Chapter Two
Recoil lay a couple of 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 of 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, Silas,” 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.”