Shadow of the Hangman (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

“You'll like Dromore, Sarah,” Jacob O'Brien said. “It's a peaceful place. Well, most of the time. Right now my brother Patrick is in a heap o' trouble.”

The girl leaned forward over the cantle of the saddle and said, “I met Patrick a few times when he came into the saloon, and I grew quite fond of him. He was kind and gentle with women, not like you.”

Jacob didn't follow where Sarah was leading. Instead he said, “He was found guilty of raping and murdering Molly Holmes. It seems the Georgetown vigilantes are determined to see him hang.”

“Patrick didn't kill Molly Holmes,” Sarah said. “If you ask me her husband did it, crazy old Elijah. He was a woman-beater, too.”

The “too” didn't go unnoticed by Jacob, but again he stepped lightly around Sarah's mantrap. “Elijah and two witnesses said they saw Patrick leaving the barn after Molly was killed,” he said. “That was pretty damning evidence.”

“I know, I heard them say that at the trial,” the girl said. “The witnesses were a couple of raggedy-assed drifters who rode into town, then rode out again. I reckon somebody, maybe Elijah, paid them to say what they said because right after the trial they suddenly had double-eagles to spend.”

“Could be,” Jacob said. “But reckoning on a thing and proving it are different things.”

The two rode in silence for a while through the forested high country south of Glorieta Mesa. The noon sun hung directly overhead, and dusty beams of light filtered among the pines and scattered stands of aspen. They paused briefly when a black bear got up on its hind legs and watched them pass, then shambled back into the trees.

Finally Jacob said, “Sarah, did you ever see Elijah Holmes talking with Dora DeClare?”

“No,” the girl said. “I can't say it never happened, but I never saw them talk.”

Jacob felt Sarah start behind him. “What was that?” she said.

“What?”

“I saw a flash of light on top of the mesa. It was there for just a second.” She pointed. “Look, it's there again!”

“I see it,” Jacob said.

“Is it the Apaches?” Sarah said.

“Maybe. They might be looking for a chance to steal horses or a couple of beeves.”

“What was the flash, Jacob?”

“Sunlight on a gun barrel or the lens of a telescope,” Jacob said. “Or Mexican silver jewelry hanging around an Apache buck's neck.”

“What do we do?” Sarah said, a spike of fear in her voice.

Jacob slid his rifle from the boot and laid it across the saddle horn. “We ride careful and keep our eyes open,” he said. “This is no place to tangle with Apaches.”

“Jacob,” Sarah said, hugging close to his back, “I'm scared.”

“Hell, girl,” Jacob said, “so am I.”

 

 

The next couple of hours were tense as Jacob's eyes constantly searched the terrain around him, but he saw no sign of Apaches, and the ride to Dromore passed without incident.

Samuel stepped out of the house when Jacob rode in; Lorena followed behind him, baby Shamus in her arms.

“Welcome home, Jake,” Samuel said. He looked beyond his brother to the girl and smiled. “What do you have there?”

As he leaned from the saddle and helped Sarah slide from the back of the horse, Jacob said, “This is Miss Sarah Elizabeth Walker, and right now she needs a job. I was kinda hoping you could find something for her at Dromore.” He passed the girl her carpetbag.

“We always need help at Dromore,” Samuel said. He stuck out his hand. “I'm Samuel O'Brien and that there is my wife, Lorena, and our son, Shamus.”

Sarah dropped a little curtsy. “Right pleased to meet you, I'm sure,” she said.

“Sarah, what happened to your face?” Lorena said.

“Jacob hit me,” Sarah said.

“He did what?” Lorena said, very loud and tinged with outrage.

“Hit me, ma'am,” Sarah said.

“Oh, you poor child,” Lorena said. She passed the baby to her left arm and circled Sarah's thin shoulders with her right. “You come inside at once and let me attend to those bruises. And by the look of you, a little sherry would not go amiss.”

Lorena glared at Jacob who still sat his horse, fearing to dismount onto female-held ground. “Jacob,” she said, “how could you do such a thing?”

“Well, see, Lor—”

“Yes, explain yourself,” Lorena said. “Explain, if you can, this . . . this . . . oh, it's so disgusting I can't even think of a word to describe it. Look! Just look at the wounds on this poor girl's face.”

“There were Apaches, Lorena, and—”

“Come now, explain yourself!”

“Damn it, Lorena, I'm trying,” Jacob said.

“Oh, when profanity enters into it, I don't want to hear another word,” Lorena said. “Sarah's bruises explain all, and in a singularly unpleasant manner, let me tell you.”

Much moved by Lorena's words, Sarah began to sob as she was led to the house, and, as the women reached the door, two pairs of eyes turned on Jacob, raking him like talons.

Once the females had flounced inside, Jacob said to Samuel, “When I rode into Dromore today I was over six feet tall. Now I'm shrunk to about half that.”

“Hell, why did you thump her?” Samuel said.

“There were Apaches about a hundred yards away, and a man was being tortured and she got hysterical and I had to stop her and—”

“You hauled off and socked her.”

“Yeah. I did. I backhanded her. Too hard, I reckon.”

“Well, it's one way to shut up a woman, I suppose.”

“Flog me, flay me, but it was all I could come up with at the time,” Jacob said.

“Who'd the Apaches get?” Samuel said.

“If you'd invite me inside and offer me a drink, maybe I'd tell you,” Jacob said, testy as all hell and feeling more than a little trail worn.

Samuel grinned. “Step down, Jake, it's your house as much as mine.”

Grumbling, muttering under his breath, Jacob let a Mexican boy take his horse, and he followed Samuel into the parlor.

“Be warned, Jake,” Shawn said, “the colonel's real mad that you beat up on a woman.”

“I didn't beat up on her, I hit her once,” Jacob said. Then listening to himself, he groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“There were Apaches close by and the girl was hysterical,” Samuel said. “It could be argued that Jake was justified.”

“Could be argued!” Jacob said. “She was wailing and crying and she could've brought those bucks right down on top of us.”

“He has a case,” Shawn said, nodding. “There might have been justification.”

Jacob's sharp retort died on his lips when the door opened and Shamus rolled inside, tall, grim Luther Ironside walking behind him.

The colonel nodded. “Jacob.”

“Pa,” Jacob said.

Shamus slowly, deliberately, and silently poured himself a drink, then he stared at the parlor's pink hearthstone and said, “There are people who believe that the foundation of this great house was a rock. It was not. The foundation of this house was a woman.” He looked at Jacob. “That woman's name was Saraid, the Gaelic for Sarah, and she was my wife and your mother.”

Jacob nodded. “That is true, Colonel.”

As though he hadn't heard, Shamus said, “Imagine then, how I felt, when another Sarah came to my door today, showing all the signs of a vicious beating perpetrated by one of my sons.”

Shawn pretended to cough as he suppressed a laugh. Samuel remained stone faced, like an ancient Roman procurator sitting in judgment.

Slowly, Shamus's head turned until he was looking at Jacob. “Explain yourself, boy,” he said.

Again Jacob talked hysterics, Apaches, imminent danger, and, as he put it, “the slap heard round the whole territory.”

After his son finished speaking, Shamus sat in silence for a while, gathering his thoughts. But Ironside said, “Damn it all, Jake, if you'd hit her where it doesn't show we wouldn't have this problem and Lorena wouldn't be demanding your head.”

Jacob said, “Colonel, I'd say to Luther, ‘I'll remember that the next time,' but I won't. I don't go around beating up on women, no matter what Lorena thinks.”

“And Sarah thinks,” Shamus said. “And remember, she's the innocent victim in this case.”

“There is no ‘case,' Pa, and there's no victim. I'm not on trial here,” Jacob said. “If I hadn't shut her up, she'd be chewing buckskin in some Apache's wickiup by now, or worse, and I'd be hanging head down over a fire.”

Shamus looked around the room. “Samuel, Shawn, what are your opinions on this matter?” he asked.

“Hell, guilty as charged,” Shawn said, grinning. “A hundred lashes less one.”

“Now tell me what you really think, Shawn, and without the profanity and levity this time,” Shamus said, his face stern.

Chastened, Shawn said, “Sorry, Colonel. I reckon Jacob did what he had to do. He didn't have all day to think about it.”

“Samuel?” Shawn said.

“I wasn't there, so I'm not going to judge,” Samuel said. “Jacob did what he thought was necessary.”

“Luther?” Shamus said.

The segundo grinned. “Jake did the right thing. That's how I taught him.”

“You taught him,” Shamus said, “a great many things, Luther, not all of them right or even decent. But I won't go into that now.” He rolled his wheelchair to the window and looked outside at the shadow-slanted land. “Jacob, all agree that you did what was required of you at the time. I won't fault any man for that. The matter is now settled and forgotten.”

Shamus turned his shaggy gray head and smiled, and in that moment he looked like an ancient Irish king who had just heard a minstrel who pleased him. “Go see your brother, Jacob,” he said. “He's asking for you.”

Jacob rose to his feet. “One thing, Colonel,” he said, “When I was riding in I saw a flash on top of the mesa. It could be nothing, but after I visit with Patrick I'd like to take a ride up there and scout around.”

“Apaches you think?” Shamus said.

“Maybe an Apache. Maybe somebody else.”

“Luther, Shawn, you will go with Jacob,” Shamus said. He thought for a moment, and added, “Take a couple of vaqueros with you. I don't like the idea of Apaches up there on the mesa pointing rifles at my front door.”

Chapter Thirty-two

“So what did you think of Patrick?” Luther Ironside asked.

“He's looking a lot better, getting stronger,” Jacob said.

“Lorena spoils him,” Ironside said. “A man shouldn't be coddled like that.”

Shawn laughed. “Luther, last time you had the rheumatisms, who sat in a chair all day while Lorena put mustard and brown paper plasters on your knees, and glasses of the colonel's best Irish whiskey in your hand?”

“That was different,” Ironside sniffed, looking dignified. “A man of a certain maturity needs coddling now and then. Young whippersnappers like you don't.”

Samuel drew rein and raised a hand. “Jacob, do you think this was the spot?”

“Looks like,” Jacob said. “Except it was up there on the rim.”

The switchback trail they'd taken was shielded from prying eyes by thick stands of ponderosa pine and juniper. A thunder sky misted iron gray on top of the mesa, and a few drops of rain gusted in a rising wind. The late afternoon shaded darker, and shadows pooled among trees that were already ticking raindrops.

Samuel pointed to a wall of rock that overhung a narrow, grassy ledge. “We'll leave the horses there and go on foot the rest of the way,” he said.

Hunched against the rain that was now falling steadily, Shawn said, “Jake, are you sure you saw something up there?” He looked miserably through the tree canopy at the sky. “I still haven't forgotten your wild-goose chase to El Cerrito, or whatever that dung heap was called.”

“I saw a flash, and that's all I saw,” Jacob said.

“No matter,” Samuel said, “we have to check it out.”

He swung out of the saddle and led his horse to the ledge, and the others did the same, except for one young vaquero who held back, his mouth open as though he was gasping for air.

“Salazar, what ails you?” Ironside said.

The man shook his head. “I don't know. I can't breathe.” His hand went to his throat. “Jesus, the air is foul.”

“Juan, do you feel sick?” Samuel said.

The other vaquero answered for him. “Patron, Juan is a man of God, and he wishes one day to be a priest.” The man lifted his nose and tested the air. “He is right, the air is foul.”

“There's nothing wrong with the air. Now you two split-ass up the damned mesa,” Ironside said, shrugging into his slicker. “Or you'll feel the toe of my boot.”

But Salazar was slumped over in the saddle and he had rosary beads in his hand, his gasping, open lips moving in prayer.

“Juan can go no farther,” the vaquero said. He shook his head. “Nor can I.”

“Right,” Ironside said, striding toward Salazar. “Then it's time for some ass-kicking around here.”

“Leave them be, Luther!” Jacob said. “The vaqueros are telling the truth. The higher up the mesa we rode, the more rotten the air became. I've smelled that stench before, in El Cerrito.”

“Jake,” Ironside said, “those men are malingering in the face of the enemy. In the great Army of the Confederacy that was a hanging offense.”

Samuel looked hard at Jacob, his eyes speculative. He said, “Luther, Jacob's right. I'm sending the vaqueros back.”

“But Sam—”

“Let it go, Luther. If Jacob says the air is bad, then it's bad.”

Jacob stepped to the vaquero. “Rodrigo, help Juan back to the ranch. Take him to the chapel and stay with him until he recovers.”

The man called Rodrigo looked miserable. He turned to Samuel. “Patron,” he said, “you will be without two guns.”

“It's all right, we'll manage just fine,” Samuel said. “Now go with Juan before he suffocates to death.”

Ironside watched the vaqueros ride back along the trail. “Damned mollycoddling is what I call it,” he said to no one in particular. “If you ask me, which you won't, of course, all them two needed was a good kick in the balls.”

Jacob smiled. “Luther, how lost we'd be without your wise counsel.”

“Damn right you would,” Ironside said.

 

 

Shawn and Ironside were the best with rifles, so they led the way up the switchback. Thunder rolled through the Santa Fe Mountains to the north as though massive boulders were bouncing among the peaks. Lightning flashes accompanied the dragon hiss of rain as a wild weather system, ugly and mean, raced toward the mesa.

Samuel, breathing a little heavily on the slope, said, “I didn't smell it.”

“But it's here,” Jacob said. “All around us.”

“What the hell is it? A dead animal?”

Jacob turned and looked at his brother, rainwater cascading off the brim of his hat. “Nemesis,” he said.

“All right, Jake, give me another name for it.”

“Evil,” Jacob said. “Somewhere on the mesa there's evil. The vaqueros sensed it, smelled it, and so do I.”

“What is it, this evil?” Samuel said. The confusion in his eyes told Jacob that he didn't understand any of this.

“It's in the shape of a beautiful woman,” Jacob said. “And it's coming closer to Dromore.”

“Why, for heaven's sake?”

“Because her name is Nemesis, and she's a destroyer,” Jacob said.

Samuel shivered. “Enough, Jake, you're spooking the hell out of me.” He looked ahead of him and called out, “Shawn, Luther, step careful there.”

The warning wasn't needed because the pair had already stopped. Their rifles up and ready, they eyed the twenty yards of open ground that separated the trail from the rim of the mesa.

“See anything?” Jacob said.

“Not a damn thing,” Ironside said. He peered into the distance. “All I see is rain, mist, and more rain.”

Jacob took a step ahead of the older man and drew his Colt from under his slicker. He passed his rifle to Shawn. “I'm going up alone to take a look,” he said. “No point on us all getting bushwhacked.”

“No, I'm coming with you,” Shawn said. His eyes scanned the rim. “You're such a trusting soul, Jake, an Apache could take advantage of your good nature.”

“Then give my rifle to Sam, and let's go,” Jacob said.

“Hell, boys, you're not going up there without me,” Ironside said. “Liable to get your fool heads blown off.”

“All right, then, we'll all go,” Samuel said, irritated by rain and the closeness of the coming dark. “Damn it, we don't need to hold a committee meeting about it.”

He barged his way past Jacob and Shawn to the clearing and stepped into a bullet.

 

 

Jacob saw the drift of smoke and thumbed off two fast shots in that direction. Then he ran across the clearing and onto the mesa rim. He looked around and saw nothing but rain-slicked bedrock and scattered pines and juniper.

Below him, Shawn yelled, “Jacob, Sam's all right! He got grazed in the head is all, but he's bleeding pretty bad.”

“Get him back to Dromore,” Jacob answered, feeding two fresh shells into his Colt.

“He's out like a dead cat, Jake,” Shawn said. “It's going to take two of us.”

“Then do it, for God's sake,” Jacob said. “I'll be all right. I think the bushwhacker made a run for it.”

Before Shawn could answer, Jacob sprinted to the cover of a rock pile, a stunted wild oak growing between the boulders like a ragged parasol. Rain drummed on his hat and the shoulders of his slicker, but around him the mesa stretched silently into the distance where there was no clear delineation between sky and land, just a gray curtain that now and then rippled in the wind. Of living creatures, there was no sign.

“Hey, you swine,” Jacob yelled, calling into nothingness, “I'm here, so show yourself and we'll have it out.”

He heard only quiet, made quieter still by the hushed hiss of the rain.

To Jacob's right the top of the mesa was fairly open, with no obvious places where a man could hide. Behind him lay the rim, and to his left was an area of trees and patches of bunchgrass growing from gravel.

His eyes narrowed in thought, Jacob realized that the bushwhacker, whoever he was, must have run in that direction. The east face of the mesa sloped gently to the flat, and the man had probably escaped in that direction and was now probably long gone.

Jacob straightened from his crouched position. He had little hope of finding the bushwhacker, but he decided to check out the trees and then scout as far as the mesa's east rim.

Stepping carefully, wary of stumbling into an ambush, Jacob made his way to the pines. Around him the unpeopled tableland lay still, eerily watchful, like the windows of an abandoned house. The air smelled of rain and of ozone, lightning flashes flickering on his streaming slicker. But the mesa had been washed clean, and the rancid stench he'd smelled earlier was gone.

Jacob glanced at the sky, dark and growing darker. He reckoned he had an hour before the day gave way to night and threw a black cloak over the mesa. His time was fast running out.

 

 

The Apache war cry split apart the silence like the crack of a bullwhip. Three hard-running, mounted warriors came through the trees at Jacob, surprising him. He'd expected a white man to open the ball, not Indians.

But he'd no time for thought. Now instinct took over as he fought for his life.

An Apache on a rangy steeldust fired at Jacob, and the bullet cracked air close to his skull. He ignored the man and shot at another Indian, who was closer, just a dozen yards away and coming on fast. Jacob hurried his shot and missed. The Apache, his horse dark with rain, didn't slow his pace. He raised a lance and threw it at Jacob, who sidestepped at the last moment. But he'd moved from one danger to another. The third Apache's horse slammed into him, hit Jacob with a shoulder, and sent him sprawling backward to the ground.

Jacob hit the wet caprock hard and his breath gusted out of his chest, but he rolled and his gun came up, searching for a target. An Apache, wearing a blue headband that marked him as a former army scout, sat his horse just five feet away, a Sharps .50 to his shoulder.

“Lay down your gun!” the man yelled.

Jacob snarled his rage.
Savages want to take me alive!

The two other Apache had dismounted and were now bounding toward him. Jacob fired at the man on the horse. The Indian took the bullet just under his ribs on the left side of his chest and reeled in shock, for the moment at least out of it.

Jacob fell on his back, his gun swinging to engage the Apaches who were already reaching out to grab him.

Two fast shots. Both men went down, as though their legs had been cut from under them with a scythe.

Jacob was startled. He hadn't fired. So who had?

As thunder hammered and lightning scrawled across the sky like the signature of a demented god, Luke Caldwell emerged from the rain and loomed over him.

“Howdy, Jake,” he said. “Seems like I showed up just in time, huh?”

The Apache with the blue headband lay on the ground, dead as he was ever going to be, and the other two sprawled at Jacob's feet.

“Caldwell,” Jacob said, “are you the one who shot my brother?”

“Did I kill him?” the Texan said, smiling. “A downhill shot is always tricky.”

Jacob tensed, ready to bring up his Colt, but the rifle muzzle that rammed into his ear convinced him that now wasn't the time.

“Don't even think about it, O'Brien,” Lum said. “Or my bullet will go into your right ear and come out the other.” The man kicked Jacob hard in the ribs. “Drop it, by God, or you're a dead man.”

Jacob let the revolver drop from his hand. He looked up at Caldwell and said, “This just isn't my day, is it?”

“Nope,” Caldwell said, “and it will only go downhill from here.”