by P McCormac
‘Don’t shoot! We surrender.’
Monday grinned.
‘Come on.’
Motioning his men forward with his pistol, he leapt through the doorway, both guns blazing. The bales were well alight now and he jumped over them, heedless of the flames.
Frightened faces turned as he fired into a bunch of men gathered by the door that led out into the yard. Behind him, his men followed his example and plunged into the room, firing indiscriminately. The group of men scattered – most hit by flying bullets. Some ran outside and were mown down by the attackers still shooting from the barns.
His guns empty, Monday ran to one of the fallen defenders and snatched up his pistols. He swept the weapons around the room, finding nothing to shoot at. All the defenders were either dead or wounded or had fled out into the death trap of the yard. Slowly he lowered his guns and walked to the front door and crouched down just inside.
‘It’s Monday here,’ he yelled. ‘You lot out in the barns stop shooting. We’ve cleared the house. Come on in.’
Gradually the gunfire petered out. Cautiously Monday poked his head outside and waved at the burning barns. The yard was littered with the dead and dying. Slowly he relaxed.
The half-breed turned back with a wolfish grin to the men who had followed him into the house. His face and clothes were blackened and smoke-grimed from gunpowder flashes and burning straw.
‘Looks like we won the day, fellas. Some of you go round the rooms and flush out any stragglers. The rest of you try and put out those fires.’
Among the survivors was the youngster who had lain in the cart with him. Monday motioned him over.
‘What’s your name, kid?’
‘Ed,’ the boy said simply.
‘I have a special mission for you, Ed. If you come across an old white-haired man and a young woman you make sure they don’t come out of this alive.’
For a heartbeat they stared at each other. The youngster touched his revolver to his hat brim.
‘I ain’t killed no woman afore but I guess it ain’t no different than killing a man.’
As the bandits exited the room, Monday walked to an overturned chair and righted it. He began to reload his guns. While he worked he glanced with grim satisfaction at the dead bodies strewn around the room. A figure darkened the doorway. Monday’s guns snapped up but he held his fire. Alec stood there with drawn guns, looking around the scene of death.
‘Looks like you won your spurs, breed,’ he remarked.
CHAPTER 26
Alec turned and signalled to someone outside. He holstered his guns and stepped into the room. The gunman’s eyes were cold as they stared at Monday. Each man took stock of the other, like fighting cocks sizing up the opposition. A noise from outside distracted them and a woman entered.
‘Monday, thank God you’re safe.’
Rachel rushed to the youngster’s side. She brushed fingers across his grimy face.
‘You were so brave,’ she told him. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
Before Monday could respond another woman stepped inside. It was the leather-clad Gertrude. She looked sourly at the couple.
‘Have you no shame, Rachel? Your husband not cold yet and there you are pawing over another man.’
Rachel looked smugly at her sister.
‘Only the fittest survive, darling Gertrude. Monday here is a real man and as it is I need a replacement for Cornwell. Jesse was well past it. I got me a young stallion here.’ Rachel threw back her head and laughed out loud. ‘My, my, sister, have you ate something sour?’ she chided. ‘Your face . . . your face. . . .’
And Rachel went into peals of laughter. In a few swift steps Gertrude was across the room. Her clenched fist crashed into her sister’s face. Rachel’s laughter was abruptly cut off. She staggered back, a look of fury distorting her pretty face. With a snarl she launched herself at Gertrude. The leather clad woman tried to fend her off but Rachel’s nails racked across her sister’s face, leaving a row of red wheals.
‘You bitch,’ screamed Gertrude and swung again.
Rachel kicked out and hit her sister’s knee. Gertrude grunted but her punch caught Rachel on the shoulder. Then the two women closed. For a moment they wrestled together, their shuffling boots and grunts seeming loud to the two men watching.
Monday cast a covert glance at Alec and was disconcerted to realize the blond killer was not watching the bout between the sisters. Alec’s cold eyes were fixed on Monday instead. Quickly the youngster swivelled his gaze back to the fight.
Cursing and grunting, the women struggled for dominance. Rachel had her hands buried in Gertrude’s black tresses and was yanking so hard that the other woman’s neck was arched back. Gertrude in turn was strangling her sister in a vicious choke-grip. The women’s faces were contorted in pain and fury.
Red faced, Rachel began to push at her sister. Slowly Gertrude was forced relentlessly back, her leather riding boots gaining no purchase on the wooden floorboards. Rachel nevertheless made steady progress, her face contorted as her lungs were starved of oxygen.
Slowly she pushed her sister towards the doorway until Gertrude’s heels caught on the step. With a grunt Gertrude overbalanced and both women fell out into the yard. As they hit the dirt Gertrude lost her grip. The women scrambled apart and gaining their feet, glared angrily at each other.
‘I’ve wanted to rip your eyes out for a long time now,’ hissed Gertrude.
Blood smeared her cheek where her sister’s nails had gouged. Rachel, bent over at the waist, was too busy recovering from her strangulation to reply. She suddenly ran at her sister and struck with her shoulder. Gertrude went over, hitting the ground with an audible thump. A weak scream escaped Gertrude as she crashed to the dirt. Rachel jumped astride her and rained punches on her sister. Gertrude twisted from side to side to in a desperate attempt to dislodge her attacker.
Keeping a wary eye on Alec, Monday came to the door and slipped out into the yard. More and more men were coming up, drawn to the spectacle of the O’Leary women brawling. Alec appeared in the doorway to observe the fight with seeming unconcern.
At last Gertrude succeeded in overturning her sister. They rolled a few times, first one on top then the other. As they wrestled in the dirt the women were taking on a ragged and dusty appearance. Grime became matted in Rachel’s furs and dust smeared Gertrude’s black leather.
‘Whaa’hee!’ one of the watchers suddenly yelled.
At once the men lost their inhibitions and began to cheer on the wrestlers.
‘Go on, gal, smash her face.’
‘You can do it.’
‘Rip her eyes out.’
‘Ten dollars on Rachel.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘Five dollars on the blonde.’
There were cheers and laughter and betting on the outcome as the women battled it out. At last they broke apart and scrambled upright. Both were winded now. They stood glaring at each other dishevelled and angry.
‘You had enough, bitch?’
‘Enough! I’ll have your head from your shoulders afore I’ve had enough, you whore.’
For a few moments while they recovered the women were content to hurl insults. They began to circle, hands clawed as if ready to rip flesh. The men grew silent now.
Alec stepped out from the doorway and watched impassively. Monday, also out in the yard, was watching too but with eyes aglow as he observed the two women fighting over him. For he was in no doubt he was the cause of the rivalry.
Suddenly from inside the house came a close pattern of gunshots. Heads turned instinctively towards the sound. Hands gripped weapons as men looked nervously towards the house. While everyone was so distracted Rachel snatched out her gun. There was a look of triumph in her face as she looked up at her sister. Gertrude began to back away.
‘No, Rachel. No, Rachel,’ she pleaded as she backed away, her hands held out in front of her. ‘This is not the way.’
The crack of the sin
gle gunshot seemed a small sound after all the gunfire that had gone before. Gertrude staggered back, a look of disbelief in her face. Her eyes turned towards Alec lounging in the doorway.
‘Help me, Alec,’ she pleaded.
Rachel was walking towards her sister, the gun held in both hands. The onlookers were scrambling out of the line of fire. Again and again she fired. It was impossible to miss at that range. Gertrude reeled as the bullets struck her. She half turned away then collapsed in the dirt. There was silence as Rachel looked defiantly at Alec. The blond gunman smiled amiably at her.
‘Well,’ he said laconically, ‘that’s got rid of your rival for your half-breed lover.’
‘What do you mean?’
There was a cold malicious smile on Alec’s face.
‘Didn’t you know her and the breed took a shine to each other?’
‘No.’ Rachel’s face was twisted in disbelief. ‘I don’t believe you.’
Alec reached inside his vest and extracted some dog-eared envelopes. He tossed them to the dirt yard.
‘I found these love letters they been writing to each other.’
Rachel turned tortured eyes to her lover.
‘Did you, Monday? Did you ever. . . .’
‘Goddamn it, no. I never touched her.’
Alec turned back to the house. He stopped midstride at the sight of the woman in the doorway. Something in the manner of the gunman’s sudden checking drew the attention of the people in the yard. All eyes were drawn to the doorway.
Pale and haggard, Catlin was holding a pistol in one hand while her other bloodstained hand was clasped tight against her midriff. A man moved past her into the yard. An audible gasp went up from the watching men. His face and clothes stained with blood, O’Leary appeared like the ghost at the feast. He staggered momentarily and then recovered.
‘Hello, Alec . . . Rachel,’ he said, his voice just above a whisper. ‘They almost managed to kill me. I took out most of them. Catlin here helped. We’re wounded some, but still standing.’
Alec shook his head. ‘I never wanted your death.’ He gestured behind him. ‘Your loving daughters ordered that.’
The grin on O’Leary’s pale, fleshless face was a frightening sight.
‘You always was one to pass the buck, Alec. I’ll give you a chance to be a man for once. You wanted me dead and never had the guts to do your own dirty work. Now, if you ain’t yellow, grab those guns and do the job yourself.’
The blond killer licked his lips and took a step backwards.
‘Kill him!’ he shouted to the men gathered behind him.
No one moved.
‘You’re gonna have to do it yourself, Alec. What’s the matter? Too scared – scared of a crazed old man?’
The gunman’s eyes flicked from side to side like a cornered animal. Sweat was beaded on his forehead. For a moment he stilled and then his hands stabbed downwards. The weapons were clear of the holsters and the barrels were coming level when O’Leary’s bullets smashed him back into the dirt. For a moment the body twitched, the boot heels scored the dirt and then the stricken man was still. Behind O’Leary, Catlin slid to a sitting position against the door. The old man turned to her.
‘Catlin. Is it bad? Don’t you go and die on me.’
Through pain filled eyes, Catlin stared up at her father. Her front was saturated in dark blood.
‘Pa, I’m sorry. It hurts real bad. I. . . I don’t think I’ll make it.’
‘Goddamn it, Catlin, don’t do this.’ O’Leary knelt beside her. ‘I need you. We can make this ranch work, you and me. We can do it.’ His voice broke as he spoke.
‘Tell Frank I love him.’
Catlin’s voice was weak and her gaze slid out past her father. Her eyes widened.
‘No, Rachel, no.’
O’Leary was turning when the bullets hit him in the side of the head. Brains and blood exploded out from his ruptured skull and splattered on to his daughter. He fell across her legs.
With one last supreme effort Catlin lifted her pistol. Her hand was unsteady as she pulled the trigger. Rachel screamed as the heavy slug punched her backwards. She was feebly trying to raise her own gun when Monday went into action. He fired and the bullets struck Catlin in the face and her features disintegrated. She slumped down alongside her dead father, the gun sliding from her lifeless fingers.
There was silence in the yard as men stared at the scene of carnage. Father and daughter lay together in a grotesque embrace of death. In the yard, the two older daughters lay sprawled in bloody heaps along with Gertrude’s husband, Alec. The O’Leary dynasty had come to a final and bloody end.
Epilogue
Monday Gallagher was seated in one corner of the saloon behind a green baize table. Anyone familiar with Monday was aware this table was his own personal space. It was here he assessed and valued the stolen goods offered for sale. The town boss dealt out two poker hands, the cards landing neatly on the green table top. Monday placed the deck face down between the two piles of cards.
There was no one else at the table. Monday played alone. As he picked up the cards nearest to him, his dark eyes looked up when he heard the batwings swing open. Out of habit he touched the butt of the colt clipped to the underside of the table as he watched the stranger pause inside the doors and look around.
It was early in the day and there were not many customers. A solitary bartender worked behind the bar sorting bottles and glasses. Spotting Monday, the man ambled across the saloon towards him. From under lowered brows Monday sized up the newcomer.
‘You Gallagher?’
‘Yep.’
‘Was hoping to look you up when I got to California Crossing.’
Monday nodded, not answering. The man before him was horribly scarred. The saloon owner felt a touch of loathing as he observed the disfigured face. The man sat down opposite Monday.
‘Maybe we could play cards.’
Monday shrugged. ‘Maybe. Depends on the stakes.’
‘How’s about we play for a Mexican girl and an old man’s eyes?’
Monday went very still.
‘What?’
‘A Mexican girl and an old man’s eyes.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who are you?’
‘I am the fourth horseman of the apocalypse. And his name is death.’
Monday leant back in his chair and let his hands slide over the green baize towards the edge of the table. The bizarre face opposite twisted into a grotesque grin. With that ghastly leer on his face the stranger shoved suddenly at the table. The edge hit Monday in the chest and drove him back against the wall.
The violence and suddenness of the action took Monday completely by surprise. His head thudded against the wall and he felt something give in his chest as the table rammed with brutal strength against him. Before he could recover, hands were reaching for him. Monday felt himself being yanked violently upright. He was dragged across the table, upsetting it in the process. The scarred man flung the dazed saloon owner from him. Monday banged against a table and fell awkwardly to the floor. Weakly he turned his head towards the bar.
‘Pete,’ he croaked, then realized no help was to be had from that quarter.
An extremely hirsute man was standing beside the barkeep holding a shotgun casually in his hands. The weapon was normally kept under the bar for use in situations just like this one. Looking sheepish, the barkeep stood beside the hairy man and shrugged helplessly at his boss.
Monday turned back to Scarface. The man was reaching under the green baize table and was in the process of plucking the secret Colt from its hiding place. Holding the gun by the trigger guard, he walked across to the fallen saloon owner and helped him to his feet. He pushed the gun into Monday’s belt.
‘There you are, Monday. I guess that’s what you were looking for?’
The stranger turned and walked to the bar.
‘Whiskey,’ he requested.
The barman complied. While the stran
ger’s back was towards him, Monday looked down at the gun tucked into his waistband. Then he looked at the hairy man with the shotgun and let his hands hang by his sides. With the drink in his hand, Scarface turned back to look at Monday. Monday noticed the man wore a holstered gun.
‘You ready to play fair now, Monday?’ the stranger asked.
‘Who are you?’ Monday asked. ‘What do you want? Is it money you’re after?’
‘I am the Grim Reaper. I have been to hell, Monday. I saw a yard filled with the dead and their names were Keane O’Leary, Catlin O’Leary, Rachel O’Leary, Gertrude O’Leary, your old, blind father and a beautiful young Mexican girl called Xaviera.’
The scarred man finished the whiskey and set the glass back on the bar. He looked across at Monday.
‘Before I became death, I was called Alward,’ he said.
‘What the hell you talking about?’ Monday said.
‘Alward Gallagher, elder son of Washington Gallagher. My brother always called me Al.’
‘Al? You can’t be Al. He’s dead.’
The horribly scarred man gave his grotesque smile.
‘I am your brother, Al, who was dead. I’ve come back from the domain of ghosts to haunt you, my beloved brother.’
The scarred man allowed his hands to hang by his side. That hideous face leered across at Monday.
‘All those dead people are getting impatient, brother. Can’t you hear them calling for you?’
‘No, you can’t be Al. He . . . you don’t look nothing like Al.’
‘You planted my knife to make Pa think I’d tried to shoot him. Somehow you managed to place the blame on me when you murdered Xaviera. Then you helped Rachel put out Pa’s eyes.’
The sacred man shook his head regretfully.
‘Unforgivable. As your next of kin I appoint myself judge, jury and executioner. Monday Gallagher, for all those heinous crimes you stand accused of, I declare you guilty. There is only one penalty for such unnatural crimes. Monday Gallagher, unnatural son to a great man, Washington Gallagher, I hereby sentence you to death. As I said afore, I am the executioner as well as the judge and jury. So, it is my intention to send you to hell where Beelzebub, your real father awaits you. You have a choice in all this. I will give you a chance to outdraw me or I’ll just shoot you down like a mad dog.’
