Chapter Twenty-eight
“If the Colonel was here, he’d say a rosary and then have at it,” Samuel O’Brien said.
“He’d have to find them first,” Jacob said. “Just like we have to do.”
“Then I say we pull the vaqueros off the range and go on the scout right away,” Shawn said. “It’s better that than hanging around Dromore, sitting on our gun hands, while we worry about Pat and await Castillo’s pleasure.”
“What do you say, Sam?” Jacob said. “Do we go after them?”
“So far, Castillo has been calling the shots,” Samuel said. “He took Pat hostage and he murdered one of our own. I’m getting pretty tired of being pushed around and I want the Mexican dead.”
Little Shamus toddled to Jacob’s knee and showed him his new toy, a wooden horse carved by one of the hands. Jacob lifted the two-year-old onto his lap. “Pretty horse, isn’t it?”
The boy nodded his blond head. “Pretty horsey.”
Shawn rose, stepped to the parlor window, and gazed into the waning day. “A full moon tonight. I reckon I’ll head out now and bring in the vaqueros.”
Jacob talked over the little boy’s head. “Be back here by first light, Shawn, with or without the hands.”
“Depend on it.” Shawn looked at Lorena. “You’ve been quiet, sister-in-law. Is all this talk of fighting troubling you?”
“Vasily Petrov, as fine a man who ever lived, lies stiff and cold in the chapel with candles smoking around him and the wind singing his requiem. Patrick is a captive, perhaps wounded and ill-treated, and we are his only hope.” Lorena laid the sock she was darning on her lap. “Dromore takes care of its own and avenges their deaths. I will not stand aside and let you do any less. Yes, I am troubled, but it is time for Dromore to fight those who would do us harm, as we’ve always done.”
Jacob smiled. “You sounded like my mother then, Lorena.”
“And I pray I can remain as strong as Saraid was.”
“Then I guess it’s all settled,” Shawn said. “I’m riding.”
After his brother left, Jacob rose and passed little Shamus to Samuel. “I’m going out for a scout around. I’m restless being caged up like this.”
“Be careful, Jake,” Samuel said. “We can’t predict what Castillo will do next. The man is obviously crazy.”
“I’ll be on guard.”
Jacob stepped into the foyer to buckle on his gun then stepped outside into the growing darkness. The moon had not yet risen, but the night was clear, already bright with stars. He walked to the rise that stood opposite the house, sat, and fetched his back against a pine. He built a cigarette and smoked, listening to the distant bark of the coyotes and the wind that whispered secrets to the trees.
Alone with his thoughts, a man of black moods and echoing loneliness, he was still there when the newly minted moon came up, round and shiny as a silver coin.
Patrick O’Brien stared across the moonlit clearing to the Mexicans gathered around the fire. He counted them again, just to be sure, and came up with the same figure—eighteen including Álvaro Castillo.
That was too many for Dromore to handle if they all went against it at once.
The new moon rose high, surrounded by a hazy ring that predicted inclement weather. “Count the stars inside the ring, and they will tell you how many days from now the rain will start.” Patrick smiled. Luther had told him that, so it must be true.
The Mexicans around the fire seemed to be arguing, but then the discussion stopped and Castillo staggered toward him, a bottle in his hand. “My very good friend, Señor Patrick,” the Mexican said, spreading his arms wide. “How are you tonight? Well, I hope.”
“Same as I was last night, Castillo, wishing I had a gun so I could put a bullet in your fat belly.”
“Ahh, that is not good, because you are Álvaro’s friend again. See, I have even brought you whiskey.” He looked sly. “A woman? Is that what you want? Would you like a woman?”
“I’d like you to get the hell away from me,” Patrick said.
“That is not a nice thing you say to a friend.” Castillo was stinking drunk. The cruelty that was never far from his eyes made them gleam. He kneeled beside Patrick and pushed the bottle to his lips. “Drink, my friend. Your friend Álvaro wishes you to be as happy as he is this night.”
Patrick turned his head away, his mouth clamped shut.
“I said drink, you pig!” Castillo yelled.
The shout attracted a crowd and drunk, grinning Mexicans surrounded the two men. They pointed at Patrick and laughed as though the sight of him was the funniest thing they’d ever seen.
“Drink!” Castillo said again. He grabbed Patrick by the hair and forced his head around. The Mexican slammed the bottle against Patrick’s mouth so hard his lip split and he tasted blood with the raw whiskey.
“Drink!” Castillo said, grinning. He shoved harder on the bottle and slammed the neck against Patrick’s clenched teeth. Then the Mexican grabbed his jaw and forced his mouth open.“ Drink, damn you!” he yelled, pushing hard on the bottle. “Drink like a man.”
Despite his efforts, whiskey flooded into Patrick’s mouth and he was forced to swallow, his throat bobbing.
“See, compadres,” Castillo said, looking up at his men. “The butterfly-catching gringo can drink like a man.”
The Mexican rose to his feet then kicked Patrick in the ribs, his thudding boot going in once . . . twice . . . three times....
Patrick stifled the urge to cry out in pain, refusing to give Castillo the satisfaction.
“Next time Castillo asks you to take a drink, you take a drink, understand?”
“Go to hell,” Patrick said.
“It is just as well you’re not my friend again.” Castillo smiled. “But tomorrow perhaps you will be, when you lead my charge against your father’s fine house.” The Mexican’s smile grew into a grin. “A house that will soon be the hacienda of Don Álvaro Castillo.”
That drew a cheer from the bandit’s men and Castillo yelled, “This time tomorrow, mis compadres, we will roast a pig at Dromore!”
More cheers, then staggering, slapping each other on the back, the Mexicans returned to the fire, leaving Patrick alone.
He was slightly drunk, puzzled that he would lead the charge against Dromore. He gave serious thought to that as blood from his split lips trickled down his chin.
Through his alcohol haze, it suddenly dawned on him. He’d be riding in front of Castillo’s men, lashed to the saddle probably, and that would reduce Dromore’s firepower because his brothers would be fearful of hitting him.
He stared at the haloed moon and wished the night would go on forever. He feared what tomorrow might bring . . . .
Could it be the end of Dromore and the brothers O’Brien?