by Clyde Barker
‘Well, I found that out just an hour or so afore you came blundering up here.’
‘You know where the child is? Mother o’ God! Why have ye not said so before now?’
‘Weren’t sure of you ’til now, that’s why. But now, having heard that you know Father Flaherty and all, I reckon as you’re all right, least in this matter.’
The coolness of the young woman surpassed all belief. Never in his life had Rick O’Shea heard a person of this age speak with such calm self-assurance. Despite the desperation of their situation, he was enchanted.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘this isn’t business. Where’s this precious sister of yours being held? In Yanez’s compound, I’ve no doubt.’
‘Not a bit of it. I was looking down at yon village through my sights – this telescope, I mean, and I saw Emily walking along the little street there.’
‘How’d she seem? Was she distressed or harmed or aught of that nature?’
‘The opposite. She was skipping along merrily beside this old woman, looked to be chattering away like she’d not a care in the world.’
‘That’s rummy! I’d o’ thought she would have been scared out of her wits to be taken away from her home and carried away here to a place where they speak another language.’
Jemima Covenay said nothing for a space, but stared straight out into the darkness. At length, she spoke.
‘I suppose,’ she said slowly, ‘there’s something I should mention. My sister’s the darlingest thing, but she ain’t overly endowed in the brains department, if you take my meaning.’
‘What are you saying? She’s simple?’
‘She’s a natural. I doubt she’ll go far in this world without me and Pa to look after her. She’s fey, away with the fairies much o’ the time.’
Now it was O’Shea’s turn to keep silent for a while. He thought what a foul crime this was. Taking a little girl away was bad enough, but one who was not right in the head? Who would be so wicked as to undertake a crime like that? He had already decided that he and Seth Jackson would be having a reckoning, but it was at this point that O’Shea knew that he would be killing any of those he could get his hands on who had been a part of this monstrous plot.
‘So you saw your sister,’ he said. ‘What then?’
‘This ’scope magnifies by four. I could see ’most every detail and the two of them, the woman and Emily, went into the last house at the edge of the village. They didn’t come out again, so I’m thinking that she’s staying there.’
‘You say you’re a dab hand with the rifle; what about that pistol?’
‘Not so good.’
‘If you’re game and will let me have the loan of that gun at your hip, we can go down this minute and try and get your sister. That is to say, I’ll do what’s needful and you can stand guard.’
The girl snorted in derision.
‘Don’t think it for a moment,’ she said. ‘You want the lending of this pistol, then we work together.’
‘Lord, but you’re a tough one! All right, let’s get down to the village. I’ve not seen any disturbance yet, so I’m guessing that they’ve yet to find me gone.’
The walk down the slope back to Chuchuverical was a lot easier for O’Shea than the ascent had been. As they went along he tried to unravel the situation out loud.
‘I heard that Yanez has family in Chuchuverical. I mind as he’s let some female relative take care of your sister. It’s a mercy that she didn’t seem to you to be upset.’
‘You think that makes it right?’
‘No, by God! I think it’s the wickedest thing I ever heard of in my life. There’ll be a reckoning for this, but I want you and the little girl safely out of the way first.’
By the time O’Shea and the girl were within ear-shot of Yanez’s walled compound they could plainly hear the sound of drunken merrymaking. The village of Chuchuverical, on the other hand, looked and sounded as quiet as the tomb. There were not even any lights showing in windows. Presumably, thought O’Shea, these men were farmers and worked on the general principle of early to bed and early to rise.
Once they were on the level ground O’Shea spoke again.
‘Will you be letting me have that gunbelt now?’
Jemima Covenay unbuckled the rig and handed it to him, remarking as she did so:
‘There’s an empty chamber under the hammer. It’s single action, you know. You needs must cock it before firing.’
‘Let’s hope it don’t come to that.’
Once he was carrying a gun again O’Shea felt more as though he were able to tackle things.
‘If you think that you can kill a man,’ he said, ‘then I’d be mighty obliged for you to take up position here, by the corner of that house, and cover Yanez’s abode. I’d feel safer knowing as somebody was guarding my back. If you see anybody coming from the compound and definitely heading towards this house, then fire.’
‘I can do that. You know this is a muzzle-loader, though? It’ll take me a minute or so to reload.’
‘If you start shooting I’ll be out here to join you. Don’t fret about how long it’s taking you to load.’
It was not the first time that Rick O’Shea had been south of the border and he was fairly familiar with the way of life in little villages such as this, where the chief defining feature was grinding poverty. The people living in this sort of place had no money to spare for shop-bought goods; they made pretty well all that they needed by the use of their own hands. This meant that doors were secured, if they were closed up, by simple wooden latches and the occasional bar. But nobody in a village such as Chuchuverical could be expected to own much that was worth stealing and it was ten to one against any of the doors even being barred from within.
So it proved, because a little gentle pressure caused the door to the white-painted adobe dwelling-house to open inwards at once. O’Shea slipped the pistol from its holster, cocking it with his thumb as he did so.
The house was pitch dark within and O’Shea wasn’t minded to strike a lucifer to see what he was about. He hoped at all costs not to be compelled to shoot anybody, because he was sure that the sound of gunfire would invite enquiry at night. The windows were tiny and unglazed, with wooden shutters to close up in cold or windy weather. As his eyes adjusted to the dark he found that what scant moonlight filtered through into the interior of the little house was just about sufficient for his needs.
There was only one downstairs room and it contained nothing of interest. There was a clay oven, some bowls and vegetables, along with a few sticks of crude furniture: a table and two chairs. The sleeping-quarters must be upstairs. Very slowly, almost on tippy-toe, he made his way up the wooden ladder, which led to the upper storey.
There was more light up here and O’Shea could see at once that there were two beds in the single room. One was occupied by an old woman who was snoring stertorously, in the other lay a young girl. They were linked together by a length of rope, which connected their wrists. At the sight of this O’Shea’s face hardened. He guessed that this old woman was probably kin to Yanez – was maybe even his mother – and that she was acting as guardian for the snatched child. Fancy tying the child to her by a rope, as though she were an animal!
Moving swiftly, O’Shea hopped up from the head of the ladder and entered the room. He woke the old woman by the simple expedient of jabbing her hard in the ribs with the barrel of his pistol. When he was sure that she was fully awake, he showed her the gun.
‘I don’t know how much English you undestand,’ he said quietly, ‘but I can tell you now: if you make a noise I’ll kill you. Understand?’ The woman nodded and watched O’Shea fearfully. He had never in all his life harmed a woman and didn’t mean to begin now, but there was no percentage in letting her know that. Keeping the gun pointing at her face, O’Shea gestured to her wrist.
‘Undo it,’ he said. Whether she understood his words or merely guessed what he wanted, he couldn’t say, but she at once began to untie the ro
pe that linked her to the sleeping child.
‘That’s the spirit,’ he said, ‘keep on like this and there’s no need for anybody to get hurt.’
When the rope was free of the old woman’s wrist O’Shea cast his eyes around the room and saw a few raggedy items of clothing scattered on the floor. He picked up something that might have been a scarf and proceeded to gag the woman. He did not tie the knot cruelly tight, but it was without doubt secure. Having done this, he went over to awaken the child who was slumbering in the other bed. He shook her shoulder gently and when her eyes opened he said softly:
‘Don’t be afeared, honey, your sister’s waiting for you outside.’
‘Oh, goody! Is it time for me to be going home now?’
‘That’s right. Just let me unfasten this piece of rope.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t do that,’ she said in alarm. ‘They’ll get cross with me if you do that.’
‘Don’t you worry about that, little one,’ said O’Shea in a reassuring tone, as though he were talking to a much younger child. ‘Nobody’s going to get cross with you. I promise.’
Having taken the other end of the long piece of rope from the child’s wrist he used it to bind the old Mexican woman hand and foot. Before he led little Emily down the ladder to, he hoped, safety, Rick O’Shea looked down into the old woman’s eyes and delivered himself of the following sentiments:
‘If you were a man I don’t know but that I wouldn’t have killed you for being involved in this business. Are you kin to Yanez?’ He could see by the look in her eyes that she recognized the name. He concluded by saying:
‘You be sure now to tell Yanez that if he and me ever meet, then I’ll be calling him to account for this wickedness. And you, a woman, shame on you for having anything to do with it!’ He shook his head in disgust, then shepherded the little girl down the ladder. When they were both at the bottom O’Shea pulled down the ladder, then wrenched it to pieces with his bare hands. This released some of his pent-up fury, which had been threatening to choke him.
Emily Covenay watched O’Shea nervously as he demolished the ladder and he felt a little ashamed of himself for scaring her.
‘Come on, honey,’ he said, ‘let’s get you reunited with that sister of yours. She’s a rare one, I will say.’
Once O’Shea and Emily were outside the house the two sisters flew into each other’s arms. The younger one began to prattle in a high, clear voice about her recent adventures.
‘Hey, give over that,’ said O’Shea in a hoarse whisper, ‘we’re not out of danger yet. We need to walk north to the river, right this very minute.’
Jemima explained in a low voice to her sister that they had to keep quiet; then the little group began trudging towards the Rio Grande. Laughter could still be heard from Yanez’s base, together with shouting and snatches of Spanish ballads. There seemed no present prospect of O’Shea’s absence being noted, at least for some while yet and, with a little good fortune, for the whole night. If they could get across the river before daybreak it would give them a good start.
Once they were clear of Chuchuverical they let the excited child chatter a little, though hushing her when her voice rose too high or she began shouting with laughter. The little girl didn’t seem to have had a bad time at all; apparently she regarded the whole episode as some sort of lark, the purpose of which was obscure to her.
O’Shea thought it a great mercy that she had no idea of the danger she had been in. He still could not believe that any man, no matter how depraved, could have undertaken a game of this sort. He shot a glance at the happy little creature skipping along by his side and was once again filled with a killing rage at the idea of anybody wishing to harm such a one.
His grim thoughts were interrupted by Jemima.
‘You have yet to tell me your name, you know,’ she said.
‘To be sure: you’re altogether right. I’m Rick O’Shea.’
‘That your real name?’
‘Of course. Why should I give a false one?’
Jemima chuckled. ‘For Father Flaherty to have set you on this trail, I guess you must have made something of a confession. I never get more than saying ten Hail Marys.’
‘You’re sharp enough,’ said O’Shea, smiling, ‘but yes, that’s really what I’m called.’
Emily, whose good spirits seemed to be irrepressible, piped up.
‘It’s such a lark to be up this late,’ she said. ‘I’m never allowed to at home, am I, ’Mima?’
‘You need your sleep,’ her sister replied, looking at the child affectionately.
At O’Shea’s insistence they all quietened down as they approached the Rio Grande. He had no idea of the procedure for crossing the great river at night. Surely, he who ran the ferry would be asleep at such an hour as this? The need was dire, though.
For all his assurances to the two girls that his escape would not be discovered until the next morning, O’Shea was very well aware that anybody might at any time notice that the roof of the shed in which he had been locked was now lying at an angle to the walls. That would be a mighty strong clue to anybody whose senses were not completely addled by liquor that something was amiss.
One thing was certain sure: it would not do for them to be caught on the wrong side of the river come first light.
Across the Rio Grande lights were twinkling in the town of Archangel. This was not a settlement of dirt farmers like Chuchuverical; few of those in Archangel needed to be up at dawn to wrest a living from the dusty and unproductive soil of these parts. There were in that little burg only those who, the Scriptures tell us, toil not and neither do they spin, along with a bunch of hotel-owners and saloon-keepers who catered for their needs. Sitting up all night drinking and gaming was what men did in Archangel and similar border towns. That being so, there was at least a chance that the ferryman would not yet be abed.
Their luck seemed to be in, because hanging from the landing stage used by the ferry on that side of the river was a massive brass bell which, by the look of it, had at one time been salvaged from some shipwreck. Although loath to advertise their presence in so noisy a manner, there was nothing else to be done, so O’Shea clanged the bell for all he was worth.
The old man was evidently not asleep, for he emerged from the log cabin in which he lived so as to be near his livelihood. He was carrying a storm lantern, which he held up high, and he called out across the water:
‘What’s to do? You want passage?’
‘Yes, and as quick as you like,’ shouted back O’Shea. ‘Our need is pressing.’
‘I’ll be bound. Cost you a mort extra at this time o’ night. You willin’ to pay?’
‘Yes. Just hurry it along.’
‘Courtesy don’t cost nothing. Wait up a minute.’
There was much creaking as the old man boarded his ferry, which was really little more than a raft, and began slowly and laboriously tugging on the rope, which would pull him to the opposite bank.
The ferry was just nearing the landing stage when Rick O’Shea heard a sound that told him his good fortune had just run out. It was the sound of hoofbeats, and it was coming from the direction of Chuchuverical. When he turned to look south he could see lights in or near the village: blazing pine knots, most likely.
Clearly, the alarm had been raised and an unknown number of men were now heading straight for him and the two girls. He turned to Jemima Covenay.
‘If you’re serious about getting your sister to safety, then now’s the time to prove it,’ he told her. ‘You ready and willing to fire that gun of yours? At a man, that is.’
‘If it’s one of them as stole away my little sister, then it’ll be my pleasure,’ she replied coldly.
‘Then take out one of those riders that’s bearing down on us and be quick about it.’
Without more ado, and to O’Shea’s enormous surprise, the girl crouched down. Resting her piece on a pile of logs she sighted down the barrel at the three horsemen who were galloping towar
ds them and were now no more than a hundred yards away. It remained to be seen whether or not she would actually pull the trigger, but the fact that she had not cavilled at his order to shoot a man was at least encouraging.
O’Shea drew his pistol and cocked it; this proceeding caused the utmost alarm to the old man in charge of the ferry.
‘What’s this?’ he cried out. ‘I can’t afford to be at outs with those boys from Chuchuverical.’ He began to reverse direction, obviously prepared to abandon O’Shea and the Covenay sisters to the mercy of the bandits.
Turning towards the retreating ferryman, O’Shea drew down on him.
‘You don’t bring that heap o’ lumber back here directly, I swear to God I’ll kill you!’ he shouted. There was a threatening urgency in Rick O’Shea’s voice that warned the old man there was no percentage in crossing him. He began heaving on the rope again, bringing his little craft across to shore.
At that moment there was a loud crack from where Jemima Covenay had been crouching and one of the three riders fell from his horse; the animal went cantering off with the rider hanging by one ankle from a stirrup. O’Shea turned and fired twice at the other men, who reined in.
Then, not knowing how many armed adversaries they were facing, the men rode back the way they’d come. They pulled up a hundred yards off, waiting to see what the play was. O’Shea figured that this was the only chance he and the sisters would have and he called urgently to the older girl:
‘Get your sister on board this very second.’
Young Emily was disposed to have a fit of the hysterics at the sudden outbreak of shooting, but Jemima Covenay quieted her as though she were a spooked steer and urged her on to the raft. O’Shea fired twice more in the general direction of the two riders, for all the good it might do at that range, then leaped aboard himself. The old man was fumbling with the rope so O’Shea elbowed him aside, taking over the task himself. Pulling as fast and as hard as he was able, he turned to the sisters.
‘Lay yourselves down flat in case those villains start shooting at us,’ he told them.
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than one of the men on the Mexican side drew a carbine from a scabbard hanging in front of his saddle and fired at the raft. It was a close shot: too close for comfort. The ball struck the water just six feet from the ferry, sending up a spray of water as it did so.
