Chapter Twenty-seven
Before he rode into Recoil, Nate Condor packed his guns in his saddlebags. He sat his horse with his head lowered, hat brim pulled low over his eyes.
The saloons were bustling. The male patrons, mostly miners in from the hills for a one-night soiree, were already halfway drunk and the sporting gals were noisy. No one gave him a second glance.
It was a Friday evening and the street was unusually busy with buckboards and freight wagons. A stage stood outside the hotel, its sidelights glowing scarlet in the gloom.
Condor was pleased that no one even glanced in his direction as he sought out the boss’s house. It was exactly the way he’d planned it.
But he was very wrong. He was noticed by a tall, grim-faced old man with shoulders an ax handle wide. The man stood in the shadows and recognized the rider for who he was.
Luther Ironside watched and waited until Condor swung into an alley. Then he shouldered off the saloon wall and followed. He pushed aside a drunk who stumbled into him and offered a swig from his bottle, and walked quickly to keep Condor in sight.
The outlaw rode out of the far end of the alley and Ironside followed. He watched the outlaw angle toward the sprawling gingerbread houses that marked the outer limits of the town. Condor rode at his ease, seemingly in no hurry to arrive at his destination.
Ironside made up his mind. It was time—while the man was still out in the open, a moonlit target. He stepped out of the alley and yelled, “Condor!”
The outlaw looked as though he’d ridden into a wall of icy air that had instantly frozen him solid. He sat his horse immobile and didn’t even turn his head.
Ironside stepped into the patch of open sand and brush between himself and the houses, his hand hovering over his holstered Colt. “Condor, you murdering sorry excuse for a man. This time stand your ground and get to your work,” he yelled.
Ironside badly underestimated Condor and overestimated his own age-slowed reaction time.
The outlaw exploded into movement. He sawed his mount’s head around then raked the vicious rowels of his Mexican spurs across its flanks, drawing blood. The horse galloped directly at Ironside who drew then dived to one side. He slammed the sun-baked ground hard, too hard, and his breath burst out of his chest.
Condor was past him, galloping for the alley.
Ironside sat up and fired, missed, and had no time for a second shot. He got to his feet, gasping in air, and ran into the alley. He emerged into the street in time to see Condor hammering out of town, invisible behind a cloud of rising dust.
Ironside aired out his tortured lungs, letting rip with every cuss he’d ever heard and some he just made up.
A single gunshot was not all that unusual in Recoil and the sporting crowd stayed in the saloons, no doubt figuring that some drunken rooster had taken a pot at the moon.
A man’s voice behind Ironside was unsteady with anxiety. “What in God’s name is going on here?” he demanded.
Ironside turned and saw a short man dressed in a shirt, pants, and carpet slippers step out of the alley into the street, his face riddled with concern.
Ironside recognized him as Silas Shaw, the man who’d killed one of the stagecoach robbers and feared he would be thereafter branded as a gunslinger. “I think he was headed for your house.”
“Who was headed for my house?”
“Nate Condor, the lowdown skunk who leads the night riders.”
“Oh, dear God,” Shaw said, adding some considerable dramatic effect as though he was about to swoon away on the spot. “What could that desperado possibly want with me? We could’ve been murdered in our beds. Oh, my poor lady wife. My poor Martha. I must go to her.”
“It could be he wanted to rob you, Shaw,” Ironside said. “You being a wealthy merchant and one of the town’s leading citizens.”
“I’m not wealthy. He would’ve found only slim pickings in my home. Unless . . .”
“Unless what?” Ironside said.
“Unless he lusted after my dear Martha. Other men have done so in the past.” Shaw turned and took a step toward the alley. “I must go comfort her. She heard the shot and it alarmed her terribly. When I left she was all a-tremble, poor thing.”
“Just hold on a minute, Silas,” Sheriff Jim Clitherow said as he and Shamus O’Brien emerged from the darkness along with Deputy Steve Sparrow, who’d been feeling poorly since he discovered the burned bodies.
Clitherow stared at Ironside as being the likeliest culprit and said, “Who’s doing all the shooting?”
“Yeah, that was me, Jim,” Ironside said. “I took a pot at Nate Condor and missed.”
Clitherow was shocked. “He came into town as bold as brass?”
“Sure did, bold as brass,” Ironside said. “I figured he was headed for Shaw’s house. He either planned to kill him or rob him, or both.”
“Oh dear God in Heaven,” Shaw wailed. “Night riders in my front yard. What’s to become of us all?”
“Any idea why he would pick on your house, Silas?” Clitherow asked.
“None, Sheriff, unless he knows that I usually keep money in my safe at home. It’s just a small amount, hardly enough to attract a dangerous outlaw.”
Clitherow turned to Shamus. “They’re getting more bold, Colonel, working closer to town. First Maurice Bird murdered close to Recoil, and now this.”
“Then we have to find what’s keeping Condor in the Playas before he does,” Shamus said.
“There’s only one thing that can explain the actions of the night riders,” Shaw said. “It has to be a gold or silver mine. There is a history of claims in this part of the territory that were prematurely abandoned and later hit pay dirt.”
“You seem pretty sure about that, Silas,” Clitherow said.
“It’s the most logical explanation, Sheriff.”
“Sheriff . . . do you m-m-mind them g-g-grangers that was massacred out by B-Black Mountain Draw?” Sparrow said.
“How could I forget? What about them?”
“I r-r-reckon they were l-l-looking fer the same thing the night riders want.”
“Hell, boy,” Ironside said. “You just said yourself they were sodbusters.”
“M-m-maybe at one time. But they wasn’t carrying f-f-farmer’s tools. I reckon they were searchin’ fer s-s-something they knew could be c-c-carried away in a wagon and maybe that’s why they was all k-k-killed.”
“Like a treasure, you mean?” Clitherow said.
“S-s-something like that,” Sparrow said.
“There’s no buried treasure around these parts,” Shaw said. “If there was, it would’ve been discovered long ago. And who would’ve buried it, the Apaches or the Spanish? It doesn’t seem likely.”
“You’re right, Silas, it doesn’t,” Clitherow said. “You can go home now.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. Poor Martha is probably hysterical by this time. I’ll sleep with a large revolver on my nightstand, I assure you.”
After Shaw left, Shamus said, “How come you missed, Luther?”
“It was dark and ol’ Condor was at a full gallop. I only had time for one shot, and I was on the ground at the time.”
“I suggest when we get home to Dromore you busy yourself with target practice,” Shamus said. “From your performance here tonight, it would be time well spent.”
Under his breath, Ironside muttered something about certain folks bein’ in no position to criticize other folk’s shootin’ . . .
“What did you say?” Shamus demanded.
“Nothing, Colonel. I didn’t say nothing.”
“And I should hope you didn’t. A man should not deflect blame by criticizing others, Luther. Remember that.”
“An odd occurrence, though,” Dallas Steele said, sitting back in a chair in Clitherow’s office. “I mean that Condor headed directly for Shaw’s house as though he knew right where he was going.”
“Maybe he planned to kill him,” Clitherow said. “Silas Shaw is a prominent citizen of this town and his death could’ve started a stampede of folks out of here.”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Steele said. He turned to Ironside. “Luther, it might’ve been better if you’d just kept an eye on Condor, watched where he went, and then reported back to Sheriff Clitherow or myself.”
“Shaw and his old lady could’ve been dead by the time I did all that reportin’” Ironside said, irritated.
Steele nodded. “Yes, there’s always that possibility, I suppose, but somehow I think it unlikely.”
“Dallas, you’ve got influence in Washington,” Clitherow said. Could you get the army down here and clean out that nest of robbers and killers once and for all?”
“I don’t have that much influence,” Steele said. “Sure I could send a request, in triplicate, for an army presence in Recoil, but it would sit on some second lieutenant’s desk for a month before any action was taken.”
“And by then it would be too late,” Shamus said.
“Well, let’s just say that the troubles of a hick town—sorry, Sheriff—in the Playas Valley would not be at the top of the list of current military priorities,” Steele said. “Especially now that there’s unrest on the Plains and talk of some new dance getting the Sioux and Cheyenne all riled up.”
A breeze whispered around the eaves of the sheriff’s office and guttered the flames of the oil lamps. In one of the saloons a pianist played “She Was Only a Sodbuster’s Daughter, but I Loved Her Just the Same,” and a female voice joined in the chorus.
“She had dirt in her fingers and dirt in her toes,
Dirt in her hair and dirt on her nose,
But her heart was as pure as the driven snooow . . .”
Much affected by the song, a lovesick ranny stood in the middle of the street and howled at the moon . . . then someone scratched on the door.
“Come in. It’s open,” Clitherow said as his hand dropped to his gun.
“It’s Scout.”
“Then come in, damn it.”
The door creaked open and the Navajo slid inside, his Sharps in his left hand. Behind him stood a huge black man wearing a fashionable frockcoat and checked pants, but his head and shoulders were covered with the pelt of a wolf, its upper jaws jutting over the man’s forehead. Like Scout, he carried a rifle.
“You’ve decided to help us,” Shamus said, rising to his feet. “I’m really glad to see you again.”
“I will look for what you seek, and you will pay me when I find it,” Scout said. “That is our agreement, is it not?”
“Indeed it is,” Shamus said. “And I’ll stick by it, never fear.”
“And this gentleman is . . .” Clitherow said. The black man was at least seven foot tall and the sheriff looked uneasy.
“His name is Lucian T. Hyde,” Scout said. “He’s my hired man.”
Hyde’s voice rumbled from deep in his chest, like the warning grumble of an erupting volcano. “I’m so pleased to meet all of you. I’m afraid we meet under the most singular and distressing circumstances.”
Steele was the first to recover from his surprise. “Have you been in the territory long, Mr. Hyde?”
“Only a six-month. Before that I was a consulting detective in New York City, but was forced to flee after I killed a man.” Hyde smiled. “He was a white man, so I knew my chances of escaping the gallows were slim to none, so I left the city forever. Then, wandering like Odysseus of old, I met Scout while I was in the desert, close to death from hunger and thirst.”
“And he gave you that hat?” Ironside eyed Hyde’s barbaric headpiece with obvious disapproval.
“No, this is not a gift. You see, I was attacked by a wolf, a fierce beast and we fought long and hard for three days and two nights. In the end I prevailed and when I saw the creature lying dead at my feet, I decided to keep his pelt.” He smiled again, revealing bone-white teeth. “I think it becomes me, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes, very nice,” Shamus said. Then to Scout he said, “Mr. Steele here thinks he has a fair idea where the . . . whatever it is . . . is located.”
“It is a great treasure,” Scout said. “This I know. In a dream, I saw much gold and many dead men.” He stared hard at Steele as though he peered into the man’s soul. “Where should I start my search?”
“The Apache Hills. There is a man named Lum Park who says he has a claim there, but I think he’s hiding something.” Steele made a decision. “I believe it could be an army payroll wagon that was stolen by Apaches ten years ago.”
“You never told us that afore, Steele,” Ironside said.
“Well, Luther, I’m telling you now. There’s a hundred and thirty thousand dollars in that wagon and the army wants it back.”
“And that’s the reason you’re here in Recoil,” Shamus said.
“Yes, Colonel. The army hired the Pinkertons to investigate.”
Ironside whistled between his teeth. “Hell, that’s a lot of money. Men like Nate Condor will kill for less.”
“And I believe so will Lum Park,” Steele said. “He has a daughter. Her name is Rhody and she’s just as mean as he is. Besides that, she says I killed her husband.”
“You don’t remember whether you did or not?” the Navajo asked.
Steele shook his head. “No, I’m afraid I can’t bring him to mind.”
“You should take scalps or trigger fingers,” Scout said. “It would help you remember the men you have killed.”
“I’ll take your advice into consideration,” Steele said.
“We will go now,” Scout said. “When we find the gold, we will return.”
“You takin’ the big feller with you?” Ironside said to the Navajo.
“Yes, Lucian will go with me. The wolf whose pelt he took bit him many, many times and now he knows the way of the pack.”
Steele and Shamus exchanged glances, but there was no way to follow up on that comment, so they remained silent.
“One thing more,” Scout said. “Colonel O’Brien, your sons are in great danger.”
Shamus jerked upright in his chair, his face alarmed. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what kind of danger?”
“That I cannot see. But heed me. They are in peril.” Scout turned and said, “Come, Lucian.” Without another word, he and Hyde walked into the street.
Ironside, interested to see what breed of horse the big man rode, stepped outside. Both men were jogging toward the darkness at the edge of town, and soon vanished from sight.
Ironside walked back into the office. “Them two don’t have horses, they’re . . .”
His voice trailed away as Clitherow finished what he’d been saying. “. . . hold it against you, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Jim,” Shamus said, “but I’ll stick. It wouldn’t set right with me to run out on you when you need us most.”
Steele’s voice was remarkably gentle. “No one can blame a man for putting his family first, Colonel.”
“We’re talking about the Injun saying there’s danger at Dromore, huh?” Ironside said.
“What’s your opinion on that, Luther?” Shamus said.
Ironside smiled. “If he’s right, then I say God help the rannies stupid enough to try and corral the O’Brien brothers on their own ground.”
“Then do we stick?” Shamus asked.
“Your sons are all grown up now, Colonel,” Ironside said. “They can handle themselves. If you was an outlaw, would you want to go up against Jake and Shawn in a shooting scrape?”
“Then we stick?” Shamus asked again.
Ironside nodded. “Yup, until this here is over.”
Shamus smiled. “Then so be it. And no, Luther, I wouldn’t care to go up against Jacob and Shawn in a shooting scrape.”
“Damn right,” Ironside said.
The smile quickly fled Shamus’s face and was again replaced by a look of concern. “I’ll say a rosary for my sons tonight. And for Dromore.”