Chapter Eleven
“Well this is inconvenient. I told my lads to bring me back your heads.” Nate Condor nodded in Ironside’s direction. “Well, his head.” Then to Shamus, “But yours would also have been welcome.”
“Damn you for a sorry scoundrel. My name is Colonel Shamus O’Brien of Dromore, and I warn you, my sons will avenge my death.”
Condor smiled. “Colonel? In what army?”
“The Army of the Confederate States of America,” Shamus said proudly.
“How wonderful for you,” Condor said. “You were quite badly beaten, weren’t you?”
“Damn your eyes, you’re an Englishman, aren’t you?”
“Born and bred in Portsmouth town,” Condor said.
“Well, this is not the first time I’ve been in the cold hands of the English,” Shamus said.
“But not for long, Colonel, I assure you.” Condor looked at Ironside. “And what is your handle? Or do you have one?”
Ironside frowned. “I have a name, but I won’t put it out to you, you fatherless, murdering—” Ironside said.
“I’ve cut out a man’s tongue for less than that.” Condor let his anger settle and waved a negligent hand. “But it is of no matter. Your name is Luther Ironside. You were described to me, but I didn’t quite make the connection until now.”
“Who did the describin’?” Ironside said.
“That is no concern of yours, especially since you’ll be dead very soon.” Condor waved over Barney Merden. “Take them away and lock them up in the old toolshed.” He smiled at Shamus. “As befits a man of your rank, Colonel, through the knotholes you’ll have an excellent view of the Pelloncillo Mountains and the outhouse.”
“Damn you. May you scratch a beggar man’s back one day,” Shamus said. “May there be a banshee crying at the moment of your son’s birth and may the Lamb of God stir his hoof through the roof of heaven and kick you in the arse down to hell.”
Condor grinned. “The Irish are good only for two things, cursing and getting drunk.” He waved a hand. “Get them out of my sight.”
“What are you planning to do with these two, Cap’n?” Merden said as he and a couple of other gunmen shoved Shamus and Ironside toward the door.
“I don’t know—yet,” Condor said. “I may behead them with a cutlass as was my original thought, or hang them, or burn them alive. I’ll come up with something grand.”
Merden grinned. “You always do, Cap’n Condor. You always do.”
“Not much room in here, Colonel,” Ironside said. “How’s the old back holding up?”
“It’s fair, just fair,” Shamus said. “All I need is a soft bed to sleep in for a night and I’ll be fine.”
The two men were jammed into a toolshed so small they could only stand upright and breathe shallow.
“What’s that devil’s name? Seagull or something?” Shamus said.
“Condor,” Ironside said.
“Yes, well whatever it is, he said there were knotholes. I don’t see any knotholes, do you?”
“Hell, it’s so dark in here I can’t see my hand in front of my face.”
“Try the door again, Luther.”
“Its padlocked, and whoever the sodbuster was who made this shed he built it solid, damn his eyes.”
“During the war, do you recollect being in this bad a fix?” Shamus said. “Even during the hard times?”
“Hell no, Colonel. When we got in a scrape, we always had a Nashville Plow Works saber in our hand and a good horse under us. Now we don’t have a peashooter between us.”
“It was a good saber, the Nashville Plow Works,” Shamus said. “I never actually owned one, but I’ve handled one in the past.”
“Yeah, it was a fine saber, until the damned Yankees shut the factory down in the summer o’ sixty-two.”
“Took an edge, the Nashville Plow Works.”
“It did that, Colonel. Good steel, I reckon.”
“A fine weapon all round, Luther. In my opinion. Though not as finely made as the British 1853 Light Cavalry Saber. I had one of those when the war started and it was a good weapon.”
“Both them swords were a sight better than anything the damned Yankees had.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. The Ames saber was pretty good.” Shamus’ fingers strayed to the old battle scar on his left cheek. “It was an Ames that gave me this.”
“I recollect that, Colonel. And I remember that it was swung by the biggest damned Yankee I ever seen in all my born days.”
“I wonder what became of that Yankee?” Shamus said. “A sergeant, wasn’t he?”
“I don’t recollect his rank, but he skedaddled and I never seen him again. I looked for him a few times in the field, though.”
“Yes, the Ames could get the job done, and no mistake,” Shamus said. “Many a lively Southern lad fell to that damned blade.”
He was quiet for a while, and then said, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and all the saints in Heaven and the holy souls in Purgatory, Luther, listen to us. We’re talking about sabers when we should be making our peace with our Savior.”
“I still got the rosary in my pocket that Jake gave me,” Ironside said. “Do you want it?”
“It was Saraid’s rosary. No, you keep it.”
“Colonel, you know I don’t hold with beads an’ such.” The old Dromore segundo reached into the pocket of his mackinaw and pushed the rosary into Shamus’s hand.
“Thank you, Luther,” Shamus said. “I’ll pray for both of us.”
“You think they’ll do for us come morning?” Ironside said.
“I think you can depend on it. That damned Albatross—”
“Condor,” Ironside said.
“Whatever the hell he is, he spelled it out for us, didn’t he? I’d say he didn’t pull any punches—beheading, the rope, or fire—as I recall. Depending on his whim, like.”
“That he did, Colonel. Spell it out. Makes a man a might uneasy.”
“To say the least, Luther. Now please leave me to my prayers.”
Tap-tap-tap . . .
Someone knocked on the side of the shed and a voice whispered, “Are you two old loons through talking about knives?”
“Who is it?” Ironside said. “Identify yourself and state your intentions.”
“Shhh . . . Damn it, Luther, you want us all dead?”
“Identify yourself,” Shamus said. “We’re men at holy prayer.”
“It’s Dallas Steele. And I want to get you out of here.”
“But how—”
“Later, Colonel. Now just hold on for a minute and be quiet. If that’s at all possible.”
Ironside leaned closer to Shamus and in a hoarse whisper said, “It’s the Fighting Pink.”
“Yes, Luther,” Shamus said. “I figured that out for myself.”
“He’s kinda fancy, Colonel. Them clothes he wears and the diamond ring an’ such.”
“What do his clothes have to do with anything?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“I don’t care how fancy he is if he can get us out of here.”
“He’s a big city dude. Likes the bright lights, you know.”
“He’s also good with a gun.”
“Yeah, but I wonder—”
“Will you two shut the hell up,” Steele said. “I declare, you’re the most speechifying coots I ever met.”
“Steele,” Shamus said, “does . . . what’s his name . . . have pickets posted?”
“He was a sailor.”
“Sailors post watches.”
“Well, this one doesn’t.” A few moments pause, then, “Right, I’m going to try a crowbar on the boards.” He wedged the tip of the bar between the timbers and pried them apart—with a shrill, screeching shriek.
“That’s it. We’re dead men,” Ironside said.
A long, dreadful silence followed, then Steele whispered, “Rusty nails. I’ll try again.”
“What about Condor’s men?” Ironside said.
“Sleeping the sleep of the just,” Steele said. “Here we go.”
The crowbar slipped through the planks again and the timber splintered. Steele pulled the board free and came face to face with Shamus. “A couple more, Colonel, and you’re out of there. It helps that you two are kind of scrawny.”
With Steele pulling on the boards and Shamus and Ironside pushing, within a couple of minutes there was a big enough opening in the side of the shed for the two men to step through.
Steele put a finger to his lips and then listened into the night. The only sound was the night breeze in the trees and the distant calls of a pair of hunting coyotes.
“Let’s get out of here while the gettin’ is good,” Ironside said.
“Hell, no,” Steele said. “We’ve already bucked the odds, so why don’t we go for broke? Just for the hell of it, huh?”