Chapter Forty-nine
Patrick O’Brien was certain the little butterflies fluttering around the scrub oaks were Sleepy Duskywings, a species that had often eluded him in the past.
He’d been scorned and warned by Luther Ironside never to go on a butterfly hunt without a gun and he had two of them, the Colt on his hip and the Winchester in the boot under his knee. He was a mile north of Saddle Mountain, keeping an eye on the main wagon roads heading south out of Silver City. Shawn was farther west and the colonel and Ironside were somewhere along Walnut Creek to the south.
There had been no sign of a wagon or even a rider for hours and Patrick was bored. “Abby,” he said to the black girl at his side, “you see those butterflies over yonder by the scrub oak?”
The girl nodded, and Patrick said, “Those are Sleepy Duskywings, not real rare, but seasonal.”
“They’re brown,” Abby said, seemingly unimpressed.
“Not as pretty as swallowtails, I allow, but I’d surely like another for my collection.”
“You collect flutterbyes?” the girl said.
“Butterflies, Abby. They’re called butterflies.”
The girl shrugged. “They’re brown.”
Patrick looked around him and into the distance where heat waves danced. The land was still and silent, echoing its emptiness. “I could catch one in my hat.”
“Catch what?”
“A Sleepy Duskywing.”
“Oh.”
“You keep watch, Abby.” Patrick stepped out of the saddle. “You see anyone coming, especially the big, mean-looking old man they call Luther, holler out. Understand?”
Abby nodded.
“Not much on conversation, are you, girl?”
“I don’t know nothing about flutterbyes.”
“Well, keep watch and I’ll teach you about butterflies later.” Patrick smiled. “The worldwide diversity of the papillio species is a fascinating subject for study and discussion.”
“Ah,” Abby said.
Patrick walked to the scrub oak, hat in hand. A cloud of butterflies soared up in front of him, but he had eyes for only one, a magnificent Sleepy Duskywing more than two and a half inches from wingtip to wingtip.
The butterfly was not only large, it was spry, and it led its pursuer toward a narrow arroyo hemmed in by a pair of high rock shelves.
The thrill of the hunt drove Patrick and made him oblivious to all else.
Finally the butterfly landed on a small yellow flower and folded its wings.
Patrick pounced. “Got you!” he yelled, the crown of his hat covering the insect. He looked up in triumph . . . into the muzzle of a .45 Colt.
“What the hell are you?” Barney Merden snarled.
“I’m a butterfly collector,” Patrick said. “But it seems like every time I try to catch one somebody points a gun at my head.”
“Is that a fact? Well, four-eyes, this is your unlucky day. On your feet and shuck the gun belt.”
Patrick rose and did as he was told.
“Take a couple of steps back.” Merden nodded. “There’s a good boy. Now me and you—”
“I think that should be, ‘You and I,’” Patrick said.
“I don’t give a damn what it should be. Walk to the wild oak over there so I got less distance to drag your carcass.”
“Let me get my hat,” Patrick said.
Merden’s smile was ugly. “Where you’re going, you don’t need a hat.”
The exchange about the hat took only about four seconds—but it saved Patrick O’Brien’s life.
The rock missed Merden’s head, slamming into his right shoulder with a dull thud. Merden instinctively looked up at the top of the cliff face where Abby stood looking down at him.
“Pat, I came up here to watch after you,” she called, smiling.
“You black witch!” the gunman yelled. His arm had been numbed by the rock and he struggled to lift his gun.
Patrick took his chance and dived for his gun belt. His glasses flew off his nose, but he grabbed his Colt as Merden turned on him. At a range of only a couple of feet, he fanned three shots into Merden’s belly. The bullets ranged upward into the gunman’s chest and staggered him.
Merden made no attempt to return fire. A prejudiced man of deep-seated hatreds, he ignored Patrick and thumbed two quick shots at Abby. “Damn you,” he screamed. Dying on his feet, he was still a gunfighter to be reckoned with. Both his bullets slammed into the girl’s frail body.
Abby shrieked as she crumpled and fell from the cliff wall, crashing hard onto the rocky arroyo floor.
Patrick saw Merden as a fuzzy image and fired his two remaining shots at the gunman. Both missed, but it didn’t matter. Still standing, his eyes staring and a primitive snarl frozen on his lips, Merden was dead.
Stepping to the man, Patrick pushed him in the chest and Merden’s body fell back and lay sprawled on the ground. He grimaced and turned toward where Abby lay. He wanted to thank her for saving his life. He wanted to take her hand in his and thank her again and again. But the girl was beyond hearing. Her short, miserable life had reached its end.
Stepping to his hat, Patrick lifted it carefully and let the butterfly go. To his surprise, it fluttered around his head and landed on his hand where it stayed for several minutes before flying away.
In later years, Patrick would say that somehow Abby’s soul had entered the butterfly for a while and had tried to comfort him. At least, that’s how he very much wanted to believe it had been.
Attracted by the gunshots, Shawn was the first to arrive at the arroyo.
Patrick told his story and then Shawn, a caring man, held his brother in his arms and comforted him as best he could.
When the colonel and Ironside rode up on the arroyo they read the story from the bodies and silently agreed to let Patrick tell it again at his own pace and in his own time.
It was nightfall by the time Ironside led Jacob and the wagon to the arroyo where a fire burned and coffee simmered. “Near missed him. I was about to give up when I seen him in the distance.”
“Jake, where is Dallas?” Shawn asked.
“He got shot.” Jacob told his story, and as one gunfighter acknowledging the skill of another, added, “Condor made his stand and he was fast on the draw.”
The silence that followed was broken by Shamus. “And where is Dallas now, Jacob?”
“He has a good doctor attending him and is staying with a priest I met.”
“Hell, that will kill the poor sod fast enough,” Ironside mumbled.
“What did you say, Luther?” Shamus asked.
“Nothing, Colonel. I didn’t say nothing.”
“I should hope not,” Shamus said, frowning. “Holy Mother Church appoints her priests to be the good shepherds of her flock. I am sure Dallas is in excellent hands.”
Shamus waited as moment then said, “What did you say, Luther?”
“Nothing, Colonel. I didn’t say nothing.”
“I should hope not.”
Shawn suppressed a grin. “Well Jake, where do we go from here?”
“Now that Patrick’s butterfly hunting has led us to the gold stashed in the arroyo, we should take it back to Silver City and hand it over to the army. Then take our leave of Dallas.”
“And return to Dromore,” Shamus said. “Thank the good Lord. I’m anxious to see my grandson again.”
“That sounds like a fine plan,” Ironside said.
“For once, Luther, it seems that we can agree on something,” the colonel said.
“We always agree on Dromore, Colonel,” Ironside said.
Shamus nodded. “I should hope so.”