ll go,” Samuel said.

  “And me, Colonel,” Ironside said.

  “I’ll tag along as well,” Shawn said, smiling. A rancher’s giggling daughter, who preferred the company of a handsome young man to that of the gossiping ladies, sat on his knee.

  “Samuel, you’ll bide here at Dromore. Your wife is nursing my grandson and I won’t see her widowed. Luther, you’re a tough man, but you’re too old for gun work.”

  Ironside opened his mouth to object, but Shamus held up a silencing hand. “Shawn, you’re better with a gun than most. You will ride south.”

  “What about me, Pa?” Patrick asked.

  Shamus thought for a few moments, and then said, “Yes, you will go with Shawn. But you will keep your wits about you, and your nose out of a book.”

  He looked again at Ironside. “Who among my vaqueros is best with the iron?”

  Before the man could answer, a slim, handsome vaquero said, “That would be me, Colonel.”

  “You have a wife, Andre,” Shamus said.

  “I ride for the brand, Senor.”

  “Well said. Then you will go with my sons.” Shamus stared at Shawn, a mildly disapproving look on his face. “Where is your brother?”

  Shawn smiled. “Which one?”

  “You know the one.”

  “Jacob is in El Paso, Pa.”

  “Can you wire him and bring him here to Dromore?”

  Shawn hesitated, and his father said, “We need his fast gun. The future of Dromore is at stake.”

  “I’ll wire him.”

  “He’ll come?”

  “Of course he’ll come.”

  “Then, when Jacob gets here you will ride south. You will make sure the sheep don’t move out of the valley.” Shamus looked hard at Shawn. “Beyond that, you must use your own judgment and do what you think is best for Dromore. Do you understand?”

  Shawn nodded. “I understand, Colonel.”

  McCoy stabbed his cigar in Shawn’s direction. “Just remember, young feller, ain’t nobody gonna blame you for shooting a Yankee or a sheepherder or two.”

  Shamus sat back in his chair and smiled. “Now, enough long faces on Christmas Eve, the night of Our Savior’s birth. We will rejoin the ladies, and, Shawn, we’ll have a song with you, a good old Irish song if you please.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Shawn said aloud. Inwardly he said something else entirely. Please, Jacob, don’t let me down.

  Chapter Eighteen

  El Paso, Texas, Christmas Eve, 1886

  The north wind bit cold, and snow dusted the rugged peaks of the Franklin Mountains as Jacob O’Brien stepped along the frosted mud of El Paso’s Main Street, then turned right onto North Oregon toward the steamed-up door of the Columbia Restaurant.

  Many of the residents of the town were celebrating at home, but scores of tipsy revelers crowded the public park opposite the restaurant. Farther down the street a crowd had gathered outside the Star of Texas Saloon. For what purpose, he had no idea.

  The short day was already shading into night and lamps were lit all over town. Jacob smiled when the thought came to him that El Paso boasted more twinkling lights than the evening sky.

  He heard a soft, low mew behind him and stopped. What the hell?

  Turning, he saw nothing, then heard the sound again, this time from the direction of his feet. He glanced down and met the green eyes of a tiny calico kitten staring up at him. “Well, who are you?”

  The kitten mewed again and coiled around his feet like a furry snake.

  “You go back to your ma,” O’Brien said. “You’ll catch your death of cold out here.”

  He turned and stepped away, but the calico followed him, raising a ruckus for attention.

  O’Brien stopped, picked up the little cat in both hands, and held it at eye level. “All right, you’re as skinny as a rail, so maybe you don’t have a ma.”

  The kitten kicked its legs and mewed, showing tiny white teeth in a pink mouth.

  “What am I going to do with you?”

  The calico mewed a suggestion, but O’Brien shook his head. “That’s no good. I don’t talk cat.”

  He looked down the street. The crowd outside the Star of Texas had grown larger, and people chatted with each other, and pointed to the saloon’s closed glass doors.

  “What do you suppose is going on down there, cat, huh?” O’Brien said.

  The kitten showed little interest in speculating on that point, and O’Brien said, “You can come into the restaurant with me and get some grub, because I reckon you’re starving. Just be aware of three things—be on your best behavior, remember that I don’t take sass, and thirdly, this isn’t a permanent arrangement. I don’t want a cat. I’ve a hard enough time keeping myself fed.”

  O’Brien opened a button of his canvas mackinaw and shoved the kitten inside next to his chest. The little animal shivered for a few moments, then began to purr.

  O’Brien smiled, oddly pleased. “Well, if that don’t beat all.” He pulled the door open, and entered the restaurant.

  “Where are all your customers, Joe?” O’Brien said.

  The restaurant owner shrugged. “It’s Christmas Eve, Jake. Everybody’s to home, where I’ll be real soon.” He shook his head. “Well, everybody but the drunks and the crowd down at the Star of Texas.”

  “Saw that. What’s going on?”

  “It’s that damned Jasper Rhodes. Crazy man has the piano player and a girl inside the saloon with him. He says he’ll kill ’em both if’n he doesn’t get five thousand dollars, a hoss, and safe conduct out of town.”

  “I never knew Jasper to be violent before,” O’Brien said. “H
e’s a real good blacksmith. Be a pity if he gets himself gunned tonight.”

  “I don’t know about that, but sometimes the festive season does strange things to a man.” Joe smiled. “Five thousand dollars be damned. Hell, I don’t think there’s that amount of money in the whole town.”

  O’Brien took the kitten from inside his mackinaw. “Burn me a steak and put half-a-dozen fried eggs with it, Joe. And do you have something for this little feller? He’s hungry.”

  “He ain’t a feller, Jake. He’s a girl cat. I seen her hanging around the past couple days, making a damned nuisance of herself.”

  “Must’ve lost her ma, I reckon,” O’Brien said.

  Joe nodded. “Seems like.” He stepped toward the kitchen. “Steak an’ eggs comin’ up, then I’m shutting shop.”

  O’Brien set the kitten on the table. “I’m calling you Eve, on account of how this is Christmas Eve and I don’t know what your mama named you.” The calico mewed and he said, “Good, Eve sets all right with you, huh?”

  Joe laid a small plate filled with chopped egg and scraps of beef on the table. “That ain’t for you, Jake. It’s for the cat.”

  “Glad you told me. I thought it looked real tasty.”

  “Yours is coming right out,” Joe grinned when he saw the kitten dive on the food.

  But before O’Brien’s dinner was served, the door opened, letting in a gust of cold air and a few flakes of snow. A small, worried-looking man wearing a bearskin coat stepped to the table.

  “A feller told me he saw you come in here,” the man said.

  O’Brien recognized him as Bill Andrews, the owner of the Star of Texas. “What can I do for you, Bill?”

  “It’s Christmas Eve and I’m losing money,” Andrews said. “Jasper Rhodes is drunk and has my piano player and a hostess in the saloon, threatening to kill them.”

  “So I was told,” O’Brien said.

  Andrews gave the younger man a despairing look. “If people can’t get into my saloon, they aren’t buying drinks and I’ll go broke.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Get the crazy bedbug out of my place.”

  “Why me?”

  Andrews looked surprised. “Because you’re good with the iron and you don’t scare worth a damn.”

  “Why me?”

  “I told you why”—realization dawned on Andrews’ face—“because I’m paying you—”

  “Fifty dollars.”

  The saloon owner was shocked. “That’s highway robbery.”

  “Take it or leave it. If Rhodes doesn’t get out of your saloon, you’ll lose a lot more than that.”

  Andrews’ shoulders slumped. “All right. Fifty dollars.”

  “In advance.”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Mr. O’Brien.”

  “It’s a hard world, Mr. Andrews.”

  The saloon owner paid O’Brien just as Joe put his plate in front of him, the smoking steak still sizzling.

  “I’ll be right down just as soon as I eat dinner,” O’Brien said, fending off Eve as he picked up his fork and knife.

  “Eat it fast,” Andrews said. “Time is money.”

  “Here, take the kitten,” O’Brien said. “Her name is Eve.”

  Andrews gingerly took the calico, then yelped. “Hell, it’s like holding a roll of barbed wire.”

  “I’ll take her,” a saloon girl in a bright red dress said. She had a man’s coat thrown over her shoulders against the cold. “Cats like me.”

  And Eve did, preferring the woman’s sure and gentle touch to Andrews’ timid fumbling.

  About sixty people, mostly men with a scattering of women, including a couple of El Paso’s respectable matrons, were assembled outside the Star of Texas to see the fun. Whiskey flasks passed from hand to eager hand and the evening air was blue with cigar smoke.

  O’Brien opened his mackinaw and eased his Colt in the holster.

  “If you hear shooting,” he said to Andrews, “come a-running. I could be the one who’s down.”

  He stepped to the front of the saloon, took a deep breath, and opened the door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jasper Rhodes stood in the middle of the saloon floor, a bottle to his lips and a revolver in his hand. Pinned to the far wall, like butterflies to a board, stood the piano player and a pretty, terrified saloon girl.

  Rhodes turned as Jacob O’Brien stepped inside, his Remington coming up.

  “Don’t, Jasper,” O’Brien said, his hand hovering over the butt of his Colt. “Or I’ll drop you right where you stand.”

  Rhodes blinked, peering into the smoky distance between him and O’Brien. “Jacob?”

  “It’s me all right, Jasper.”

  “Are you here to kill me, Jacob?”

  “Only if I have to.”

  The black man, dressed only in pants and a torn, collarless shirt, took a staggering step toward O’Brien who tensed, ready for the draw and shoot. Rhodes had the huge chest and shoulder muscles of a blacksmith, and he wouldn’t be easy to drop.

  “It’s Christmas Eve, Jacob, an’ nobody gives a damn about me,” Rhodes said.

  “Put the gun on a table and we’ll talk,” O’Brien said.

  “Jacob, they was gonna throw me out of here on account of me being a colored man. “ Rhodes’ face took on a look that O’Brien interpreted as a strange kind of disappointment. “It’s Christmas Eve and they was gonna throw me out.” He blinked again, trying to bring O’Brien into focus. “Why would they do that?”

  “I guess they don’t think you belong, Jasper.”

  “They don’t think you belong, either, Jacob.”

  O’Brien smiled “No, most times they don’t.”

  “Are you gonna kill me, Jacob?”

  “If you put the gun down, I won’t have to.” Rhodes sat in the nearest chair and laid the Remington on the table, but it was still close to hand.

  O’Brien looked past him to the saloon girl. “What’s your name?”

  “Laura,” the girl said.

  “Bring us a bottle of Bill Andrews’ best brandy and three glasses,” O’Brien said. “Oh, and a few of his Havana cigars.” He moved his eyes to the piano player. “Play us some Christmas music.”

  The man nodded and hurried to the piano. “Yes, sir, anything you say.” His fingers found the keys and he began to play Angels from the Realms of Glory, with its message of angels, sages, and saints.

  The girl returned with a dusty bottle of Hennessy and the glasses.

  “Sit with us, Laura,” O’Brien said.

  After throwing Rhodes a single half-worried, half-scared look, she did as she was told. She chose the chair farthest from him.

  O’Brien poured the brandy into the glasses and held his high. “Happy Christmas, Jasper,” he said.

  The girl was smart, caught on quickly and did the same. “And may you have many more, Jasper,” she said, smiling.

  The big blacksmith was taken aback. He lifted his glass and smiled, “It’s Christmas Eve and we’re celebratin’.”

  “Hell, yeah, a time to be with friends,” O’Brien said. He stuck a cigar in Rhodes’ mouth, thumbed a match into flame and lit it.

  Rhodes looked from O’Brien to Laura. “You are my friends.”

  “Yes, we are,” Laura said with a smile in her blue eyes.

  It suddenly reminded O’Brien of his mother, and he felt a pang of loss.

  “I did something wrong, Jacob,” Rhodes said. “Didn’t I?”

  “You were lonely, Jasper, that’s all. You didn’t kill anyone.”

  “I wouldn’t have killed anybody, Jacob.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t.”

  O’Brien poured a brandy and took it to the piano player. “Play ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing.’ It’s by Felix Mendelssohn and it was one of my mother’s favorites.”

  “I sure will,” the piano player said. “Just so long as I get out of here alive.”

  “You will,” O’Brien said. “It’s all
over.”

  When he returned to the table, Jasper Rhodes’ face shone like a piece of polished ebony, a wide grin almost splitting his features in two. Beside him, Laura, well used to men of all kinds, had her arm around his shoulders and soon she began to sing the beautiful words of the Mendelssohn carol into Rhodes’ ear. O’Brien soon joined in, his strong baritone adding a harmony, and Rhodes sat entranced.

  “Hark the herald angels sing,

  ‘Glory to the newborn King!

  Peace on earth and mercy mild;

  God and sinners reconciled.’

  Joyful, all ye nations rise,

  Join the triumph of the skies;

  With angelic host proclaim,

  ‘Christ is born in Bethlehem!’

  Hark the herald angels sing,

  ‘Glory to the newborn King!’”

  After the carol ended, Rhodes jumped to his feet, held his glass high, and yelled, “This is the best Christmas of my life!”

  It was also destined to be his last.

  The saloon doors burst open and Bill Andrews stormed inside, followed by five men, one of them wearing a star on his mackinaw.

  “There he is,” Andrews said. “Constable Tate, do your duty.”

  O’Brien saw that one of the men, a lantern-jawed redhead with reptilian eyes, carried a rope.

  “It’s all over here,” O’Brien said. “Jasper Rhodes is going home.” In an attempt to head off a lynching, he added, “And he’ll answer to a charge of disturbing the peace.”

  “He don’t have a home,” Constable Tate said. “At least in El Paso, he don’t. He’s coming with us.”

  O’Brien stepped in front of Rhodes, a Colt suddenly in his hand. “If you want this man, you’ll have to go through me.”

  He heard Laura’s sharp intake of breath, then felt something hard hit him on the back of his neck just under his hat brim. O’Brien saw the saloon floor rush up to meet him, then something else—Tate’s huge fist coming at him in a swinging uppercut. The lawman’s knuckles crashed into O’Brien’s face and suddenly he was falling . . . tumbling headlong into a pit of darkness.