the Man from Skibbereen (1973) (2 page)

Indians? The man's scalp was not taken, and Indians would surely have burned the shack and taken what else they wanted; yet who else would want to rob a poor man such as this? And where were they now? Miles it was, many miles, to any place a man other than an Indian was likely to be. How and why had they come to this empty spot? Such a far place, and then not even to take his rifle or food? It made no sense.

Was this man the missing station agent? And why a station here at all? Of course, there was a spring yonder, and a well near the house, and it might be that they planned a water tank here.

Cris had not really searched the place, but now he did it. The first thing he found was a pistol with an old worn scabbard that had seen use and much care, and belt for ammunition. He thought for a moment, shrugged, then belted on the gun. He had never used such a gun but he could at least fire it at somebody.

The man muttered unintelligibly in his delirium, then subsided. After a moment he sat up suddenly. "Help," he said, "help me." He looked at Mayo, but whether he saw him or not was a question.

"I've some tea, man. Drink it down now, I'm thinkin' it will help."

The wounded man managed a couple of swallows. He lay down again, muttered, and slept.

Cris made sure the man was covered, then blew out the light and with rifle and pistol at hand, sat down in a chair against the wall by the bedroom window and tried to relax. Thunder rolled, lightning flashed, and the rain beat against roof and wall and window, but Cris began to nod and closed his eyes.

Through pounding rain a rider came from the night, lightning picking highlights from his glistening slicker, throwing deeper shadow under the turned--down hat--brim.

The rider sat his restive mount, peering through the darkness at the station, then suddenly swung his horse and rode away. Crispin Mayo did not look out. He did not see the vanishing rider.

Crispin Mayo was asleep.

Chapter
Two

Cris Mayo opened his eyes to the gray of dawn, the silver rails before his eyes, the rain--wet grass stretching away forever. At first he sat still, looking through the window, remembering where he was, hearing the breathing of the man on the bed.

Cris could recall no day when he had not risen before the first light. There had always been a furrow to plow, fish to catch, hay to stack, turf to cut. He liked the turf--cutting best, for all the hard work it was. The poor layers on top must be laid aside to get at the black, brittle stuff that burned well, and that was always deep down.

He got to his feet, stretching his stiff muscles and scratching his head. He glanced at the wounded man. His face was haggard, and his breathing ragged... if you could call it breathing.

Cris went to the stove, found some glowing coals among the gray wood ash and fed in some bark shredded between his palms, then some slivers of pine. He added fuel as the flames climbed, replaced the lid and went to the water barrel. The spigot yielded only a few drops.

Taking the wooden bucket, he went to the well and drew water. There was a tin dipper, and he tasted the water. It was good, a little brackish, but good. It needed a dozen trips to fill the barrel, and then he filled the bucket, for a man never knew when water would be needed and he had no wish to be without it. Anyway, it was the pattern of his life. If a bucket was empty, you filled it. If a woodbox was empty, you filled that, too.

There were pink streaks in the sky. He looked slowly around. He had heard the trickle of water when he'd rested under the cottonwoods, so after a glance around, he walked to them. It was quiet there, among the trees, and there was a good bit of fuel and kindling to be gathered from the ground where limbs had fallen after windstorms.

He found the stream, a tiny one, and followed it a quarter of a mile to a notch in the hills where it flowed from a crack under a slab of rock.

Again he looked around, but there was nothing in sight or hearing, not even a bird.

The wounded man was still sleeping when Cris walked back to the shack, so he fried bacon, made coffee, and ate. When he had finished the bacon he dipped stale biscuits in the grease and ate that. The coffee tasted good.

Cris Mayo was a broad, powerful young man, five feet ten inches tall, weighing nearly one hundred and ninety. He had worked hard all his life and his hands were strong from the lifting and digging. As he drank his coffee he thought about what he must do.

He knew from overheard talk that the end of track was far to the west and the nearest trackside settlement was over a hundred miles from here. Fort Sanders, that was the name! About forty miles west there was a slough from which the trains pumped water, but there was nothing there, nothing at all but the water and the cattails that surrounded it.

He had no idea what he should do, or could do. He had no idea when there would be another train, for the trains carrying track--laying materials and supplies to the end of the line were few. It might be today, tomorrow, or a week from now. And it was a strange land in which he found himself, a land such as he had never seen. It was nothing like the cozy green hills of Ireland; only the endless grass stirring with the wind, and of course there was that... the wind. It blew forever, softly, gently, but always, it seemed. He walked outside and looked through the dancing heat waves toward the horizon. Only those twin rails that melted together in the distance, and not even a cloud in the sky this morning. The storm had come suddenly, gone suddenly. Well, that at least was like Ireland, the abrupt weather changes.

He went again to the wounded man, who appeared to be worse. He muttered, seemed to argue, to protest, none of it making sense. Cris Mayo listened and tried to think out what must have happened.

Somebody had tried to kill this man... why? Not Indians, but somebody else.

Why? The man could have had nothing of value, and they had not robbed the station. Had the coming of the train prevented that? It could be, but then why had they not come back since? Or was there another reason than robbery? Something he did not know?

Being an Irishman, he thought of politics. An Irishman is born to politics and to contention. There had always been contention with England, and often among their own people. The tribes and the septs had fought time and again. Was this something like that?

Cris Mayo had never thought of himself as a bright man. He knew how to work and how to fight. He had acquired the ordinary skills that a working man knows, the easy ways to lift, the way to tip a barrel or a box, the way to rig a block and tackle for the best results. He knew something of his own country's history, but he knew nothing of America or the politics of it.

There had been a war recently, of course he knew that. A war between the states over whether they should remain one country or divide into two, and slavery had been involved.

He had no use for slavers. Ireland had had enough of that, as had most other countries. The Danes had raided the coasts of Ireland, as had the Algerians, for slavery had been a way of life the world around until men began to build machines to do the work for them. It was the same in Africa itself, he'd heard talk of that. Over there in the tribal wars they enslaved their prisoners or sold them... it had been that way forever, so far as he knew; and like as not, all over the world, too.

Now the American war was over, and a good many Irishmen had died in it. He'd had acquaintances who had shipped over the sea to fight for the North, but with the war finished, there was little reason to believe that this muddle here had anything to do with it.

So what then? A robbery? The men working on the railroad must be paid somehow, and the money must be shipped westward to where they were; so that might be it, but why kill the station agent? And strip his carcass?

Wait now! Was the holdup to take place here? He thought of that and the logic of it appealed, yet several tilings disturbed him. Sitting staring out over the grasslands, he tried to think of how it might be done. That was important, but even more important was the getting away. That was the thing. It was one thing to get the boodle, another to get to where it could be spent. And where did one go from here?

He had never seen a map of the country, and his only knowledge of it was from one of his companions on the train, Mick Shannon, who had been a soldier in the Army three years ago, and had served out here. To the south there was a stretch inhabited by Indians. America had friendly Indians in the eastern part, and wild, savage Indians in the west... which was right south of here. Beyond that was Texas, and from what he had heard of Texas, anything might happen there.

To the north there were empty plains, with more Indians ready with their scalping knives. To the west somewhere were mountains.

Where then would they go, if robbery was the idea? And what was more to the point, where were they now?

He was sorry he had thought of that, for they must be somewhere near, and that meant a camp, a base of operations, a place to wait until the train came.

When he went to the wounded man again, his eyes were open and he was staring at the ceiling. Cris stood beside the bed and after a minute he said, "I'll fix some broth. You'll be well to get something inside you, man."

The man's eyes turned, and there was fear in them. "I am Cris Mayo," Cris said. "I got left behind when the train stopped. I was headed for the end of track to be a--helpin' with the liftin' of rails and the swingin' of hammers, like."

He stirred the fire and shaved some beef jerky into the hot water he'd kept, and after a bit of stirring he carried it to the wounded man and spooned some of it into him. The man took half a dozen spoons and then shook his head weakly.

"You've been beaten," Cris said, "and shot, and stripped."

The man stared at him, his lips fumbling at words that wouldn't come.

"I found you out back." Cris pointed. "You came up through the rain. It is in my mind that you were hauled away from here, hidden and left for dead. It was not Indians, I think?"

"No."

It was the first word. The man closed his eyes.

Cris hesitated. The man should rest, but desperately he needed to know. "Why?" he asked.

The man shook his head. Cris squatted on his heels. "How many?" he said. "You'd best tell me. They might come back."

The eyes opened. "The train!" he whispered hoarsely. "Sherman!"

"How many? Who are they?"

"Ma... many. Nine, ten... more." The wounded man struggled to rise, got to his elbows. "Call... must call! Help me!"

"You lie down now. Take it easy, man. You'll be needing rest. There's time--"

"No! No time! The train!"

"Is it a holdup?"

"Sherman... it is Sherman." The man's voice trailed off and he fainted, falling back upon the bed.

Sherman? He knew nothing of outlaws in the west. Whoever this Sherman was, he had the telegrapher scared. Mayo walked from front to back, staring out at the grasslands. They were returning, a lot of them, and they'd try to stop the train... but when? When was a train coming and why did they want to stop it?

"Crispin Mayo," he said aloud, "this is no affair of yours. Get out of here, hide down yonder where the trees grow. You have no part in this. You came over from County Cork to lay track, and you'd best be at it, and nothing else at all."

Yet he was not a callous brute, he could not leave a wounded man who needed care. He went to the telegraph key and banged away on it, but this time there was no chattering response, no sound at all. He tried again... nothing.

He took out the pistol and examined it, looking to the loading of it. After a time he figured the weapon out

He walked from door to door staring outside, but there was nothing. It was hot and very still. He took off his black coat. It was growing shabby. He combed his hair in front of a piece of broken mirror. His hair looked black when wet down, but was actually a very dark red, something you couldn't see unless it caught the sun.

He wore a candy--striped shirt and sleeve garters. His arms bulged with muscle, the kind they could use out there, laying track. He wiped the dust off his heavy brogans and tried to brush his pants clean. Then he looked out the doors and windows again.

It was very hot, and very still. He stared toward the relative coolness of the cottonwoods, but dared not leave the station.

He looked down at the pistol he was wearing and strutted a little. If they could only see him now! If only Maire could see him!

He went back inside and rummaged about for something to read. He found a newspaper, several weeks old, and a book by Oliver Optic that was quite new. It was called Brave Old Salt.

He opened the paper. Advertisements for patent medicine, the Sioux on the rampage in Dakota, and somebody named Rowdy Joe Lowe had killed a man: his second, some said, others claimed it for his third. A young girl lost with two children... he tried the silent telegraph key again, but there was no response.

Walking outside onto the platform, he stood alone in all that vast and empty silence, staring along the tracks. His eyes followed the wires. As far as he could see in either direction they seemed intact, but he knew they had been cut. And the notion began to grow in him that if you wanted to stop a train, then just to make sure it stayed put you'd tear up a bit of the track farther on.