Novel 1973 - The Man From Skibbereen (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  He was wary, but if they pursued him they would likely head on down the gully, and not double back as he had done. He was rounding the corner of the rocks when he heard a hoof strike stone. There was no chance to turn, to swerve, to do anything, for the black was moving forward quicker than he could check it.

  The sound had given him an instant of warning and his rifle was up when he turned the corner.

  There were three riders before him, and one of them was just shouting, “I had him dead to rights! I had him spang in my sights, and I tell you he’s got to be dead!”

  Crispin Mayo knew only one way to fight: to win. He took his one instant of advantage and opened fire.

  The riders were practically at arm’s length and he shot the speaker out of his saddle, and then went on firing as rapidly as he could work the lever, too fast for accuracy but good for spooking the enemy. One of the riders slapped spurs to his horse and jumped it past Mayo, firing wildly as he dashed by. The heat of the bullet flicked his cheek … or he thought it did … and Cris shot at the third man, who had turned his horse in its tracks and was going up the canyon at a dead run.

  Twice he fired at that man, more carefully, and saw him jerk and throw up his hands, but somehow with a rider’s instinct he stayed in the saddle.

  Wheeling the black, Cris tore back to see what had become of the rider who had raced by him down the canyon; and the man and horse were out of sight, only dust lingering in the air.

  The moon was an hour higher now, flooding the land with light. Turning back, he looked at the riderless horse. A chestnut with a somewhat lighter mane and tail, a handsome horse. The rider lay on the rocks near its feet staring up at Cris Mayo.

  “Damn it!” he said viciously. “You should’ve been dead! I—!”

  “You’re a bold lad,” Cris said quietly, “and big with your mouth, shootin’ at a man from behind the rocks, like.”

  The man’s weapon had fallen a dozen feet off. Cris took his belt-gun from him, then went for the rifle. That made three he had.

  “What are you going to do to me?” the man demanded.

  Cris shrugged. “I’ve no use for you, and you’ve a bullet through your leg that’s no help to you, at all. I think I’ve done enough.”

  He looked thoughtfully at the chestnut. “It’s not often you see a man riding a mare in this country. I think you’re the first I’ve seen.”

  “That mare’s better than any horse you ever saw!”

  The fellow was pulling himself into a sitting position, one hand gripping his wounded leg. “You going to leave me here?”

  Cris removed his derby. “Right through the crown. That was new when I left Ireland, and now she’s ruined. And you figured to put that bullet through my head … why shouldn’t I leave you?” He glanced at the chestnut. “Still, anybody who owns a horse like that, and keeps it in good shape like that, can’t be the worst of men.”

  Cris looked carefully around. He did not like the place, it was too much like a trap; but the man was hurt, and hurt bad. Also, he had cared for his horse. The mare was in fine condition and showed evidence of the currycomb.

  He swung down. “All right, I’ll fix you up and take you where you can get a runnin’ start. After that, you’re a free man till your evil deeds catch up to you.”

  Cris put his hat on the ground atop his folded coat, then with all arms but his own pistol safely out of reach, he cut away the wounded man’s pant-leg.

  The bullet had not broken the bone, but apparently glanced from it, tearing a nasty gash. There was little enough he could do, but he built a small fire and heated water in the coffeepot from his saddlebag and bathed the wound, then bound it with a few strips from the wounded man’s shirt.

  “I’ll help you to your horse, man. Then I’ll start you off for the trail. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll be after riding a far piece. There’s trouble a-coming for the likes of you! From what they tell me, General Sherman is no mild man, nor are the folks at Laramie.”

  “I’ll ride.”

  Cris lifted him up, then slipping an arm around the wounded man’s waist he helped him to the mare, who stood quietly while he heaved her owner into the saddle.

  The fellow looked down at him, a man with a square jaw and a lean, rugged look. He held out his hand. “You’ll shake? I’m sorry I shot at you. That’s the trouble with this country, a man never knows who he’s shooting. I’m Parry Blessing. I rode out of Dundaff in Pennsylvania too long ago, and was living with an uncle in Virginia when the war came on, so I joined up and fought it out, and here I am, a man scarce thirty with a feeling that death is on him. All from bad companions, like they say! And your name?”

  “Crispin Mayo, from County Cork. I will ride westward to find a ranch there, it might be in California, and raise horses the like of those in Ireland. And if you’re an honest man and come riding that way, the door will stand open to you. But you’ll owe me for the hat. I’ll not likely find its equal in this country.”

  Blessing turned the mare and rode away, and Cris looked after him. “Ah, it’s a fine mare that! I hope she comes to no harm. One thing!” he shouted suddenly. “One thing more!” Blessing pulled up and waited for Cris. “You’ve been with them. Do they have a girl now? Do they have Barda McClean?”

  “They do not,” Blessing turned his mare, “but before long they will have her.”

  “Where are they camped then? You’ll not be going back.”

  “No.” Parry Blessing hesitated. “There’s a place in the mountains yonder where a tumbling creek comes down. You go in by the bluff … right there … and pass under a leaning pine. You’ll know the place by the way the rocks stand, and they’ll be there. The major wanted you to use for bait to get the girl out, but he’s got another plan in mind now. Tonight or tomorrow at latest he’ll take her, right from the fort.” He paused. “Robb’s with Parley, and Contego, and Murray and some others. And they’re wild for revenge.”

  “My thanks. Be off with you now, and have a care for the mare.”

  He glanced once, to see the man riding away, and then he started the black for Fort Sanders.

  It might be the truth and it might not, but Cris was inclined to believe Blessing. And if they took Barda again, she would not escape them.

  Chapter 17

  THE LAND LAY still under the mounting moon, the night’s calm had come to the wild lonely land, and Crispin Mayo, riding toward Fort Sanders, heard no sound but the clop-clop of his horse’s hoofs.

  A strangeness lay upon him, a feeling of lonely longing for a something nameless … was it the night? Was it the land?

  A newcomer he was, but the strangeness that lay upon him was not that he was foreign, for he had no longer felt himself a stranger; this land was his and he belonged to it by right of what he had done in this week, and he knew that he would not go back to wherever it was that he had come from. He was not of County Cork any longer, but of the West. The strangeness was only a sense, a vague feeling that he was unable to define or to place.

  He rode with guns now, many guns, but the guns no longer reminded him of their presence, for in these days they had become part of him, ready to his hand. Men in this land could own guns, not to threaten their neighbor but to ensure themselves of liberty. The men who shaped this land were men who had lately fought a war for their freedom and they did not wish it to be lost, and so they must keep close to their hands the weapons with which they had won that freedom.

  Far off a few lights appeared.

  Fort Sanders, Laramie, a few nearby ranches. How warm and welcoming a house light looks to a lonely night-riding man! Someday with luck he would walk into such a house, strike a match, lift the chimney and touch the flame to the wick of his own lamp, sit down in his own house. He would smell the fire smells, the warm cooking smells, and he would stretch out his legs under his table with a faint sigh. He would rest then … he would dream, and he would rise from time to time to add a log or to stir the coals in his own fire.

  F
or a time now he had been passing lighted windows, but always in the solitary houses of other men. He slowed his horse. He was near a house and a man was leaving the stable carrying a lantern and a milk pail. He was walking slowly to the house with a small halo of light about his feet, a homely halo, not of heaven this, but of peace, of home.

  His door would creak open, it would close behind him, and the night would be dark again, but a resting dark. The man would sit down, relax tired muscles, and reach for a newspaper or a book, or he would talk in low tones to his wife.

  “Let us not lose this,” Cris muttered aloud, “let us not lose this, God, for there is no greater beauty, no better hour.”

  He rode into the street of Laramie and to the livery stable, and saw the hostler turn slow eyes to watch him approach. Cris pulled up. “I had the horse from Brennan,” he said. “I shall be needing him again.”

  “I know the horse,” the man said, “and you too. I seen you fight.”

  “He’ll need care, and I must be seeing Brennan.” Cris stepped down, bundling the rifles together in his arms. “Has there been trouble in town? Are the generals back?”

  “There’s been no more trouble than always, and the generals is all back, and good hunting it was for them, both buffalo and men.”

  “And Brennan?”

  “That lot came back too, and they had good hunting, I’d say. They brought some bodies, some prisoners, and a few spare horses.” Then he added, “And don’t tell me when a horse needs care, young fellow. I cared for better horses than this before you’d let go o’ the nipple.”

  “Be seeing to it, then. And as for the nipple, man, why, I was weaned on a jug and a fist.”

  “I’ve seen your fists. You handle ’em well, though you got no friend in the conductor. He enjoyed being the top dog around here. He walked with hard heels, that one. And you spoiled it for him.”

  Crispin Mayo walked across the street. He slapped at his pants to shake the dust loose, and at his coat. He took off his hat and put his fingers through his hair … the little finger was still sore as blazes … and he looked at the hat.

  A fine hat, that one. The best he’d ever owned, and now a bullet hole through the crown. Well, better there than lower. He could always get a new hat.

  Brennan was behind the bar. He had a black cigar in his teeth and he looked past it at Cris and then put a beer on the bar. “You’ll be needing that, Mayo. It is dry work chasing men.”

  “Is Barda McClean at the fort?”

  “You ask them. They tell me nothing. I’d guess that she is. There’s talk of buffalo and renegades there tonight.” Brennan nudged the beer closer. “And where have you been? We scoured the country, and thought you were dead in some thicket and the black nag strayed or stolen.”

  “I was shot, and missed the fight. The black is fine. The worst of the lot are still out there, though I killed a few. I hear that Parley will try to take Barda McClean this night.”

  “The man’s a fool. Does he never know when to quit?”

  “I spoke with a man named Parry Blessing, a man riding a lovely mare. He told me they would try.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “I did not. I tied up his leg that my bullet tore and sent him off. I had a powerful longing for the mare and was afraid that if I shot him it would be for her, so I let him ride off.”

  “She’s a fine one, well-behaved and a runner and jumper. I’ve tried to buy her, thought of stealing her, and tried to win her from him gambling … he would not bet the mare. His gun, his shirt, even his saddle, but not the mare.” Brennan shook his head in grudging admiration.

  “I’ll be riding to the fort. I must speak with the colonel.”

  Cris finished his beer. He was tired, dead tired. That did not begin to describe his feelings. He was dead-and-buried tired. And yet as he turned away from the bar he could think only of his reception at the fort.

  They would doubt his statement, of course. Taking someone right out of a fort with soldiers around seemed absurd. Parley, though, was just the madman to attempt such a thing, and Del Robb would go along, and likely Murray.

  Brennan spoke behind him. “Cris, there’s hard feeling in town. The people here want no more of this, and we’ve had several sluggings on the street. There’s much cheating and too much gunplay. They’re getting tired of it. And Sam Calkins still has nasty friends. Be careful of yourself.”

  “Me?” He was startled.

  “You’re a stranger to some of them, others know you only as a prizefighter. When a mob starts a cleanup and you’re caught in the wrong place … well, mistakes can be made.”

  Cris nodded. Then he saw his three rifles, where he’d leaned them against the bar. “Here,” he said, “you may as well have two of these, Owen Brennan. I have no use for more than one, and you have been a fair man and generous to me.”

  “Bring them down to the end of the bar,” said Brennan. Cris gathered them up; their weight seemed to have doubled, he was so weary. He carried them down the tent saloon to where Brennan had pointed.

  “You took them off Parley’s men?”

  “Men I had occasion to knock down, yes.”

  “I’ll pay you for them, they’re good weapons.” Brennan ran a practiced eye over the rifles. “You keep that one, Mayo, that’s the best. Lean this way.” Shielded by both their bodies, he slipped a heavy leather bag inside Cris’ inside coat pocket. “You’ll find the thousand that I promised you in that, and a little besides to cover the guns.”

  Cris considered. “Brennan, you’re a credit to Donegal, and I thank you. Would you do me one favor? Keep it for me till I’ve seen this business through? I am so tired,” he said frankly, “that I dread the weight of all that metal. It might lay me in the gutter.”

  Brennan uttered a hard bark of amusement. “Mayo, I’m thinking it would take a herd of buffalo to lay you in the gutter.”

  “No,” said Cris, “I’ve stood one of their charges already. But Parley’s men might do it. If I don’t come back, give this to Reppato Pratt, who’s a decent fellow.” He handed the sack over, picked up his rifle, and walked outside. The air was cool. Autumn was here, and the nights were growing colder.

  Brennan followed him to the door. “You’ll be wanting to rest the black. Ask George for the buckskin with the Slash-4-C brand.”

  George looked up at him with hooded eyes. “You again? Don’t you ever sleep?”

  “I want the buckskin.”

  “I heard him through the wall.” George got up. “You’re dead on your feet. Want to crawl into the hay back yonder?”

  “After. I’m riding up to the fort.” He looked at George. “Keep your eyes about you. Some of the Parley outfit may be sneaking in tonight.”

  “They won’t come here.” George threw the saddle on the buckskin and cinched up, punching the horse in the belly to make him let the wind out. “You know Hazel Kerry? She’s got a shack over back o’ here. She’s friendly to some of them. Especially to Del … you know, the gunman.”

  Cris pulled himself into the saddle, scabbarding his rifle. “I may make a call when I get back. I am getting sick of this.”

  He was challenged at the gate. The sentry held him for the corporal of the guard, who turned out to be Halloran. He chuckled as he showed Cris his new stripes. “Ordered by Sherman himself, just before they left the fort.”

  “They’re gone?”

  “The generals are. Colonel McClean is still here. He’s going on west in the morning, with his daughter.”

  “I must see him.”

  Halloran glanced toward the officers’ quarters. “They’ve gone to bed, Cris. You will have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Cris explained, fumbling a little with the words. All he wanted to do was just lie down and sleep for a week, and he did not care where it was, any bed, any barn, anywhere.

  Halloran was dubious. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll walk over with you. If there’s a shred of light, I’ll chance waking them.”

>   The parade ground was dark and empty. They walked across, not talking. Crispin Mayo’s eyes felt hot and tired, and various portions of his anatomy screamed for ointments and bandages. He was in no very pleasant mood, and wanted only to have it done with, all of it.

  There was light in a window, and Halloran knocked. After a moment, McClean himself opened the door, a pistol in his hand. “You, is it, youngster? What’s the trouble?”

  “It’s still Parley, sir. I talked with one of his men. They’ve an idea to take your daughter again. Strictly revenge this time, I think.”

  “The man’s insane.”

  “He is, sir. But that’s the trouble. He will try it. I talked with him also… . He sees himself as a last hero of the South, not as the renegade and outlaw that he is. He’ll try it, Colonel.”

  Barda had appeared behind her father. Her hair was down around her shoulders and she wore a robe over her nightgown. Cris removed his hat.

  “Father? Let Mr. Mayo sleep here. Can’t you see? He’s so tired and beaten that he can scarcely stand.”

  Colonel McClean looked sharply at him, then smiled. “All right, we’re crowded, but I’ll have a bed made for you on the sofa. Come in, Mayo. We do owe you far more than a bed.”

  He stepped out on the porch and gave orders to Halloran for a heavier guard to be posted.

  When he came back into the room, Barda herself was there with blankets, covering the sofa. Cris had put his hat on the table and removed his coat. He was ashamed at the condition of his clothes. “I’ve been riding,” he said apologetically. “I’ve had no time to change.”

  Barda turned to say something to him, and gave a cry of horror. “Cris, you’ve been wounded! Your side!”

  “It’s nothing at all,” he said, embarrassed, “only a slight flesh wound.”

  “How do you know? I’ll bet you haven’t even looked at it,” she snapped. “Take off your shirt.”