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William W. Johnstone, the USA Today bestselling master of the epic Western, continues the thrilling saga of the Brothers O’Brien—Samuel, Patrick, Shawn, and Jacob—as they forge their destiny in the untamed New Mexico Territory and stake their claim in frontier America.
DEATH RULES THE NIGHT
They ride after sundown. Black-robed figures with skulls for faces, terrorizing the town of Recoil like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. If the sheriff hopes to defeat this hellish band of outlaws, he’ll need backup. Enter Colonel Shamus O’Brien. The seasoned ranch hand and patriarch has fought off more than his share of horse thieves and marauders. But he’s never seen anything like these ornery devils. They torch the town without warning, killing and destroying everything in sight. Shamus could use some extra firepower, namely his sons Shawn and Jacob. But the O’Brien brothers have problems of their own. Vicious banditos have targeted the family ranch, gunning for gold and cattle in a hailstorm of bullets and bloodshed. But both cutthroat gangs are about to learn their lesson—the hard way. When you cross an O’Brien, there’s hell to pay.
THE BROTHERS O’BRIEN:
THE KILLING SEASON
by William W. Johnstone
with J. A. Johnstone
Coming in March 2013
Chapter One
Luther Ironside leaned forward in the saddle. “Well, lookee there, Colonel. I ain’t seen something like that in a coon’s age, with the times a-changing the way they are.”
“Stage out of Lordsburg, I’d say.” Colonel Shamus O’Brien sat upright on his horse. “Three, no, four holdup men. I missed one.”
Ironside nodded. “Any of our business, Colonel?”
Shamus considered that for a spell, then shook his head. “I don’t see how it is, us being no part of the law here and with our own pressing business to attend to.”
“They’re getting the passengers out.” Ironside pointed his finger in the direction of the stagecoach. “And the driver’s climbing down. Keeping his hand away from his gun. Now that’s savvy of him.”
“Is there a strongbox on board, you reckon?” Shamus asked.
“I doubt it, They’re more likely to be carrying passengers to Recoil or down Sonora way.”
“Yes, you’re right. The bandits are collecting the folks’ valuables, looks like. Well, that’s too bad.” Shamus glanced at the sky. “Best be on our way, Luther, if we expect to reach Recoil before nightfall.”
Ironside frowned. “I wonder if we’ll ever see another one, a stage holdup, I mean.”
“It’s unlikely, Luther. The West is changing fast, but for better or for worse I can’t really tell. The sight you see down there is going the way of the Indian and the buffalo.”
“It’s a pity, Colonel, I sure liked the old way better. Hey look, feller down there looks like he’s refusing to hand over his watch or wallet or something. Even from here, I’d say he’s real mad.”
A revolver shot racketed, drawing Ironside’s attention back to the stagecoach. “Aw hell, now why did he have to go and do that?”
One of the outlaws held a smoking Colt in his right fist and watched a man in black broadcloth slide down the side of the stage and collapse against a front wheel, his head hanging. Another man and a couple women shrank away from the dead man and even from their position on a rise in the foothills of the Little Hatchet Mountains, Shamus and Ironside heard a woman scream.
Ironside looked at his longtime friend. “Now what, Colonel?”
Shamus sighed. “Well, a murder makes it our business, Luther. I can stand aside from an honest robbery, but not a murder.”
“There’s four of them bandits down there, Colonel. How do we play it?”
“Like we’ve always played it, Luther.” Shamus drew his Colt. “We charge home at the gallop, of course.”
“Like I said, four-to-one odds, Colonel,” Ironside said, skinning his own revolver.
Shamus smiled that old, reckless grin Ironside remembered from the late war. “We charged Yankees at ten times those odds and scattered them.” Shamus stared at his friend. “Unless you’re getting too old for this kind of horse cavalry warfare, Luther?”
“Colonel, I’ll be charging so fast your buckskin’s nose is gonna be stuck up my hoss’s ass. Watch this old man and see how it’s done.” Ironside let rip with a wild rebel yell and charged down the slope, Shamus right after him, hollering just as loudly.
They rode knee to knee as bullets split the air around them and Ironside grinned and yelled, “Just like the old days, huh, Colonel?”
“Only then I’d have a cavalry brigade behind me,” Shamus pointed out.
“You don’t need a brigade when you got me, by God,” Ironside hollered.
Two of the outlaws ran from the cover of the stagecoach and for a moment watched the oncoming riders. Standing in the open scrub desert, they threw Winchesters to their shoulders.
Ironside fired and one of the bandits went down, his rifle spinning away from him. The other man fired, and Shamus’s hat flew off his head. Enraged at getting a bullet hole in a new, four-dollar Stetson, Shamus charged directly at the outlaw, his Colt spitting fire. Hit hard, the surviving robber staggered, then rose on tiptoe and fell on his face.
Events crowding in on him faster than his brain could register, Shamus was vaguely aware of hearing a shot behind the stage, and of Ironside chasing a fleeing man across the brush flat.
As the outlaw ran, dust erupted from his pounding boots and he glanced fearfully over his shoulder at the fast-approaching Ironside and snapped off shots, his arm fully extended.
Finally, realizing he couldn’t outrun a horse, the man, a gangly towhead with mean eyes, stopped, tossed away his revolver, and threw up his hands.
But grim old Ironside, a man not much inclined to mercy in the heat of battle, gunned the towhead down right where he stood. He looked around for another enemy, saw none, and trotted back to the stagecoach.
Shamus had dismounted and now, his face troubled, he kneeled beside the shot passenger, who was gasping his last.
Standing over the body of the fourth outlaw was an older, respectable-looking man with iron-gray hair and mustache. His face was ashen and he held a smoking Smith & Wesson .32 caliber sneaky gun in his hand.
Ironside nodded toward the outlaw and said to the gray-haired man, “You do fer him, mister?”
The stage passenger nodded. In a tight voice he said, “I’ve never killed a man before.” Then for some reason he felt the need to add, “My name is Oliver Shaw. I am a merchant in Recoil.”
“Don’t worry, Shaw, your second dead man will be easier.” Ironside turned his attention to the two frightened women who looked like mother and daughter, and touched his hat. “Ladies. Where are you headed?”
The stage driver answered for them. “Recoil. That is, if we ever get there.”
“You’ll get there,” Ironside answered. “Me and my boss are headed to the same place our ownselves.”
“Then God help you,” the driver said. He was a tall, lanky man with sad eyes, as though handling the reins of a stagecoach team made a man downright melancholy.
“Heard you’ve been having trouble around this neck of the woods.” Ironside nodded in the direction of the dead outlaw. “Was this a part of it?”
The driver shook his head. “Hell, no. That there is Jud Slide, and the ranny you gunned was his brother Clay. T’other two I don’t know, but a while back Jud and Clay ran with Billy Bonney and that hard crowd over to Lincoln County way. I reckon they was facing hard times and held up my stage on account of how they was trying to make a few dollars without working for it.”
“Who shot the passenger?” Ironside asked.
“Jud did that, afore the gent over there put a bullet in him.”
“Who was he? The dead passenger, I mean.”
“Him?” the driver asked, as though he was surprised at Ironside’s question. “His name was Banjo Ben Barker. He did a blackface song-and-dance act and juggled Indian clubs.”
“Hell, why did Jud gun him?” Ironside asked.
“Didn’t like how Ben played the banjo, I guess.”
“The passenger’s done for,” Shamus said, stepping beside Ironside’s horse. “He was still alive when I got to him, but he died pretty quick. Who was he?”
“A banjo player,” Ironside replied.
“That’s a good enough reason as any to get shot,” Shamus said. He looked at the driver. “I didn’t get your name.”
“Maybe that’s because I didn’t put it out. It’s Tom Gill.”
“Well, Tom, let’s get the dead man in the stage,” Shamus directed.
“What about the rest of them bandits?” Gill said.
“If the law wants ’em, they can come get them. You’re responsible only for your passengers, dead or alive.”
“All right, folks, back into the stage, and make room for a dead man,” Gill called.
The older of the two woman, her long, angular face outraged, used her rolled-up parasol like a sword and poked it into the driver’s ribs. “Young man, I’m not riding with a corpse, and neither is my daughter.”
“Then you’ll have to walk to Recoil alongside the stage, ma’am.” Gill rubbed his chest.
“Indeed we will not walk, you impertinent thing,” the woman snapped. “We paid for our tickets and we’ll ride in the stage. And your employers will hear of this.”
“The dead man paid for his ticket too, ma’am.” Gill’s remark brought parasol blows raining down on his shoulders. He backed away, his hands up to defend himself from the woman’s attack.
Shamus stepped between them, receiving a few parasol smacks himself before he was able to grab the weapon. “I have a solution.”
“You’d better have,” the woman said, her parasol poised over Shamus’s head. “My late husband wore the blue and I will not be treated in this way.”
“Well, that’s a pity.” Ironside looked at Shamus. “Ain’t it, Colonel?”
“What did you say?” the woman demanded, her eyes bright with anger.
“I said it’s a pity you’re being treated this way,” Ironside lied, “and you the widow of a dead Yankee, an all.”
The woman stared at him, considering that for a few moments, but his face was empty. Finally she said, “I should think it is a pity . . . and an outrage.” She advanced on Gill again, but he backtracked hurriedly away from her.
“I have an answer, Mrs., ah . . . ,” Shamus said.
“My name is Mrs. Edith Ludsthorpe, of the Boston Ludsthorpes, and this is my daughter Chastity.”
Ironside suddenly had a coughing fit and put his hand over his mouth.
Shamus gave him a look. “We’ll put the dead man on the roof and that way, dear lady, you won’t be made uncomfortable by his presence.”
“And who are you, sir?” Edith Ludsthorpe demanded.
“Colonel Shamus O’Brien of the Dromore O’Briens.” He bowed. “At your service, madam.”
“You have the lineaments of a gentleman, Colonel.” Edith glared at the cringing Tom Gill. “A quality most singularly lacking in this territory, I’ll be bound.”
“Indeed, madam.” Shamus tipped his hat. “Now if you and your daughter can enter the stage, we can be on our way.”
“And the deceased gentleman?”
“We’ll get him on top of the coach directly, ma’am.”
Edith shook her head. “The very idea,” she huffed as she shepherded the pretty but silent Chastity into her seat.
Chapter Two
Recoil lay a couple miles west of Hatchet Gap, surrounded by the Playas Valley, a vast, dry ocean of sand, scrub, cactus, rock, and lava beds. The town seemed to have no reason for being there, as though it had wandered across the Continental Divide from the east and lost its way in that hot, brutal annex of hell. It looked raw and new, a town thrown together from rough-sawn timber and boundless optimism. The settlement’s single street was lined on both sides with buildings, some still under construction, but a few of the grander structures boasted false fronts while others were still roofed with canvas.
As Shamus and Ironside escorted the stage into town, its grim burden sprawled on the roof, Shamus saw a couple saloons, stores, and a livery stable and corrals at the far end of the street. Some shacks and a few grander, gingerbread houses, the residences of the town’s merchants, lay scattered around the town’s center.
A false-fronted, two-story building, the queen of Recoil, sported a painted canvas banner above the door.
THE REST AND BE THANKFUL HOTEL
We stock only the finest liquors & cigars
The stage, followed by a billowing dust cloud, jolted to a halt outside a narrow shack with a warped roof and rough timber door. But what caught Shamus’s eye was the incongruous sight of a polished brass plaque, screwed to the door, that bore the word SHERIFF in gold lettering.
After the dust cloud caught up to the stage, sifted over the passengers, and moved on, Tom Gill cupped his gloved hand to his mouth and yelled from the driver’s seat, “Hey, Sheriff, we got trouble here.”
The few people who’d braved the afternoon heat of the boardwalk stopped and watched as the lawman’s door opened and a tall, slender man with the face of a warrior poet and a star on his vest stepped outside. His eyes went directly to the dead man. “What happened, Tom?”
“Four holdup men jumped us south of the dry lake,” Gill explained. “They done fer Banjo Ben and then one of the passengers and these gents”—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder—“done for them.”
Jim Clitherow’s stare flicked at Shamus and Ironside, but showed no sign of recognition. “Any idea who the holdup men were, Tom?”
“Sure I know. Well, I recognized two of them at least, Jud Slide and his brother Clay.”
“And they’re dead? All four of them?” Clitherow asked.
“Dead as they’re ever gonna be, Sheriff. Like I said, a passenger done for one of them and these gents gunned t’other three, including Jud and Clay.”
The lawman frowned. “I thought the Slide brothers had headed out Missouri way.”
“You thought wrong, Sheriff, and their bodies are lying out in the desert to prove it,” Gill said.
Clitherow nodded. “See to your passengers, Tom.”
He looked around at the growing crowd of gawkers. “One of you men get Elijah Doddle. Tell him I’ve got work for him.” He waved at Shamus and Ironside, his eyes neither friendly nor hostile. “You two come inside, and I want the passenger who did the shooting.”
Ironside angled a glance at Shamus. “I’ve had warmer welcomes.”
“Me, too. You sure we got the right Clitherow?”
“You clearly acted in self-defense, Mr. Shaw. I see no need to detain you further.”
Shaw stood before the sheriff, looking worried. “I never killed a man before. I’m not a gunman. I own a dry goods store, for God’s sake.”
“You did well, Ollie,” Clitherow said. “No one is blaming you for what happened.”
“But what will Mrs. Shaw think? I can only imagine—”
“I’m sure she’ll be proud of you, as we all are in Recoil.”
Shaw looked at Ironside and Shamus sitting in the visitors’ chairs in front of the desk, “I had no choice. I mean, no choice at all.”
Ironside nodded. “Happens that way sometimes.”
“It’s a hard, hard thing to kill a man.” Shaw shook his head. “Take away his life and his past, present, and future.”
“No, it ain’t hard,” Ironside disagreed. “All you do is point your iron at his belly and squeeze the trigger.”
Shaw was aghast. “Have you killed a man like that?”
“Hell, sure I have. But not so many that you’d notice. Call it a baker’s dozen.”
Shaw took a step back, his hands trembling. “Oh, Lord help me, I’ve joined the company of gunmen.”
“You got that right, Shaw.” Ironside smiled. “Now every tinhorn pistolero and wild kid hunting a rep will come lookin’ for you. Hell, Shaw, you’re the man who shot Jud Slide.”
A look of sheer horror crossed Shaw’s face. His eyes wild, he stumbled to the door and fumbled with the handle. “Martha!” he hollered.
Ironside rose lazily and stepped to the door, smiling at Shaw as he opened it. “Call it professional courtesy. One gunman to another.”
Shaw ran outside and his feet pounded on the boardwalk. “Martha!” he shrieked. “Marthaaa . . .”
Ironside closed the door, his face split in a wide, delighted grin. “Sure spooked ol’ Silas, didn’t I?”
“You certainly did, you old Johnny Reb.” Clitherow said, rose to his feet, and extended his hand. “How are you, Luther?”
“Hell, Jim, so it is you.” Ironside shook the lawman’s hand. “I thought fer sure you didn’t recognize me.”
“Well, you’ve changed some, but I recognized you straight off. You’re not a man easily forgotten. And come to that, neither are you, Colonel O’Brien.”
Shamus and Clitherow clasped hands. “It’s been long years since the war, Jim. We’ve grown older, but probably no wiser.”
Clitherow nodded. “It’s been long for the South, Colonel.”
“Amen to that,” Shamus agreed. “Long and mighty hard.”
“Three old comrades in arms together again. This calls for a drink.” The sheriff produced a bottle and glasses from a drawer in his desk and poured whiskey for his guests.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, I see you walk with a limp, Colonel. Is that a souvenir of the war?”
Shamus smiled. “No, Captain Clitherow—”
“Call me Jim, please.”
“Then you’ll call me Shamus.”
Clitherow bowed his head. “I am honored.” “The limp is a souvenir all right, but from an Apache war lance. Landed me in a wheelchair for years until a young surgeon operated on me.” Shamus tried his Old Crow and nodded. “Now I can get around just fine.”
“Riding a long distance pains him some,” Ironside put in.
Clitherow smiled. “At our age even riding a short distance pains us some.”
“How come you pretended not to know us when we brought the stage in, Cap’n?” Ironside asked.
The sheriff frowned. “The war’s over and we lost, Luther. Please call me Jim.”
“All right, Jim. Same question. How come?”
“I think it would be safer for both of you if you weren’t associated with me. At least for the time being.”
“You’re talking about the night riders?” Shamus asked.
“Yes. I think I told you in my letter that they shot up the town about two weeks ago and killed a storekeeper named Fred Rawlings, another man who wore the gray.”
“Are they targeting only Confederate veterans?” Shamus questioned.
Clitherow shook his head. “No. Hell, they’ve killed and robbed miners, travelers, and a few days ago a puncher for the D-Bar Ranch over to the Hachita Valley way was murdered and the cattle he was driving were shot. At least some of those dead men were true-blue Yankees and Republicans.”
“I don’t see a motive, Jim,” Shamus said. “There isn’t much profit in robbing a tinpan for his poke and a drover for his horse and saddle.”
“And why shoot up Recoil, a one-hoss town in the middle of a wilderness that God started and forgot to finish?” Ironside asked. “Beggin’ your pardon, Jim, you being the law here an’ all.”
“No offense taken, Luther. I’ve asked myself that same question a thousand times and still haven’t come up with an answer.” Clitherow refilled the glasses. “Some say the riders are skeleton men. They have skulls for faces.”
He read the disbelief on Shamus’s face and nodded that he was telling the truth. “That’s what they say.”
“Skeletons don’t ride horses, men do,” Shamus pointed out. “They’re wearing some kind of masks to frighten folks.”
“If that’s the case, they’re succeeding,” Clitherow said.
“You scared, Jim?” Ironside asked.
“Luther! What kind of question is that to ask a man?” Shamus glared at his segundo.
Clitherow smiled. “I don’t mind. To answer your question, Luther, yeah, I’m scared. But not just for myself. I’m scared for the whole damned town.”
Chapter Three
Ironside sat on the corner of the creaking bed in room 22 of the Rest And Be Thankful Hotel. “The cap’n asked for our help, Colonel, but he doesn’t know how we can help him. Now that’s confusing for a man.”
Shamus laid a folded clean shirt into the dresser drawer, then turned toward his friend. “He may know better when his deputy and the posse get back into town.”
“I didn’t say nothin’ when Jim told us about the posse, but Stutterin’ Steve Sparrow is a friend of Jacob’s. At least, I’ve heard Jake talk about him.”
“If he’s a friend of Jacob’s, I shudder to think what kind of deputy sheriff he is,” Shamus drawled.
Ironside didn’t look up from the cigarette he was building. “Way Jake tells it, ol’ Steve rode with Jesse and them for a spell, then went into the bank robbing business for his ownself.”
Ironside licked his cigarette closed and lit it. Behind a cloud of blue smoke he said, “But he never made a go of it. See, with the stutter an’ all, by the time he could get out, ‘This is a holdup,’ the law had already arrived. He did two years in Yuma and then took up the lawman’s profession.”
“Are you sure it’s the same ranny?” Shamus asked.
“How many Stutterin’ Steve Sparrows could there be, Colonel?”
“Well, if it’s the same man, I’m sure Jesse and Frank taught him the outlaw trade well. He could be in cahoots with the Night Riders, or Bone Men, or whatever you want to call them.”
“He could be, Colonel. He could be at that.” Ironside thought for a few moments. “Jake said Steve is mighty fast with the iron, faster than Jesse or any of them boys.”
“If Jacob says he’s fast, then that’s bound to be the case. For some reason my son studies on such things.”
“Of course, ol’ Stutterin’ Steve could’ve got religion and now all he wants is to stay on the right side of the law.
“It’s possible,” Shamus agreed. “It’s not for us to prejudge a man.”
“Damn right, Colonel. When you take the measure of a man, take the whole measure. That’s what I say.”
“You’re a paragon of virtue, Luther.”
“Damn right. Whatever the hell paragon means.”
Shamus settled his hat on his head and buckled on his gun belt. “I’ve been eating trail grub for a week. Let’s go get an early breakfast. I’ve got a hankering for eggs.”
Ironside rose to his feet. “Suits me just fine.”
Shamus opened his mouth to say something but never uttered a word. At that moment room 22 exploded.
The shattering, earsplitting blast knocked Shamus off his feet. Ironside landed on the bed and it collapsed under his crashing weight.
Plaster and roof slats showered down and the partition wall separating the room from the hallway was blown clear across the floor. Dust and smoke drifted like a thick gray fog and the acrid smell of gunpowder hung in the air.
Ironside shoved debris off his body, his curses turning the air blue. Somewhere a woman screamed and kept on screaming and a man’s voice rose in frightened outrage.
To his surprise, Ironside saw right into the room across the hall. The blast had taken out the wall on that side, too. A naked blond woman sat upright in a brass bed, shrieking in terror, and a gray-haired, potbellied man, just as naked, ran around squawking like a chicken, black powder burns on his jiggling posterior.
Ironside struggled to his feet and touched his hat to the screaming lady. Not seeing his boss, he yelled, “Colonel, are you all right?”
A pile of rubble on the floor moved. “Get me the hell out of here, Luther.”
Ironside turned and called, “Are you hurt?”
“How the hell should I know?” Shamus said angrily. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, and all the holy saints in Heaven, I might already be as dead as Murphy’s goose.”
“Hold on, Colonel, I’m on my way.” It took Ironside three frantic minutes to lift debris off the colonel’s body. Fortunately it was just wood and plaster, and fairly light, because the fireplace and brick chimney were not damaged in the blast.
“Are you in pain, Colonel?” Ironside asked, his face concerned as he raised Shamus to a sitting position. “How is your back?”
“My back hurts.” Shamus glared at Ironside. “Who did this?”
Ironside shook his head. “I don’t know, Colonel.”
“Then whoever he is, may he roast in hell and not have a drop of porter to quench his eternal thirst.”
“Can you get to your feet?”
“Take my hand and pull.”
Ironside hauled Shamus erect. “You feel all right? How are the legs?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure, Colonel?”
“Don’t fuss, Luther. I told you I’m fine.”
Sheriff Jim Clitherow kicked debris aside and appeared in the hallway, now just a smoky open space. “You boys hurt?”
“We’re all right,” Shamus said. “But my ears are still ringing.”
Ironside nodded to the room across the hall. “The feller over there got his butt burned.”
The man and the woman were struggling into their clothes, both of them streaked with black soot from the ruined fireplace, as though they’d been sweeping its chimney.
“That’s Higgy Wells, the church deacon,” Clitherow said.
“Is he married?” Shamus asked.
“Yes.” Clitherow nodded. “He’s got a missus who dresses out at around three hundred pounds.”
“Then he’s got some explaining to do, hasn’t he?” Shamus pointed out.
Ironside, his shaggy eyebrows and mustache covered in white plaster dust, yelled, “Hey, deacon! How’s your fanny?”
The man cast Ironside a hurried and worried glance, then stumbled out of the ruined room.
“Hey. Higgy,” the blonde yelled. “Where’s my money?”
“Later!” Wells called out over his shoulder.
“Now, you creep!”
But the deacon was already gone, barefooting it downstairs, his shoes and coat in his hands.
The blonde turned her venom on Ironside. “What the hell are you looking at?”
“I was just wondering if the deacon got his money’s worth before his butt got scorched.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” The woman grabbed her purse, flounced into the shattered hallway, and followed her paramour downstairs.
“Luther, I wish you wouldn’t bandy words with fancy women in my presence,” Shamus complained. “Especially when we came so close to meeting our Maker.”
“You were lucky, Shamus,” Clitherow said. “But I don’t think the dynamite was set to kill you. It was a warning.”
“Hell, Jim,” Ironside sniffed. “Look around you. Half the second floor of the damned hotel blew up. That was some kind of warning.”
Shamus nodded. “Jim may be right, Luther. If whoever it was wanted us dead, he would’ve used more dynamite.”
“And blown up the whole hotel,” Clitherow declared.
“With us in it,” Shamus added. “I think whoever it was wants us away from Recoil and back in Dromore.”
“Was it them skeleton riders?” Ironside asked.
“Could be,” Clitherow speculated. “Or someone associated with them.”
“Who even knows we’re here to help you, Jim?” Ironside asked.
The sheriff shook his head. “Nobody.”
“Then it’s a mystery,” Shamus decided.
“The mystery is how anyone can get a wink of sleep around here.”
Shamus turned and saw a tall, handsome young man in an elegant gray suit smiling at him. A large diamond glittered in his cravat and another sparkled from the little finger of his left hand.
The man stared at the destruction. “Someone eat too many refried beans last night?”
“No,” Ironside snapped. “Some lowdown snake tried to kill us.”
“Or scare us,” Shamus added.
“Well, he scared the hell out of me,” the young man said. “And just when I was dreaming that Lily Langtry and I were taking a carriage ride along the Champs-Élysées on our way to breakfast.”
Ironside looked baffled. “Mister, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
The young man looked Ironside over from his scuffed boots to the top of his battered hat. “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” He touched the rim of his bowler. “Well, good morning, gentlemen, and please don’t play with any more dynamite.” He stepped carefully over the mess and made his way down the stairs.
Ironside looked at the sheriff. “Jim, who the hell was the dude?”
“Beats me. Some kind of Yankee drummer maybe.”
“Well, I don’t like him.”
Clitherow opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a small, dark man with the scared, furtive eyes of a henpecked husband. “Sheriff,” he wailed, “look what’s happened to my hotel.”
“I can see it, Orville,” Clitherow said.
“What . . . I mean . . . how?” the little man sputtered.
“Dynamite,” Ironside pointed out bluntly.
“Dynamite?” Orville Askew repeated.
“Dynamite,” Ironside said again.
“These gentlemen were the target of a possible assassination attempt,” Clitherow explained.
“In my hotel?”
“Seems like, don’t it?” Ironside said.
Askew wrung his hands. “Who’s going to pay for this?”
“Talk to the ranny who planted the dynamite, Orville,” Ironside said dryly.
“Someone has to pay,” Askew said. Getting no response, he pointed to Ironside and Shamus. “You two must leave my hotel at once. Another attempt on your lives and I’ll have no hotel left.”
“I don’t think it will happen again,” Shamus said calmly. “At least, not with dynamite or giant powder.”
Orville Askew was unconvinced. “Sheriff, I want these men out of my hotel now. I mean this very minute. My God, we’re all going to be murdered in our beds. Think of my poor wife.”
Shamus’s face turned red. “We’ll leave. I will not dwell under a man’s roof who doesn’t want me there.”
“Then see that you do.” Askew pointed to the stairway. “I don’t want troublemakers here, especially damned micks.”
Ironside grabbed him by the shirtfront and hoisted him until the toes of the man’s boots were not touching the ground.
“Luther, put him down,” Shamus cried.
“Can I shake him a little, Colonel?”
“No. Put him down. The poor man is distraught over his hotel and he speaks out of ignorance.”
Ironside pulled Askew so close, their noses touched. “Orville, I’m not a mick, though I am closely associated with such.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Askew stuttered.
“Don’t apologize to me, Orville. Apologize to Colonel O’Brien.”
Askew turned his head, his eyes frightened. “I’m sorry.”
“Your apology is accepted.” Shamus looked at Ironside. “Put him down now, Luther.”
Ironside opened his hand and let Askew drop. He patted the little man on the head, smiled, and whispered, “If you ever insult the colonel again, Orville, I’ll kill you.”
Thoroughly frightened, the owner stumbled along the rubble-strewn hallway, stopped at the top of the stairs, and yelled, “I want you two hoodlums out of my hotel.”
Then he fled.
Clitherow crossed his arms. “Luther, you’re not a forgiving man, are you?”
“Damn right I’m not.”
Chapter Four
“Damn it, Luther, we’re too old to sleep in a livery stable,” Shamus complained. “And too old to be spreading our blankets on the ground, come to that. Somehow I always manage to bed down on a rock.”
“I have a couple empty cells, Shamus,” Clitherow offered. “Iron cots and straw mattresses, I’m afraid, but I can supply clean blankets.”
“Hell, Jim, anything’s better than lying on horse dung,” Ironside said.
“You’re very kind,” Shamus said. “But I don’t want to go to any trouble for us.”
“It’s no problem. I have a cabin at the edge of town,” the sheriff said. “It’s about the size of a closet, but it’s enough for my needs. I sent the orphan kid who slept in the jailhouse to Dromore with my message and he never came back.”
“Jacob takes all kinds of waifs and strays under his wing and he gave the kid a job at Dromore,” Ironside explained what happened to the boy.
Exhausted, Shamus quickly put an end to the conversation. “We gratefully accept the hospitality of your jail.”
The pretty young Ma’s Kitchen waitress refilled coffee cups and smiled, revealing good teeth. “How were your steak and eggs, gentlemen?”
“Just fine, Molly.” Clitherow help up his cup.
Ironside looked up at the girl as she filled his cup. “Molly, who is the dude in the gray suit sitting with his back to the wall?”
The girl smiled again. “Ooh, he’s very handsome, isn’t he?”
“I didn’t notice,” Ironside said sarcastically. “But who is he?”
“I don’t know. I expect he’s just passing through, unfortunately.” Molly refilled Shamus’s cup and turned her attention to the next table.
Shamus took a sip. “Luther, if you’re so all-fired determined to know the man’s name, why don’t you ask him?”
“Hell, no, I’m not doing that. He might be on the scout and I’d embarrass him.”
“He troubles you, Luther?” Clitherow asked. “You think he may have planted the dynamite?”
“Nah, I don’t think that. Dudes like that just grate on me, is all.”
Shamus coughed. “To change the subject, Jim, when do you expect your deputy to return to Recoil?”
“He sent a rider to tell me he’d be back today.”
“I hope he’s got some news for us. We can’t fight an invisible enemy.”
Ironside eyed the door. “Uh-oh, I see gun trouble coming down.”
A tall, gaunt man had just stepped inside. Dressed in the black broadcloth pants, boiled white shirt, and string tie of the frontier gunman-gambler, he wore an ivory-handled Colt yellowed with age on his right hip. His eyes were almost hidden in the shadows cast by his shaggy black eyebrows.
Silence fell on the crowded restaurant.
A chair scraped. The man in the expensive gray suit tensed.
Jim Clitherow stood, but the gaunt man nailed him with eyes the color of green ice. “Sit down, lawman. This is none of your concern.”
Ironside, familiar with the codes and manners of gun fighting men, whispered, “Stay out of it, Jim. He’ll kill you.”
A look of puzzlement came over Clitherow’s face.
“He’ll kill you, Jim,” Ironside whispered again.
Shamus studied the tall man who had stopped in the middle of the floor. “Sit down, Jim,” he said, his voice low and urgent.
Confused, Clitherow still heeded the colonel’s warning and sat.
“Some men are better left alone,” Shamus said. “That is one of them.”
The tall man spoke, his lips barely moving under his mustache. “You know why I’m here, Dallas Steele. I’m calling you out.”
“I reckoned on this happening, Seth.” The man in the gray suit showed no sign of a weapon. “I thought you might come after me.”
“Calvin Downs was just twenty-three years old.”
“Your brother was old enough to kill three men in Horse Neck, working for a rich man who wanted to get richer at the expense of everybody else.”
“Downs was all right.” Seth shrugged his shoulders.
“He was a snake, Seth. You knew it then and you know it now.”
“Damn you, he was my brother, and you killed him. I can’t let that pass.”
“I guess you can’t, Seth. You know I’ll kill you, don’t you?”
“I have to try.”
“Walk away from it, Seth. Downs made his reputation killing old men and farm boys. A tinhorn like that isn’t worth dying for.”
“I’m faster than Downs, Dallas,” Seth said.
“Downs wasn’t fast. He didn’t come close to being fast.”
“I have to try.”
Dallas nodded, but said nothing. He looked pained, like a man recalling old, unhappy memories of similar situations that had gone before.
Clitherow tried to rise to his feet, but Ironside held him down. “You’re outclassed here, Jim. You stay put.”
But Clitherow pulled out of Ironside’s grasp and stood, his hand dropping for his gun.
“Damn you, Steele!” Seth yelled.
And he drew.
He was fast. Lightning fast. His gun had even cleared leather when Dallas Steele’s bullet crashed between his eyes.
For a single, horrified moment before the darkness took him, Seth Benson, gunman, gambler, man killer, learned what a fast draw really meant.
Jim Clitherow pulled free of Ironside as scared patrons stampeded for the door. “It’s over,” he yelled. “Go back to your seats and finish breakfast.”
“Damn you, Clitherow,” a miner in a plaid shirt and lace-up boots said. “You served us up a dead man for breakfast.”
Another male voice claimed that his wife was “all a-tremble” over the killing and other diners muttered their sympathy.
Ironside rose to his feet and in a voice like a thunderclap roared, “The sheriff didn’t kill that man.”
People looked at each other in puzzlement, then at Ironside.
“I killed him.” Dallas Steele walked into the middle of the floor and looked down at the body. “His name was Seth Benson and he called me out.”
“Sheriff”—a matronly woman pointed at Steel—“arrest that man.”
“For what? It was a fair fight.” Ironside was irritated. “Benson went for his gun first and Steele fired in self-defense.”
Shamus stood up at the table. “I second that. The gentleman here”—he motioned to Steele—“tried to make it go away. You all heard him.”
Several diners muttered agreement and Steele said, “Seth was informed, but he couldn’t let it go. It was his way.”
Sheriff Clitherow had been silent, but now he looked up at the shooter and said, “You’re Dallas Steele, the one they call the Fighting Pinkerton.”
“Yes, I believe that’s what they call me.” Steel gave a little bow. “At your service, Sheriff.”
“Are you here in Recoil on official business?” Clitherow asked.
“You could say that. I was asked to assess the situation and report my findings to Washington. This affair with Seth was a complication I neither anticipated nor sought.”
Ironside had been the first to declare that Steele had acted in self-defense, but he hadn’t warmed to the man. “Where’s your gun, mister? The sheriff may want to take it.”
Steele pulled back his coat and revealed a short-barreled blue Colt in a shoulder holster. “Do you want my gun, Sheriff?”
“No, I guess not.” Clitherow looked around the room. “Somebody get Elijah Doddle. We’re sure keeping him busy.”
Chapter Five
“First my sleep was interrupted and then my morning coffee. May I join you gentleman and share another pot?” Steele saw the surprise in Shamus’s face and added, “I believe we may have a friend in common, Colonel.”
“Sit here.” The sheriff stood and offered his chair. “I’m going back to my office. Colonel, Luther, I’ll see you later.” He turned and left the restaurant.
Steele waited to sit down until the sheriff left.
Shamus offered his hand to the young man. “I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”
“Oh, we haven’t met before,” Steele said, shaking the colonel’s hand. “But I overheard you addressed as Colonel, and you called this gentleman Luther, therefore I assume you are Colonel Shamus O’Brien of Dromore.”
Ironside frowned. “Here, have we had gun trouble with you afore?”
Steele smiled. “No, my friend Jacob O’Brien has told me all about you.”
Surprised, Ironside asked, “You’re a friend of Jake’s?”
“Indeed I am. I have him play the piano for me whenever we meet. He’s a fine classical musician. And a very complex man.”
“It seems that just about everybody knows Jacob,” Shamus noted. “He’s my son.”
“That was my impression, Colonel.”
It came grudgingly, but Ironside managed, “Any friend of Jake’s is a friend of mine.”
“Did you teach Jacob to play the piano, Luther?” Steele asked.
“My sainted wife Saraid taught him how to play,” Shamus answered before Ironside could speak. “Luther taught Jacob and my three other sons riding, gun fighting, profanity, whoring, and whiskey drinking. You will notice a notable lack of instruction on Holy Scripture and nothing at all about attendance at church and the partaking of the holy sacraments.”
“Damned popery,” Ironside growled.
Shamus gave Ironside a sharp look. “What did you say?”
“Nothing, Colonel. I didn’t say nothing.”
“I should hope not.” Shamus peered hard at his segundo. “Are you sure you didn’t mutter something derogatory about the Holy Mother Church?”
Ironside shook his head. “Not a word, Colonel.”
Steele saved Ironside from further embarrassment. “Colonel O’Brien, what do you make of this night rider business?”
Before Shamus could answer, the waitress laid a pot of coffee on the table. She looked at Steele. “I know what they are, those night riders.”
“Really? Can you enlighten us?”
The girl’s brown eyes widened as she leaned forward and whispered, “They’re skeleton riders, the living dead come from hell to punish us for our sins.”
Shamus crossed himself. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints in heaven preserve and protect us.”
“And how do you know this?” Steele asked the waitress.
“I’m walking out with the son of preacher Hall and he says that’s what his pa says.”
Steele smiled. “Maybe he’s right.”
The girl glanced over her shoulders, then leaned down closer to Steele. “The night riders carry torches that Preacher Hall says were lit from the very fires of hell.”
“Well, we’ll be careful we don’t get burned.” Steele smiled.
“Oh, sir, please don’t make a joke, or the demons will ride into town and kill you like they did poor Mr. Rawlings.” As though scared by her own talk, the waitress hurried away, leaving behind a scent of lye soap and lavender water.
“People are scared,” Shamus said. “But in answer to the question you asked, I don’t know what to make of the whole sorry business.”
“By my count, the night riders have killed close to a dozen people,” Steele said. “It’s getting serious.”
“What could be their motive?” Shamus wondered again.
“I don’t know,” Steele said. “But I intend to find out.”
“You’re staying around?” Ironside questioned the Pinkerton man.
Steele nodded. “I believe I will. And you?”
“We’re here to help Sheriff Clitherow any way we can. He saved my life in the late war and I owe him,” Ironside declared.
Shamus gave his reason for being in Recoil. “Luther is my friend. So we both owe Jim Clithe-row.”
“Any chance of Jacob coming here?” Steele asked.
“No. I asked him to stay at Dromore for the spring gather,” Shamus answered.
Steele took a drink of his coffee. “Pity. We could sure use his gun.”
“Dallas, from what I saw this morning, you don’t need anybody’s gun but your own.” Luther smiled. “Who gave you the handle Dallas?”
“My parents are both physicians,” Steele said. “They were in Dallas to attend a medical conference when Mother gave birth prematurely.”
Shamus nodded. “And she called you after the city.”
“Exactly. I’ve never been real fond of the name, but it’s the one my folks gave me so I’ve kept it.”
“They still alive?” Shamus asked, making conversation.
“Yes, but they’re both retired. They moved to England and bought a corner of an estate from Lord somebody or other. Father grows roses and mother volunteers at a local hospital for the poor. They seem to be happy enough, especially since father is invited onto the estate for the grouse shooting season.”
“Did your pa teach you to shoot?” Luther asked, the subject dear to him.
Steele thought about that for a few moments. “Luther, what I do with a gun can’t be taught. It’s a skill a man is born with, like Jacob’s gift for music.” He drained his cup and stood. “I’ll see you gentlemen later. I have to talk with the undertaker and honor my dead.”
Shamus watched the young man leave the restaurant, then poured himself another cup of coffee. “Well, Luther, where do we go and what do we do?”
“I say we wait and hear what Jim’s deputy has to say. He might have something we can go on.”
Shamus looked at Ironside over the rim of his cup. “Why are the night riders doing this? I can’t wrap my mind around it.”
“For money, Colonel. Isn’t that the usual reason for such things?”
Shamus frowned. “What is there of value in this wilderness?”
“A gold mine, maybe?”
Shamus shook his head. “You don’t ride all over the country killing and burning to get a gold mine. If they want a mine, why not just take it and be done?”
“It beats me, Colonel,” Ironside said.
“There’s something else, something I just can’t figure.” Shamus sat in thought for a few moments, then shook his head and sighed. “No, I can come up with nothing.”
Ironside stared out the restaurant window. “Riders comin’ in. Looks like it’s Jim’s posse and them boys look pretty beat.”
Shamus stood up. “Then let’s go and hear what they have to say.”