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

by Louis L'Amour

  “With your permission, miss, I will not. It’s not fitting, and you the daughter of a great officer and being a well-bred young lady and all.”

  “Cris, I’m going to cleanse that wound.” She was opening a chest, dragging out linens, bandages, medicine bottles. “Don’t worry, I’ve doctored before,” she said, “I’m an Army brat.”

  “She’s right, Cris,” put in the colonel, “you do need some looking after.”

  “A good night’s sleep,” said Cris desperately, “that’s all I need to set me as right as—”

  “Cris Mayo, you do as I say!” said Barda McClean.

  “But it is not seemly!”

  “Bother seemly! Bother fitting! Take off that shirt!” she shouted.

  “Yes, Miss McClean,” said Cris humbly. He peeled it off, wincing as the hard-clotted blood tore loose from the wound. He sat on the edge of the sofa and submitted to some twenty minutes of cleansing, dabbing, anointing and wrapping. His head was gone over thoroughly by the two of them, the colonel pressing here and there with expert fingers.

  “You had a bad fall, I think.”

  “A couple of them, yes sir.”

  “You’re lucky you don’t have a fractured skull. I think you’re going to be all right. Barda, put a bandage on that finger, my dear. I believe you received the cut eye in the match yesterday? It’s healing nicely. Mayo, you’ve taken a deal of punishment lately.”

  “Trouble keeps turnin’ up in me path, sir, it seems.”

  Barda said, “Lie down and rest, Cris, I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

  “Now that would be grand. I’ve had no real tea since I left Ireland, and a cup of it would warm me nicely.”

  Barda went to the kitchen. Cris tugged off his boots, and after some protesting, accepted one of the colonel’s own shirts to replace his ruined one. Then he stretched out with a sigh. He was tired. He’d never been so tired in his—

  Barda came in and stopped, teacup in hand. McClean was smiling. “He’s asleep. Don’t worry about the tea. I will drink it myself.”

  He picked up the hat and stared at the bullet hole. “Close,” he said, “very close indeed.” McClean looked down at Cris, who was dead to the world around him. “That’s quite a man, honey. Quite a man. And you were right … he is a natural gentleman.”

  Chapter 18

  DAWN FINGERED THE curtains with light, and Cris opened his eyes. The room was shadowed and quiet, totally unfamiliar.

  It came to him suddenly. Colonel McClean’s quarters at Fort Sanders. He sat up. There’d been no attempt then, during the night. And the Colonel and Barda were to leave today … that meant the attack would come today. It would be today for certain.

  He swung his feet to the floor and got his boots on, then his hat. He had slept with his gun in its holster. He took it out and spun the cylinder … fully loaded.

  He checked the belt-loops: fourteen cartridges left. It should be enough, for his rifle was loaded and he had a few more rounds for it in his coat.

  Taking up his hat, he tiptoed to the door, then thought of what he was doing and returned. On the table was an envelope and a bit of pencil. He wrote on it, Thank you. If I can make it I will go to the train.

  He tiptoed outside, put on his hat, and started across the parade ground at the very moment when the troops were falling out. Halloran was there. “I’ll need my horse,” said Cris.

  “You’re leaving early. What happened?”

  “I remembered a thing that the hostler told me. He said that some of the Parley crowd are friendly with a woman named Hazel Kerry. If they haven’t tried anything by now, they will try at the station or on the train. I’m going down to see her.”

  He flexed his fingers. They felt good, and so did he, amazingly good. He mounted the buckskin and rode out of the gate at a canter.

  His rifle was in its scabbard. He drew the pistol, liking the way it slid so easily into his hand. He had always been skillful with his hands. He tried drawing the gun as he rode, and it came easily, smoothly. He was no fast-draw expert, but it handled well enough.

  Make the first shot count, they said. All right, that was what he would do. No more wild firing out of impatience, from now on. No more banging away to frighten people.

  He left the horse at the stable. George came out of his room, slipping his suspenders over his shoulders. “You again. What now?”

  “I shall pay a visit. I want to see if that woman, Hazel Kerry, is entertaining guests.”

  “Be careful. That’s a bad lot. Oh, I don’t mean Hazel! She ain’t no worse than any of ’em, and better than some. It’s just that Del taken a fancy to her.”

  Cris hesitated, then left the rifle. In close quarters it might not be so handy, and he was hoping there would be no shooting, anyway.

  He followed George’s pointing finger. “See? The little white house back of Cooney’s corral. You can’t miss it.”

  The sun was not yet over the horizon, but the gray early light of morning lay on the town. Somewhere a door slammed, a rooster crowed, and a pail jangled. He walked out of the back of the barn, crawled through the livery-stable fence and strode up the alley.

  There were several horses in Cooney’s corral, but he recognized none of them. He stopped at the corner of the corral, looking past it at the white house.

  Small … yet there’d be three, probably four rooms. He’d best go to the back door.

  The curtains were drawn, no lights showed. His hand went to the holster and loosened the gun slightly. He did not want it to bind in the leather just when he needed it.

  Crispin Mayo, of County Cork and Wyoming Territory, looked across the thirty feet that separated him from the house. He hoped they would not see him as he crossed that last short stretch of ground.

  He hesitated, took a long breath, and started out. A rock rolled under his foot, clicking against another. A puff of dust arose. Suddenly he was at the back stoop. The steps creaked, and he knocked lightly.

  There was a moment of silence, then the door opened so softly that he knew she was trying to make no sound. A girl stood framed in the door, a girl with red hair curling softly around her face. It had been done up but it was falling now, and despite the hardness around the eyes and the lips she was beautiful. And he knew her.

  “I am asking for Hazel Kerry,” he said.

  “That is what they call me,” she said quietly. “Hello, Crispin, and a good morning to you.”

  “Invite him in,” a voice suggested, “since you seem to know him so well.”

  She hesitated. “Go away, Crispin. Go away quickly now, and if you get back to County Cork, do me a kindness and say nothing of this, or of me.”

  “I’ll not speak of it, and well you know that,” Cris replied, “but the gentleman wished to see me.”

  He stepped in as she moved back. Del Robb was there, a darkly handsome man with a taunting smile. “So you know each other? You didn’t tell me, darlin’.”

  “She did not know I was about,” Cris said quietly. “It is a far piece from here to where we met, and that in passing only. It was at a county fair one time … in Ireland.”

  “Ah? Well, I’m glad you could get together again, if only for a minute or two.”

  “She is going west, I think,” Cris chose his words carefully. “From what is said, there’ll soon be no place in town for any on the wrong side of the law. There is trouble coming.”

  “We like trouble, don’t we, darlin’?” Robb smiled. “And you, Irish boy, are you huntin’ trouble? It seems to me that every time I turn around your name’s coming up. I think we ought to end all that.”

  “You too.” Cris said quietly, “you, Parley and the rest of them. The war you fought is over, and it does no good to carry it on and make trouble for your people.”

  The kitchen was bright with newborn sunlight now. It was clean and neat, the kitchen of one who liked keeping it so.

  “There’ll be another house, in another town, Hazel Kerry,” he said quietly. “Do yo
urself a favor and take the westbound train. There’ll be shooting and burning now, from what they’re saying, and it will be no good place for a woman alone.”

  “When any shooting’s done, I’ll do it,” Robb said.

  “Against vigilantes? They will hang you, Robb, if you’re in town.”

  “I’ve heard such talk before! It’s only balderdash!”

  “Is it now? The murmur of their planning is all about, and you’ll find they know where all of you are, and they’ve the places chosen and the ropes knotted. You’d be wise to ride now, ride far and fast.”

  “Don’t be a fool.” Robb’s laugh was jeering. “No shanty Irishman’s going to frighten me off with stories. And if I do go,” he smiled, “I’ll have your scalp at my belt.”

  “In front of the lady?” Cris said. “You’d kill a man in front of a lady?”

  “A lady? Her?” He brayed again.

  The man was going to kill him. Cris knew that was Robb’s intent. He was showing off a bit like the bully he was, and then he was going to try.

  “I am no gunfighter,” Cris said, “my way is with the fists.”

  “Not this time, Irish. I’m going to kill you when I—”

  Crispin Mayo had no hope of beating him, but he needed the extra split second and he drew first. His big hand was only inches from the gun and it swung back, closed on the butt, his finger touched the trigger and the gun swung up.

  Del Robb had been confident and contemptuous. He knew Cris Mayo had used a gun but little, being fresh from a country where they did not carry guns, and he had expected him to back off, to beg, to fumble for the weapon at least. He did none of these, nor was he clumsy. The split second of reaction time was enough.

  Robb’s move was late, hurried. Mentally he was caught off balance, and the distance was less than ten feet.

  Robb’s gun was coming up when the bullet hit him. He felt the sharp, hard nudge in the midsection and his fist closed convulsively on the gun. The bullet plowed a groove in the floor and Del Robb lifted on his toes, then dropped back on his heels, his gun still coming up, his eyes hot with fury.

  Crispin Mayo was a fighting man, and his way was to step in, to follow up with his punches, and so he stepped in now. Two quick steps even as his bullet struck and then he thumbed the hammer twice more, rapid-fire, at a range of four feet.

  Robb’s eyes opened very wide and he backed up to the door jamb and leaned there. “You lucky son-of-a—!”

  Cris slapped the gun from his hand with a blow. It fell to the floor, and Robb still stood, leaning against the door jamb, his knees slowly weakening. Then he toppled onto his face.

  Cris stepped back, turning to Hazel Kerry. “I am sorry,” he said.

  “Save it for somebody who needs it,” she said. “I never liked him. I was afraid of him. He threatened me.”

  “Forget this,” Cris waved a hand around him. “Pack what you can and catch that train. You’ve got about an hour, but please … don’t miss it!”

  He thumbed cartridges into the gun, then holstered it. “Where are the others? Do you know?”

  “That’s the trouble, I don’t know! Only that they are here, in town.”

  “Get on the train. Don’t wait until the last minute, just go down there now.”

  He went outside into the full glare of the sun. Reppato Pratt and Halloran were coming toward him from the stable.

  “What happened?” Rep asked, stopping him.

  “The rest of them are here. We’ve got to find them.”

  “Don’t worry,” Halloran said, “the McCleans are coming through town with a troop of cavalry. They’ll be put on the train that way, and a squad will stay with them all the way to the end of track and then accompany their stage to California. General Sherman’s orders.”

  “Who was in there? I mean, besides Hazel?” Rep asked.

  “Del Robb. He’s dead.”

  They stared at him, scarcely believing, yet knowing that he would not joke at such a time. Del Robb!

  He walked across to the saloon. Down the street at Brennan’s Belle of the West several men were standing. Their horses were at the rail, dusty and hard-ridden. Cris went inside and Brennan took his cigar from his teeth. “I have your money for you, Mayo, if you’re strong enough to carry it now.” He counted it out on the bar in gold pieces, then replaced it in the bag. “Take it, lad. You’re going on with McClean?”

  “To California, I think. I want to start a horse ranch.”

  “So you said. Well, you’ve got a mare waiting for you at the station. It’s Parry Blessing’s mare. He sent it to you, as a gift.”

  Cris shook his head. “That can’t be true. He’ll never give that horse up while he lives.”

  “That’s just it. He’s dead … killed by one of the Parley crowd, but with his last breath he said he wanted you to have the mare, so somebody brought it in.”

  “That’s a fine mare.” Crispin Mayo considered the situation. “You say somebody brought her in. Who?”

  “We don’t know who they are. Some strangers who got to Blessing before he died. Interrupted Parley’s killer before he could steal her. They left the mare at the hitching rail down by the station.”

  Cris rested his big hands on the edge of the bar. He considered the subject. Then he said, “Brennan, I want to buy you a drink. And one for each of these gentlemen. I will have a beer.”

  “I never touch the stuff,” Brennan said, “but I’ll take a cigar. Luck to you.”

  “Blessing knew I had eyes for that horse,” Cris said, a little sadly. “I’ll be glad to have her. But I’m sorry for him. We could have been friends.”

  Far away they heard the train whistle. Cris tasted the beer. “Come with me, Rep. I’ll need help, and nobody knows mustang horses better than you.”

  “Cris, I think I just might do that. ’Cause you’re dead right about that.”

  “Troopers coming,” Brennan said. “That means McClean and his daughter.”

  Crispin Mayo drank his beer, drank again, and put down the glass. He held out a hand. “You’ll be coming on west, Brennan. Once the railroad’s built through, there’ll be naught to keep you here.”

  “I might at that.” Brennan shook, and nipped the end from his cigar. “Cris, keep your gun handy.”

  They went outside onto the boardwalk. Cris Mayo went to the stable, retrieved his rifle, and with his two friends walked along down the street toward the tracks. He remembered his carpetbag at the hotel. Let it stay, there was nothing in it but shabby clothes. The train whistled again. “I’ll be able to load the mare with McClean’s horses,” he said aloud. “There’ll be room enough.”

  They passed men, talking quietly in small groups; they glanced at Rep, then at Cris, and one made some comment. Several of them turned to look.

  A row of buildings faced toward the station. Cris walked past them and crossed the street. The station seemed to be empty. Several idlers loafed about, awaiting the train. Some carpetbags stood where the owners had put them down. A lone man, in a gray suit of English cut, was lighting a pipe, his back toward them.

  Rep nodded to indicate the end of the hitching rail. “There’s your mare, and a purty sight. Shall we get ’er?”

  “Wait.” Cris was unsure why he wished to wait, but something warned him that if Parley meant to move it must be now or never.

  Two troopers came down the street leading the Colonel’s gelding and Barda’s mare. Then he saw a rank of riders, a lieutenant beside Colonel McClean, Barda on the other side, ahead of a troop of cavalry.

  The two troopers who had brought the horses tied them, then turned to face the oncoming troop. Both men were armed and ready, watching for any overt move.

  Halloran, who was off duty, stepped to one side. He was also armed. Rep whispered to Cris, “I don’t like this here. Parley’ll have sumthin’ up his sleeve.”

  The train whistled again, and they saw it appear far down the track. McClean, the lieutenant and Barda rode to the hitching rail
and dismounted. One of the waiting troopers took their horses, which were Army mounts; the gelding and mare were not saddled, but ready to be loaded for their long trip.

  Cris walked toward them. “Sir?”

  McClean stopped. “How are you today, Mayo? What can I do for you?”

  “I have a mare, sir. A very good one that I’ve inherited. I am going on to California, too, and I wondered if there’d be room enough in the car with your horses? I could pay, sir.”

  “Of course, and certainly there’s no need for you to pay. Sergeant, see to it, will you?” McClean glanced around. “Where is the mare?”

  Cris pointed and the sergeant turned toward her. “Wait, Sergeant,” Cris spoke quietly, “you’d better let me go. It may be a trap. I believe Parley ’s men know that I wanted that mare.”

  The sergeant flipped open the flap on his holster. “Right, sir. I’d like a chance at them.”

  “It is my mare. You can cover me, if you like.” He glanced around. The colonel and Barda were walking slowly toward the train, the lieutenant with them.

  Cris turned suddenly, and Rep stepped back quickly to keep from being bumped. “Sergeant! They’ve got to be aboard this train. The renegades, I mean! It’s the only place they can be!”

  The sergeant shot a quick, sharp look. “I doubt it, but you could be right.” He strolled over to the other troopers, who were dismounting. He spoke, and two of them wheeled their horses and trotted toward the train.

  Cris untied the mare and turned toward the ramps that had been lowered from the stockcar. A trooper was already leading the McClean horses toward it. Cris followed. Walking with the mare between himself and the train, he took the moment to draw his gun and push it into his waistband a little closer to his hand.

  He watched the horses go up the ramp. He noticed that the engineer had not gotten down from the engine. A brakeman stood by the car where the colonel would ride. He had stepped aside for them to board.

  The two troopers had ridden the length of the train, peering in at the windows. They shook their heads.

  “Nothing,” the sergeant said. “You’ve overrated them, Mayo.”