The Sons of Grady Rourke (17 page)

“Sure we are,” the clerk said cheerfully.

*         *         *

P
ATRICK RODE HOME
beside McSween in gathering darkness. The damp chill in the air matched the feeling in the pit of his stomach. The riders reined their mounts to a slow walk westward.

On the far side of Lincoln, half a dozen riders rode hard toward the southeast. Deputy William Morton led a remnant of his posse into the sheltering veil of high-country night.

A
LEXANDER
M
C
S
WEEN EXHALED A LONG CLOUD OF STEAM ON
the crest of a small hill. The snow had crystallized from yesterday's sleet, which froze during Sunday night. The lawyer felt a wave of relief sweep the cold out of his bones. The afternoon sunshine glistened down the hillside all the way to South Spring River Ranch. Lincoln and its killing law had spared him one more time.

“It's starting to look like home to me.”

Liam nodded. Steam rose from the perspiration inside his shirt under the comforting weight of Patrick's furry trail coat. But his lips were too cold to move. Frozen breath clinging to his bald beard encircled his mouth. The ring of white frost looked as if he had fallen face dawn in a cat's milk bowl. The patchy beard did not add anything to his twenty-one years.

“Chisum will be glad to have one of the sons of Grady Rourke riding his fence line along the Pecos. You'll see.”

The two riders spurred their weary horses down the glasslike hill toward the ranch house. By the time they tied up near the front porch, two armed men were standing sentry beside the doorway. They smiled up at McSween when they recognized him. The horsemen dismounted stiffly. The icy wind had driven the blood out of their knees miles earlier and each man had to walk with his knees slightly flexed.

“Boys, this is Liam Rourke, late of the United States Cavalry and the surrender of Chief Joseph up north.”

The cowhands patted Liam on the back as if running starving Indians to ground were heroic. He winced.

McSween and Liam were standing palms-out in front of the hearth when John Chisum entered the greatroom of the house. The lawyer made the introductions.

“Chief Joseph, you say? That was grand work, Mr. Rourke. Your late father would have been proud of you.”

“I suppose so, Mr. Chisum.”

“John. We don't stand on formality at South Spring. You're in need of work?”

“Yes, sir. Until my father'S affairs are settled.”

Chisum glanced at McSween for news from town.

“His brother Patrick signed on to our posse yesterday. Justice Wilson named them the Regulators. Nice ring, don't you think?”

“Indeed. Well, we can always use another hand, Liam. And another sidearm.” The cattleman eyed Liam's Army-issue, 1873 Colt .45 revolver. “Yes, we surely can. Glad to have you with us as long as you like.”

Chisum extended his hand which Liam accepted. The rancher turned to McSween.

“When will the Regulators ride?”

“Within the week.”

“Warrants?”

“Signed and sealed by Justice Wilson.”

“Good. Maybe now we'll see some real justice.”

When Chisum faced Liam, he saw that the retired soldier had turned around and was looking into the crackling fire.

S
EAN
R
OURKE WALKED
under the purple sky toward Melissa's cottage. Smoke swirled from its stone chimney and Sean could smell the pine resin on the cold air. He had crawled out of the woman's warm bed before daybreak so he would be gone when Abigail came down from the loft. He approached the front door to return for midday supper with mother and daughter.

“McSween was in town yesterday.”

Melissa nodded over her plate of stew. She did not have to be at the Wortley until late afternoon for the dinner shift with Bonita Ramos.

“Rumor has it that Justice Wilson formed some kind of posse to hunt down Tunstall's killers.” Sean toyed at his food with a wooden spoon. Abigail watched him closely.

Melissa laid her rough hand on his. Sean looked up and saw the concern which tightened the comers of her beautiful eyes. He was slowly learning to read her mind. No other woman in his past had spoken to him like this woman who never said a word.

“They say Patrick got swore in with McSween's bunch. I don't know about Liam and the darkie soldier.”

Melissa nodded and withdrew her hand.

“Has Bonita come by today?”

“We ain't seen her,” Abigail answered for her mother.

“She weren't at the Wortley this morning either.”

P
ATRICK AND
S
ERGEANT
Buchanan heard the buckboard crunching over the frozen snow at two o'clock. They walked out of the barn into blinding sunshine. They glanced at each other's sweating face when they saw Bonita Ramos rein her horse to a stop.

“Patrick. Mister Buchanan. Thought you might want some real food. You'll have to put it on the fire. It probably got froze again on the ride out here.”

Patrick stood with his mouth open. He reached up to take her gloved hand, but she hesitated long enough for Cyrus to step forward and grab her middle. The big man eased her down to the ground so softly that her boots did not make the hard snow crackle. She leaned over the buckboard and lifted a large basket from the back.

“Can you tie up my horse, please?”

Patrick took the long reins and led the animal and buckboard to one of the newly planted fence posts. He wrapped the leathers three times around the frosted wood.

“Thank you.”

“Would you like to come in?”

“Sure. What about the sergeant?” She smiled up at Cyrus. She presumed that he slept in the barn.

“Mr. Buchanan lives in the house with Liam and me.”

“Oh. Is Liam here, too?”

“No, ma' am. My brother rode over to South Spring River this morning, early. Looking for work so we can keep Pa's ranch till the estate is settled up.”

“I see. You know Chisum?”

“Not really. But Mr. McSween went along. Said he could get Liam on.”

She nodded and her face clouded for an instant. She brightened quickly when Patrick gestured toward the house. The woman followed in step between the two men with Patrick leading.

Bonita opened her basket and spread several covered plates upon the table. The two men sat down at opposite ends. Their hostess edged toward Cyrus who watched patiently.

“Did both of you sign up for McSween's posse?”

Patrick was surprised by the casualness of her tone.

“No, ma'am. Just me. Cyrus here and my brother Liam have had their share of scraps already.”

“In the cavalry, I hear.”

“Yes'm,” Cyrus smiled.

“Please call me Bonita. Everyone else in town does.” She put three plates on the hearth stones close to the fire that Patrick had stoked when they entered the house. The front window was still covered with fading curtains holding back the cold breeze. “There. That won't take long.”

Bonita sat down at the table.

“It must be lonely out here for two bachelors.”

“There's not much time to think about it,” Patrick said slightly uneasy. He was not accustomed to discussing such things with women. “I found the ranch beat up by the weather. It's been almost like building it from scratch.”

“Your Pa built it?”

“Yes. I can't hardly remember the time. I weren't but six or seven. Liam was just a baby. I suppose Sean would remember.” Patrick's face looked distressed as he thought of his estranged brother.

“Sean seems to be taking up with Melissa these days.” Bonita showed a slight smile.

“The girl what don't talk much?”

“She don't talk at all. She ain't said a word since the Apaches done her over back in '70. There was a raid on the fort. Her ma and pa was killed. They left her with a child, Abigail. But she loves that little girl like any mother.”

Patrick and Cyrus nodded thoughtfully. They could not imagine; and they did not try. The white man was not yet comfortable in the woman's cheerful company.

“You with the House or the dead Englishman?”

The woman did not blink at the important question.

“I work with Melissa at the hotel. The hotel is House property. Melissa is House property: old Mr. Murphy and Jimmy Dolan they always looked after her, what with her being an orphan and all. For me, it's just work. I can sweep, or I can whore.” She smiled her attractive, crooked smile. “I sweep.”

“I didn't mean no harm, ma'am. It's just I got made Chisum property 'cause of Pa's grazing lease. Chisum is with McSween and the House ain't. I didn't mean no harm.”

“Stew should be warm enough.” Bonita stood and walked to the hearth. She put the tip of a finger into one of the dishes.

Patrick could watch her from his seat. But Cyrus had to turn and look over his shoulder. When she bent over, he turned back to Patrick and grinned broadly. Patrick nodded.

Bonita laid a plate in front of each man. Then she went back for her own.

“Now you boys tell me if my cooking is as good as yours.”

“Don't need to taste it, ma'am,” Cyrus said cheerfully. “It even smells better.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. But the proof is in the tasting.” She looked into his eyes closely.

“Yes'm.”

F
RIDAY NIGHT
, M
ARCH
1st, Liam was exhausted. During his first four days on the Chisum ranch, Liam had worked harder than he had in months. He joined a gang of hands digging holes in the frozen ground for fence posts and he had driven cattle between snow-covered pastures, which were ten miles apart. The bunk house was warm and comfortable. Sleep had come almost instantly after drinking a quart of water so cold his throat burned. He had forgotten how winter wind can dehydrate a man. But sleep would not come on his fifth night of being a hired hand.

The large cabin was dark except for bright red embers in two stone fireplaces. A dozen men snored around him with the rumble of a steam engine taking the high ball signal up a grade. Liam wrapped a wool blanket around his shoulders and he stood in his long woollies at the window.

Though only half a moon hung in the sky, it cast enough light from a clear sky to illuminate the dry winterscape of Chisum's empire. Liam rubbed fog from the window clouded by his warm breath. He blinked.

A figure walked from the shadows toward the bunk house. Liam thought it might be a bear standing upright. In the moonlight, the distant shape did not have human form.

Liam could not take his eyes from the window. He glanced toward the mantel above the nearest hearth. A leveraction Winchester rifle hung on wooden pegs. In his mind he calculated how much time he would have to dive for the ever-loaded weapon if the bear charged through a window or the unbolted door.

Wiping the window again with the heel of his hand, Liam exhaled so hard that he fogged the wavy glass completely and had to wipe it a third time.

The bear stopped in a wide clearing ten yards from the cabin. The moonlight fell coldly upon a human form. Like Liam, the body was wrapped in a blanket that dragged across the fresh powdery snow. A wide path trailed behind the figure into the darkness. Against white snow glistening in pale light, the body cut a sharp outline against distant hills. When it pulled the blanket away from its face, Liam's voice came to his throat in a stifled yelp like a puppy stepped-on. He looked quickly over his shoulder to see if he had awakened anyone. The train sped on in the cabin uninterrupted.

Looking back to the window, Liam watched the shape. He saw a woman with long dark hair. Her face was lost in shadows.

Liam's eyes were wide. He could not blink and his eyeballs began to hurt as they dried.

The long-haired woman reached into her blanket and pulled out a short stake. Even in the fragile moonlight, Liam could see a tuft of what he knew to be hair waving from one end of the stick, thick as his forearm. Reflexively, Liam stepped back from the window when the woman placed the post in the snow and leaned upon it with all her weight to drive it into the frozen earth. The post was erect and knee-high when she straightened her back. Liam finally blinked painfully when the woman seemed to look clean through him with her large, black eyes. Then she turned and walked back into the night. Her long robe moved from side to side in the path it had already cut.

When the woman was absorbed by the night, Liam could clearly see the spirit post and its moon shadow upon the snow. He recognized the Cheyenne spirit post and he knew that the hair blowing gently in the night breeze was the hair of the woman's dead child.

“Spirit Keeper,” the boy at the window sighed, fogging it completely for the last time.

Liam returned to his still warm bunk. Looking up at the ceiling, he decided that he was dreaming. He wanted to go outside to urinate. His bladder had awakened him from a nightmare, he thought. He smiled with certainty that he would find only new snow beyond the window come morning.

But he could not bring himself to climb out onto the cold wooden floor. He closed his eyes and waited for sleep to return and to push out of his mind the memory of Red Fork and brown babies frozen to their mothers' breasts.

Liam awoke to the sound of groggy men shuffling through the bunk house. Some cursed the icy floor as if the discomfort of cold splinters piercing stocking feet were deliberate. Others dropped heavy boots onto the floor as they dressed in dirty clothes that had been folded within their bedrolls to keep the outfits warm.

The newest man rubbed his eyes, felt the intense pressure in his bladder, and stumbled out of bed. He could hardly open his eyes to the blinding daylight outside. Wearing boots and his longjohns, Liam could not wait to dress before making some yellow snow. But before such certain relief beyond the corner of the cabin, he paused and looked away from the sun to where his nightmare had stood. He saw three cow hands standing closely together. Liam joined them.