Chapter Eight

The Doodle bodies were blackened by fire, frozen in the stiff postures of death. A few had their arms extended, as though begging for mercy or pity from men who had neither.

There was no dignity in death for the thirteen people, an unlucky number. Their bodies were thrown into the backs of the wagons, and the ground around them had soon been littered with rags of burned skin.

Shamus fingered his rosary beads, his lips moving as the evening darkness closed around him. Filled with darkness inside, too, he was saying prayers for the dead. After the last amen, he gave an Irish blessing.

“May God grant you always . . .
A sunbeam to warm you,
A moonbeam to charm you,
A sheltering angel, so nothing more can
harm you.”

Ironside was no stranger to violence, but what he witnessed was beyond his understanding. To shoot a man was one thing, but to tie his hands behind his back and set him on fire was another. The same had been done to the women and girls—another of Ironside’s lines that had been crossed.

Shamus put his beads in his pocket. “What did we learn, Luther?”

Ironside’s bleak eyes roamed over the Doddle wagons. “Not a damned thing, Colonel.”

“Not a damned thing,” Shamus repeated. He nodded. “Yes, that’s what we have learned.”

“Colonel, I reckon we should find a place to make camp for the night.”

“But well away from this accursed place.”

“We can head south, toward Recoil.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” Shamus turned to Doddle, who looked ashen in the waning light, a man under terrible strain. “We’re moving out, Elijah. We’ll camp somewhere to the south.”

The smell of burned flesh hung in the air like a black mist and the moon had not yet risen, as though it feared what it might see.

Doddle said, “No camp for us, Colonel. We’re heading back to Recoil and trusting the trail to our night eyes. I will not camp with hurting dead in my wagons.”

“Then good luck to you, Elijah.”

“And to you, Colonel.”

Shamus and Ironside walked to their horses, then stopped in mid-stride as rifles crashed and torches flared in the gloom.

“Is it the night riders?” Shamus yelled.

“It is, and I see ’em, Colonel,” Ironside said. “Damned holy terrors.”

Both men had their Colts in hand, but the riders hadn’t drawn closer, content to scream and yell from a distance. Bullets cracked over the heads of the Dromore men.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what are they up to?” Shamus said.

“Testing us, maybe,” Ironside said. “Could be they want to count our guns.”

Doddle, alarmed, ran from his wagons to Shamus and Ironside. “They’re attacking us, Colonel,” He threw up his hands. “I’m a dead man.”

“I’ll be the judge of when you’re a dead man, Elijah,” Shamus said as a bullet kicked up an exclamation point of dust at his feet. He raised his Colt and cut loose, but the range was too great and shots went wild. “Damn them,” he said as he reloaded his revolver. “The black crow’s curse on them. Why don’t they attack?”

“They’re trying to scare us, Colonel. Drive us off,” Ironside said.

The riders moved closer and bullets thudded into the wagons. Demonic howls and loud cries of “Kill! Kill! Kill!” filled the night.

“Let’s get out of here, Luther,” Shamus said. “Elijah, get your wagons started.”

“The hell with that,” Ironside said. “I don’t run from yellow-bellied trash.”

Before Shamus could stop him, Ironside sprinted to his horse and swung into the saddle like a man forty years younger. He slid his Winchester from the boot and kicked his mount into a run. A wild Rebel yell spiked into the night as he charged the riders, firing his rifle from the shoulder.

Shamus, horrified and scared for his friend, saw the flaming torches waver and a few trailed sparks as they were thrown to the ground. The remaining torches bunched together as though the night riders had surrounded the man in charge and were asking questions.

They’d expected rubes that would turn and run, not a first-class fighting man who kept on coming. Ironside swung to his right in a flanking movement, and his blazing rifle starred the darkness. Fear didn’t enter his thinking. In his years, he’d killed more than his share. He was a man to be reckoned with.

The weird shrieks and yells stopped abruptly. The pounding of departing hooves was heard as torches were tossed away and died in the gloom.

Again and again, the eerie Rebel yell sounded in the night and a rifle crashed with barely a pause. The sound of running horses gradually died away and then there was one last, triumphant yell.

An eerie, echoing silence descended on the brush country and the smell of dust and powder smoke drifted in the air. A few minutes passed.

Unable to see anything but a wall of darkness, Shamus cupped hands to his mouth and yelled, “Luther, are you all right?”

The night turned back the question and it went unanswered.

“Oh, God,” Doddle whispered. “He’s not dead, is he?”

“Luther!” Shamus called out again. “Answer me, man.”

No answer, only the silence of the night.

Long moments passed. Coyotes again yipped in the hills and closer, an alarmed owl asked his eternal question of the darkness.

“He was a brave man,” Doddle said. “I’ve never seen none braver.”

“He’s not dead yet,” Shamus said. “Luther is a hard man to kill, and if he is killed, he’ll refuse to stay that way.” He hollered again. “Luther! Damn it, man. Answer me!”

The night gloom parted and Ironside emerged like a gray ghost, his Winchester propped upright on his thigh. A thick dust cloud trailed behind him. He was only a few yards away when Shamus saw that he dragged two dead men behind him.

“Damn it all, Luther. I though for sure you were dead as a wooden Indian.”

“That’ll be the day, Colonel. It’ll take more than scum like these to corral me.” Ironside drew rein.

Shamus, Doddle behind him, stepped to the dead men. After a while Shamus said, “They’re shot through and through. Good work, Luther.”

“I think I might have winged another, but I ain’t sure,” Luther said.

Shamus turned to Doddle. “Recognize these two, Elijah?”

“Maybe.” The undertaker kneeled by the corpses and used his bandana to wipe dust from their faces. After studying the men for a few moments, he rose to his feet. “The one on the left in the cowskin vest I don’t know. But t’other is Pete Wilson. He is, or was, a bank robber and all-round ruffian out of the Utah Long Valley country and he was a bad one. A few years back in El Paso I buried a man he’d killed. I’d just got the body planted when Wilson stepped up to the grave and emptied his six-gun into the coffin. ‘I wanted to make sure the damn cheat was dead,’ he said.”

Doddle shook his head. “He had no respect for anything or anybody, not even for the grave.”

“All you can do with a man like that is kill him,” Shamus said.

“Well, Mr. Ironside did a good job of that. Wilson has three bullets in his chest I could cover with the knave of spades.” He looked up at the Dromore foreman. “Good shooting by any standard.”

Ironside smiled. “Hell, yeah. An’ me only half-trying.”

“Luther,” Shamus said, his face stern, “only the hollow man boasts of his prowess.”

“Sorry, Colonel. I’ll be sure to remember that.”

Shamus smiled. “Nevertheless, you did well. Splendid behavior, Sergeant Ironside!”

“Indeed, a most singular display of gallantry,” Doddle said.

“And of the greatest moment because you saved our lives.”

Ironside swung out of the saddle and handed Shamus a carved, painted mask. “Took that off one o’ them two.”

Shamus examined the mask. “I can understand how this could scare folks, especially at night.”

Ironside nodded. “Out there in the darkness them riders were a sight to see. Enough to scare any normal man out of his drawers.”

“Then we’re blessed that you’re not an ordinary man, Luther,” Shamus said.

“Damn right, I ain’t.”

“Elijah, will you take these dead men back to Recoil?” Shamus said.

“No, Colonel. I will not let them lie beside the people they slaughtered.”

“Then we’ll leave them for the coyotes. That is if they eat their own kind.”

As though he’d suddenly remembered something, Ironside said, “The man there, the one Elijah says is Pete Wilson. He said something real strange before he died.”

“Dying men sometimes do, Luther,” Shamus said.

“Yeah, but this was real crazy. He said, ‘San Pedro en Cadenas.’ Now what the hell does that mean?”

“I believe I know,” Doddle said. “I’ve buried a lot of Mexicans in my time, and I’m sure it means St. Peter in Chains.”

“Hell, then I’m none the wiser,” Ironside said.

“Our Savior told St. Peter he was a rock on whom he’d establish Holy Mother Church,” Shamus said. “Peter was the first pope of Rome and passed on his authority in unbroken succession to our present pontiff.”

Ironside knew better than to belittle popes and popery in the colonel’s presence, so he settled for, “Where do the chains come in?”

“I imagine Peter was placed in chains before he was crucified by the Romans.” Shamus glanced at Wilson’s ashen face. “Odd thing for a man of his stripe to say.”

“I’m afraid I can throw no light on the subject,” Elijah Doddle said. “If you’ll excuse me, Colonel, I’ll be on my way.”

Shamus yawned. “And it’s me for my blankets.”

“St. Shamus in bed,” Ironside said, grinning.

Shamus looked horrified. “That, Luther, wasn’t funny.”