Chapter Twenty-two
The night was cool and Shamus O’Brien sat still on his horse, his tired eyes reaching into the darkness.
“How many do you figure, Colonel?” Luther Ironside said in a hoarse whisper.
“Four, five, no more than that.”
The two riders were hidden in a shallow valley, the sweep of a hillside facing them. On the top of the rise torches flared, as the masked night riders rode back and forth, yelling at the top of their lungs.
“Ain’t so scary up close, are they?” Ironside pointed out.
“They’re damned trash, Luther,” Shamus said. “No braver than us and probably a lot more cowardly.”
“We ain’t cowards, Colonel.”
“No, Luther, by God, we aren’t. Follow me.” Shamus swung his horse to the east and rode through the valley, no more than a grassy dry wash, heavy stands of juniper and piñon growing on both banks.
As he had hoped, the flat-topped hillside they’d faced petered out onto a low, grassy meadow. Looping to the west he took to the rise at its lowest part and followed the gradual incline upward, Ironside close behind him. Attacking the night riders on the level ground atop the hill was a much better alternative than a headlong charge up a steep slope on tired horses.
Riding at a slow walk, Shamus figured the distance between him and the night riders. Three hundred yards? Maybe less, and most of it open ground as the juniper thinned.
They rode a little closer.
Ironside booted his rifle and drew his revolver. When the ball opened, it would be close gun work in crowding darkness. The Colt wasn’t as accurate as a rifle but at spitting distance it would give a good account of itself . . . . if the shooter did his part. And Luther Ironside was better than most with Sammy’s iron.
He and Shamus covered another hundred yards and ahead of them the torches still flared, moving back and forth, the riders hurling curses at the town below.
Suddenly, Shamus drew rein and Ironside rode into him. “What the hell, Colonel?”
Shamus turned in the saddle and put his finger to his lips. He reached into his saddlebags and came up with two Remingtons he’d taken from Clitherow’s cabinet and passed one to Ironside.
Echoing what Ironside had decided earlier, Shamus whispered, “Two guns are better than one in these intimate social occasions.”
Ironside grinned and showed his teeth like a hungry wolf.
“We’ll get a little closer,” Shamus said. “Then we charge.”
“Lead on, Colonel. I’m loaded for bear.”
Both men had dropped the reins and guided their mounts at a walk with their knees.
“Hey, what the hell is that?” a man’s voice called from the darkness.
“They’ve spotted us!” Shamus yelled. He kneed his horse. “Forward at the trot, Luther!” After a few moments, he called, “Charge at the gallop!”
Both mounts broke into a run and, as Ironside had done before, he and Shamus shot into darkness, using the night riders’ torches as targets. His hammering guns bucking in his hands, Shamus felt a wild, savage joy, like a young horse soldier again. Beside him, Ironside yodeled his Rebel yell, his lips peeled back from his teeth in a snarl.
“Damn it. They’re up there shooting,” Clitherow said. “They’re attacking like they’re back in the war.”
“Seems like,” Steele said, smiling.
“They’re way too old to be doing that. They’ll get themselves killed.”
“Old, maybe, but by God, they’re fighting men. I’m proud to know them.”
Clitherow shook his head. “That’s the trouble with old Johnny Rebs. Fear doesn’t enter into their thinking.”
“You should know, Jim. You’re one yourself.”
“Yeah, I am, and that’s why I wish to hell I was up there with them.”
“They didn’t stand,” Luther Ironside said, outrage and disbelief in his voice. “Damn it, Colonel. They ducked out and them on ground of their own choosing.”
“You hit any of them, Luther?” Shamus asked.
“I don’t reckon so, they were running so fast. You?”
Shamus shook his head. “Refusing to fight on their own ground against a numerically inferior enemy. It’s hard to believe. Hell, Luther, I don’t want to believe it.”
“Cowardice in the face of the enemy, that’s what it was. They should all be lined up and shot like dogs.”
Shamus was so stunned he worried the thing like a dog with a bone. “They outnumbered us two to one, Luther, and should’ve stood their ground. We didn’t even come under fire. Damn them, may the devil roast their hides for yellow-bellies.”
Ironside nodded. “I never in all my born days seen the like, Colonel. Right now there should be men dead on the dirt or gasping their last, but there’s not.”
“Disgraceful,” Shamus said. “Just . . . disgraceful.”
Ironside sighed deeply, then stared at the star-studded sky for a few moments. “Well,” he said finally, “the danger is past and a superior enemy has fled the field of honor without fight.”
“Disgraceful,” Shamus said again. “Just . . . disgraceful.”
“Disgraceful,” Shamus O’Brien repeated. “The damned cowards fled the field.”
Dallas Steele smiled. “I guess they thought discretion was the better part of valor, Colonel.”
“Valor?” Ironside said. “There was no valor on that hilltop. Damn them, they didn’t fire a shot at us. How low can men be to refuse to stand on their own ground?”
“Maybe they had orders not to fight,” Clitherow said. “Just make a show and scare the daylights out of folks.”
“No, they were craven,” Ironside said. “I always told the O’Brien boys, ‘If’n yore knees start knockin’, kneel on them.’ An’ that’s what them night riders should’ve done.”
The glow of the oil lamp tinted the sheriff’s office the color of unpolished brass and deep shadows gathered in the corners where the spiders lived.
Shamus sighed deeply and rose to his feet. “Well, it’s me for my cot. This was a night of shame I’ll forever try to forget.”
“I guess I should turn in as well.” Ironside yawned. “It’s been a long day.”
“You boys did well tonight,” Steele said.
Ironside shook his head. “Yeah. “Chargin’ at hosses’ asses.”