Chapter Seventeen
Shamus O’Brien was not in favor of Sheriff Clitherow’s plan for a direct assault on the lair of the Condor and his night riders. “You’d be attacking across open country and going up against some top-ranked Texas gunfighters. I don’t see you winning that battle, Jim.”
“There’s the three of us, and I might be able to convince Dallas Steele to join us,” Sheriff Clitherow said. “That’ll give the posse a backbone.”
“It’s too thin,” Luther Ironside said. “Condor won’t fight us in brush country. He’ll lure us onto open ground of his own choosing and use his numbers to cut us to pieces. I don’t think a posse of store owners, miners, and married men will stand against professional gunmen. And I wouldn’t blame them.”
“Then what do you suggest?” Clitherow said. “I’m open to anything.”
“I’ll answer that.” Shamus lit a cigar, taking his time.
The early afternoon sun slanted through the sheriff office’s window and made the dust motes dance. A brewery wagon trundled past on the street and somewhere close by children at play raised a ruckus.
Shamus finally gathered his thoughts. “We’re agreed that Condor and his hired guns are here for a reason. Is that not so?”
“That’s why they’re killing and terrorizing folks, yes,” Clitherow said.
“Then what do they want, Jim?”
“I don’t know that, Colonel, and neither do you.”
“Exactly.”
The sheriff shook his head. “I’m not catching your drift.”
“We find what Condor and his men want, and take it away from them,” Shamus said. “And we mount a search and do it quickly before more innocent people die.”
“That would take the wind out of Condor’s sails,” Ironside said.
“Yes,” Shamus said, “and convince him that there’s nothing to be gained by hanging around.”
“So, how do we find this . . . whatever it is?” Clitherow asked.
Shamus smiled. “I haven’t a clue.”
“There’s another problem,” Ironside said. “If we find whatever it is the skull riders want, do we let Condor and his boys just ride away? They’re murderers and rapists and if men ever needed killing, they do.”
“No, we don’t let them ride away,” Clitherow said. “I’ll bring them all to justice if it’s the last thing I ever do as a peace officer.”
“It may well be the last thing you ever do, Jim,” Ironside said.
“Please, Luther, no more doomsday comments, if you please.” Shamus looked away from Ironside to Clitherow. “But you’re right. No matter what happens, we can’t let Condor and his gang of brigands escape. We must bring them to justice.”
The sheriff thought for a few moments, then said, “There’s a Navajo lives down to Bar Ridge with his wife and a Negro hired man. His given name is Anaba, but most folks know him as Scout, since he scouted for the army during the Apache troubles.”
“You think he could help us find whatever it is that Condor wants?” Ironside said.
“Yeah, that’s the general idea,” Clitherow said. “There’s only one little problem.”
“And what’s that?” Shamus asked.
“They say he’s a skinwalker, a shape-shifter.”
“A what?” Shamus was confused.
The lawman looked uncomfortable. “Other Navajo claim Anaba can change from a man to an animal and back again.”
Shamus crossed himself. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph preserve us. I sense the devil’s work at play here.”
“Colonel, it’s what folks say and it isn’t necessarily true. People say a lot of things.”
“Is the Injun a good tracker?” Ironside said.
“The best there is around.”
“Then he could find Condor’s . . . whatever it is?”
“He’ll have more chance of finding it than we do.” Clitherow looked uncomfortable again. “Luther, one thing you don’t do is mess with a shape-shifter. The Indians call them Yee naldlooshi, and if they get riled at you, they can be real bad news.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Ironside asked incredulously.
“Because, Luther, sometimes you talk without thinking,” Shamus said.
“And you don’t want to get into an argument with a skinwalker,” Clitherow said, but he smiled.
“Does this poor, benighted heathen come into Recoil?” Shamus said.
“No,” the sheriff said. “Unless he visits as a coyote or a bird.”
“Then may holy St. Francis of Assisi help him,” Shamus said. “If this shape-shifter talk is true, then the poor man is a sad, unnatural creature.”
“Who is she, Colonel?” Ironside said.
“What are you talking about, Luther?”
“The gal who’s the patron saint of all the animals.”
“She’s a him, Luther.” Shamus glared at his segundo. “I’m surprised you don’t know that, living in a good Catholic household like you do.”
“I’m fond of animals,” Ironside said. “Hell, I’ve even petted Jake’s mean calico cat a few times, and that’s like picking up a roll of barbwire.”
“Then I’m sure St. Francis is very proud of you,” Shamus said.
“Damn right she is,” Ironside said.
Clitherow smiled his way back into the conversation. “Now we’ve got that settled, Colonel, I have another favor to ask.”
“You want us to talk with the Navajo,” Shamus guessed.
“That sums it up,” the sheriff said.
Shamus turned to Ironside. “What do you think, Luther?”
“Anything’s better than sitting on our butts around town.”
“And sleeping in Jim’s jail,” Shamus said. “All right, we’ll do it.”
“Just explain to him what the problem is and let Scout take it from there,” Clitherow said. “I’ll have to pay him of course.”
“How do we get there?” Ironside asked.
“Ride due south and after a couple hours you’ll come up on Bar Ridge. Scout’s cabin is on the north side of the rise so you can’t miss it.”
“Jim, we don’t have guns,” Shamus said. “That damned pirate Condor took them.”
Clitherow got to his feet and walked to a cabinet that stood against the wall near his desk. He turned a key in the lock and swung the doors open. “Take your pick. The long guns are in the rack by the door.”
The cabinet was stacked with gun belts, all of them with a revolver in the holster.
“I’ve confiscated these from roosters who got drunk and decided to shoot up the town, or each other,” Clitherow said. “Take whatever you like, except for the Remington in the canvas belt and holster. It’s rusted out.”
Shawn and Ironside examined the guns, all showing neglect and abuse. One beautifully engraved Colt was scarred by some puncher who’d used the barrel to string fence wire.
“Hardly choice weapons, Jim,” Ironside said, his face sour.
“Better than nothing,” the sheriff said, a shrug in his voice. “The rifles are better.”
Finally Shamus and Ironside found a couple of Colts that worked and strapped the belts on their hips to carry them.
“Both .44s I hope,” Clitherow said. “That’s the only caliber ammunition I have.”
Luckily the revolvers were in .44-40 caliber, as were the two Winchesters Ironside chose from the gun rack.
“Scout might feed you or he might not, so I advise you to take along some grub.” The sheriff extended his hand to Shamus and then Ironside. “Good luck.”
“Hey, Jim, how do you kill one o’ them skinwalkers?” Ironside asked.
“With a silver bullet.”
Ironside couldn’t decide if Clitherow was joshing him or not.