the Man from Skibbereen (1973) Read online

  The gun struck, a heavy rocking blow to a man's upper body. Mayo heard the man grunt, fall, then scramble up and run. He shot, blindly, for the figure was indistinct and moving. He was sure it was Murray... and sure he had missed him.

  Turning, he ran back along the slope toward his horse. If it was there. Watkins still lay sprawled motionless, ungainly in the moonlight.

  Ducking into the small hollow where the black indeed stood, Cris tugged at the knot of the reins. It failed to give, evidently pulled tighter by the stallion's movements. Slipping the rifle under an arm, he started to struggle with the knot.

  "There now!" The tone was quiet, amused. "Just stay right there, young man. I am really a very fine shot, and I have you silhouetted against the sky. If I missed you, I might shoot the horse, and neither of us want that, do we?"

  Cris held very still. "Why shoot me? I don't even know you, mister. A couple of men just tried to steal my horse, and--"

  "It won't do, Mr. Mayo. It just won't do at all. You see, I know you. I know who you are and all about you. Most important, I have someone you are interested in."

  "You have someone? I don't know what you mean."

  The laugh was almost pleasant. "Of course, you do not, Mr. Mayo. Of course not. You see, I have Barda McClean."

  "You have her? Who are you?"

  Again the laugh. "I am Major Justin Parley, Mr. Mayo. I believe you know the name?"

  Chapter Sixteen

  Crispin Mayo stood very still. He knew little of the man he faced other than that he had commanded the renegades, and that now he said he had Barda McClean. Cris spoke carelessly. "I have heard of you, Major Parley. That you have Barda McClean, I do not believe."

  "You should believe it. It is because of you that I have her. When you did not return to Laramie, she assumed that you were lying injured out here, and she came looking for you."

  That would be like her, of course. A brave, fearless, reckless girl, that one. Cris felt his stomach muscles tighten. Parley was here, and he would scarcely be alone... how many were with him? And if he had Barda, where was she?

  "You do not believe she would come for you? Oh, Mr. Mayo! You are mistaken. You misjudge the lady. She would come, she did come, in fact. I envy you, Mr. Mayo. It is not often one incurs the regard of such a lovely lady to that extent."

  "If you have harmed her--!"

  "Gome, come, Mr. Mayo! I am not a savage. Miss McClean is a lady, and I am a Southern gentleman."

  "In Ireland we have heard of Southern gentlemen," Cris spoke carefully, "and it is a fine thing to be one, sir. I envy you."

  Parley was pleased, and it sounded in his voice. "I regret that we are enemies, Mr. Mayo. The Irish nobility is very ancient."

  "It is that, sir. But I was never your enemy. I was attacked, and I defended myself. And then Miss McClean asked me to help rescue her father. What else could I have done?"

  Justin Parley, renegade or not, fancied himself a gentleman. He considered himself a model of chivalry, so the right way to handle this would be to accept him at his own measure and see that he lived up to it. Cris went on. "I would not have worried had I known you were a gentleman, sir. All them that travel these Western plains are not your sort."

  "Put down your weapon," Parley said. "I think we understand each other."

  "We do, I am sure, but you'll not be mindin' if I keep the gun? It reassures me, sort of."

  There was a moment of silence and then a faint footfall behind him, and holding the rifle elbow--high he turned sharply and struck viciously sidelong with the butt.

  A man had come in behind him and lifted a rifle with both hands to club him. The sudden turn and the smashing blow in the ribs brought the man down. There was a thud, a moaning grunt, and silence.

  "What was that?" Parley demanded.

  "I think somebody fell," Cris said innocently, and eased a step forward. "Sounded like it was behind me."

  Parley stood somewhere in shadow, as did Cris himself. "Get your horse," Parley said. "Miss McClean is at my camp. I am sure she will be pleased to see you."

  "I don't believe, savin' your presence, sir, that you have a camp," Cris replied, "and I'm not much in the mood for travel."

  How many were out there? Or was there anyone now but Justin Parley and himself? There had been the man behind him, of course, but--

  "It was my thought you'd be far from here," Cris said, "for the vigilantes will be out again by daylight, and the Army, too. There's two patrols out, you know... the two that guard the railroad, they've both turned this way and before mornin' they'll be closing in on you likewise." He had no idea whether this was true, but it seemed logical.

  "Yes?" Parley's tone was higher. Cris was sure that Parley was suddenly worried. "And why should you warn me of this?"

  "Look, Major, I don't want to get myself caught in a shootin' among the lot of you. I have no part in this fight. I've been in your country no more than two months and I know nothing of your fights or frolics. You say you have Barda McClean. What you hope to gain by capturing a girl who is just out of school I don't know, but my feeling is that you'd better leave her with me and scatter out. Just scatter out and run. The odds are too high against you."

  "You make it sound very simple." There was irritation and impatience in the voice. Cris had an idea that Parley was waiting for that man to come up behind Mm. "We will keep Miss McCIean, and you."

  Cris took a step backward, very gently. The man he had hit was stirring. Evidently the blow with the butt of the rifle over the heart had hurt him, but not enough. Stooping, Cris stripped him of his pistol and knife, and picked up the fallen rifle. He took off the man's cartridge belt and as the fellow began to rise, hit him a smashing blow on the head with the pistol barrel. "What was that?" Parley demanded. "A skull gettin' cracked," Cris replied mildly. "Somebody tried comin' up behind me. I didn't much care for it."

  "Drop your gun," Parley said harshly, "and come out with your hands up!"

  Cris shifted his weight, then crouched, holding the fallen man's pistol. "Like the divil I will," he said. "You start shootin' when you're ready, Major." The time for all that gentlemen stuff was past.

  There was silence, absolute silence. Uneasily, he waited, then lowered one knee to the ground and very gently worked his way back. He was well in the shadow, and there was another tree close behind him. His toe found a sort of gully a few inches deep, a place where water had run off the top of the hill. That would deepen as it went down, he decided.

  The black horse stomped a foot, restless and wanting to be moving.

  Cris took a chance and rose suddenly, stepped to the horse and felt for the knot. He had started untying it before, and now it took but a couple of seconds. He heard no sound. Parley might have slipped away when his trap failed, but there wasn't a guarantee of that.

  Thrusting the spare pistol behind his belt and holding both rifles, he stepped into the saddle and turned the black horse quickly down the gully he had found.

  Behind him there was a shot. It must have missed by several feet, and then he was riding swiftly away, leaning forward the better to see the trail. Soon he was in the bottom of a sandy wash and his horse made almost no sound.

  He was away, and Parley must have had only the one man with him, or else for some reason they were afraid to shoot. The one shot had been fired by Parley himself, Cris was sure, and probably in a fit of anger. But he was assuming things that he did not know.

  The wash led south and widened rapidly, spilling out on a plain of sagebrush with occasional juniper.

  Parley had obviously attempted to bluff him into surrender, and when that failed, withdrew... but for what purpose? Cris could not see how he would be of any value to the renegades. He was of no importance to anyone but himself. Yet the thought that they might have Barda rankled. He did not believe it, but it was possible.

  He followed the wash to the plain and rode across the open toward a clump of trees on a slope. Warily, he scouted the area, but his horse sho
wed no interest so he rode into the trees. Picketing the black on a patch of grass, he leaned back against a cottonwood to rest, watching the way he had come.

  He was well armed. He now had two rifles, two pistols, and a knife, as well as the extra ammunition he had taken from the man he'd knocked out. If they came at him, he was ready.

  He rested his much--abused body for half an hour, then got up, put on his hat and went to his horse. He saddled up, fussing over the horse a little as the black seemed to like attention, and then, aware now of hunger, checked the saddlebag. Unexpectedly he found that Brennan had had two sandwiches, thick with bread and beef, put into the saddlebag along with an apple. Seated where he could watch the moonlit country around, he ate one of the sandwiches and the apple. He was hungry enough to eat the other sandwich, but he had no idea how long he would be without food, so decided to keep it a bit longer.

  He rode south into rougher country. Topping out on a rise, he studied the land about him. In all that vast expanse he could see nothing.

  The logical thing was to return to Fort Sanders or Laramie and get the latest news, find out what had happened.

  Off to the west the country was rougher still, and rising into higher mountains. He circled around, hoping to pick up the trail of Barda McClean, but there was a confusion of tracks, some of them yesterday's, some old. There was nothing to do but head for Fort Sanders.

  Reluctantly, he took his bearings by the stars and turned the black, which was in good shape and seemed to thrive on Wyoming grass. Parley's comments rankled. Did he really have Barda McClean? Or had he invented that? And why, of all people, would they care about him? He was nobody, save to himself.

  He buttoned his coat. There was a chill in the air that let him know he had best be planning for cold weather, and him with no place to stay. Riding around on fine horses playing at soldier or scout was well enough if it helped honest people, but it brought him no money.

  Of course, he had twelve hundred dollars. A goodly sum, well worth the pounding he'd taken, and sufficient to start in business if he was so minded. He might buy a few horses and--

  Something tugged at his hat and then he heard the bark of a rifle, and he wheeled his horse over and charged into the nearest gully. He had no idea where the shot had come from, only that somebody had fired, and he headed for the lowest ground he could find.

  He raced his horse into the gully, galloped a fast hundred yards, saw a canyon branching off and turned sharply into it, going back toward where he'd just come from. The floor of the ravine was sandy; he slowed his horse to a walk, holding one of the rifles, the newly captured one, in his hands. The other was in the saddle scabbard.

  He was wary, but if they pursued him they would likely head on down the gully, and not double back as he had done. He was rounding the corner of the rocks when he heard a hoof strike stone. There was no chance to turn, to swerve, to do anything, for the black was moving forward quicker than he could check it.

  The sound had given him an instant of warning and his rifle was up when he turned the corner.

  There were three riders before him, and one of them was just shouting, "I had him dead to rights! I had him spang in my sights, and I tell you he's got to be dead!"

  Crispin Mayo knew only one way to fight: to win. He took his one instant of advantage and opened fire.

  The riders were practically at arm's length and he shot the speaker out of his saddle, and then went on firing as rapidly as he could work the lever, too fast for accuracy but good for spooking the enemy. One of the riders slapped spurs to his horse and jumped it past Mayo, firing wildly as he dashed by. The heat of the bullet flicked his cheek... or he thought it did... and Cris shot at the third man, who had turned his horse in its tracks and was going up the canyon at a dead run.

  Twice he fired at that man, more carefully, and saw him jerk and throw up his hands, but somehow with a rider's instinct he stayed in the saddle.

  Wheeling the black, Cris tore back to see what had become of the rider who had raced by him down the canyon; and the man and horse were out of sight, only dust lingering in the air.

  The moon was an hour higher now, flooding the land with light. Turning back, he looked at the riderless horse. A chestnut with a somewhat lighter mane and tail, a handsome horse. The rider lay on the rocks near its feet staring up at Cris Mayo.

  "Damn it!" he said viciously. "You should've been dead! I--!"

  "You're a bold lad," Cris said quietly, "and big with your mouth, shootin' at a man from behind the rocks, like."

  The man's weapon had fallen a dozen feet off. Cris took his belt--gun from him, then went for the rifle. That made three he had.

  "What are you going to do to me?" the man demanded.

  Cris shrugged. "I've no use for you, and you've a bullet through your leg that's no help to you, at all. I think I've done enough."

  He looked thoughtfully at the chestnut. "It's not often you see a man riding a mare in this country. I think you're the first I've seen."

  "That mare's better than any horse you ever saw!"

  The fellow was pulling himself into a sitting position, one hand gripping his wounded leg. "You going to leave me here?"

  Cris removed his derby. "Right through the crown. That was new when I left Ireland, and now she's ruined. And you figured to put that bullet through my head... why shouldn't I leave you?" He glanced at the chestnut. "Still, anybody who owns a horse like that, and keeps it in good shape like that, can't be the worst of men."

  Cris looked carefully around. He did not like the place, it was too much like a trap; but the man was hurt, and hurt bad. Also, he had cared for his horse. The mare was in fine condition and showed evidence of the currycomb.

  He swung down. "All right, I'll fix you up and take you where you can get a runnin' start. After that, you're a free man till your evil deeds catch up to you."

  Cris put his hat on the ground atop his folded coat, then with all arms but his own pistol safely out of reach, he cut away the wounded man's pant--leg.

  The bullet had not broken the bone, but apparently glanced from it, tearing a nasty gash. There was little enough he could do, but he built a small fire and heated water in the coffeepot from his saddlebag and bathed the wound, then bound it with a few strips from the wounded man's shirt.

  "I'll help you to your horse, man. Then I'll start you off for the trail. If you'll take my advice, you'll be after riding a far piece. There's trouble a--coming for the likes of you! From what they tell me, General Sherman is no mild man, nor are the folks at Laramie."

  "I'll ride."

  Cris lifted him up, then slipping an arm around the wounded man's waist he helped him to the mare, who stood quietly while he heaved her owner into the saddle.

  The fellow looked down at him, a man with a square jaw and a lean, rugged look. He held out his hand. "You'll shake? I'm sorry I shot at you. That's the trouble with this country, a man never knows who he's shooting. I'm Parry Blessing. I rode out of Dundaff in Pennsylvania too long ago, and was living with an uncle in Virginia when the war came on, so I joined up and fought it out, and here I am, a man scarce thirty with a feeling that death is on him. All from bad companions, like they say! And your name?"

  "Crispin Mayo, from County Cork. I will ride westward to find a ranch there, it might be in California, and raise horses the like of those in Ireland. And if you're an honest man and come riding that way, the door will stand open to you. But you'll owe me for the hat. I'll not likely find its equal in this country."

  Blessing turned the mare and rode away, and Cris looked after him. "Ah, it's a fine mare that! I hope she comes to no harm. One thing!" he shouted suddenly. "One thing more!" Blessing pulled up and waited for Cris. "You've been with them. Do they have a girl now? Do they have Barda McClean?"

  "They do not," Blessing turned his mare, "but before long they will have her."

  "Where are they camped then? You'll not be going back."

  "No." Parry Blessing hesitated. "The
re's a place in the mountains yonder where a tumbling creek comes down.

  You go in by the bluff... right there... and pass under a leaning pine. You'll know the place by the way the rocks stand, and they'll be there. The major wanted you to use for bait to get the girl out, but he's got another plan in mind now. Tonight or tomorrow at latest he'll take her, right from the fort." He paused. "Robb's with Parley, and Contego, and Murray and some others. And they're wild for revenge."

  "My thanks. Be off with you now, and have a care for the mare."

  He glanced once, to see the man riding away, and then he started the black for Fort Sanders.

  It might be the truth and it might not, but Cris was inclined to believe Blessing. And if they took Barda again, she would not escape them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The land lay still under the mounting moon, the night's calm had come to the wild lonely land, and Crispin Mayo, riding toward Fort Sanders, heard no sound but the clop--clop of his horse's hoofs.

  A strangeness lay upon him, a feeling of lonely longing for a something nameless... was it the night? Was it the land?

  A newcomer he was, but the strangeness that lay upon him was not that he was foreign, for he had no longer felt himself a stranger; this land was his and he belonged to it by right of what he had done in this week, and he knew that he would not go back to wherever it was that he had come from. He was not of County Cork any longer, but of the West. The strangeness was only a sense, a vague feeling that he was unable to define or to place.

  He rode with guns now, many guns, but the guns no longer reminded him of their presence, for in these days they had become part of him, ready to his hand. Men in this land could own guns, not to threaten their neighbor but to ensure themselves of liberty. The men who shaped this land were men who had lately fought a war for their freedom and they did not wish it to be lost, and so they must keep close to their hands the weapons with which they had won that freedom.