“That ain’t so, Mr. Chisum.” Morton addressed the man in charge. “Tunstall drawed and fired. We was trying to serve lawful process attaching Mr. McSween’s property by writ of attachment. We fired in self-defense. Pure and simple.”
Morton was not pleading. His voice was calm and clear. Only the two prisoners beside him appeared to tremble and their ashen faces twitched in the company of twenty armed men.
“Judge Bristol will decide, gentlemen.” Chisum was coldly formal. “A jury of twelve good men and true will decide if Mr. Tunstall was murdered.”
A poisonous murmur went through the Regulators surrounding the sitting prisoners. Chisum looked over to Dick Brewer. At his side, Robert Widenmann played with his revolver.
“When can you take these men to Lincoln?” Chisum knew it could be a two-day ride through rugged country if the weather turned.
“We rode hard after Roswell, Mr. Chisum. The horses could use a day or two of decent forage. Two days for sure. Saturday, I’d say.”
“Well enough. Put these men in the bunk house and post a guard. Don’t tie them up, just watch them. And let them stop at the privy on the way.” The rancher faced Morton. “I’ll send hot food down to you shortly.”
“Thank you, Mr. Chisum.” Morton sounded reassured by Chisum’s measured tone. He had expected to be left dead on the trail just as he had left John Tunstall almost three weeks earlier. “Thank you.”
“We’ll see, boys .... Take them out, Mr. Brewer.”
The assembly separated to let Dick Brewer lead the three men from the house. Then they fell in behind with their hands resting on their revolvers at their hips where their trail dusters were pulled back.
Rob Widenmann twirled his piece toward his holster. He missed on the first pass and hoped that no one noticed.
FRIDAY MORNING, THE 8th of March, Cyrus Buchanan met Sean Rourke on the side porch of the Wortley. Both men had come out early to tend to their horses. Sean had returned to the hotel by first light; Cyrus had left Bonita’s small room for breakfast of sourdough hot cakes and bitter coffee in the cantina. The two men leaned on the fence rail of the Wortley’s paddock. The air was cool but comfortable. Most of the snow was gone, having been trampled into the softening ground by a dozen horses.
“I heard Justice Wilson’s posse went out after that Englishman’s killers.”
“That’s what Bonita said.” Cyrus looked at Sean’s mangled face. It was nothing new to his soldiers’ eyes.
“Did Patrick ride out with them? Dolan said he joined McSween’s men the other day.”
“I don’t know. I ain’t been back to the ranch in four days.”
Sean smiled and squinted into bright sunshine. He could hardly fault the big man for enjoying some female comfort. Sean had not spent a night in the hotel in weeks. He faced the former cavalryman who still wore his blue blouse and stripes.
“I rode with Deputy Morton’s posse when Tunstall was shot.”
Cyrus looked strangely saddened. Liam Rourke’s friends were his friends, and Liam’s brothers were nearly his kin from the bonds formed by men at war, even a pathetic, ill-matched contest like chasing the Nez Perce band of survivors. A flash of memory washed over the black man as he listened to what amounted to Sean’s confession to a virtual stranger.
The cavalry veteran thought of September 30, 1877. He road in file beside Liam when Colonel Nelson Miles attacked one thousand seven hundred Nez Perce led by chiefs Looking Glass and Joseph. Beside Snake Creek in the Bear Paw Mountains, thirty miles south of the Canadian border, one hundred twenty-five troopers of the 7th Cavalry fought hand-to-hand in Chief Joseph’s final stand. Sixty soldiers were killed or wounded. Liam’s blood and Sergeant Buchanan’s blood was on the sand. Joseph laid down his weapons forever on October 5th. A stray bullet killed looking Glass the same day.
“It ain’t my business, Sean. I just rode along with Liam ‘cause I ain’t got no better place to be. When the passes open in the mountains, I’ll head west. California, maybe. Liam and me, we looked out for each other for going on two years. lain’t coming between his brothers. And I ain’t riding in no man’s posse. I done my share.”
The soldier could not help but focus on Sean’s battle-scarred face. It looked to Cyrus as if the white man had already seen one fight too many. Sean had replaced his winter furs with an ankle-length, canvas duster.
Sean felt the tall’s man’s gaze and he turned toward the peaceful livestock. “Just thought I would mention it, Sergeant. Patrick and I have taken up opposite sides in this bad business. Maybe young Liam won’t have to make the choice.”
“Liam rode down to Chisum’s spread with the lawyer, McSween, last weekend.”
Sean lowered his face until the shadow of his hat hid the grief welling in his eyes.
“So.”
“I’ll be riding back to your pa’s as soon as I saddle up. I can tell Patrick anything you want me to.”
“Tell him it’s time we went to see the lawyer to settle Pa’s business. If McSween ain’t here, his partner is.”
* * *
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, THE looks on the faces of Dick Brewer’s Regulators were too much for Deputy William Morton. During the two days of his captivity, he never complained and he never whimpered. John Chisum admired that in a man. So when Morton asked to see one of New Mexico Territory’s wealthiest men, Chisum walked alone to the well guarded bunkhouse.
“I don’t mean no trouble, Mr. Chisum.”
“You and your two men ain’t trouble, Deputy.”
“I would like some writing paper and an inkwell. Brewer says we’re leaving for Lincoln tomorrow.” The lawman blinked quickly toward the low ceiling. “I would like to take care of some business before we leave.”
“Can you read and write?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chisum looked at the prisoner’s weary face.
“You’ll be safe with Dick. He ain’t no hot-head.”
“It ain’t Brewer I’m worried about. It’s them others. I seen the white eye.”
“Let me get your paper. I won’t be but a minute.”
Morton paced the bunk house while his two deputies stared at the hearth.
Chisum returned in five minutes with paper, ink, and pen. William Morton turned a cracker box over near his bunk. He wrote a long letter to his family attorney in Richmond, Virginia He expected to die on the road back to Lincoln, he wrote.
SATURDAY, LINCOLN BUZZED with excitement. Governor Samuel Axtell rode into town and set up territorial government in Alexander McSween’s empty house. Within three hours, the harried chief executive issued a formal proclamation declaring the commission of Justice of the Peace John Wilson to be null and void, along with his arrest warrants for William Morton and his posse. With a stroke of the pen, the lawfully deputized Regulators became outlaw vigilantes. Sitting in the fugitive McSween’s home, Governor Axtell also declared that the only law in Lincoln County was Judge Warren Bristol—who had ordered McSween’s arrest at Christmas—and Sheriff William Brady.
The sun was halfway between noon and the western ridges when the Governor climbed into his buckboard, tossed a blanket over his knees, and ordered his driver to whip the team toward Santa Fe.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON, WILLIAM Morton handed his one letter to John Chisum for posting. Then his hands were bound and two Regulators pushed him up into his saddle. His deputies, Frank Baker and Bill McCloskey, were shoved onto their mounts beside him.
“Don’t waste daylight,” John Chisum waved toward Dick Brewer who sat his horse beside Billy Bonney. Patrick Rourke sat pensively behind Billy. Liam watched his brother from the ranch-house porch. The younger Rourke and Chisum were the only unarmed men in the company of two dozen Regulators.
“We’ll have these birds in Sheriff Brady’s cage by sundown,” Brewer smiled as he pulled his rested and well fed horse toward the dirt road. Chisum waved with his hat and watched the Regulators disappear over the muddy hills.
By the time the little ar
my had covered twenty miles, they were strung out along the road for half a mile.
The mounted men rode double-file westward along the still frozen bank of the Rio Hondo. Patrick Rourke rode in the rearguard of fifteen men. Half a dozen Regulators with their three prisoners were out of sight ahead. Billy Bonney and Dick Brewer trotted on either side of the prisoners riding three abreast.
Twenty-five miles from town, the troop rode into Black-water Canyon, a frozen riverbed surrounded by low hills.
Patrick Rourke’s heart jumped into his throat when he heard an echoing volley of gunfire rolling over him from the west. He and the Regulators around him spurred their mounts into full gallop toward the shots. Rounding the canyon’s sides still covered with light snow, they skidded their animals to a halt near a cluster of mounted men.
Dick Brewer’s startled horse still spun in circles. Three horses were riderless.
Patrick kicked the sides of his horse and eased up to the empty saddles. The wind left his chest in one long spasm when he saw Billy standing over three bloodied men. William Morton and his two deputies were dead. Morton had nine holes in his body.
Smiling up at Patrick with a boyish grin, Billy Bonney pushed his warm and empty revolver into his holster. “Leave them,” Billy said sourly. “Like they done Mr. Tunstall.”
BY ONES AND twos, the Regulators trickled into Lincoln on Sunday and Monday.
“Ain’t found them,” was their uniform answer to questions on the street and at Ike Stockton’s saloon.
Monday, March 11th, a buckboard chugging slowly through thawing mud turned heads on the single street. Sheriff Brady looked across the street from his courthouse window. He hoped to see William Morton climb down for a drink and a shave. Brady sighed when the wagon driver helped his fare step into the mud.
Susan McSween had come home.
PATRICK FOUND CYRUS waiting for him when he returned to the ranch. The hearth stones were warm and the coffee was hot. The cavalryman appeared rested, fed, and at ease.
“Did you find Bonita?” Patrick hung his duster on the peg beside the broken window where the curtain strained to keep out the evening wind.
“I did. Did you find Sheriff Brady’s men?”
“No.”
“How’s Liam?”
“Not much of a rancher. He looked tired.”
Cyrus waited for Patrick to pour his coffee and set his chair close to the fireplace.
“I seen Sean in Lincoln this morning.”
Patrick nodded and sipped his coffee. His dirty face was tense and haggard.
“Did he say anything?”
“He said you and Liam should go with him to one of the lawyers to take care of business.”
“Yes. Sean’s right. I can ride to town tomorrow to tell Billy. When he goes back to South Spring, he can fetch Liam.”
“I can go back.” Cyrus tried to stifle his grin.
“I’ll go with the buckboard. We need pantry stores anyway.”
“All right. I wonder if Bill Morton’s men will come in by then.”
Patrick raised his cup, which concealed most of his face.
“Maybe.”
SEAN ROURKE STOOD ankle-deep in mud at the center of the hotel paddock. The air was warm enough for him to work without a coat as he brushed his horse with a curry comb. The animal enjoyed the attention. He closed his eyes and stretched his neck while his companions looked on from a distance.
Patrick rode past the Wortley and did not see his brother in the corral. Two adobe buildings further east, the middle brother pulled up rein on his buckboard at Tunstall’s store. He expected to see Brady’s men guarding the place. But they were gone.
Instead of Billy Bonney behind the counter, Patrick saw a broad-boned woman with plain and rather unpleasant features.
“May I help you?”
“I’m Patrick Rourke. I come for supplies and to see Mr. Shield.”
“Yes. You’re a friend of Mr. Chisum.”
“Not exactly. He runs his herd on our pa’s land. I’m glad you’re open for business.”
“Sheriff Brady doesn’t stand up to me. I sent his thugs home and the sheriff let them go. I’m Sue McSween. Alex is my husband.”
“I saw him at South Spring.”
“That’s what Billy said. Thank you for standing with him.” When her angular face opened with a pleasant smile, the thirty-three-year-old woman did not look as hard as her first impression.
“Billy said your brother, Liam, is down at South Spring River and your other brother is with the House.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How’s that?”
“Mr. Shield didn’t say?”
“He doesn’t break his clients’ confidences, Mr. Rourke.”
“Oh. Well, our pa cut Sean out. So he moved into town. Took a room down the street.”
“I see. Did David show you your father’s will?”
“No. But he read it to us.”
“You haven’t read it yourself?”
Patrick hesitated. He remembered to remove his hat. Sue McSween looked at him closely.
“Can you read, Mr. Rourker?”
Patrick shrugged.
“You ride with the Regulators, Mr. Rourke?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You didn’t find Deputy Morton last week?”
“No.”
“The Regulators are disbanded, you know.”
“Disbanded?”
“Yes. Governor Axtell threw Justice Wilson out of office and revoked his arrest warrants for Mr. Tunstall’s killers.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“If the Regulators ride again, they’re vigilantes. Judge Bristol will hang them.”
Patrick’s perspiring face looked troubled. He reached into his duster’s deep pocket.
’This here’s the list of supplies we need.”
“Is the soldier still at the ranch?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. McSween studied the long list of groceries printed in large letters.
“How much corn whiskey?”
“Whatever the list says.”
“It doesn’t say how much.” She pushed the list toward him on the counter. The writing was upside down for Patrick. He glanced at it with a blank expression.
“Oh, just make it a gallon jug. I’ll return the jug.”
“That will be fine.” She looked at the young man’s kind but dirty face. “Mr. Rourke, I could teach you to read.”
The rancher looked down at the counter top.
“I’m afraid I ain’t got time, ma’am. I have a ranch to run. I just come in for flour, sugar, and some bacon. And whatever else Sergeant Buchanan wrote there.”
“I’ll keep the offer open, Mr. Rourke. While I’m getting your things, Mr. Shield is in the back. He’s not with anyone, if you want to go in.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
David Shield looked up when Patrick knocked on the door frame of his open door.
“Mr. Rourke? How can I help you?”
The lawyer stood and shook Patrick’s hand.
“I just come in for supplies. My brother Liam is back from the Army. He’s down a South Spring. When can the three of us sign whatever we need to settle up the ranch?”
“Any time, Mr. Rourke. There are documents of administration to sign. Nothing complicated. We will admit the ranch to probate. Whenever Judge Bristol comes to town, he’ll review the paperwork and sign the estate deed conveying the land to you and Liam as common tenants. Each of you will then own what the civil law calls an undivided one-half interest in the land and outbuildings.”
“Do we have to all be here together?”
“That would be best.”
“All right. I’ll get my brothers. Liam is nearly sixty miles away. When do you want to see us here?”
“Oh, let’s see.” Shield looked at the calendar on the wall. “How about April 1st, in three weeks? The judge should be up on the 2nd or 3rd since the local Grand Jury meets on
the 1st. Say two o’clock?”
“That’s fine with me. I’ll talk to Sean on my way out. We’ll get word to Liam. Maybe Billy can give Liam the message when he goes out there.”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll mention it to Billy.”
“I didn’t see him outside.”
“No. He rode down to San Patricio. That’s about ten miles south of here. He’ll be back in a day or two. Quite a few of the Regulators are camped down there. You might wish to keep that in mind if it gets too close in town.”
“Thank you.”
“Deputy Morton hasn’t come back yet, you know.”
“I know. Thank you, Mr. Shield.”
“Any time, Mr. Rourke.”
Back at the counter, Patrick put twenty dollars gold in Susan McSween’s hand in exchange for several sacks of supplies. He had to make two trips to his wagon.
After securing the stores in the buckboard, Patrick left the wagon and walked two hundred yards down the street to the Wortley. The Mexican at the desk told Patrick that Sean was not in. With a trace of a smile, the little man told Patrick the directions to Melissa’s home. He returned to the almost-spring sunshine for the short walk east.
Abigail opened the door when Patrick knocked. Hearing his voice, Sean pushed back from the table and went to the door. Instead of inviting his brother inside, Sean stepped outside and closed the door.
“I been to the lawyer.” Patrick saw no room for idle conversation on Sean’s face.
“And?”
“He says the three of us should come over April 1st to sign some papers.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Mr. Shield will send word to Liam.”
Sean nodded. Patrick looked uncomfortable standing with his hat in his hands.
“Do you live here?”
“My new family lives here.”
“Oh.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Deputy Morton ain’t come back yet. Did the Regulators find him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you ride out with them Chisum vigilantes?”
“Yes. I did. But the bunch I was with didn’t see no deputies from Brady’s posse. Didn’t see Jimmy Dolan neither. Dolan came out to Tunstall’s spread the day the Englishman was killed.”
The Sons of Grady Rourke Page 15
