The Sons of Grady Rourke

by Douglas Savage

  Monday had marked only the third day of the brothers’ separation. But it was the third day after nearly three months of riding together. Patrick worried about his sanity when he caught himself standing on the front porch and looking over the backs of John Chisum’s cattle toward the mountains. He was watching for his brother Liam riding down the Sacramento Mountains, past the Sierra Blanca’s extinct volcano. When he had realized that he must look like his mother scanning the blue horizon for her three sons, Patrick laughed out loud with only steers to hear him. That worried him even more and he resolved to make his peace with Sean the next day.

  No new snow had fallen since Friday, so the drifts were brown along the single street splitting Lincoln down the center. Warm droppings from horses melted the snow down to the frozen sand. Manure and wads of tobacco chew turned the road into a cold slurry of noxious vapors that lingered on the painfully cold air.

  Patrick opened the wooden gate to the large corral adjacent to the east side of the Wortley Hotel. The square paddock was larger than the L-shaped, single-story boarding house. He uncinched his saddle and heaved it atop the fence. His tall horse snorted with relief and trotted into the center of the corral to rub noses and reacquaint himself with Sean’s animal who walked over to his companion of the long trail. Each horse welcomed the other with a long musty breath into the other’s flared nostrils. They faced each other nose to nose, nodded, and took one step forward until their faces could touch the other’s back where their manes ended. In a cloud of steam in the morning chill, the animals began to merrily nibble each other’s withers with equine good cheer.

  Patrick smiled and turned his back on the paddock. Without a front porch to clean the snow and muck from his boots, he left muddy footprints on the faded carpet in the lobby of the Wortley Hotel. He had to stand still for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the subdued light after the blinding sunshine of his ride into town.

  Dirty hat in hand, he surveyed the small front parlor and the clerk’s desk close to the far wall. The clerk’s cleanly starched white shirt made his Spanish face appear even darker. His black eyes were bright and pleasant.

  “Buenos dias, señor,” the short man smiled, “do you wish a room?”

  “No. Thank you.” Patrick walked closer, conscious of the trail he was making on the floor. “I’m looking for Sean Rourke. I’m his brother.”

  “Sí, you are the new owner of your papa’s ranch, no?”

  Patrick looked down at his gloved hands locked to the brim of his faded hat.

  “Is Sean here?”

  “He is in the back; that way.” The clerk gestured toward an alcove beside the end of the desk.

  “Thank you,” Patrick said softly. His spurs jingled too loudly for his cold ears as he walked into the shadow of the archway. He entered a tiny cantina with a few bare wooden tables across the hardwood floor. The floor boards were wide and coarse and they creaked as Patrick made his way toward the only occupied table where a round shouldered man sat alone with a bottle.

  Sean looked up. His eyes were as red as the right side of his chewed-up face. Squinting a scowl of recognition, he lowered his face toward an empty plate on the table. All but traces of red sauce had been erased by pieces of dark bread, which had gone down like saw dust.

  “May I sit?”

  Sean shrugged and his brother pulled out the second chair. He laid his hat on the table. Sean picked it up and dropped it to the floor. The younger brother leaned sideways in his chair, retrieved the hat, and tucked it into his lap.

  “We need to talk, Sean.”

  “Ain’t you got a ranch to run?”

  “You know I ain’t no rancher and I ain’t no cattleman. I can’t do it alone.”

  “Your Pa done it alone.”

  “I ain’t Pa.”

  Sean only exhaled into an upturned shot glass.

  “You can get your own bottle, if you want. This one’s mine.”

  “No, thanks. It’s a little early for me.”

  “Not me. I started three hours ago.” Sean chuckled for the flfSt time since Attorney Shield’s office four days earlier.

  “What have you been doing for the last few days?” Patrick asked gently.

  Sean lifted his empty glass toward his brother as if toasting him. Then he refilled the glass but left it sitting in a little alcohol puddle on the rough table.

  “I’ve been home.” Patrick spoke cheerfully, as he answered a question that had not been asked. “Mucking out the barn, mainly. Even the horse chips is froze by morning. I can’t manage it alone.”

  “Hire somebody. From what I hear, there ain’t no shortage of able bodies in Lincoln.”

  “You’ve learned more about the town?”

  Sean could not resist being drawn into the conversation. The two eldest Rourke brothers had always been close. Not even the war could come between them. Only Grady Rourke was able to do that and he had done it from the grave. But the older brother liked talking about things he knew about.

  “The House owns the Wortley Hotel, too. That Tunstall fellow and McSween set themselves against the House. The townsfolk chose sides. Half and half, sounds like. And both sides got guns.” For the first time, Sean focused his bloodshot eyes squarely on his little brother. “Damned town is a garrison. That’s why Shield’s office looked like a fort.”

  Sean broke the moment of civility by looking past Patrick. The younger brother followed his brother’s gaze over his shoulder.

  Twenty feet away, a young woman was picking dirty breakfast plates from a comer table. Patrick studied her. For some reason, he had not noticed her when he had entered the hotel’s small dining area. She was middle height, perhaps half-a-head shorter than the tall brothers. Her long hair was black but her bare arms were pale skinned. When she turned around, her eyes met Patrick’s. The brother squinted at her sky-blue eyes. She blinked when Patrick blinked and she turned to continue cleaning the cantina’s tables.

  Patrick turned back toward Sean who closely watched his brother’s reaction.

  “She ain’t Mexican, leastwise not full-blooded,” Sean said into his glass. He spoke very softly, causing Patrick to lean toward him. “Her Ma was white as the snow outside; her Pa was a local.”

  “I didn’t even see her when I come in.”

  “She’s like that. Like a piece of the furniture. Keeps to herself and don’t say nothing. Name’s Melissa. Melissa Bryant.”

  “Nothing wrong with a good woman who keeps her mind to herself.” Patrick almost whispered, leaning halfway across the table. In the back of his mind, he felt relieved that an attractive woman close to his own age still caught his eye. Perhaps his mind was not yet lost.

  “She don’t say nothing. Ever.” Sean was looking past his brother’s shoulder again toward where Melissa Bryant was bending over a wooden pail of soapy water. The bloodshot eyes focused on her bottom. The brother took a deep breath, through his nose.

  “Never?” Patrick asked without turning around again.

  “Manuel—the Mex at the desk out front—says she got done by a bunch of Mescaleros and Navajos back in ’70. In May, it was. Near Fort Stanton. Half a dozen done her.” Sean was whispering and his sweating face and glistening, red eyes looked serious. “Left her with a little girl. They live near here in a place the House give them.”

  Patrick nodded. The story depressed him further. It reminded him of the hard country in which he had grown up and to which a letter from a stranger had brought him back.

  The young woman walked quickly past the brothers into the shadows of the narrow hallway leading out of the room. Patrick concentrated on her as she went by. In the warm, firelit room, she wore light clothing in which to work. Her long skirt and short sleeves fit closely. The younger brother was surprised that the firm, pale body underneath was not like the few women leading children he had noticed in town. The other women in heavy winter clothing would have required leather stitches to keep their calico from exploding. Perhaps laboring as a house maid at the
Wortley Hotel kept Melissa trim. Patrick wondered.

  “What do you mean ‘she don’t talk?’”

  “Manuel says she ain’t spoke a word since the Apache raid eight years back.” Sean shook his shaggy head. “They must have done her something awful.” He looked up toward the arch where the woman had disappeared.

  “About this ranch business, Sean. We can’t let Pa’s will come between us like this. It ain’t right.”

  “It’s what Pa wanted.” The malice was gone from Sean’s voice. He stated only the bare facts. For the frrst time, Patrick noticed that his brother had a wad of chaw stuffed into the side of his face that had been destroyed. The bulge gave the illusion that the missing meat had returned to balance his face.

  “Why can't I deed you half of the land? We can go back to the lawyer right now and fix it. Put an end to this.”

  “No. You can’t speak for Liam. He’s your partner now, not me.”

  “What if Liam don’t come?”

  “Gotta wait. McSween’s letter to us said that he wrote to Liam, too. If our little brother ain’t dead and scalped up north somewheres, then he’ll come when he can.” Sean took another swig. “Till then, I ain’t coming between you and Liam like Pa done between you and me.”

  Patrick put a hand on each side of the narrow table, lowered his head, and sighed deeply.

  “All right. Until Liam gets here. What will you do until then?”

  “I got a room here. I can work. And I still got my share of the California coin. I won’t starve.” Sean smiled weakly, but that was enough for Patrick to see the first glimmer of his real brother in nearly a week.

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “Sure. You go on now.”

  Patrick knew Sean well enough not to press the fragile peace.

  “I’ll go on over to the House and get some supplies for the ranch.”

  The younger brother pushed back from the table and stood up.

  “No. You can’t go there.”

  “Why not?”

  “Chisum’s cattle.” Sean toyed with his empty glass, moving it in little circles through the liquor wetting the table. “The House don’t take kindly to Chisum. He’s in with Tunstall and McSween. You better get your stores at Tunstall’s for a while.”

  “That don’t make no sense.” Patrick said as he brushed his long hair from his brow.

  Sean looked up. Brown tobacco ooze trickled from the corner of his mouth when he spoke firmly, “This is Lincoln.”

  “All right. I don’t need no trouble. You take care of yourself, Sean.”

  “Sure.”

  When the sitting man lowered his unshaved chin to his filthy shirt collar, Patrick put on his hat and walked out of the dining room. Sean listened to his brother’s spurs loud on the hardwood floor. The drunken brother looked over toward the empty table where the woman had been working. He stared blankly ahead, as if she were still there, bending over, inside his alcohol-saturated mind.

  Outside, the midmorning sun was blinding in the southeast sky. Patrick had to pull his floppy brimmed hat lower to shield his eyes. His rested horse came quickly to the side of the corral where his master waited. Sean’s horse stood patiently close to Patrick’s mount as the saddle was cinched tight. Patrick led his animal by the reins through the wooden gate. When he mounted, the other horse whinnied as his companion carried Patrick up the left side of the street.

  Patrick tied his horse to the porch rail at Tunstall’s, a hundred yards east of the Wortley. He stood in the cold sunshine to loosen the saddle’s girth leathers.

  “Might as well put him in the paddock.”

  Patrick was startled by the perfect, Oxford English at his shoulder. He turned around.

  “I’m John Tunstall. We haven’t met.”

  “Patrick Rourke.”

  “Grady’s son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad about your father. Have you been to Mr. McSween?”

  “We met with Mr. Shield last week. My brother and me.”

  “Of course. Alex should be back in a week or two.”

  Patrick was taken by the easy cheer of the Englishman. They walked his horse to the side of the store and the corral gate. An old, brown horse dragged his hooves in the snow when he ambled over toward the two men. Tunstall reached out to rub the animal’s nose. The horse seemed startled by the hand on his face.

  “He’s quite blind,” Tunstall smiled. “I call him Colonel. Bought him from the cavalry to save him from the butcher. Don’t ride him much. Never in this cold. He’s rather a pet these days.”

  Love for an old horse is a sure sign of a gentleman, and Patrick was won over quickly. After lifting his weathered saddle to the corral’s fence post, he turned his horse out to make Colonel’s acquaintance. The blind horse laid his ears flat back. Patrick’s mount read the message and walked to a far comer.

  “They’ll figure it out,” the shopkeeper smiled. “Come on in.”

  Patrick followed the Englishman into the store.

  Tunstall took off his long duster, shook off a few flakes of wet snow, and hung it on a wall peg. With his hat off, Tunstall looked younger than his twenty-five years. Clean-shaven with bushy auburn hair, his hands were as softly pink as the lawyer’s. Patrick quickly sized up the friendly merchant as someone who never broke a sweat doing poor-man’s work under a hot sun.

  Patrick took off his fur coat in the cozy store. A blazing hearth added to the sense of comfort and cheer. Several round women navigated through bolts of cloth and piles of tinware. As his eyes adjusted to the inside, Patrick noticed Bill Bonney manning the clerk’s counter. The boy’s pale eyes watched the women and ignored the few men who were taking the measure of ax handles and leather horse tack.

  “You must have met Mr. Bonney already.”

  “Yes.”

  The young men nodded at each other.

  David Shield walked out of his cranny office.

  “Mr. Rourke? Nice to see you again. Have you decided to have me admit your father’s will to probate?”

  “Don’t think so, sir. My brother and I want to wait for Liam corning down from Canada.”

  “That will be fine, Mr. Rourke. There’s no rush really.”

  “Thank you.” Patrick turned to Billy Bonney. “I need some stores for the ranch: flour, sugar, maybe some sourdough starter if you have any this time of year, and a bottle of whiskey, please. Oh, and do you sell glass?”

  “Glass?”

  “The front window is broke.”

  “Have to order it. Do you have the dimensions?”

  Patrick pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the boy behind the counter. Billy squinted his pale, narrow eyes and nodded.

  “Take about three weeks, unless the pass on the stage road thaws early. And we have starter, but this time of year it’s potato. That all right?”

  “That’ll be fine.”

  “Good.” Billy began to search the spacious store for the supplies.

  “Mr. Bonney? Small doses of everything, please. I only brought my riding horse.”

  “All right. And call me Billy. Everyone else does.”

  John Henry Tunstall ushered Patrick toward a table at the saloon end of the store. There were four tables; two were empty. The proprietor and the customer sat down.

  “A drink, Patrick?”

  “Just coffee, thanks.”

  “Two coffees, Billy.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Tunstall.”

  “Call me, John. I heard your brother took a room across the way.”

  “Yes. He’s a little upset about Pa’s will—giving everything to Liam and me. Can’t hardly blame him.”

  “Perhaps not. But the Wortley is part of the House, you know.” Tunstall saw Patrick nod. “They’re a rough lot, Dolan and his kind. Is Chisum still running part of his herd on your ranch?”

  “Yes.”

  Billy Bonney set two china cups of black coffee on the table. Tunstall thanked him like a proper Engli
sh gentleman.

  “Then you had better keep an eye on the cattle. The House makes part of its living rustling.”

  “Cattle thieves?”

  “Yes. For years. And not just any cattle—Chisum cattle is their speciality.”

  “But the House is a bunch of clerks and one deaf and dumb girl.”

  Tunstall spoke over his steaming coffee cup close to his face.

  “You met Miss Bryant?”

  “Yes. I visited Sean before I came over here.”

  Tunstall nodded and sipped.

  “She isn’t deaf, just mute. Tragic story. Such a pretty girl, too. And her daughter is just precious. But the House isn’t clerks. Jimmy Dolan runs with the Boys. You heard of them?”

  “No. Only been back four or five days.”

  “The Boys are what these colonists call the Jesse Evans Gang: ruthless thieves and bushwhackers. The Boys do Dolan’s dirty work: rustling and ambushing decent people.”

  “How do you know? About the rustling, I mean?”

  “You saw Chisum’s jingle-bob ear brand on the steers?”

  Patrick nodded.

  “Not long ago, my people raided one of the gang’s cronies at a ranch south of town. Found a hole in the ground full of cow ears. Cutting the ears off is the only way to get rid of that brand. They’re rustlers, all right.”

  “Anyone arrested?”

  Tunstall laughed out loud. “Who do you think hand-picked Sheriff Brady for this town?”

  The Englishman couldn’t stop chuckling. The picture of Lincoln looked grimmer to Patrick than he had imagined.

  “But how come my Pa’s ranch ain’t been rustled dry? Pa’s been gone for months.”

  “I’m afraid your father ran with the Boys and Dolan. Not much and not often. But Grady was one of them all the same. They don’t bushwhack their own, I suppose.”

  Patrick sat back against his chair. He looked stunned.

  “I’m sorry, Patrick. I didn’t mean to imply that your father was a cattle thief. Only that he bought at the House and welcomed the Boys to his home. Everyone in Lincoln has taken sides. Your father simply chose Dolan. He got everything and everyone that goes with it.”

  Tunstall stopped abruptly in mid-thought. He lowered his cup, put his hands palms-down atop the table, and closed his eyes. Patrick waited for a moment.