Legend of Keane O'Leary

by P McCormac

  The thundering hoofs of the oncoming force could be heard clearly inside the ranch house, a single storey building of plank construction. O’Leary made a tour through the rooms, ensuring each man was at his post. A brace of defenders, armed with rifles and revolvers, manned every window. On the floor beside them were boxes of cartridges. In one of the rooms was a ladder leading up to the roof. Frank and Catlin stood at the foot of this ladder. They were not talking – just holding hands.

  ‘Better get up there, Frank,’ O’Leary called.

  Frank nodded at the bandit chief and kissed Catlin on the forehead. She smiled wanly and held him close. Releasing him, he gave her a reassuring grin and climbed the ladder.

  His bow and prepared fire-arrows had already been carried up there along with his rifle. He was to lie concealed until O’Leary gave him the signal to start shooting arrows into the kerosene-soaked outbuildings.

  Outside was the first line of defence with Marcus Cogan in charge. Striding up and down behind the nervous horse wranglers, Cogan tried to put some backbone into the men waiting by the fence. They were extremely edgy and kept glancing over their shoulders at the buildings behind them. In their minds those barns represented safety and some protection from the oncoming horde. They gripped their weapons and stared with growing anxiety at the horsemen advancing rapidly towards them.

  ‘Remember what I said,’ Cogan roared. ‘Wait for my signal. We have to wait until they’re close. And make every bullet count. When we’ve put a bunch of them in the dust we’ll retreat to the barns.’

  But the men were panicky and scared. Someone fired at the distant line of horsemen. Everyone else jerked into action. A volley of rifle-fire erupted from the line of fence posts. Men blazed away indiscriminately.

  ‘Not yet, goddamn it! Not yet!’ Cogan raged.

  But it was to no avail. The wranglers blazed away at the dark line of hostile riders. It was a wasted effort. The distance was too great. Most of the bullets discharged from the defenders ended up well short of the intended targets.

  The oncoming line of horsemen grew wider and wider as the riders spread out. The noise of massed hoofs was like a continuous roll of thunder. It was then the first of the defenders broke and ran for the shelter of the barns.

  That one man bolting was the precursor of what was to become a full retreat. In ones and twos the wranglers scrambled away from the fencing and ran for cover. Cogan tried to grab men and haul them back. But no sooner was he busy with one than others fled past him.

  ‘Goddamn you, come back, you lily-livered snakes,’ Cogan yelled in frustration.

  But once started, the retreat could not be stemmed. Even under Cogan’s tongue-lashing they still ran. Cogan turned and stared bleakly out at the approaching horsemen. He began to feel something akin to despair.

  ‘Goddamn it,’ he muttered then turned and walked with slow and deliberate pace after the retreating wranglers.

  The men were crouching inside the outbuildings, manning doorways and windows. Cogan looked back and saw the raiders very close now. Their strategy became clear as the wings of the horde swung wide of the ranch buildings and they began an encircling movement. Tighter and tighter the noose was drawn.

  ‘Goddamn it,’ Cogan yelled at the cowering defenders. ‘Start firing. They’re close enough now a blind man could hit them from here.’

  The wranglers began a desultory defence and did as they were told, firing out at the encircling bandits. Then the riders began to fire back from horseback. Bullets splattered against the walls of the barns. Cogan’s wranglers flinched as the barrage began. Some continued to fire back but most were ducking inside the buildings, fearful of the incoming bullets.

  ‘Keep firing, goddamn it!’ Cogan yelled.

  A man suddenly began screaming and abruptly stood up, blood flowing from a neck wound. Another one was snatched back into the interior of the barn as a bullet hit him in the chest. Around and around the ranch buildings the horde rode, firing a continuous stream of lead into the defending force.

  The fire from the outriders was fearsome. A continuous hail of lead poured indiscriminately into the main house and the outbuildings. Bullets ripped and splintered the wooden walls. Men crouched down under the fearsome barrage, unable to lift their heads for fear of being hit.

  Slowly the circling riders drew their circuit tighter and tighter. Cogan realized the men under his command were useless against such a sustained rate of fire.

  ‘Goddamn it all, get back to the house,’ he yelled. ‘You’re no more use out here than a chorus line of nuns.’

  Men looked at him with fear-glazed eyes. No one moved.

  ‘Go on,’ Cogan bawled at them. ‘You’ll be safe in the house.’

  It was a lie he knew, but he realized they were doing no good where they were. Perhaps in the relative safety of the house the men might gather their courage and start fighting back.

  At some stage the outbuildings had to be abandoned as part of O’Leary’s strategy. Only when the place was undefended would the attackers venture to take possession and then Frank would shoot his arrows and hopefully set the shacks ablaze, roasting the bandits lured inside them.

  ‘Run! Run!’ Cogan yelled. ‘Go!’

  No one moved. He grabbed the nearest man and pushed him out into the yard. Someone rushed past him and then the yard was filled with fleeing men. The covering fire from the house intensified as the defenders saw the men running for cover. But the firing also increased from the marauding horsemen.

  A man screamed and toppled to the ground, blood pumping from a wound in the middle of his back. Another stopped to help. The top of his head disintegrated and his corpse fell on top of the wounded man. No one stopped after that.

  The flight became a desperate retreat. Some even dropped their weapons in order to run faster. Cogan was the last to leave the cover of the barns. He ran through a hail of lead. Half a dozen wounded and dead men littered the yard – some calling out for help.

  Nobody stopped to assist them. Panic had set in. It was every man for himself. Cogan crashed through the front door. Someone slammed it behind him. He collapsed in the hallway, chest heaving.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ O’Leary bellowed. ‘You were supposed to hold.’

  Cogan could only nod in acknowledgement, breathless after his dash. He clambered to his feet and ignoring his old boss, ran to a window. Two men were firing and ducking back – firing and taking cover. Cogan stood behind them and fired his rifle at the mass of horses and men. The noose was drawing tighter and tighter. Here and there riderless horses could be seen galloping amongst the raiders, their riders having fallen to the fire from the ranch.

  Cogan cursed and emptied his weapon into the encircling riders. The noise was deafening. Smoke filled the rooms. The stench of burnt gunpowder was astringent and choked nasal passages. Some men yelled defiance at the raiders but could not be heard above the crashing noise of firing.

  One of the men at the window suddenly slumped against the wall. He slid down, leaving a red smudge on the wood. His companion leaned over to assist him. His mouth moved as he spoke to the wounded man, his voice inaudible amongst all tumult around him. He cartwheeled back against Cogan as two bullets entered the side of his head.

  Blood and gore splattered Cogan. He shoved the man aside and crouching down, reloaded. The smell of blood mingled with cordite was strong in his nostrils. He sneezed and resumed firing.

  The endless circling along with the firing never ceased. Bullets hammered into the window frame. Splinters erupted from the shattered wood. Cogan did not feel the flake that lodged in his cheek and started a trickle of blood down his face.

  Suddenly a group of raiders broke ranks and raced the horses towards the fence. In a few moments they were sheltered from any shooting from the house by the bulk of the outbuildings.

  O’Leary stood in a window at the side of the house and fired coolly out into the pack of horses and men.

  Aim and fire. Aim and fi
re.

  His rifle was hot to his touch. Such was his rate of fire his weapon jammed. Dropping the useless rifle, he picked up another from the nerveless fingers of a dead wrangler. Without pausing, he continued to fire with deadly accuracy into the encircling horsemen. He noted the men racing for the cover of the barns.

  As he fired, more and more horses were running free as their riders abandoned them and took cover in the outhouses.

  ‘Not yet,’ he muttered. ‘We need more packed in there.’

  The firing went on unabated. Noise and confusion and smell and smoke battering the senses. Dazed men fired with automatic reflexes. Rifles grew hot and jammed. Some took out pistols and used them. Others grabbed weapons from dead or wounded companions and fired and loaded. Some did not even look for targets – just poking the barrel out of the window and letting loose till the hammer fell on an empty shell. Automatically reloading and firing. Reloading and firing.

  More and more men were packing into the outbuildings and pouring a deadly hail of fire into the ranch house. Those facing such a barrage were unable to raise a head to fire. They held up a pistol or rifle in the window and fired blindly.

  O’Leary finally ran to the bottom of the ladder. A rope dangled from the opening attached to Frank Carter’s boot up on the roof. O’Leary yanked hard on this, the prearranged signal for the bowman to do his work. The rope was pulled from his hand as Carter acknowledged he was ready. The white haired old man ran back to his post and resumed firing.

  On the roof Frank Carter notched his arrow into the bow. The arrow had a wad of oil-soaked cotton bound to the head. A small brazier filled with live coals glowed beside him. He thrust the cotton into the coals and waited until it was well alight. A quick peep over the parapet and then he drew back the bow and loosed the arrow. One by one he fired up the cotton bundles and shot the arrows.

  He knew the distances to a fairly accurate degree. But in spite of that he realized some would not find their mark. He could not risk a look to see. After the first few arrows, a hail of bullets splintered the parapet and flew past like hornets. He grinned wryly and continued his deadly work.

  CHAPTER 25

  Sheltering in one of the barns along with a dozen men, Monday eyed the fire arrows arcing into the buildings. Some hit the walls and failing to lodge in the wood, fell to the ground where they smouldered and set fire to oil-soaked rags strategically placed along the base. A few arrows thudded into the rooftops and fired up saturated straw.

  ‘Keep shooting up at that roof,’ he yelled. ‘We need to kill that son ’a bitch up there firing those arrows.’

  He looked around the barn for some means to counter attack. An old buggy caught his eye. For a moment he eyed this and then an idea began to take shape.

  ‘Get that cart over here by the door,’ he instructed.

  Men moved to do his bidding. Rachel had given the youngster command over her men and they were ready to follow him. Sporadic fire was coming from the house but enough men were firing from the barns to keep the defenders’ heads low.

  The biggest danger now was the barns catching fire. If men had to abandon the buildings they would suffer many casualties. Already Monday’s men were looking apprehensive as smoke billowed into the barn from the fires beginning to flare into life.

  ‘Pile those bales of straw into the wagon. Leave gaps to the front as loopholes.’

  When the preparations were completed Monday grinned wolfishly at his companions.

  ‘Right, I need volunteers to man our war-wagon. One man lying in front with me, and a few of you to push us up to the house.’

  No one moved. Monday pointed his revolver at a thickset outlaw with a wiry ginger beard.

  ‘You, I want you in that wagon now.’

  The man hesitated, shaking his head. Monday pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the outlaw in the chest. He fell back against the side of the barn. His eyes opened wide as he stared at his killer then he slid to the dirt floor. Monday’s gun moved to the next man, a youngster about the same age as the half-breed with the beginnings of a moustache on his upper lip.

  ‘Sure, boss,’ he said, and hastily crawled into the wagon.

  ‘Right, I want four men pushing.’

  Under the threat of Monday’s gun the bandits next in line stepped up and took up the shafts of the cart.

  ‘The rest of you concentrate your fire on that door,’ Monday ordered. ‘Just keep on blasting at the lock and hinges. When I get to that door I want it to come down quicker than a whore’s drawers. I don’t suppose I need to tell you when there’s a danger of hitting us, you shift your aim and hit that fire-raiser on the roof and anything else you can sight on.’

  Monday took an axe from a hook on the wall and put it in the bed of the wagon. Smoke was now billowing thickly into the barn from the conflagration started by the fire arrows.

  ‘Right, what’s keeping, you crow bait? And remember.’ Monday’s cold eyes took on a killing glint. ‘Anyone as chickens out on me, I’ll personally seek him out and he’ll wish he’d died in this here fight.’ He paused to let his warning sink in. ‘Right, let’s go! Get this wagon rolling.’

  The reinforced vehicle moved into the yard. The firepower from the bandits left behind in the outbuildings suddenly increased as Monday’s men carried out his instructions and fired a fearsome barrage at the house. The two men lying in the cart held their fire. When they hit the house Monday wanted to go in firing on full cylinders.

  Bullets thudded harmlessly into the stout bales piled on the cart. A man cried out and stumbled out from behind the protection of the cart as a stray bullet hit him. Immediately he became the target for the guns firing from the house. Bullets smashed into his body as he stumbled from the cover of the cart. He screamed and tumbled to the ground and still the bullets hammered into his corpse.

  ‘Keep going,’ Monday yelled, peering through the loophole he had left in the straw bales.

  He bared his teeth at his companion in a fierce grimace. The youngster grinned tightly back. The men pushing the cart yelled in terror or bravado but somehow managed to keep the cart moving.

  Monday could see the door they were heading for peppered with bullet holes. His main worry was that something would be wedged behind the door to impede his entry. Then they jolted against the step.

  Immediately, Monday was up and swinging the axe. The blade bit into the top panel and the wood disintegrated. A boot lashed out beside him as his companion kicked at the door. Wood splintered and Monday threw his shoulder against the barrier.

  He found himself tumbling head over heels as the door gave way. Monday hit the floor and rolled sideways as his companion crashed down beside him feet first. Almost immediately the youngster started blasting away with his revolvers. Monday had his guns out and was firing towards the other end of the room.

  Three men were turning from a shattered window to fire at the intruders. Monday’s guns bucked and flamed and two of the men twisted away as his bullets hit flesh. The third man stood up to fire back and exposed himself to the gunmen in the barn. He suddenly staggered across the room as bullets pulverized his back.

  Monday was on his feet now and running towards an inner doorway. The surviving members of the cart team blundered in after him. The young gunman was still on his feet and busy reloading. Monday did likewise. Someone appeared in the doorway and was blasted away by a hail of bullets.

  Monday ran to the doorway and putting his pistol outside, emptied it into the corridor. With his other gun at the ready, he flattened himself on the floor and risked a quick peep outside. A bullet hit the doorjamb too high to do any damage.

  Monday fired towards the source of the firing. He heard a curse and a door slammed. Taking time to reload, he looked behind him. More of his men from the burning outhouses were scrambling through the broken door.

  Jumping out into the corridor, Monday emptied his pistols into the closed door. Remembering the axe, he ran back and collecting it, rushed into the corridor again.<
br />
  ‘Follow me!’ he yelled.

  The half-breed charged down the corridor and drove the blade of the axe into the lock. He immediately dropped flat and bullets burnt the air above him. Behind him a man screamed as he took lead in his guts.

  Using the axe like a battering ram, Monday drove the heavy tool at the wood. The door crashed open and he threw the axe ahead of him. He could hear someone scrambling back. He fired blindly and heard cursing and then he rolled through the opening.

  There was a tangle of bodies as men fought to get through a doorway to the left. Monday fired lead into the retreating men and saw one throw up his arms and pitch forward. Another twisted sideways as bullets took his legs from under him. More and more of his men were piling into the room with him. Then Monday noticed the ladder and the open trapdoor. He pointed silently at the ladder and jabbed upwards with his finger. Two men started for the ladder.

  Monday paused for a moment. His pulse was racing. He had been so tensed up during the attack he had not time to make plans other than to get his men out of the burning barns and the only way to do that was to gain a foothold in the house. Now he was established he was at a loss as what to do next.

  The rooms they had taken were becoming crowded as more and more of the bandits were able to take advantage of the blind spot in the defences to gain entry to the house. There was a flurry of shots from the roof. Everyone watched the trapdoor. A bearded head poked through the opening.

  ‘OK, boss. Son of a bitch won’t be setting no more fires.’

  ‘Has he got fire up there?’ Monday asked.

  ‘Sure, had a goddamn stove with him.’

  ‘Get it down here.’ Monday was all action again. ‘Bring in those straw bales.’ He was ripping down the curtains. ‘Here, pass these up on the roof. They can wrap the fire in those.’

  Soon the stove was lowered into the room swathed in the curtains. A busy five minutes later Monday was ready. The oil soaked arrowheads were plunged into the hay bales and then set alight. Monday’s men tossed the burning straw through the doorways. Someone in the next room tried to extinguish the fire by kicking at it. His boot became a bloody mass as several bullets shredded it. There was confused shouting within the building. More shots. Monday waited. The shooting eased. Someone was shouting from the house.