The Sons of Grady Rourke (16 page)

“If we go across the street, Liam, maybe you can see that lawyer and we can get home before midnight.”

“Yes. We better go, Sean.”

“All right. Is the sergeant living at Pa's, too?”

“Just till I move on,” Cyrus answered.

Sean nodded as Liam and Cyrus stood. Just as they pushed their chairs under the table, Bonita and Melissa came over to stand beside the table. Liam looked into the silent women's wide blue eyes and he remembered the color of slow moving water in the Red Fork of the Powder River in the Bighorn Mountains. Melissa was paralyzed by the strange and terrified look in Liam's eyes. She stood beside him and inhaled the cloud of whiskey fumes pouring out of him as he stood transfixed by her eyes.

The liquor running through Liam's brain carried him to the Red Fork. In a heartbeat, the white-washed adobe walls of the cantina evaporated. He saw only Melissa's clear blue eyes and the cigar smoke halo around her long black hair smelled suddenly like sulfur smoke. The black hair was on the ground everyWhere.

In the warm saloon heated by warm-blooded men, loose women, and blazing pine in the fireplace, Liam felt cold. He shivered. He felt the dawn chill of the 25th day of November 1876. Like tonight, it was a Saturday. Colonel Ranald Mackensie's eleven hundred troopers of the 4th Cavalry were storming down upon the Cheyenne village of chiefs Dull Knife and Little Wolf. Forty of four hundred Cheyenne were slaughtered. When the soldiers found blood-soaked uniforms from George Custer's last battle concealed in the village, two hundred lodges were burned.

The white men laughed during the night when the temperature plunged below freezing and eleven Cheyenne infants froze to death at their mothers' breasts.

“Liam?”

The brother shuddered when he felt a hard hand on his arm. He broke his stare from Melissa and turned.

“Sergeant Buchanan. Sir.”

“It's all right, boy. It's all right. We have to go.”

“Yes. Yes,” Liam stammered. His shaking hand raised his hat to his brow. “Yes.”

The two men pushed their way through the crowd toward the hallway and the street. Sean Rourke watched his brother's back as he shuffled at the black soldier's side. Liam only came up to Cyrus Buchanan's massive shoulders. By the time they walked outside, the bustling dirt street was dark under an overcast and starless sky.

“Ain't it funny?” Jesse Evans laughed loudly across from Sean.

“What?”

“Niggers is welcome where you ain't.”

S
UNDAY MORNING CAME
on an ill wind driving sleet which slashed across the Sacramento Mountains. Liam slept off his whiskey until seven o'clock. By the time he found the hot coffee pot on the hearth stones, Cyrus and Patrick had already worked an hour in the barn, shoring up siding that the bitter wind had loosened during the night.

“Then what did Shield say?” Patrick was bundled in his fur trail duster and a woollen scarf, which pulled his hat brim down over his ears. Cyrus worked in shirt sleeves and no hat.

“The lawyer told the boy that your daddy had the right to cut off Sean so long as Mr. Rourke had his mind when he wrote the will. The lawyer says he knew your daddy and his mind was sound when he wrote it.”

“Sean took it real hard, Cyrus.”

“Yes. We seen him at the Wortley. He talked like he might come 'round in time. But everyone talked about taking up sides like it some kind of war in that town.”

“And Sean thinks I've taken the Englishman's side 'cause I had to continue Pa's lease of the pasture to Chisum.”

“Seems to be.”

Patrick covered his face when the barn door opened to let in a wave of sleet. Ice pellets bounced across the dirt floor like tiny wet marbles. Liam had to use both hands to close the heavy door when he entered.

“Got your beauty sleep?” Patrick smiled.

“Says the man who slept through Saturday,” Liam laughed. He held a cup of coffee which was already cold just from the walk to the barn. “Need a hand?”

“Sure.” Cyrus pointed toward a pile of barn siding in an empty stall. Half a dozen stalls were filled with the saddle and pack horses.

While Liam walked toward the stall, the door flew open again. Both brothers thought the wind had done it. But Billy Bonney led an icicled horse into the barn, dropped the reins, and pulled the doors shut.

“I knocked,” Billy said where he shivered. His horse turned his mousey brown face to lick his sides near the saddle where chunks of sleet dangled from his winter coat. “Mind if I keep my mount out of that weather?”

“Not at all,” Patrick said cordially. “Liam, this is Billy Bonney. He worked for Tunstall at the store till Brady closed the place. Billy: my brother, Liam, and Sergeant Cyrus Buchanan, late of the U.S. Cavalry.”

Billy took off his snow-covered hat.

“Liam. Sergeant Buchanan.”

“Mr. Bonney. Call me Cyrus. I'm retired now.”

“Cyrus.” Billy turned toward Patrick. “You might want to come to town today, Patrick.”

“In this weather?” The howling wind nearly drowned out his voice. Slits between the barn's siding acted like a huge musical instrument. Each crack resonated with its own tone and the wind moaned through the west wall like a wood-wind orchestra.

“What could be that damned important, Billy?”

“Mr. McSween's come to town. And Justice Wilson—Justice of the Peace—is going to hold a meeting about Mr. Tunstall's death.”

“Murder, you mean.” Patrick put down his three-pound hammer.

“Yes, murder. Wilson and McSween are having a meeting this afternoon. Going to fonn a posse to hunt down Tunstall's killers.”

Patrick thought of Sean who rode with the killer deputies.

“A posse to hunt down another posse? What about Sheriff Brady?”

“Brady ain't invited. Just boys from the right side of the street. You saw what them others did to Tunstall. You have to come.”

“It ain't my fight, Billy. I have a ranch to run.”

“You won't have a ranch if Jimmy Dolan and his kind have their way. John Wilson is all that stands between us and a war in the middle of town.”

“Who's the law in Lincoln? Brady or Wilson?”

“Both,” Billy sighed with fatigue borne of his ride through pelting sleet and snow. “If them people can let Jesse Evans kill Tunstall, none of us is safe. You have to come.”

“But it's Sunday, Billy. Can't it wait till tomorrow?”

Billy heard Chisum's cattle complaining outside about the snow falling on their backs and the sleet stinging their eyes.

“When Brady and Dolan send Jesse and the Boys to steal them steers and drive them down to Seven Rivers where they hide the cattle they rustle, you won't have no money to keep this ranch, Patrick. Joining us will give you the guns you need to protect your Pa's livestock. You need our guns; and we need yours. And Liam's gun and the sergeant's.”

“Where you going to meet? Can't use Tunstall's store if Brady has it locked down.”

“No. We're meeting at McSween's house next door. Brady ain't locked down McSween's place. And Mrs. McSween ain't back yet.”

Patrick walked over to Liam. He had to raise his voice slightly to be heard over the wind.

“Liam? You interested?”

Liam glanced over to Cyrus who slowly shook his head as if he knew the answer.

“No. I ain't lifting my iron against this town. Or against Sean, if he's riding with the sheriff.”

“All right. Then you and Cyrus can stay here. I ain't got no choice.” Patrick faced Billy at Liam's side. “Let's go up to the house and put some hot coffee in you. Then we'll ride down to Lincoln.”

“Good. McSween will be glad to have you.”

“Maybe. But I ain't raising my weapon against my brother.”

Billy showed his squirrel teeth. The nineteen-year-old clerk pushed back his long coat to reveal his handiron on his hip.

“Your brother don't talk like he's still your kin.”

B
ILLY AND
P
ATRICK
never spoke during their grueling ride back to Lincoln. They never looked up from under their hats for five miles. They kept their chins inside the collars of their coats to keep the sleet from cutting their faces. The horses obediently followed the wagon road into town without help from their motionless riders.

Patrick was surprised that the paddock surrounding McSween's large adobe compound was full of horses. No one saw them ride past the Wortley on their left. McSween's home was the next large structure on the same side of the street. The next building further down was Tunstall's store where behind it, fresh snow covered the little mound of rocks piled over the dead Englishman's body. At least a dozen horses stood rigidly in a row. They all faced away from the wind blowing hard out of the west.

Inside, a stone hearth warmed just over a dozen men. Cigar smoke swirled toward the ceiling. Patrick guessed who Alexander McSween was by his face. There were only three pink, smooth faces in the crowd and they were the only unarmed men present: Justice Wilson, the lawyer, and a stranger. McSween wore better clothes. All the other armed men wore cowpuncher uniforms of baggy trousers shining from wear inside the knees and sweat-faded shirts.

After brief introductions of Patrick Rourke, Justice Wilson called the late afternoon meeting to order.

“Men, John Tunstall was bushwhacked in cold blood. We don't know for sure who done it. But we know Sheriff Brady's posse went after him to serve the attachment writ. I'm prepared to deputize what men among you is willing to serve the law of New Mexico Territory. We ain't no vigilantes. Whoever takes the oath will bring in Tunstall's killers to stand trial fair and square. I warn you: There's hell to pay for those among you what take the oath. These here arrest warrants are for Jimmy Dolan, Deputy Morton, and . . . Jesse Evans and three of his Boys.”

A dangerous murmur rumbled through the company of smoking and chewing men.

“Whoever can follow the law and can swear not to become a mob, stand and raise your right hand.”

Patrick found himself standing beside Billy Bonney. Every man was up and every hand was raised in the smoky cloud.

“Do you swear to uphold the law and to defend this territory from enemies of the people? So help you God?”

Fifteen throaty voices mumbled, “Yes.” A few voices firmly replied, “Damned yes.”

“Then you're deputies. We'll call ourselves the Regulators.” John Wilson looked pleased with himself. He had formed a posse and named it, all in one breath. “Alex?”

The soft-looking lawyer walked to Wilson's side. McSween put his thumbs in his vest pockets.

“Boys, you are now the Regulators. You are all that stand between law and anarchy. Do your duty! Justice Wilson will now sign arrest warrants for the killer or killers of our esteemed friend, John Tunstall, subject of Her Majesty the Queen.”

Several armed men spit wads of chew on Susan McSween's floor to seal their oath.

One by one, the Regulators picked up copies of Justice Wilson's warrants, took a swig from one of several clay jugs, and marched headsdown into the blizzard. McSween lingered to visit with Patrick Rourke.

“I knew Grady well. He was a good man.”

“Thank you, Mr. McSween.”

“I hear that Sean hasn't taken well to the disposition of your father's estate.”

“No, sir. He ain't.”

“I'm sorry, Patrick. I suppose your father had his reasons.”

“Nothing I can figure. Sean was a soldier and my father was proud of him. Pa were a soldier in Mexico in '47.”

“Yes. Decorated, I hear.”

“By the President himself. I don't understand it. Billy brought me out, you know. I ain't going after no man who didn't shoot Tunstall. Doc Ealy says Tunstall was shot twice. There were a dozen men in the Sheriff's posse.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just know it. I was riding with Tunstall into Lincoln.”

“Did you see him murdered?” McSween stepped closer.

“Not exactly. I just know how many there was.”

“Well, you heard Justice Wilson. The Regulators aren't vigilantes. They are only to arrest the killers, not be judge and jury. But remember this,” McSween's whiskey breath was close to Patrick's face, “everyone in Brady's posse is at least an accessory to assassination, whether someone pulled the trigger or not. The Regulators' job is to bring them in. You're a lawman now, not a jury.”

“Or hangman, neither.”

“No. Billy says you're living at your Pa's.”

“Yes.”

“Good. We'll just send word out to you when we're ready to ride after the weather breaks. You better get on home before you lose the daylight. I'm going back down to South Spring River.”

“Chisum's?”

“Yes.” McSween paused to listen to the howling wind.

“Today?”

“Guess so.”

“You could spend the night with us, Mr. McSween. Then get an early start tomorrow. It's a long ride for one day. Especially in a blizzard.”

“Thank you. I'll take you up on that. I'll ride out with you in a few minutes. I need to talk with Doc Ealy for a minute.”

“Fine. I'll wait and we can ride out together.”

“Thank you. I won't be long.”

McSween walked over to the man in bankers' clothes whom Patrick had not seen before. The lawyer pulled a folded document from his breast pocket inside his black waistcoat. The physician read the two pages carefully. Then, he looked over his steel-framed spectacles, dipped a pen into the inkwell on the desk, and signed the papers without ceremony. He had witnessed the Last Will and Testament of Alexander McSween.

Patrick turned toward Billy.

“The man says we're lawmen.” Patrick spoke with a tinge of disbelief in his voice.

William Henry Bonney smiled his buck-toothed grin.