Last Confession of Rick O'Shea

by Clyde Barker

  O’Shea spoke up. ‘Would it be imposing upon you, Father, to leave the child in your care for a short time?’ he asked. ‘I have some business to attend to before she returns to her home.’

  ‘Well, my son,’ replied the priest, ‘you came up trumps and no mistake. I knew you had it in you. I reckon as you’ve done all that I could have hoped. You and the church are square now. Of course Emily can stay here for as long as she wishes.’

  He turned to Jemima. ‘What in the name of all that’s wonderful are you doing dressed up like that, child?’ he asked. ‘Sure and your poor father’s almost out of his mind with worry. Are ye not ashamed of yourself?’

  ‘Don’t scold her, sir,’ interrupted O’Shea. ‘Without this young lady’s help we’d not have won our way safely back here.’

  ‘Well now, you don’t say so? So long as you don’t fetch up here at mass on Sunday dressed in such a heathenish fashion, then I suppose it don’t signify. What’s this unfinished business you have, my boy?’

  ‘I’d as soon not discuss it here, not in front of that little one,’ said O’Shea. ‘It’s enough that those as did that dreadful thing might be moving towards a reckoning.’

  Father Flaherty toyed with the idea of reminding this grim-looking young fellow of that scriptural text that touches upon vengeance being the proper business of the Lord and not for men to take into their own hands. Then he looked at the innocent face of Emily Covenay and said instead:

  ‘Sure, it says in the Good Book that anybody who offends against one of these little ones, it were better for that man that he had a millstone tied round his neck and was flung into the ocean. You go and do what you have to do, but be sure to come back here again in one piece. You’ll be wanting a blessing before you set sail across the sea back to dear old Ireland again, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  Rick O’Shea turned and strode from the church, this being meant as a hint to Jemima Covenay that her presence was neither needed nor wanted. Unfortunately, she was impervious to such slights and quickly caught him up, so that by the time he had left the church behind she was walking alongside him.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘what do we do now?’

  O’Shea stopped dead in the little square in front of the church.

  ‘There’s no “we” in the case,’ he said. ‘I shall be acting alone. You’ve had your little bit of adventure, now be getting yourself off home to your pa.’

  This sharp speech failed to have the desired effect, for the young woman merely snorted derisively.

  ‘I mind that I saved your bacon already and may do so again,’ she said. ‘This is my affair every bit as much as it’s yours. More, for it’s my family as that man has interfered with.’

  They had left the three horses on a hitching post down the way and O’Shea toyed with the idea of just running off, mounting up and trying to lose Jemima in that way. He had, though, an uncomfortable feeling that this might not work and that she would be likely to catch up with him.

  ‘This is a damned nuisance,’ he said irritably. ‘Can I say nothing to persuade you to leave this to me?’

  ‘If that Yanez has a heap o’ men with him, then you might not be able to take them all by your own self. Why won’t you own that it makes more sense this way?’

  ‘We can’t stand here talking of murder and mayhem on the public highway,’ said O’Shea. ‘I hope to sell this feeble nag that I picked up in Archangel. Come along with me and we’ll talk more.’

  Despite himself, he was secretly pleased that Jemima was not going to leave him. He had grown accustomed to her presence over the last few days and there was also something in what she said. Her skill with a rifle might very well make the difference between life and death for him. All the same, he felt guilty at the thought that she had already done murder once in his company, back on the ferry to Archangel. It would be a terrible thing to encourage such a young woman to kill another man.

  To O’Shea’s immense surprise and enormous gratification, he managed to dispose of the horse that he had acquired at only a little less than he had paid for it. He and Jemima retired to a little place that sold fruit juice and soda pop along with various sweetmeats. As they sat there, sipping cold drinks, he said in a low voice, so that none of the other patrons would overhear:

  ‘Yanez feels he has cause to seek my death. Maybe he’s right. I never harmed a woman before in my life and I’m sorry that his mother came to such an end. I know these Spanish Catholics, they worship their mothers. Make them out to be like the Mother Mary herself. He won’t rest ’til he’s settled with me.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Offer him a duel, I guess. It’s the least I can do. I can’t just walk away, for he might even yet try to kill your sister to silence her mouth. For good or ill, I must finish what I began.’

  There was little more to be said and so the two of them sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Jemima spoke again.

  ‘If what you say is true, then I must take word to my pa. With Sheriff Jackson gone, we’ve got no law hereabouts, so I reckon that we’ll all need to take care of our own business for a spell. If you really don’t need my help, I’ll ride out now. Father Flaherty will keep Emily safe and out of the way. I’ll speak to him of it before going.’

  So it was that the two of them parted amicably, although for his part O’Shea still felt an urge to apologize to the young woman for getting her into a position where she had been obliged to shoot a man. He had, despite his rough life, a very conventional view of what was right and proper for men and women and firing rifles at bandits fell most definitely into that sphere of action more properly inhabited by men. Mind, he thought admiringly, it’s lucky enough for me that she was willing and able to press that trigger. It would have been all up with me, else!

  A visit to the Girl of the Period seemed to be called for. Surely he might hear of any useful gossip there, was the reasoning that took Rick O’Shea in that direction, rather than any desire for intoxicating liquor. No sooner had he entered than a man he knew slightly came up to him.

  ‘Word is that you’re wanted for murder,’ was whispered in his ear.

  ‘Murder?’ he echoed in amazement, wondering how news of Seth Jackson’s violent death could possibly have reached town ahead of him. ‘Who’s after me, then?’

  ‘It’s said as you were out on the scout with Jack Flynn. Robbing a train. There’s three men as was deputized lying dead in this here town and feelings are running high.’

  ‘Ah shit! I’d forgot about that.’

  The other man gave O’Shea a strange look, as though he could scarcely believe that a man might be mixed up in three murders and then forget all about them.

  ‘I tipped you the wink, as you would me,’ was all he said. Then he walked off, leaving Rick O’Shea to wonder whether he ought to ask any questions now or simply leave town and make for New York, as had been his plan before this present business blew up. Then he turned on his heel and left the saloon, almost bumping into Valentin Yanez, who was on his way in.

  The two men paused in their tracks for the merest fraction of a second, before they both came to the same conclusion. A gun battle here on Main Street in a civilized town like this would have but one ending. Whoever died, the survivor would without doubt be seized and held until some enquiries had been made. They might be able to slip out of the coils for such a death, pleading self-defence or some such, but both of them knew that they were wanted on capital charges and that, whoever won the duel, the winner would still end up dangling from a rope.

  Powerful as Yanez’s thirst for vengeance was, he had no intention of casting away his own life in the quest for O’Shea’s death. He could accomplish that without risking his neck. For his own part, Rick O’Shea knew that if any trouble in which he played a part erupted now, there was every chance that some man who had been in that posse up at the Gap would take him and that could easily end in a lynching.

  San Angelo
was a civilized town but, after the deaths of three deputies, it was altogether possible that the citizens would not want any shilly-shallying in dealing with the man they thought answerable. A trial might be a luxury that they were disinclined to grant him.

  All these thoughts went through Yanez’s and O’Shea’s minds in next to no time and the result was that they did not even make eye contact, but simply carried on walking, passing each other. Without looking back, O’Shea strode along to where he’d left the mare and swung himself into the saddle. Then he trotted north towards where he supposed the Covenay spread to be.

  With young Emily safely in the keeping of the priest, he could forget about her. But still he had some responsibility for his actions in rescuing the child. He had, however unwittingly, caused the death of Yanez’s mother and brought the bandit across the Rio Grande in pursuit. After all that the poor father of the two girls had suffered over the last week or two, the stealing away of one child and the vanishing of another, it would be a scurvy trick to play on the man to lead a band of such desperadoes to his door and then to dig up and leave him to deal with it. No, what he had begun, he must finish.

  O’Shea figured that the best thing he could do would be to ride along towards Tom Covenay’s place and see whether anything suggested itself to him on the way. He’d an idea that Yanez would fetch up there sooner or later, to silence the child who could tell so much about him and his men. Yanez wasn’t to know that she was simple-minded; he would most likely see her as a dangerous witness to be rendered harmless as soon as possible.

  There was great suspicion against Yanez and his men in Southern Texas, it being widely supposed that he was behind many robberies and murders, but here was a witness who could pin a capital charge on him. He would certainly make a move to put the girl out of the way. Then again, if Jemima had not yet returned home, he, O’Shea, might be able to put a father’s mind at ease and let him know that both girls were safe. It would be a wonder if the poor man hadn’t been driven out of his senses by worry.

  An hour’s trot along the track leading north from San Angelo brought O’Shea to a collection of fields at the centre of which was a large, stone-built house, surrounded by various stables, barns and other wooden structures. It certainly looked a pretty prosperous operation. But then there were many men like Tom Covenay – especially since the agricultural recession – with plenty of land under the plough, but without more than a few dollars in cash money at their disposal.

  A black maid answered the door and looked doubtfully at O’Shea, as though unsure whether he was a beggar or tradesman who should be directed round to the rear of the house. He couldn’t blame her; he looked pretty damned rough after the last few days’ adventures.

  ‘Is your master in?’ he asked. ‘Meaning Tom Covenay. This is his house?’

  ‘Master’s lying abed. He don’t want t’see nobody.’

  ‘He’ll want to see me. Has his daughter returned yet?’

  The woman looked at him suspiciously.

  ‘Miss Em’ly and Miss J’mima, they ain’t neither of ’em here,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve news of them. Please tell your master and see if he won’t receive me. I’ll wait here.’

  The maid went off and Rick O’Shea reflected on why it so often seemed to be the way that when you tried to do the right thing, it often turned out a sight harder and more complicated than simply doing wrong in the first place. Everything about the events since that wretched confession of his tended to confirm him in this view. After two minutes or so, the maid returned.

  ‘Master’ll see you upstairs,’ she said.

  Once he was inside the house O’Shea could see immediately that, although evidently once luxurious, the place was now looking a little faded and past its prime. There was evidence of mending and patching and a generally run-down air. Having led him upstairs, the maid knocked on a door and announced:

  ‘Gent’man t’see you, suh.’

  She turned the handle of the door and, without entering, merely indicated that O’Shea was to go in. He did so, whereupon the door was closed noiselessly behind him. He found himself facing an elderly, white-haired man who was sitting up in bed. The most noticeable feature of this old man was that he had a pistol levelled at O’Shea; pointing, in fact, straight at his chest.

  Chapter 9

  The old man in the bed said nothing for a second or two and then remarked in a conversational tone of voice:

  ‘I knew one of you bastards would turn up here when I couldn’t pay your ransom. You may have my daughter, but by God, one of you at least’ll die for it.’

  ‘You think I’m one of them as took your daughter, sir? Not a bit of it.’

  The man in the bed looked at O’Shea in amazement.

  ‘You’re never a Donegal man?’ he said. ‘What’s afoot? You best answer me quickly now.’

  Without glossing over anything, O’Shea told Tom Covenay the whole story, not even bothering to conceal the fact that he’d been set the task of rescuing Emily as a penance. Once he’d been assured that his daughters were safe, the old man listened with evident enjoyment to the whole story. At the end of it he said:

  ‘So Father Flaherty set a thief to catch a thief, did he? The sly old fox. And you’re the poacher turned gamekeeper yourself, is that the way of it? Well I’m damned!’

  With an agility that surprised O’Shea, since this was a man who had recently been lying abed like an invalid, old Tom Covenay leaped from his bed. ‘I’d best dress,’ he said. ‘Turn your back, young man. I ain’t minded as you should see me naked.’

  When he’d turned round, O’Shea said: ‘I understood you were prostrate, Mr Covenay.’

  ‘I was despairing of my life, boy, not ailing physically. You have children of your own?’

  ‘I ain’t had that pleasure, no.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t understand. I was ready to die. You say my Jemima acquitted herself well?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have made it back alive without her. It would have been all up with your younger daughter too if Miss Jemima hadn’t taken a hand in the matter.’

  ‘She handled the rifle well enough too, you say? I taught her to shoot, you know.’

  ‘So she gave me to understand,’ said O’Shea. ‘Yes, she’s a dead shot with the thing. I never saw the like.’

  ‘That’s my girl! You think these rascals are likely to show up here, Mr O’Shea?’

  ‘I can’t see where else they’d go, sir. Their leader is set on having my blood and he knows I’m somewhere in the area.’

  ‘Well, my boy, I tell you now, I won’t rest until I’ve killed every one of those sons of the Devil. You’re with me, I dare say?’

  ‘Well, it’s my affair now too, so I don’t see that I have a choice.’

  For a man who had until a matter of minutes earlier been confined to his bed, Tom Covenay appeared to be possessed of extraordinary reserves of energy and vigour. He had dressed himself in rough working clothes, like he was off to ride the range. For a man of his age – he couldn’t have been a day under sixty-five – the effect was striking and a little disconcerting. The old man caught the look on O’Shea’s face.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, boy?’ he said sharply. ‘You never see a man dressed for work? You only got that pistol? You’ll need a rifle, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘I have one out in my pack, thank you.’

  ‘I got better than that,’ said Tom Covenay with perfect assurance, without even asking what weapon O’Shea had. ‘Come down now and we’ll find something for you.’

  As the two men made their way down the stairs, old Mr Covenay leading the way, he turned and said over his shoulder:

  ‘You think Jemima is due back at any moment?’

  ‘So I understood. Last I saw of her, she was going to caution Father Flaherty to keep your younger daughter out of sight until this was cleared up. Then she was coming back here.’

  Mr Covenay stopped dead in his tracks, almost causing O’Shea to bum
p into him.

  ‘And that rapscallion, this Yanez,’ he said, ‘he knows for certain-sure that you’re in and around the neighbourhood now. You’ve no doubt of that?’

  ‘None whatever.’

  ‘Why then, the sooner we kill him and his men the better.’

  Rick O’Shea was very far from being of a delicate or sensitive nature, but the casual way that the old man had announced his intention of killing a bunch of men sent goose-bumps all over him. Something of what he was feeling must have shown in his face, because Tom Covenay said:

  ‘While they had my little Emily I couldn’t do a damned thing for fear of her being harmed. That’s what drove me to despair. Then when her sister went as well, I thought I would have died. But now? I’ll give it to those boys hot and strong, see if I don’t.’

  In the kitchen was a walk-in closet, which was stacked with weaponry.

  ‘I call this my armoury,’ the old man said. ‘We had a lot of trouble here when first I settled, and my men had to fight. Seemed silly to get rid of the guns when it was all over, so here they are. Help yourself, boy.’

  At thirty years of age Rick O’Shea found it more than a little irksome to be addressed in this way as ‘boy’, but he figured that it would do him no harm. The maid who had answered the door to him was pottering round in the kitchen. She had said, as they entered the kitchen: ‘Sure is good to see you out o’ bed, suh.’ As the two men emerged from the closet, both with rifles that they proceeded to load, the woman left the stove and went to the window.

  ‘Got more company,’ she remarked.

  Those were fated to be the last words she ever spoke in this world. The window shattered and there came the crack of musketry from outside the house. The ball took the black maid in the throat and as they watched, she fell to the ground shaking and convulsing, great gouts of blood spurting from the mortal wound that she had received.

  Both men threw themselves to the floor. It was clear that there was nothing to be done for the dying woman and they had more pressing concerns than saying a prayer for the repose of her soul. O’Shea risked a quick look from the window and almost paid for it with his life. There was a furious outbreak of firing, which sent a veritable storm of broken glass flying into the two men sheltering on the floor.