The Brothers O'Brien

by J. A. Johnstone

  “What does she look like?” Whitney said.

  “I’ve seen maybe three or four truly beautiful women in my life,” Ironside said. “Aracela Ortero is one of them.”

  Packett, one of the more primitive of Whitney’s gunmen, grimaced. “I say it’s a trap, boss. Them Meskins will be laying for you at the hacienda.”

  “What do you think?” Whitney said to Ironside.

  “Well, Don Manuel obviously knows you’re here because Aracela would’ve told him. If he wanted you dead he’d bring a dozen vaqueros and kill you right here in the hotel.”

  Whitney looked at Packett. “What he says makes sense.”

  “I still say it’s a trap.”

  Ironside rose and put his tray on the parlor table. “If I read the sign right, Don Manuel lost a lot of men when he attacked your Texans. Maybe he wants a peace treaty.”

  “Then why didn’t he send the invitation himself?” Whitney said.

  “He’s a proud man,” Ironside said. “Proud men get others to do their crawling.”

  “Boss, I’ll go saddle the horses like you said, and we’ll round up the boys.” Packett grinned, his eyes like blue pinpoints of light in his smooth face. “The Mex will serve you a hot dinner all right, because his place will be burning down around his ears.”

  “Kid,” Ironside said, “you’re a real charmer. Anyone ever tell you that?”

  “Don’t push it, pops,” Packett said. “I gunned my own gray-haired daddy when I was fourteen, so I ain’t gonna lose any sleep if I put a bullet in you.”

  Ironside nodded. “Damn it, boy, I figured you hadn’t been raised right.”

  Packett was just angry enough to draw, but Whitney’s voice stopped him. “No horses tonight, Kid. I’ll go see what this”—he consulted the letter—“Donna Aracela and her pa have to say.” He threw Packett a bone. “You’ll ride with me.”

  But the Kid wasn’t listening. His entire focus was on Ironside. “Pops, never sass me again when I’m in a bad mood, understand?”

  “Sure,” Ironside said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

  “And never sass me in front of a man who’s paying my wages.”

  “Got it,” Ironside said.

  “Let it go, Kid,” Whitney said. “You’re scaring the old man half to death.”

  Packett grinned, and waved a dismissive hand. “Well, to hell with him. He ain’t worth a bullet anyway.”

  Ironside picked up his coat from the chair where he’d laid it. “Well, I reckon I’ll turn in.”

  “Sleep tight, Pops,” Packett said. “And remember what I told you.”

  Ironside nodded. “That’s something I ain’t likely to ever forget.”

  At breakfast the next morning, Whitney and Packett ate in the parlor while Ironside enjoyed bacon and eggs and the company of Miss Hazel in the kitchen.

  There was no letup in the weather, as though the snow was determined to last until the summer of the brand-new year of 1887. The sky that glowered over Estancia was gray and hard, and icicles a foot long hung off the hotel porch. When Ironside brought out his coffee and lit his morning cigar, the snow had stopped, but a few random flakes flitted past in the wind. He looked out on a mother-of-pearl world with no delineation between land and sky, the aborning day wrapped in an air of icy hostility.

  Ironside rubbed frost off a rocker with his gloved hand, then sat, his booted feet on the rail. His coffee cup was empty, his cigar smoked to a stub, when he heard piano music from the saloon. At first he gave it little heed, but then even his tin ear recognized, not the tune, but the piano player.

  Getting to his feet, with spurs ringing in the winter hush, he walked to the end of the porch and listened. After a few moments he nodded to himself. There was no mistaking Jacob O’Brien’s deft touch on the keys. But what the hell was he doing in Estancia? Well, there was only one way to find out.

  Ironside left the porch and stepped onto the stretch of snowy, open ground that rejoiced in the name Fifth Street. He was halfway to the saloon when he heard Charlie Packett call out to him from the hotel porch.

  “Hey, Pops, where are you headed?”

  Without turning, Ironside yelled, “None of your damned business.”

  He walked on. Behind him, Packett’s eyes were ugly.

  The saloon’s oil lamps were lit against the gloom of the day, and a stove glowed cherry-red in a corner. Despite a dearth of regular customers, the place boasted a mahogany bar and a fair-sized mirror that had no doubt been shipped from Santa Fe. The bartender, who looked like he’d been freshly tonsured and shaved, had just finished pouring coffee into Jacob’s cup when Ironside entered.

  Andre Perez, sitting at a table to Jacob’s left, grinned when he saw him. “Mr. Ironside,” he said, getting to his feet, “what are you doing here?”

  “I could ask the same about you,” Ironside said.

  Jacob didn’t immediately turn. He played a few more notes, and then closed the lid on the piano. He turned and smiled at Ironside. “You’ve had enough of Mrs. Hazel’s coffee, too, huh?”

  Jacob gave the older man a hug, a boyhood habit he’d never lost, then stepped back. “What the hell’s happening, Luther?”

  “A lot. What’s new with you?”

  “Not a damn thing. Andre and me scouted from Lobo Hill to Argonne Mesa and back, and never saw a wooly. So we headed here and rode in early this morning.” Jacob smiled. “Saloons always know how to brew real cowboy coffee.”

  “Would you care for some, mister?” the bartender asked Ironside.

  “Will it float a silver dollar?”

  “And change.”

  “Then fill me a cup.” Ironside took his coffee and sat at a table with Jacob and Perez.

  “Where are Shawn and Patrick?” Jacob said.

  “Out trying to protect herders from Joel Whitney and his boys,” Ironside said.

  Jacob gave Ironside a wry smile. “My brothers have always loved the underdogs, bless ’em.”

  “Yeah, well it seems to me that maybe Whitney is the one needs saving,” Ironside said. “After what I seen yesterday.”

  Answering the question on Jacob’s face, he told about finding the dead Texans and the evidence of a major battle. Then, after lighting a cigar, he said, “Now Donna Aracela has invited Whitney to dinner this evening.”

  “I don’t catch your drift, Luther,” Jacob said.

  “Well, I can’t say it any plainer,” Ironside said. “Donna Aracela wishes the company of Joel Whitney, Esquire, at dinner tonight. Said dinner to be served at the Hacienda Ortero.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” Jacob said, his face puzzled. “Why?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “What about her father?”

  “I don’t know nothing about him, either.”

  Perez said, “Mr. Ironside, you said you saw much blood where the Texans died.” He waited for the older man’s nod, and then added, “Suppose some of it was Don Manuel’s blood?”

  “You mean he was wounded in the fight?” Ironside said.

  “Or killed.” Perez shrugged. “Maybe so.”

  After a few moments silence, Jacob said, “That could explain the invite.”

  “Donna Aracela might tell Whitney she’s surrendering any claim to the Estancia, now her pappy is dead,” Ironside said.

  “Seems to me she’s not the kind to give up so easy,” Jacob said. “It’s just not her style. I reckon she must want something in return.”

  “What?” Ironside asked.

  Jacob shook his head. “I’ll have to study some on that.”

  The saloon doors banged open, an aggressive fanfare for a man determined to make a grand entrance. Charlie Packett stepped inside. The sneering curl of his lips faded when he saw Jacob and Perez. “I didn’t know you was back in town, O’Brien.”

  Jacob rose to his feet and cleared the mackinaw from his gun. “Well, you know it now.”

  Packett knew he’d made a mistake, but he’d burst into the saloon on t
he brag and on the prod, and he couldn’t back down now.

  He turned his attention to Ironside. “Pops, in future when I ask you a question, you answer me, and you put ‘sir’ on the end of it. Understand?”

  The Memphis Kid had killed too many men too easily, and he’d learned arrogance. But he had not followed Ironside into the saloon for the draw-and-shoot. Bullying an older, gray-haired cattleman appealed to his warped sense of humor.

  “Yes, sir,” Ironside said.

  Jacob looked at him appalled, and Perez’s jaw dropped, unable to believe what he’d just heard.

  “Then remember it.” Packett smiled and framed another question. “Will you remember it? Tell me, now.”

  “Here,” the bartender said, “that won’t do. That man has friends in here.”

  The young gunfighter ignored the man and stood smirking, waiting for Ironside’s answer. But when it came, it was not what he’d expected.

  “Yes, sir.” Ironside pushed back his chair, stood up. After a short pause he added, “You sorry piece of Tennessee mountain trash.”

  Packett didn’t like the odds he faced, but backed into a corner as he was, the draw was his only option. His hand dropped for his gun. But Ironside, covering the space between them in a couple of long strides, grabbed the young gunman’s wrist in his left hand as the Colt cleared leather. He hit Packett with a straight right, his work-hardened fist crashing into the younger man’s face. The Kid’s head snapped back on his neck and blood fanned from his busted nose.

  Packett’s revolver clattered to the timber floor, and Ironside kicked it away. He didn’t let the younger man fall, but held him upright as he dragged him to the bar.

  Ironside yanked Packett’s face close to his own. “Now, are you listening to me?”

  The young gunman’s head rolled on his neck, blood from his nose streaming over his mustache and chin. Ironside shook him hard. “Do you hear me?”

  Packett nodded and tried to focus his rolling eyes.

  “All right, here’s the story,” Ironside said. “You’re the most uncivil, disrespectable young feller I ever met, and I’ve done my best not to get riled enough to put a bullet into your hide. Understand?”

  Packett finally focused on Ironside’s stony face. He said nothing.

  Another violent shake, then, “Do you understand?”

  The young man nodded, and Ironside said, “Say it out loud, and put a ‘sir’ on the end.”

  “Yes, sir,” Packett said, his voice hollow.

  “Good boy,” Ironside said. “‘A soft answer turneth away wrath,’ the Good Book says. Now get your duds off.”

  Packett had regained his senses enough to say, “Huh?”

  Ironside’s gun came up very fast and the muzzle bored its way into the young man’s left nostril as the hammer triple-clicked back. “Get ’em off, all of them.”

  “Luther,” Jacob said, grinning, “what the hell are you doing?”

  “Me? I’m gonna cool this young feller down. He’s way too hotheaded.”

  If Charlie Packett thought he had any choice in the matter, he didn’t let it show. Ironside’s gun still pointed at his head, he stripped to his long johns.

  “Them, too,” the older man said.

  “No, I won’t, damn you,” Packett said.

  “All right, then,” Ironside said. “I’ll just shoot you.”

  Packett quickly stripped to the skin, his eyes fearful.

  “Now, listen up, young feller. It was in my mind to use that poker you see over there by the stove as a running iron to burn the Dromore brand onto your ass.” Ironside shook his head. “But I won’t. A brand is a sacred thing and not to be profaned by the ass of a tinhorn like you.”

  Ironside spun the naked man around, grabbed him by the back of his neck, and said into his ear, “I’m giving you a chance, boy. You won’t get another.”

  He ran Packett to the door and helped him on his way outside with a boot in the butt. Ironside stood at the open door, and after a few moments yelled, “That’s right, son, run to the hotel and get Mrs. Hazel to put a poultice on your sore ass.”

  When he came back inside he piled Packett’s clothes, boots, and gun on the bar. “He’ll be back for these,” he said to the bartender.

  “Wasn’t you a shade hard on the boy?” the man asked.

  “He has to learn,” Ironside said. “It might have been worse—I could’ve killed him.”

  “Well, mister, you’ve made a bad enemy,” the bartender said. “From now on I’d watch my back if I was you.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Dromore, January 1887

  “How far south did your men ride, Samuel?” Shamus O’Brien said.

  “All the way to Chavez Draw and then some.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not hide nor hair of them,” Samuel said. “They didn’t see any sheep, either.”

  “I don’t like this one bit.” Shamus rolled his wheelchair to the window and looked outside at the gray morning and falling snow. “I told Shawn to stay north of the Estancia.” He thumped the arm of his chair with the flat of his hand. “I bet this is Luther’s doing. He was a heller during the war, and age hasn’t changed him. He charges into things headlong, and those sons of mine are easily led.”

  Thinking of Jacob, Samuel didn’t agree with that last statement, but he said nothing.

  “I keep getting the feeling something bad is happening down there, that Luther’s gotten my boys into trouble. I should be in the Estancia Valley, Samuel, not sitting here in this damned wheelchair.”

  “Pa, I can ride down there and see what’s happening.”

  Shamus went quiet, weighing that in his mind. If he lost Samuel, the whole future of Dromore would be in jeopardy. On the other hand, he had no one else to send.

  The Apache lance head in his back caused Shamus pain, but it was nothing compared to the agony he felt as he made his decision. “Ride to the Estancia, Samuel. Find them.”

  Shamus turned his chair away from the window, frowning, as though he’d suddenly found the view outside distasteful. “Call out all the hands. Take the three best with the iron with you, and order the rest to keep watch along Chavez Draw. What I told Shawn still stands—I want no woolies on Dromore land.”

  Samuel laid his coffee cup in the saucer and rose to his feet. “I’ll have the men saddle up right away.”

  “Samuel,” Shamus said. “Bring yourself back with the others.”

  After his son left, he stared moodily out the window again. He felt depressed, afraid, and suddenly old. All his sons would soon be in harm’s way, and a sense of dark, Irish foreboding weighed heavily on him. The wind around the house wailed like the banshee wails when she warns of coming death and mourning.

  Shamus shivered and pulled his shawl closer around his shoulders.

  Samuel O’Brien and his three vaqueros were a mile south of Chavez Draw when they heard gunshots. Ahead of them lay a rise thick with juniper and piñon, a few boulders scattered along its crest. The day was bitterly cold. Snow and ice lay everywhere.

  He reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a pair of field glasses. Motioning to his men to stay where they were, he dismounted, then topped the rise and kneeled among the rocks. He put the glasses to his eyes and stared down into a wide expanse of valley lashed by wind and snow. A half-dozen riders milling around four men huddled in a group, their hands in the air, caught his attention.

  Suddenly one of the four made a break. He ran through a sheep herd, the frightened woolies scattering ahead of him. The man didn’t get far. A rifle barked and he pitched forward on his face, then tried to rise. A second shot fired. The man’s body jerked and he lay still. All the riders fired, and one by one the other three men dropped to the ground, sprawled and undignified in death.

  It had been cold-blooded murder and Samuel was horrified. He watched the riders laugh and slap each other on the back. Clouds were pressing down on the valley and the scene below played out in a gray haze, flec
ked with flurries of white.

  A vaquero kneeled beside Samuel. “We heard the shooting, patron, and thought you might be in trouble.”

  Samuel passed the glasses to him. “Take a look down there.”

  The vaquero did, and after a few moments he said, “I see dead sheepherders. One . . . two . . . I count four of them.”

  Samuel nodded. “Killed by the riders you see congratulating each other.”

  “Are those the hired Texas gunmen of Joel Whitney, the man the colonel spoke to us about?”

  Samuel nodded. “That would be my guess. Whitney lays claim to the whole Estancia valley and he wants the herders off his land.”

  “What manner of men can kill like that?” the vaquero asked.

  “The kind of men my brothers are facing. And right now that thought is laying a world of hurt on me.”

  A pair of wagons hove into sight and the riders formed up then led them southwest, as though they intended to drive deeper into the valley.

  “What are your orders, señor ?” the vaquero said.

  “I don’t have any,” Samuel said. “As of now, we have no quarrel with Whitney and his men, even those killers down there. Our main task is to find my brothers and Luther Ironside.”

  “Then we will find them,” the vaquero said.

  Samuel nodded, his face grim. “That we will. We’ll find them.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  “I trust your journey was not too arduous, Mr. Whitney,” Donna Aracela said.

  “Apart from snow, wind, and darkness, it was bearable.”

  “Then you must spend the night here at the Hacienda Ortero. I wouldn’t dream of sending you out again on such a night.”

  “That’s very kind of you, I’m sure,” Whitney said. “But I’ll decide that for myself later.”

  Aracela smiled, but she realized she’d seriously misjudged this man. With his small bald head, and thin body wrapped in an oversized fur coat, he looked like a seedy little rat. But she sensed steel in him and a will that might be on a par with her own. Seducing him wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought.

  She wore a dress of green silk emphasizing the lush curves of her body. Her shoulders were bare, her cleavage so deep that slim arcs of pink areolas were slightly visible. The simple cross on a silver chain hanging between her breasts was her only jewelry, chosen to suggest modesty and girlish innocence.