Johnny McCabe (The McCabes Book 6)

by Brad Dennison

  Johnny said, “I don’t know. Maybe something’s wrong with me.”

  “If there is,” Matt said, “it is with me, too. When pirates were boarding our ship one time, I didn’t feel any fear at all. It was just me and the sword in my hand, and I knew what I could do. It turns out I’m rather good with a sword. I slashed and parried and ducked when others were slashing.”

  “That old scout I mentioned. Apache Jim. He calls men like us gunhawks.”

  “Well, I can’t use a gun like you. Not even close.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I don’t think he was talking about guns. I think he was talking about something inside a man. Even with that sword in your hand, facing those pirates, you were a gunhawk.”

  They poured more coffee.

  Matt said, “Including that rustler back there, and the four pirates I killed that day, as well as others, I’ve killed twelve men.”

  Johnny was quiet a moment. Then he said, “Like I said before, I lost count a long time ago. I got two men on my first foray down into Mexico. We chased a bunch of border raiders. There was a fight and I plugged two of them. Then those five Comanches. One time there was a gunfight with a group of highwaymen who had robbed a stage coach. Six men. It was Zack and me and one other man by the name of Scott Hansen. We were behind rocks and guns were going off. In the end, all six were dead, but I had no way of knowing how many I had actually gotten. From there on, there was just no way to count. Border raiders. Comanches. Five different gunfights in those border towns I talk about. One, like I said earlier, I shot the gun out of his hand. But the other four I killed. Then those raiders who were going after Miss Maria. I got three of them.”

  “Four,” Matt said.

  Johnny nodded. “Four, counting the one I shot in the arm. That was a bad wound. I can’t imagine he lived.”

  Johnny grabbed his rifle from where he had dropped it. Two shots remained in the cylinder. Once they were back at the bunkhouse, he would reload it.

  “What I’d really like is a Spencer,” he said. “It takes metal cartridges. You just push ‘em in. It loads through the back of the stock. Then you jack the trigger guard to chamber a new cartridge. Zack Johnson used one.”

  “Where’d you get this Colt rifle?”

  “Ranger issue. I could never seem to save up enough money to buy a Spencer. I suppose I like tequila too much.”

  After a time, two riders came back. Goullie, and a man they called Frenchie. He gave his name as Pierre D’Arnot and he claimed he was from Quebec, but Johnny didn’t think he heard much of an accent. Frenchie had dark hair and dark scraggly whiskers. His nose was long and he had long teeth.

  “You boys all right?” Goullie said.

  Johnny said, “Yeah. You?”

  Goullie swung out of the saddle and loosened the girth.

  He said, “They got maybe forty head. Hard to tell in the darkness. They were waitin’ for when the stampede started and headed ‘em off. We traded shots with ‘em.”

  Johnny nodded. “We could hear the gunfire from here.”

  “They got Williams.”

  “Anyone else hurt?”

  Goullie shook his head.

  Frenchie said, “Wheeler and Gates and Tompkins stayed with the herd. We rode back here to see what the situation was.”

  Goullie glanced to the cup in Johnny’s hand, and said, “Got any of that coffee left?”

  Matt said, “Maybe enough for another cup. We can put a new pot on.”

  Goullie nodded. “The herd is scattered again. All that work of rounding ‘em up, gone.”

  Matt fetched the pot and filled a tin cup for Goullie, and one for Frenchie.

  Matt said, “We got two of ‘em.”

  “Rustlers?” Frenchie said.

  Johnny nodded. “The bodies are back yonder, a ways.”

  Matt said, “One fired a bunch of shots to get the herd going. Johnny shot him, firing at the flash of his gun from way back beyond the fire. That has to be the second greatest shot I’ve ever seen. I got the other.”

  Goullie shook his head. “Coleman ain’t gonna like it. He wants us to bring back at least one of ‘em so he can get some answers.”

  “We’ll get some answers anyway,” Johnny said.

  All eyes were on him, now.

  Johnny said, “I say, come morning, we find their trail and start following it back to where they started from. Maybe we’ll get some answers.”

  Matt grinned. “I do like the way you think.”

  “I don’t know,” Goullie said. “Coleman won’t like it. He’ll want us to ride back to the ranch and let him decide what to do. Besides, Coleman led a bunch of us into those mountains two months ago. We lost their trail.”

  Johnny said, “There’s more than one way to flush out vermin. I’ve done this kind of thing before.”

  “The thing is,” Goullie said, “we’re cowhands. We’ve never tracked a group of outlaws, like you did with the Rangers.”

  Matt smiled. “We’ll be all right. We’re gunhawks.”

  51

  Joe could walk with a hobble. His left knee still couldn’t tolerate a lot of weight, and getting up and onto the back of a horse wouldn’t be easy. Once he was there, though, he was sure he would be able to ride.

  One of the men had gone back and gotten his saddle, and it was now on the floor beside his bunk. But, dang, he would miss the horse those raiders had shot out from under him. A Cheyenne pony he had broken himself.

  These cowhands could learn a thing or two from the Cheyenne about breaking a horse, Joe thought.

  He was sitting on a wooden upright chair he had hauled out from the bunkhouse. Sitting and watching the activities of the ranch go on around him. The ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer from down by the barn. A rider coming in and swinging out of the saddle in front of the big house. Someone from town, maybe.

  It was mid-morning. Joe didn’t really think in terms of what the exact time was. Nine o’clock, or whatever. He now thought of that as white-man time, irrelevant to the Earth and the creatures upon it. And irrelevant by the thinking of the Cheyenne. So much of the way he looked at life had been reshaped by his time with them. It was the middle part of the morning—that was all that mattered.

  Johnny and Matt weren’t back yet. They had ridden out the night before with Goullie and three other cowhands. Frenchie, Wheeler, Gates. They were to ride night herd, and if the raiders struck again, to try and bring one of them back alive. A tall order, Joe had thought at the time. Not practical.

  What concerned him the most was they should have been back near sunrise, but they had not been heard from.

  Coleman Grant had another shift of riders ready to go out and spell them. Guard the herd during the daylight hours. When the night riders didn’t come back, Coleman sent the morning shift out anyway.

  Joe sat in front of the bunkhouse, thinking about how good a taste of tobacco from his Cheyenne pipe might be. But he understood that smoking an Indian pipe might seem odd to the cowhands, and the goal was for Joe and his brothers to not draw attention to themselves, so he left the pipe in his saddle bags.

  From where he sat, he could see a low grassy rise out beyond the stables and corrals. He could see motion on that rise. A rider.

  Joe had learned to identify a rider by the way he sits a saddle. The way he moves with the horse. Every rider had his own way of doing it. As distinctive as the way a person walks. He knew who this was. Shelby, the lead rider of the morning shift. Five had ridden out, and one was coming back.

  A man called out, “Shelby’s back!” and went running for the main house.

  Shelby came in. He had a wide-brimmed hat that stood tall at the crown and a thick mustache that almost covered his mouth. He wore a gun at his belt for a cross-draw, and he had a heavy-looking leather vest that was buttoned from top to bottom.

  He skirted around the stables and then rode past the bunkhouse and up to the barn.

  Joe decided to hobble over and see what was going on.

>   The front door of the main house swung open with a bang and Coleman came striding out. Not running, but as near as you could get to it without actually doing it. He was driving his heels into the dirt of the ranch yard and kicking up a little dust with each step.

  He was at the barn before Joe could limp his way over, but Joe was close enough to hear.

  Coleman said, “What’re you doing back?”

  Shelby had swung out of the saddle, and he said to him, “The herd stampeded in the night. Raiders. We found Gates and Martin and Frenchie out there waiting for us, but the other three are gone. Two raiders were shot and killed. The O’Brien boys and Goullie went to back trail the stolen cattle.”

  “I didn’t order them to do that.”

  Shelby shrugged. “They done it anyway.”

  “When they get back, they’re fired. Goullie, too.”

  Ciego handled the stable and did the blacksmith work, and he had the shoulders and arms of a man who looked like he could bend a fireplace poker with his bare hands.

  He said, “Goullie, too? He’s been on this ranch a long time.”

  Coleman said, “You want to join him?”

  Ciego said nothing.

  Joe was now standing beside Coleman. He was in his gray, Mexican jacket with the stylish buttons and a string tie. A foreman who never got his hands dirty, Joe thought.

  Coleman said to him, “And you’re gone, too. I don’t care if you don’t have a horse or can’t walk. Once you’re brothers get back, or once their bodies are hauled in, I want you gone.”

  Joe said, “You’ve hated us from the start. Why?”

  Coleman stepped closer to him, and reared up in a challenging way. Joe didn’t find Coleman threatening. Joe found him amusing. Joe had left his revolver back at the bunkhouse, but on his belt was the long knife he had been wearing when he first returned to Pennsylvania. Even with his bum knee, he could drive that knife into Coleman and gut him like a pig before Coleman could even react. So Joe didn’t feel threatened by him at all.

  But the plan was not to draw attention to themselves. Gutting a blow-hard like Coleman was the kind of thing the cowhands might tend to remember.

  Coleman said, “I know what you three are. You’re saddle bums. Your brother got off a lucky shot and saved Miss Maria and my father felt obliged to give you all jobs. Jobs that weren’t needed. The payroll was already full. And now your brothers think that gives them license to go off on their own. Well, it doesn’t. I run this place. It’s time you all learned it.”

  Joe said nothing.

  Coleman gave a triumphant smirk, apparently mistaking Joe’s silence for fear. Coleman turned on his heel and started back for the ranch.

  Shelby called after him, “Mister Grant.”

  Coleman turned back. He looked like he liked the sound of the name Mister Grant being applied to him.

  Shelby said, “What about Goullie and the O’Brien boys? Do we ride after ‘em?”

  Coleman shook his head. “If they’re dead, they’re dead. If they come back, they’re fired. I don’t want to expend any more manpower. Ride back out to the herd and start rounding ‘em up.”

  “What about Frenchie and Gates and Wheeler? They been out there all night.”

  Coleman thought for a second. “Can you and your boys handle it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then send the other three back. Let them get their rest.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Coleman continued on toward the house.

  Joe waited until Coleman was all the way inside and the door shut.

  “Why do you all put up with him?” Joe said.

  Apparently Shelby had been waiting too, because as soon as the door was shut, he let go a sigh and relaxed a little.

  He said, “He’s Mister Grant’s son. Mister Grant wants him to be the ramrod, so he’s the ramrod. I ride for the brand.”

  Joe nodded. “I understand that. Ridin’ for the brand. But Coleman would be a much better ramrod if he wasn’t struttin’ around here like a peacock. Sometimes a man has to be taught the hard way.”

  “Ain’t a man alive who can stand up to him. He’s the best man with his fists I’ve ever seen. One of the hands challenged him last summer. Coleman beat him unconscious. In town last year, some drifter accused Coleman of cheating at cards, and Coleman killed him with his fists. The county sheriff decided to call it self-defense.”

  “Was it?”

  Shelby shrugged and looked at Ciego.

  Ciego said, “Mister Grant is one of the most powerful men in the county. Maybe this side of Texas. No one is going to accuse his son of murder.”

  Joe nodded and said, “The fact is, there’s not a man alive who can stand up to my brother. I’ve seen tougher men than Coleman, and I don’t think any of them could stand up to Johnny.”

  Shelby shook his head. “It would be your brother’s funeral. That is, if your brother is still alive.”

  Joe decided maybe it was time to ignore Coleman Grant, as well as the pain in his own knee, and find a horse and go after Johnny and Matt.

  52

  Joe stood on the front porch and rapped his knuckles against the oak door. He waited. There was no answer.

  Maybe no one heard me in there, he thought. It was a big house, after all.

  Maybe he should use the big brass door knocker. Back in Pennsylvania, the farmhouses Joe had known when he was growing up didn’t have door knockers. The farmers were just regular folks and had regular doors, and if you were visiting someone you just knocked on the door. And among the Cheyenne, if the doorway flap to a tipi was down, you tapped on the outside framework.

  But this wasn’t Pennsylvania farming country or a Cheyenne village. The brass knocker was there, so Joe used it. Three taps with it, good and loud.

  He waited, and after maybe thirty seconds, the door opened. It was Alfredo.

  Joe took off his hat. He said, “I need to see Mister Grant.”

  “Which one?” Alfredo asked, looking bored and maybe a little annoyed at the interruption from his household duties.

  “Breaker Grant.”

  “I’ll see if he’s available.”

  “Tell him it’s Joe O’Brien.” Joe had to be careful. He almost said Joe McCabe. “Tell him it’s one of the men who saved Miss Maria a couple of weeks ago. I need to talk with him.”

  Alfredo made a visible attempt at trying not to roll his eyes. “The master knows who you are. Wait in the entryway.”

  Joe sat in one of the Queen Anne chairs and waited. Alfredo climbed the stairs, making a point not to hurry.

  Joe wondered if Coleman was going to come downstairs and tell him to leave. Joe decided the time of trying not to draw attention to himself had ended. If Coleman tried to force Joe out of the house, Joe was going to give him an instruction in manners. Cheyenne style. In the process, Coleman might lose some hair.

  It wasn’t long before Alfredo was coming back downstairs.

  He said, “Mister Grant will see you. Upstairs, second door on the right.”

  Joe nodded. He knew where Grant’s office was.

  Now, to climb the stairs. His knee wasn’t going to like it. Joe grabbed hold of the railing for support and took the steps one at a time.

  Once he was up there, he waited a moment to make sure his knee was going to support his weight. Climbing the stairs was the biggest workout his knee had faced since the injury happened. He then hobbled his way down the hall to his right and to the second door.

  The doorway was open. Breaker Grant was standing in front of his desk.

  “O’Brien,” he said. “Come on in.”

  Joe came in, stepping gingerly.

  Grant said, “How’s that knee coming along?”

  “Slow,” Joe said. “But much better’n it was a couple weeks ago.”

  Breaker Grant was in a white shirt, a string tie, and a burgundy colored smoking jacket. He had a cigar going.

  He said, “Would you like a cigar?”

  Jo
e had never really taken to cigars. He preferred his Cheyenne pipe. He said, “No, but thank you.”

  “Please, sit. Take a load off that bad knee.”

  Joe took one of the chairs in front of the desk.

  Grant said, “What can I do for you, young man?”

  Joe explained the situation. Johnny and Matt had gone out with the men the night before to defend the herd against the raiders who had been striking lately, with orders to bring one back for questioning.

  Grant gave him a little frown of surprise. “Who gave that order?”

  “Your son, sir.”

  He nodded. “Coleman. I should have known. An order like that would be almost impossible to carry out. Most of my men are cowhands, not fighters. Even though your brother rode with the Texas Rangers, he’s still just one man.”

  “That one man is better than any other three men,” Joe said.

  Grant nodded agreement.

  Joe said, “But they ain’t come back. Word has it they’re trying to backtrack the raiders.”

  Grant nodded again. “Good men.”

  “Sir,” Joe said, “Coleman has told me I’m fired, along with my brothers if they return. But I want to go after them.”

  Grant said, “You’re not fired. But how can you go after them with that bum leg?”

  “I can still ride.”

  Grant gave him a long look. He took a slow draw on his cigar and let out a cloud of smoke that made spiraling shapes as it spread out along the ceiling.

  He said, “Am I mistaken, or have you spent some time among the Indians?”

  “Cheyenne, sir.”

  He nodded. “You have a way about you. Also, that sheath on your belt. I thought it was plains Indian, but it didn’t look quite Comanche or Kiowa.”

  “I want to ride after them and find them.”

  “By yourself?”

  Joe nodded. “I’ll be all right.”

  “I think you probably will be. Men like you have a way of being all right. Go pick the best horse in the corral. Tell Ciego I told you to do so. And bring those men back.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Joe headed out to the hallway. He had seen a long-legged bay in the corral and thought that was the one he wanted. But at the moment, his mind was on getting down the stairs with his bad knee. He was hoping downhill would be better than uphill.