The Sons of Grady Rourke (27 page)

With his last breath, he laughed out loud.

C
YRUS
B
UCHANAN SPOKE TO HORSES AND HORSES SPOKE TO
him. If a cavalry horse went lame, even the white officers of the black regiment would lead the animal to Cyrus so he could lay on hands like some prophet of old. “Frying pans,” stripeless troopers would say to describe those huge black hands. Cyrus would touch the shoulder or haunches of the nervously pawing animal and black horse-eyes would blink only once into the trooper's black man-eyes. Then the horse would sigh a long musty hay-breath, lower his weary neck, and give himself completely to the tall man's kneading fingers. “Sergeant Buchanan's hands just know,” General Custer said before taking his trusted mount from Cyrus and trotting off to Little Bighorn.

Neither horses nor Chief Crazy Horse nor Chief Joseph frightened Cyrus Buchanan. Boy soldiers, even white ones—especially the white ones—would drift close to the quiet sergeant after their first battle as if Cyrus radiated a kind of gravity. Liam Rourke first met him that way: so terrified that his new blue trousers were as wet as the fresh blood on the prairie grass. They would come casually, one by one, as if by accident. And they would ask where courage comes from since the sergeant's supply seemed deep and sure. He would smile the way he put horses to sleep and he would say to them as he had said to teenage Liam: “Do the Lord know your name, boy?” Those who understood would ride hard the next day; those who did not understand would ride slowly.

Only children scared Master Sergeant Cyrus Buchanan. He did not speak to them and they did not speak to him. Then Abigail Bryant came to Grady Rourke's ranch.

Like the horses, the little girl blinked only once at Cyrus and he blinked back. For two weeks, she was his small, bright-eyed shadow. When fences went up in spring sunshine, Abigail held the big man's hammer. She needed both hands.

When the loving attention of Bonita Ramos could not ease the child's homesickness for Melissa, Abigail would sit cross-legged by the crackling hearth while Cyrus told nighttime tales of Sioux and Cheyenne children who could close their eyes, hold their breath, and become red-winged hawks when the new Moon was just right. His stories rode clouds of pipe smoke and Abigail watched the smoky words rise toward the darkened ceiling as if the deep and gravelly voice somehow made magic. When her chin would finally touch her nightgown collar, Cyrus would carry her to Bonita's bed like some terribly fragile treasure. An hour later, Bonita would leave the sleeping child but would be beside her when she awoke in the morning and asked for Cyrus.

Cyrus and Bonita slept together in the main room with Patrick in the loft. Abigail returned Patrick's cheer and kindness with a child's careful civility. Liam slept with the horses in the barn. The thin man who never removed his hat frightened her, so he kept his distance.

Liam would join the sudden family at the table where his appetite returned and was rewarded by Bonita's cooking. His face lost its carved-out look. But his gray eyes were still dull like something important behind them had been removed against his will.

When Abigail would allow, Cyrus tried to keep close to Liam as he had done in many cavalry skirmishes with the last of the prairie Nations. It was hard for Bonita not to resent the divided attention.

“He don't need no nursemaid, Cyrus.”

“Soldiers take care of each other.” His whispered words carried a sharp edge.

“You ain't soldiers no more.”

“It don't change once you've seen the elephant”—what soldiers call their first battle when other words are too painful.

In the middle of the second week, Bonita became ugly.

“You poke me but you talk to him.”

With Liam in the saddle chasing Chisum cattle out of their new garden, she did not have to lower her voice.

“The boy ain't right no more, woman. I need to keep an eye on him.”

“He ain't no boy. He's a grow'd man. Besides, he's got Patrick and Sean, when he comes back from Roswell.”

Cyrus tossed the empty bucket down the well and wiped his brow when the rope snapped taught like a hanged man. His eyes flashed when he turned to face her. Abigail was in the barn brushing the horses with Patrick.

“That scar on my side? A Nez Perce bullet did that last August by the Big Hole River in the Montana country. We was detached to Colonel Gibbon's white troops. Old Looking Glass hisself attacked us. Thirty of our men was killed. Thirty-nine was wounded. Them white boys left me for dead; left me face-down in the blood of eighty-nine dead Indians. Only young Liam over there rode back for me. Bullets was still flying when he come back for me. No other white man on God's Earth done that.” His angry face softened. He gently touched Bonita's face with his leathery palm. “He come back for me. Now he thinks he ain't got no soul. All the power I poured into that boy got cut out by some Cheyenne ghost or something. I have to go back for him like he done for me.”

Bonita kissed his hand that lay lightly upon her cheek.

“I'm sorry, Cyrus. You done right by Liam. But you don't believe that Injun magic do you?”

Cyrus looked away toward the garden where Liam listlessly waved his coiled rope at marauding steers with floppy, torn ears.

“That boy believes it. Either he shaved his own head or a real spirit-keeper come and done him. I ain't saying which.” He looked down at the woman who loved him like no other in his forty-odd years. “Whatever done him, he's broken.” He touched his chest. “Broke inside. I seen that look on soldiers before. Then they die.”

The tall man turned quickly and hauled on the well rope like the water bucket were filled with liquid lead. Bonita touched his arm and walked back toward the house.

W
EDNESDAY
, M
AY
15
TH
, marked the end of Abigail Bryant's third week without her mother. Even when Cyrus was at her side on his hands and knees in the vegetable garden not yet greening, each puff of spring wind made her look past him toward the lane. April's mud was beginning to turn into brown powder as the thin mountain air and bright sun dried the countryside. She searched each brown dust devil for a buckboard and bright blue eyes.

The little family had settled into an easy routine during the nearly three weeks since the shooting fest across Lincoln's only street. With the Seven Rivers Warriors back on their end of the Pecos and the Regulators in their San Patricio garrison, Patrick decided that the fragile peace was prime time to ride into town for another month's worth of supplies. Billy Bonney had ridden out to the ranch on Monday to announce that with the House doors closed tightly, Tunstall's store had been allowed to reopen by Sheriff Copeland as the only mercantile in town. He even suffered Sue McSween to run the place in spite of her tart mouth, so long as her husband stayed at San Patricio.

Patrick stood in the paddock at midmorning and tightened the leathers on the single horse secured to Bonita's buckboard. Abigail had begged to go along, but Bonita thought the risk too great if the conflict should flare.

Looking again around Cyrus, Abigail was the first to see the lone rider leading a little dust cloud down the lane. She had also first spied Billy two days earlier. Before Patrick could look up, Abigail was running break-neck toward the rider and shouting “Sean! Sean!”

Patrick threw the wagon's reins over the fence and walked to where Sean stopped his sweating horse and dismounted slowly. Sean's face was haggard from lack of sleep. Dust caked his face with a dull brown patina except for his eyes that became wet when Abigail jumped into his arms.

“Where's my mama?” the child demanded, finally breaking down into a little girl's whimpering.

Sean ran his gloved hand through her long black, Apache hair.

“She's in Lincoln, Abbey.”

“Home? Without me? I want to go to town with Patrick.”

Sean pushed her to arm's length but held her shoulders firmly. Patrick saw terrible grief in his brother's wornout face.

“Abbey, your mama is fine. She's been a little sick, is all. But she'll be just fine real soon. You have to stay here until she's well. Please.”

The child lowered her face and tiny dust clouds burst where her tears fell between her shoeless feet. Cyrus led Bonita toward Abigail. When Cyrus touched the girl's shoulder, she turned and buried her wet face into his belt.

Sean straightened his back and looked at the group around him.

“Where's Liam?”

“Riding the fence line,” Patrick said. “He'll be back by supper.”

Sean nodded.

“You've planted Ma's garden?”

“Yes. A little early, but Abbey couldn't wait.” Patrick glanced at the grieving child.

Sean looked up at the perfect sky. He blinked perspiration out of his eyes.

“If the weather holds, it'll be all right.” Sean lowered his face toward his brother. “We need to talk. Maybe Bonita could take Abbey to the garden for a little while.”

Abigail gripped Cyrus tighter. Her hands could not touch against his wide back.

“I'll take her,” the sergeant said. “Come now, girl.”

The brothers and Bonita watched Cyrus lead Abigail by the hand up the hill.

“Where's Melissa?” Bonita asked softly.

“Jail,” Sean sighed. “She done killed a man in Roswell. Deputy Mathews took her in last week.”

“My God!”

“Murder?” Patrick whispered.

“Yes. A doctor. She was sick and he hurt her, I suppose.”

“Where were you, Sean Rourke?” Bonita spoke through clenched teeth.

Sean glanced at his brother.

“I had to go to Lincoln for a day.”

Patrick said nothing.

“Let me take care of my horse and we'll talk.”

Sean led his mount into the paddock where the buckboard horse stood dozing in harness. He unsaddled and turned the animal out to nibble the new spring grass poking through the dried mud.

The brothers and Bonita walked into the house. Sean took off his hat and slowly looked around. It seemed smaller with the clutter of three men, the woman, and a child.

“Glass ain't come in yet?” Sean asked, looking at the faded, torn blanket covering the front window.

“No. What about Melissa?” Patrick watched his brother with hard eyes. He saw a murderer of John Tunstall, and maybe, of Frank McNab. Patrick forgot about William Morton, the dead deputy.

Sean sat down and rested his battered hat on his dusty knee.

“Coffee?” Bonita tried to sound civil.

“Please.” Sean took the warm cup and closed his eyes when he wet his throat. “Thanks.”

Patrick and Bonita pulled chairs close to him.

“Melissa put a butcher knife through the doc. Mathews was riding with me from Lincoln a week ago. He arrested her, took her to Lincoln—I went, too—and the new sheriff locked her up till Judge Bristol comes up in two months.”

“Two months!” Bonita's eyes were wide. “Abbey won't last another two months with her mother locked up.”

Sean sighed so deeply that the chair creaked.

“It looks like she's got a home here with all of you.” Sean's voice was pleading. “I just come by to tell you. I'm going back into town to stay close to Melissa until I can figure all this out.”

“This ain't Abigail's home,” the woman argued. “Home is with Melissa.”

“What's Sheriff Copeland's take on this? It sounds like self-defense to me.” Patrick sounded earnest, like he was trying to make sense of it.

Sean swallowed hard.

“He wants to hang my Melissa.” The words stuck half way up his throat.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! How could you let this happen?” Tears streamed down Bonita's face.

“I had to leave Roswell. I owed Jesse.”

“Jesse! For the love of God! Jesse?”

“I had to, Bonita. That's all there is.”

Bonita stood, sneered like an animal, and stormed out of the house leaving the brothers to an uneasy silence.

“Why did you take Melissa to Roswell, Sean?”

Sean looked down into the black grounds of his coffee.

“There was something there I needed to do.”

“What could be so important that you had to take the woman?”

Sean did not look up. “It don't much matter now.”

Before Patrick could speak, a horse snorted and the brothers looked toward the door Bonita had left open.

Liam stepped into the shade of the doorway. Sean squinted up at his youngest brother. Liam nodded and focused his blank eyes on Sean. Then he stepped inside and removed his hat.

“God Almighty,” Sean gasped.

S
EAN REACHED
L
INCOLN
well after dark. He left his horse in the Wortley's paddock and went directly to the cantina to wash the trail from his throat. Jesse Evans and half a dozen of the Boys filled a table. Some smoked; some chewed. Two men scooted sideways so Sean could sit next to Jesse Evans.

“Did you see your brother today?”

“Yes. The little girl misses her mother.”

Jesse nodded. A flicker of compassion crossed his wild face.

“Did you see Sheriff Copeland?”

“I did.” Jesse missed a brass spittoon for the second time. “He's still set on wanting to hang her when Judge Bristol comes up. Seems to think it'll give them Regulators something to think about if they come back into town.”

“But she ain't no Regulator. She's with the House.” Sean sounded hollowed out. “Ain't Jimmy Dolan still keeping her, even with the House closed for good?”

“It don't make no sense to me either.” Jesse scored a hit and the brass rang dully.

“She ain't too heavy. Captain,” one of the Boys laughed loudly. “He better put sand bags on her so we don't get no Bill Wilson again.”

The bearded rustler tossed his head back to suck his greasy glass dry. He felt Sean Rourke's rough fingers grab his throat. The man tumbled out of his chair backwards with Sean gripping so hard that he felt his eyeballs getting tight. Jesse and two others jumped Sean and pulled him off before he strangled the drunk like Sheriff Copeland hoped to do with Melissa.