by Clyde Barker
When she had come even closer and no longer had to shout, Jemima Covenay spoke again.
‘This is a pretty remarkable rifle, you know. My pa told me that at some shooting match in England, before the war, they fixed up one of these Whitworths in a vice and their Queen Victoria fired it by pulling a piece of string tied round the trigger. Scored a bull at four hundred yards.’
All this talk of guns and shooting didn’t somehow seem fitting to O’Shea in a young lady. He had been feeling increasingly guilty about putting Jemima Covenay into situations where she had to shoot men. He tried to put some of this into words as she dismounted, but she laughed off his apologies.
‘I told you,’ she said, ‘I wanted to kill every last one of those men as took my little sister. When I saw this ’un drawing down on you, I could tell at once he was one of them and that he was about to shoot you into the bargain. I ain’t a bit sorry to have shot him.’
‘Well, this is him that was behind the whole scheme, so you’ve finished off the thing altogether now.’
‘Where’s my father? Is he all right?’
‘He is and he isn’t.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Fact is,’ explained O’Shea awkwardly, ‘we had a bit of a set-to here and he stopped a ball in his shoulder.’
‘He’s alive?’
‘Yes, of course. I helped him to bed.’
‘Hannah’s safe and sound? I don’t see her around.’
Although she was a remarkably tough girl, when O’Shea broke the news of the maid’s death, Jemima Covenay started weeping like a child, which embarrassed O’Shea to no small extent. She had cheerfully committed murder and even fired with deadly intent at the county sheriff, but the loss of this servant was too much for her. The sight of women crying had always been one of those things that left Rick O’Shea at a loss to know what to do.
Now he stood there uselessly, muttering things such as: ‘There, there,’ and ‘Don’t take on so.’
After a while she stopped and glared fiercely at O’Shea.
‘You needn’t think I’m a baby, neither. It’s just that I have known Hannah since I was a little girl. We’re right fond of her.’
‘Is your sister safe with the good father?’ O’Shea asked, to change the subject.
‘She’s having the time of her life. Father Flaherty makes a regular pet of her and lets her do just as she pleases. He’s that fond of Emily.’
‘He seems a good man for all that he got me embroiled in this pickle. Shall we go and see how your father’s doing?’
‘To be sure. Mother of God! What’s that behind the wall there?’
‘Some of the men who came here, hoping to kill your family – and me, of course. I’m afraid there’s two more at the front of the house.’
‘Well,’ said Jemima practically, ‘I guess we’ll have to deal with them later.’
Mr Covenay was sleeping peacefully when they entered his bedroom; so peacefully in fact, that his daughter panicked and shook him roughly, for fear that he was dead. When he saw who it was, the old man became irascible. ‘Sure, and where d’ye think you have been gadding off to, missy, with me out of my mind with worry?’
‘I had to see about our Emily, Pa. She’s safe and sound now.’
‘By heaven! I should be fetching my riding crop to you, child, for giving me such a scare. And what’s become of your hair?’
‘It’s a long story. This here is Mr O’Shea—’
‘Yes,’ said Tom Covenay, ‘I’ve met the gentleman and ended up being shot for me trouble. Well, at any rate I hear you’ve acquitted yourself well enough with that gun o’ mine. I suppose it’s all worked out well enough in the end.’
Despite Covenay’s scolding tone it was very plain to O’Shea that the old man was so proud of his daughter that he had to put on a show of being angry to conceal the fact. His daughter did not look as though she were at all deceived by all this and smiled broadly at her father.
‘Come then, you young scapegrace,’ he said in a milder tone, ‘and give your pa a hug.’
It was very nearly nightfall and O’Shea gratefully accepted the offer of a bed for the night before setting off for New York the following day. He sketched briefly the misunderstanding that had rendered it impossible for him to return to San Angelo, and neither Tom Covenay nor his daughter asked for any further details. They both figured that whatever Rick O’Shea might have done in the past, they had no business enquiring about it after all that he had undertaken on behalf of their family.
They ate up in the old man’s bedroom: an impromptu, picnic meal which had a pleasing informality and intimacy about it. During the meal O’Shea mentioned something that had been on his mind and might work to the advantage of his hosts.
‘I’ll be off early tomorrow,’ he said, ‘so you’ll forgive me if I say this bluntly now. I’m gathering that you’re not overly blessed with money right at this moment?’
‘Who’s been saying such a thing?’ asked Tom Covenay angrily. ‘I’ll be damned if I’ll have my business voiced abroad! Where’d you hear that?’
‘Father Flaherty told me,’ replied O’Shea apologetically. ‘I’m not just gossiping. I’ve a reason for asking about this.’
‘Go on, Mr O’Shea,’ said Jemima. ‘What are you driving at?’
‘Here’s the way of it. There’s a five-thousand-dollar reward offered by some newpaper for the safe return of your sister, and I don’t know if they’d consent to pay a family member on that offer. But there’s six bandits scattered outside this house and I’m certain-sure that there’ll be rewards payable on some of them. On Yanez, certainly, without a shadow of a doubt. You could get somebody over from San Angelo and try to claim on them. Might bring you in a little cash.’
Both Covenays digested this information in silence. After a space, Mr Covenay spoke.
‘You might have a point there, boy. You might just. Worth trying, when all’s said and done.’
The following morning, Rick O’Shea took his leave of the Covenays: father and daughter. The old man was as curmudgeonly as ever, remarking that he heartily disliked long, protracted farewells and that if O’Shea were going, then he’d best be on the road without any further ado.
Tom Covenay had been bullied by his daughter into remaining in his bed for the day, the wound in his shoulder having opened up in the night and drenched the bedclothes in blood. Before O’Shea left, he shook hands with Mr Covenay, who gripped his hand with crushing force and said huskily:
‘Never did one man owe more to another than I do to you, young man. May God bless and keep you.’
Now it was O’Shea’s turn to make light of the obligation.
‘Ah, we Irishers must stick together in this heathen land,’ he replied.
Downstairs he found that Jemima had prepared a meal for him to eat on the journey.
‘I’ll never forget what you did for us, you know,’ she said. ‘Sorry if I wasn’t the most pleasant company on the road.’
‘They say fine words butter no parsnips. You saved my life more than once; I reckon that amounts to more than a few fancy airs and graces.’
‘You wouldn’t think of staying here for a few days, I suppose?’ she asked wistfully.
‘What, and run the risk of having my neck stretched when some of those boys in San Angelo find I’m here and invite me to a necktie party? You’ll have to get somebody here today to identify those bodies and see about any reward money, you know. They’ll be stinking the place out before long.’
‘I guess you’re right. Well then, we’d best part now.’
Suddenly, and without either of them planning it, the two young people found themselves embracing; not in a passionate clinch, but more as brother and sister bidding each other farewell. Then O’Shea picked up his gear and went out to tack up the mare. Jemima Covenay gazed after him for a moment or two, then went upstairs to see if there was anything she could do for her father.
Epilogue
> After spending years in the arid landscapes of Texas, Arizona and New Mexico, the thing that most struck Rick O’Shea as he rode along the lane towards the property which his brother had acquired for them was how lush and green everything was. Not for nothing did they call this the ‘Emerald Isle’. The other sensation that he had – and he was sure this would pass in time – was just how small and poky everything seemed here; compared, that was, with what he had been used to. Instead of the wide, open plains and endless vistas where there often wasn’t another living soul to be seen, all that was visible, in this part of Donegal at any rate, were narrow lanes, and fields the size of pocket handkerchiefs. O’Shea supposed that he would in time get used to it; this was where he had been born and raised when all was said and done.
O’Shea’s brother was not a whale for writing and ciphering and the directions that he had sent for finding the farm, which he had purchased with the money that Rick O’Shea had sent him, were not altogether as clear as could be wished. Nevertheless, after asking for directions from a number of loafers and itinerants, O’Shea thought he was now on the right track.
Then the lane he was riding along widened out and there it was; a white farmhouse surrounded by neat fields, such as an English Protestant might have envied. Glory! His endeavours had not been in vain.
As he rode up the gravel drive the front door opened and there was his mammy, who had doubtless been sitting and looking out of the window all morning, awaiting her eldest son’s arrival. As soon as he leaped from his horse, his mother enfolded him in her arms and began weeping with joy. This didn’t last long, though, for she was not a woman given to unbridled emotion and always felt a little ashamed after any display of that sort. She stepped back a pace from her son.
‘Sure and you’ve not been eating well lately and that’s a fact,’ she said. ‘I can see it by the look of ye.’
‘I’m fine, Mammy.’
‘And when did you last make your confession, son? Don’t be lying to me now.’
‘I made my confession not a fortnight before taking ship for the old country.’
‘Ah, Richard, sure and I raised ye right. It’s a proud woman I’ll be when we all go to mass this Sunday.’
Mother and son turned and went into the house. Rick O’Shea knew that from then onwards he would for evermore be ‘Richard’ or even just plain ‘Dick’. There’d be no more ‘Rick O’Shea’ in this life for him.
