Chapter Twenty-one
Weary as only men past the years of their youth can be weary, Shamus O’Brien and Luther Ironside rode into Recoil, their horses plodding along a dark street splashed with rectangles of orange and yellow light from the saloons and stores lining the boardwalks. They tied their horses to the rail outside the sheriff’s office and slapped off clouds of trail dust before stepping inside.
Jim Clitherow sat at his desk. Dallas Steele sprawled elegantly in a chair opposite him. A bottle of Old Crow and a couple of glasses stood between them.
“Ah, the wanderers return,” Steele said. “And if I ever seen men who needed a drink, it’s you two.”
“Glad you said that,” Ironside said. “I thought maybe the whiskey was reserved for lawmen.”
Steele rose to his feet. “Sit here, Colonel. You look all used up.”
“I won’t argue with you, son.” Shamus collapsed into the chair. “Pour me a stiff shot of redeye, Dallas.”
Clitherow waited until Shamus and Luther had their drinks in hand before he questioned them about their trip to Scout’s cabin.
“He said he’ll think about it,” Shamus said. “If he decides to work for us he said he’d come here to Recoil.”
“You can’t push an Injun into making a quick decision,” Clitherow said.
“Is there anything else?”
“His wife makes good coffee then turns into a cougar,” Ironside said.
“Luther, that was just a coincidence,” Shamus said. “People don’t turn into animals. If they did, it would be in the Bible.” He read the question on Clitherow’s face and explained. “We saw a cougar in the aspens after we left the cabin. Luther is convinced it was Scout’s wife, Abequa.”
“I met her just once,” Clitherow said. “She’s a strange one to be sure. Piute, isn’t she?”
“Chippewa,” Shamus said. “And a really beautiful woman.”
“Yes, she’s all of that,” Clitherow agreed.
“Why do you need the Indian?” Steele asked.
Shamus looked at Clitherow, who said, “I haven’t told him about your idea.”
“It’s simple really,” Shamus said. “Nate Condor and his men are trying to force people out of this part of the valley. He must have a reason, and gold is as good a reason as any. We take the gold away from him and he has no excuse to stick around.”
“Maybe there’s a lost gold mine around here somewhere,” Ironside said.
Dallas Steele looked uncomfortable, and that puzzled Shamus. “You reckon I’m barking up the wrong tree, Dallas?”
“I don’t think it’s a lost gold mine,” Steele said. “It’s difficult to hide a gold mine, especially since the territory is teeming with tinpans.”
It was an unsatisfactory answer and Shamus waited for more, but the Pinkerton had closed down and lapsed into a tight silence.
Clitherow had also stared at Steele expectantly. When the man offered nothing further, he looked up from the cigarette he was inexpertly building and said, “Maybe the best option is to move against the night riders, like I suggested earlier. Wipe out the whole damned nest of them in one fell swoop.”
Steele opened up again. “Too many dead men on the ground and most of them would be the respectable citizens of your fair town, Sheriff. Recoil would never recover after paying a butcher’s bill like that.”
The door of the office burst open and a bearded, agitated man in the flannel shirt and lace-up boots of a miner rushed inside. “Torches in the hills, Sheriff. And a heap o’ hootin’ and hollerin’.”
Clitherow sprang to his feet. “Are they planning an attack, Rudy?”
The miner shook his head. “They’re plannin’ something, Sheriff, but I’m damned if I know what it is.”
Clitherow grabbed his gun belt from the rack as Shamus and Ironside stood, but Steele said, “You boys stay right here. You’ve done enough for one day.”
“If it’s an attack, we want to be there,” Shamus said. “We’re not going to sit here and listen to the shooting and wonder what’s going on.”
“It’s not an attack, Colonel. If Nate Condor attacks this town he’ll hit without warning.” Steele smiled. “You and Luther have another drink. If we need you, we’ll send for you.” He followed Clitherow out the door.
Shamus checked the loads in his Colt. “Let’s go, Luther.”
“Damn right. You know what they were saying to us, don’t you?”
“I know what they were saying. You don’t have to tell me.”
“They were saying we’re too old, Colonel. That’s what they were saying.”
Shamus smiled. “Well we’re not, Luther, are we?”
“Damn right we’re not.”
“So why are we standing here jawing instead of doing?”
“What do you make of it, Dallas?” Clitherow said.
“I reckon they’re trying to scare us,” Steele said.
“Well, it looks like they’re succeeding.”
People had gathered in the street, women with shawls around their shoulders against the evening chill, one man with a stained napkin tucked under his chin as though he’d just risen hurriedly from supper. The sporting crowd had piled out of the saloons, the girls wearing yellow, red, and blue dresses that added flares of color to the drabness of the respectable matrons and the dark street.
Gamblers were placing bets on the ruckus being the prelude to an attack by the night riders and Long Tom Totthill, once a high-roller on the Mississippi riverboats, was concerned enough to shove his derringer in the pocket of his brocade vest where it was handier.
“You men get your rifles,” Clitherow called out to the men in the street. “And get the ladies home.” He pointed to a blond woman in a bright scarlet dress. “And that includes you, Roxie, and the rest of the girls.”
The woman named Roxie lifted her skirt, revealing a shapely leg and a .22 pepperbox revolver tucked into her garter. “Hell, Sheriff, I’m ready for anything, lovin’ or shootin’, whatever them gents in the hills want.”
“Save the stinger for the customers who play and don’t pay, Roxie. We’ll do the shooting and let you concentrate on the lovin’.”
That drew a laugh from the crowd as Clitherow knew it would.
A man called out, “Hey, Sheriff, you reckon they’ll attack?”
“I don’t know. But we’d better be ready.”
Dallas Steele looked north to the foothills of the Big Hatchets where torches bobbed like fireflies in the distance. He heard howls and roars from the riders, but they seemed to be making no attempt to come closer.
But their tactics were working.
Some of the more hardened Recoil denizens like Roxie and Long Tom Totthill didn’t scare worth a damn, but others did. The respectable women had left the street and their husbands with them. So far none of the men had returned with their hunting rifles.
“What do you think, Dallas?” Clitherow said. “Will Condor open the ball tonight?”
Steele’s blue Colt was in his hand. “We stay right here in the street for now and see how things develop.”
Clitherow looked around him. “The horses are gone.”
“Damn it,” Steele said. “What are those two old coots up to?”
“Up to no good, I imagine,” Clitherow said.
Steele turned when he heard the tap-tap-tap of a woman’s boots on the boardwalk. Chastity Ludsthorpe put her hand on his arm and said, “What’s happening, Dallas? There are men in the hills and mother is beside herself with worry.”
“It’s the night riders.” Then, to ease her fears, Steele said, “But don’t worry. I think this is a show and they won’t attack.”
“You think, but you don’t know.”
“Not for sure,” Steele said.
“I wish I’d never come here to this godforsaken place,” Chastity said.
Now was not the time to discuss why the girl was in Recoil, so Steele said, “Go home, Chastity. Tell your mother she is quite safe, but to keep her door locked.”
“I’ll tell her, but it won’t help much.” She smiled. “I’m sorry to burden you like this, Dallas.”
“It’s no burden. Now go home and do like I told you.”
Chastity smiled again and turned away, but stopped in her tracks as gunfire hammered through the dark, moon-bladed foothills.