Chapter Fifty
It was early October and winter’s first dusting of snow lay around Dromore. Frost had turned the pines to arrowheads of crystal and a hollow moon horned aside the stars over Glorieta Mesa. The hard, cold air smelled like raw iron and chilled to the bone.
A log burned in the fireplace of the Dromore parlor where the O’Briens had gathered after dinner for coffee and brandy.
“So read us Dallas Steele’s letter, Jake,” Luther Ironside said.
“You surprise me, Luther. I didn’t know you cared,” Patrick said.
“Hell, he was a dude, but he had bark on him,” Ironside said. “I like that in a man.”
“I don’t feel like reading the whole letter, Luther, but the gist of it is that the army was delighted to get its money back. One of their cavalry patrols found Silas Shaw’s body in the desert. The man had shot himself. On a happier note, the Pinkertons sent Dallas, under the supervision of a doctor I might add, to Denver to recuperate from his wound.” Jacob smiled. “It seems he met a young lady on his return and she’s caring for him very well.”
Ironside nodded. “Better her than a”—he caught Shamus’s glare and grabbed for a lifeline—“sawbones in Silver City.”
“I agree with that,” Shawn said, grinning. “Almost stepped in it again, didn’t you, Luther?”
Shamus let his glower scorch Ironside for a few moments then said, “Jacob, will you remain at Dromore for Christmas?”
Jacob nodded. “I’d love to, Colonel.”
“I plan to invite the neighboring ranchers,” Shamus said. “We’ll have a big soiree this year and entertainers if such can be found.”
“If not, I can read Mr. Dickens’ novel, A Christmas Carol, to the assembled company,” Patrick said, his face eager. He pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “I imagine it will be very well received.”
“Yes . . . yes of course,” Shamus said. “But I’m sure we can find some musicians in Santa Fe who’d be willing to make the trip.”
Ironside said, “Hey, Colonel, there’s a feller up there they call Yodeling Bill Yaxley. He sings and dances and plays the banjo. I could get ol’ Bill to come down.”
“Not quite the kind of musician I had in mind, Luther,” Shamus said. “But I’ll take it into consideration.”
Ironside warmed to his subject. “Bill brings a plump little gal with him who does a dance called the seven veils or some such. Now what’s her name . . . Sophie? . . . nah, it’s not that.”
“Salome?” Patrick suggested.
Ironside’s face brightened. “Yeah, that’s it, Pat, Salome. Man, she strips to the—”
“I rather fancy,” Lorena said, “that a plump little gal named Salome and her seven veils would be the hit of the Christmas party.”
“Damn right,” Ironside said.
As the O’Brien brothers fought to hide grins, Shamus coughed, then said, “As I told you, Luther, I’ll take your suggestion into consideration.”
“Don’t wait too long, Colonel. Bill and Salome are a popular act,” Ironside said.
“Indeed,” Shamus said, the tone of his voice indicating that the discussion was closed.
The parlor door opened and the butler stepped inside. “Begging your pardon, but there’s a gentleman in the foyer who wishes to speak to Mr. Jacob. He says his name is Dr. John Henry Holliday.”
Shawn looked at his brother. “Jake, is that the one and only Doc Holliday?”
“Judging by the sinking feeling I’ve got in my belly, it can be no other,” Jacob said.
“Hadn’t you better go talk to him, Jacob?” Shamus said. “And remember, we offer the hospitality of Dromore to any honest traveler.”
Jacob rose to his feet. “Doc is a traveler all right, but no one ever called him honest.” He headed to the foyer.
Wearing a long black coat with a velvet collar and a plug hat, Doc Holliday stood in the drafty foyer, a carpetbag at his feet. Thin and frail, the gray shadows of death in his face, he looked like a walking cadaver.
“How are you, Doc?” Jacob said. He did not extend his hand.
“I need your help, Jake,” Doc said, his voice a faint whisper. “I’m in big trouble.”
At that moment, Jacob O’Brien knew so was he.