the Man from Skibbereen (1973) Read online

  Far off a few lights appeared.

  Fort Sanders, Laramie, a few nearby ranches. How warm and welcoming a house light looks to a lonely night--riding man! Someday with luck he would walk into such a house, strike a match, lift the chimney and touch the flame to the wick of his own lamp, sit down in his own house. He would smell the fire smells, the warm cooking smells, and he would stretch out his legs under his table with a faint sigh. He would rest then... he would dream, and he would rise from time to time to add a log or to stir the coals in his own fire.

  For a time now he had been passing lighted windows, but always in the solitary houses of other men. He slowed his horse. He was near a house and a man was leaving the stable carrying a lantern and a milk pail. He was walking slowly to the house with a small halo of light about his feet, a homely halo, not of heaven this, but of peace, of home.

  His door would creak open, it would close behind him, and the night would be dark again, but a resting dark. The man would sit down, relax tired muscles, and reach for a newspaper or a book, or he would talk in low tones to his wife.

  "Let us not lose this," Cris muttered aloud, "let us not lose this, God, for there is no greater beauty, no better hour."

  He rode into the street of Laramie and to the livery stable, and saw the hostler turn slow eyes to watch him approach. Cris pulled up. "I had the horse from Brennan," he said. "I shall be needing him again."

  "I know the horse," the man said, "and you too. I seen you fight."

  "He'll need care, and I must be seeing Brennan." Cris stepped down, bundling the rifles together in his arms. "Has there been trouble in town? Are the generals back?"

  "There's been no more trouble than always, and the generals is all back, and good hunting it was for them, both buffalo and men."

  "And Brennan?"

  "That lot came back too, and they had good hunting, I'd say. They brought some bodies, some prisoners, and a few spare horses." Then he added, "And don't tell me when a horse needs care, young fellow. I cared for better horses than this before you'd let go o' the nipple."

  "Be seeing to it, then. And as for the nipple, man, why, I was weaned on a jug and a fist."

  "I've seen your fists. You handle 'em well, though you got no friend in the conductor. He enjoyed being the top dog around here. He walked with hard heels, that one. And you spoiled it for him."

  Crispin Mayo walked across the street. He slapped at his pants to shake the dust loose, and at his coat. He took off his hat and put his fingers through his hair... the little finger was still sore as blazes... and he looked at the hat.

  A fine hat, that one. The best he'd ever owned, and now a bullet hole through the crown. Well, better there than lower. He could always get a new hat.

  Brennan was behind the bar. He had a black cigar in his teeth and he looked past it at Cris and then put a beer on the bar. "You'll be needing that, Mayo. It is dry work chasing men."

  "Is Barda McClean at the fort?"

  "You ask them. They tell me nothing. I'd guess that she is. There's talk of buffalo and renegades there tonight." Brennan nudged the beer closer. "And where have you been? We scoured the country, and thought you were dead in some thicket and the black nag strayed or stolen."

  "I was shot, and missed the fight. The black is fine. The worst of the lot are still out there, though I killed a few. I hear that Parley will try to take Barda McClean this night."

  "The man's a fool. Does he never know when to quit?"

  "I spoke with a man named Parry Blessing, a man riding a lovely mare. He told me they would try."

  "Did you kill him?"

  "I did not I tied up his leg that my bullet tore and sent him off. I had a powerful longing for the mare and was afraid that if I shot him it would be for her, so I let him ride off."

  "She's a fine one, well--behaved and a runner and jumper. I've tried to buy her, thought of stealing her, and tried to win her from him gambling... he would not bet the mare. His gun, his shirt, even his saddle, but not the mare." Brennan shook his head in grudging admiration.

  "I'll be riding to the fort. I must speak with the colonel."

  Cris finished his beer. He was tired, dead tired. That did not begin to describe his feelings. He was dead--and--buried tired. And yet as he turned away from the bar he could think only of his reception at the fort.

  They would doubt his statement, of course. Taking someone right out of a fort with soldiers around seemed absurd. Parley, though, was just the madman to attempt such a thing, and Del Robb would go along, and likely Murray.

  Brennan spoke behind him. "Cris, there's hard feeling in town. The people here want no more of this, and we've had several sluggings on the street. There's much cheating and too much gunplay. They're getting tired of it. And Sam Calkins still has nasty friends. Be careful of yourself."

  "Me?" He was startled.

  "You're a stranger to some of them, others know you only as a prizefighter. When a mob starts a cleanup and you're caught in the wrong place... well, mistakes can be made."

  Cris nodded. Then he saw his three rifles, where he'd leaned them against the bar. "Here," he said, "you may as well have two of these, Owen Brennan. I have no use for more than one, and you have been a fair man and generous to me."

  "Bring them down to the end of the bar," said Brennan. Cris gathered them up; their weight seemed to have doubled, he was so weary. He carried them down the tent saloon to where Brennan had pointed.

  "You took them off Parley's men?"

  "Men I had occasion to knock down, yes."

  "I'll pay you for them, they're good weapons." Brennan ran a practiced eye over the rifles. "You keep that one, Mayo, that's the best. Lean this way." Shielded by both their bodies, he slipped a heavy leather bag inside Cris' inside coat pocket. "You'll find the thousand that

  I promised you in that, and a little besides to cover the guns."

  Cris considered. "Brennan, you're a credit to Donegal, and I thank you. Would you do me one favor? Keep it for me till I've seen this business through? I am so tired," he said frankly, "that I dread the weight of all that metal. It might lay me in the gutter."

  Brennan uttered a hard bark of amusement. "Mayo, I'm thinking it would take a herd of buffalo to lay you in the gutter."

  "No," said Cris, "I've stood one of their charges already. But Parley's men might do it. If I don't come back, give this to Reppato Pratt, who's a decent fellow." He handed the sack over, picked up his rifle, and walked outside. The air was cool. Autumn was here, and the nights were growing colder.

  Brennan followed him to the door. "You'll be wanting to rest the black. Ask George for the buckskin with the Slash--4--C brand."

  George looked up at him with hooded eyes. "You again? Don't you ever sleep?"

  "I want the buckskin."

  "I heard him through the wall." George got up. "You're dead on your feet. Want to crawl into the hay back yonder?"

  "After. I'm riding up to the fort." He looked at George. "Keep your eyes about you. Some of the Parley outfit may be sneaking in tonight."

  "They won't come here." George threw the saddle on the buckskin and cinched up, punching the horse in the belly to make him let the wind out. "You know Hazel Kerry? She's got a shack over back o' here. She's friendly to some of them. Especially to Del... you know, the gunman."

  Cris pulled himself into the saddle, scabbarding his rifle. "I may make a call when I get back. I am getting sick of this."

  He was challenged at the gate. The sentry held him for the corporal of the guard, who turned out to be Halloran. He chuckled as he showed Cris his new stripes. "Ordered by Sherman himself, just before they left the fort."

  "They're gone?"

  "The generals are. Colonel McClean is still here. He's going on west in the morning, with his daughter."

  "I must see him."

  Halloran glanced toward the officers' quarters. "They've gone to bed, Cris. You will have to wait until tomorrow."

  Cris explained, fumbling a litt
le with the words. All he wanted to do was just lie down and sleep for a week, and he did not care where it was, any bed, any barn,, anywhere.

  Halloran was dubious. "All right," he said at last. "I'll walk over with you. If there's a shred of light, I'll chance waking them."

  The parade ground was dark and empty. They walked across, not talking. Crispin Mayo's eyes felt hot and tired, and various portions of his anatomy screamed for ointments and bandages. He was in no very pleasant mood, and wanted only to have it done with, all of it.

  There was light in a window, and Halloran knocked. After a moment, McClean himself opened the door, a pistol in his hand. "You, is it, youngster? What's the trouble?"

  "It's still Parley, sir. I talked with one of his men. They've an idea to take your daughter again. Strictly revenge this time, I think."

  "The man's insane."

  "He is, sir. But that's the trouble. He will try it. I talked with him also... He sees himself as a last hero of the South, not as the renegade and outlaw that he is. He'll try it, Colonel."

  Barda had appeared behind her father. Her hair was down around her shoulders and she wore a robe over her nightgown. Cris removed his hat.

  "Father? Let Mr. Mayo sleep here. Can't you see? He's so tired and beaten that he can scarcely stand."

  Colonel McClean looked sharply at him, then smiled. "All right, we're crowded, but I'll have a bed made for you on the sofa. Come in. Mayo. We do owe you far more than a bed."

  He stepped out on the porch and gave orders to Halloran for a heavier guard to be posted.

  When he came back into the room, Barda herself was there with blankets, covering the sofa. Cris had put his hat on the table and removed his coat. He was ashamed at the condition of his clothes. "I've been riding," he said apologetically. "I've had no time to change."

  Barda turned to say something to him, and gave a cry of horror. "Cris, you've been wounded! Your side!"

  "It's nothing at all," he said, embarrassed, "only a slight flesh wound."

  "How do you know? I'll bet you haven't even looked at it," she snapped. "Take off your shirt."

  "With your permission, miss, I will not. It's not fitting, and you the daughter of a great officer and being a well--bred young lady and all."

  "Cris, I'm going to cleanse that wound." She was opening a chest, dragging out linens, bandages, medicine bottles. "Don't worry, I've doctored before," she said, "I'm an Army brat."

  "She's right, Cris," put in the colonel, "you do need some looking after."

  "A good night's sleep," said Cris desperately, "that's all I need to set me as right as--"

  "Cris Mayo, you do as I say!" said Barda McClean.

  "But it is not seemly!"

  "Bother seemly! Bother fitting! Take off that shirt!" she shouted.

  "Yes, Miss McClean," said Cris humbly. He peeled it off, wincing as the hard--clotted blood tore loose from, the wound. He sat on the edge of the sofa and submitted to some twenty minutes of cleansing, dabbing, anointing and wrapping. His head was gone over thoroughly by the two of them, the colonel pressing here and there with expert fingers.

  "You had a bad fall, I think."

  "A couple of them, yes sir."

  "You're lucky you don't have a fractured skull. I think you're going to be all right. Barda, put a bandage on that finger, my dear. I believe you received the cut eye in the match yesterday? It's healing nicely. Mayo, you've taken a deal of punishment lately."

  "Trouble keeps turnin' up in me path, sir, it seems."

  Barda said, "Lie down and rest, Cris, I'll get you a cup of tea."

  "Now that would be grand. I've had no real tea since I left Ireland, and a cup of it would warm me nicely."

  Barda went to the kitchen. Cris tugged off his boots, and after some protesting, accepted one of the colonel's own shirts to replace his ruined one. Then he stretched out with a sigh. He was tired. He'd never been so tired in his--

  Barda came in and stopped, teacup in hand. McClean was smiling. "He's asleep. Don't worry about the tea. I will drink it myself."

  He picked up the hat and stared at the bullet hole. "Close," he said, "very close indeed." McClean looked down at Cris, who was dead to the world around him. "That's quite a man, honey. Quite a man. And you were right... he is a natural gentleman."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dawn fingered the curtains with light, and Cris opened his eyes. The room was shadowed and quiet, totally unfamiliar.

  It came to him suddenly. Colonel McClean's quarters at Fort Sanders. He sat up. There'd been no attempt then, during the night. And the Colonel and Barda were to leave today... that meant the attack would come today. It would be today for certain.

  He swung his feet to the floor and got his boots on, then his hat. He had slept with his gun in its holster. He took it out and spun the cylinder... fully loaded.

  He checked the belt--loops: fourteen cartridges left. It should be enough, for his rifle was loaded and he had a few more rounds for it in his coat.

  Taking up his hat, he tiptoed to the door, then thought of what he was doing and returned. On the table was an envelope and a bit of pencil. He wrote on it, Thank you. If I can make it I will go to the train.

  He tiptoed outside, put on his hat, and started across the parade ground at the very moment when the troops were falling out. Halloran was there. "I'll need my horse," said Cris.

  "You're leaving early. What happened?"

  "I remembered a thing that the hostler told me. He said that some of the Parley crowd are friendly with a woman named Hazel Kerry. If they haven't tried anything by now, they will try at the station or on the train. I'm going down to see her."

  He flexed his fingers. They felt good, and so did he, amazingly good. He mounted the buckskin and rode out of the gate at a canter.

  His rifle was in its scabbard. He drew the pistol, liking the way it slid so easily into his hand. He had always been skillful with his hands. He tried drawing the gun as he rode, and it came easily, smoothly. He was no fast--draw expert, but it handled well enough.

  Make the first shot count, they said. All right, that was what he would do. No more wild firing out of impatience, from now on. No more banging away to frighten people.

  He left the horse at the stable. George came out of his room, slipping his suspenders over his shoulders. "You again. What now?"

  "I shall pay a visit. I want to see if that woman,. Hazel Kerry, is entertaining guests."

  "Be careful. That's a bad lot. Oh, I don't mean Hazel! She ain't no worse than any of 'em, and better, than some. It's just that Del taken a fancy to her."

  Cris hesitated, then left the rifle. In close quarters it might not be so handy, and he was hoping there would be no shooting, anyway.

  He followed George's pointing finger. "See? The little white house back of Cooney's corral. You can't miss it."

  The sun was not yet over the horizon, but the gray early light of morning lay on the town. Somewhere a door slammed, a rooster crowed, and a pail jangled. He walked out of the back of the barn, crawled through the livery--stable fence and strode up the alley.

  There were several horses in Cooney's corral, but he recognized none of them. He stopped at the corner of the corral, looking past it at the white house.

  Small... yet there'd be three, probably four rooms. He'd best go to the back door.

  The curtains were drawn, no lights showed. His hand went to the holster and loosened the gun slightly. He did not want it to bind in the leather just when he needed it.

  Crispin Mayo, of County Cork and Wyoming Territory, looked across the thirty feet that separated him from the house. He hoped they would not see him as he crossed that last short stretch of ground.

  He hesitated, took a long breath, and started out. A rock rolled under his foot, clicking against another. A puff of dust arose. Suddenly he was at the back stoop. The steps creaked, and he knocked lightly.

  There was a moment of silence, then the door opened so softly that he knew she was
trying to make no sound. A girl stood framed in the door, a girl with red hair curling softly around her face. It had been done up but it was falling now, and despite the hardness around the eyes and the lips she was beautiful. And he knew her.

  "I am asking for Hazel Kerry," he said.

  "That is what they call me," she said quietly. "Hello, Crispin, and a good morning to you."

  "Invite him in," a voice suggested, "since you seem to know him so well."

  She hesitated. "Go away, Crispin. Go away quickly now, and if you get back to County Cork, do me a kindness and say nothing of this, or of me."

  "I'll not speak of it, and well you know that," Cris replied, "but the gentleman wished to see me."

  He stepped in as she moved back. Del Robb was there, a darkly handsome man with a taunting smile. "So you know each other? You didn't tell me, darlin'."

  "She did not know I was about," Cris said quietly. "It is a far piece from here to where we met, and that in passing only. It was at a county fair one time... in Ireland."

  "Ah? Well, I'm glad you could get together again, if only for a minute or two."

  "She is going west, I think," Cris chose his words carefully. "From what is said, there'll soon be no place in town for any on the wrong side of the law. There is trouble coming."

  "We like trouble, don't we, darlin'?" Robb smiled. "And you, Irish boy, are you huntin' trouble? It seems to me that every time I turn around your name's coming up. I think we ought to end all that."

  "You too," Cris said quietly, "you, Parley and the rest of them. The war you fought is over, and it does no good to carry it on and make trouble for your people."

  The kitchen was bright with newborn sunlight now. It was clean and neat, the kitchen of one who liked keeping it so.

  "There'll be another house, in another town, Hazel Kerry," he said quietly. "Do yourself a favor and take the westbound train. There'll be shooting and burning now, from what they're saying, and it will be no good place for a woman alone."

  "When any shooting's done, I'll do it," Robb said.