The Sons of Grady Rourke (32 page)

“Guess so,” Patrick said softly.

“Good. Billy, pour the man a drink to wash the trail down.”

“Soldiers coming!” a lookout called down from the roof before Billy could answer.

“How many?” McSween shouted.

“Just one. One of them darkies from the fort.”

A private approached on horseback from the west, past George Peppin's house on the north side of the street, and on toward the Wortley a few hundred yards further east.

“Put one at his feet,” McSween called to the ceiling.

The soldier was bringing a written dispatch to Sheriff Peppin from Lt. Colonel Dudley. The colonel was serving notice that he had declined to grant Peppin's request for troops to quell the running battle on the streets of Lincoln.

When a fist-size clod of earth jumped out of the ground five feet in front of the cavalry horse, the soldier skidded his mount to a halt. The single report of a rifle followed half a second later. While the anxious animal spun under his blue-shirted rider, a second round thudded into the earth. The black trooper right-wheeled and galloped out of town.

“He's riding out,” the voice on McSween's roof called down.

“Not hurt, was he?”

“No, Mr. McSween. You said not to.”

“Good man.” The lawyer turned to Patrick and Billy. “Good day so far, boys.”

Desultory gunfire rattled windows for the rest of the day. Only nerves were stung by the sporadic and aimless missiles.

P
RIVATE
B
ERRY
R
OBINSON
rode hard back to Fort Stanton. Colonel Dudley was outraged that the anarchists in Lincoln would fire on a blue uniform from the 9th United States Cavalry. Slightly slurring his speech, Dudley ordered three white officers to ride to Lincoln on Wednesday to meet with Sheriff Peppin and to confirm which side popped off at Private Robinson.

The reluctant officers rode slowly toward Lincoln from the west at ten o'clock in the morning. They ordered Liam Rourke to dismount with his hands raised when they approached him suddenly from the rear.

“I rode with Nelson Miles after the Nez Perces,” Liam said so softly that the officers demanded him to repeat himself.

“You're one of the brothers? The one who rode with the nigger sergeant?”

Liam nodded.

The officers returned their sidearms to leather.

“We heard he was a hero up north in the Nez Perce war.”

Liam thought for several seconds.

“And before that, Lieutenant. Long before.”

“Too bad about the sergeant getting killed two weeks ago. Imagine making it through the Cheyenne and Sioux wars just to get bushwhacked out here.” The young soldier seemed truly saddened by the loss of one of his own kind.

“Too bad,” Liam said listlessly.

“You going into Lincoln?”

“Yes, sir.”

“For what, for God's sake?”

“My brothers is there, both of 'em.”

“Very well, then. You can ride in with us. We have orders to shoot to kill if anyone looks crosswise at us. You'll be safer riding with us.” The regimental guidon snapped at the perfect moment in a sudden breeze.

“I ain't rode under that flag in almost nine months.” Liam blinked hard.

“Do you good ... soldier. Mount up.”

“Yes, sir,” Liam said from a habit imprinted on his heart.

Lincoln's only street was quiet Wednesday morning as the four men rode up to the Wortley and tied their animals to the outside of the paddock fence. Sheriff Peppin met them at the door. It was pock-marked with bullet holes.

The three soldiers retired with Peppin and Liam found Sean. They retreated to a corner of the cantina. With so many men sitting and drinking, two per chair at some tables, they stood in a smoky corner. Oil lamps burned on the tables, since the adobe windows were shuttered tightly against the daily hail of lead.

“Where's your brother?” Sean asked.

“Come in Monday night. You seen him?”

Sean looked troubled when he answered.

“No. Must be up the road at McSween's with the rest of that rabble.”

“You ain't exactly keeping church company yourself.” Liam's blank face did not smile. Sean looked around at Seven Rivers Warriors and Texans with tin stars on their shirts.

“Suppose not, Liam.”

“We can leave when them soldiers leave.”

Sean thought of home.

“How's Melissa?”

“All right. She's back on her feed and putting on a little weight. She looks good. Abbey, too.”

A quick smile lighted Sean's face when he thought of the child. Two hard thumps like hammer blows struck the wooden shutter. No one looked up from their drinks.

“Is it like that all day?”

“Pretty much. No real harm done.”

The three soldiers appeared at the hallway and gestured toward Liam. Sean followed him.

“We're done here, Mr. Rourke. This your brother?” Sean nodded for Liam. “Captain Purington said you were at Shiloh.” Sean nodded again. On the day his face was destroyed, the lieutenant was probably still wetting his pants, Sean thought. “We're going back to the fort now. The sheriff said McSween's people fired on our man yesterday.” He looked at Liam. “You can ride with us as far as your spread, if you want.”

“Sean?” Liam looked at his brother.

“I can't. It ain't mine.” He looked down at the sawdust-covered floor. “And Melissa ain't mine no more. You go on.”

Liam sighed so hard his shoulders seemed to collapse around his chest.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll stay with my brother.”

“Suit yourself.” The soldiers carried their hats toward the front door.

Ten minutes later, a flurry of tiny hammerblows blew dust from the shutters. The throng in the cantina adjourned loudly toward the front room. The door was open and men kept a safe distance from the sunshine outside.

Through the doorway they watched half a dozen deputies run crouching across the street. They were the men who had manned the hilltop south of town. Regulators at the far end of the street were on the Ellis store roof at Montaño's. Their broadside into the running deputies caught Charlie Crawford in the hip. He crawled like a wounded animal toward the door. Two of John Kinney's drunken Rangers walked calmly into the sun and dragged Crawford inside.

John Kinney patted one of the winded men on the shoulder before he knelt to examine the wound. There was no exit wound from the deputy's bowels.

“Be dead in three weeks,” Kinney said dryly as he stood up. Crawford held his bleeding side and whimpered softly. He would last five weeks.

N
ATHAN
A
UGUSTUS
D
UDLEY
would have been pleased and relieved if the Regulators and the House men managed to kill off each other to the last man-killer in town. But pot shots at his troopers crossed the line.

On Thursday the 18th, he ordered three dozen cavalry-men to prepare for taking back Lincoln on Friday.

Thursday was quiet by Lincoln standards during daylight. After nightfall, a single round from one of Peppin's men thudded in to the neck of Ben Ellis at the Regulator-held store which bore his family name.

Friday morning, the wounded Ellis was in desperate need of medical attention. Billy Bonney crept down the street into Tunstall's store and begged Dr. Taylor Ealy to come up to Montaño's to treat the dying patient.

At nine-thirty, sharpshooters on the Wortley roof blinked in disbelief. Then laughter overcame them. They lowered their weapons and cheered. Taylor Ealy walked into the sunshine. He carried his infant daughter in his arms and his toddler daughter struggled to grip his other hand. The House men held their fire as the physician hid behind his perfect shield all the way to the bedside of Ben Ellis.

Sporadic gunfire erupted when the surgeon was safely beyond harm's way. The gunfire trailed off to silence an hour before noon. Colonel Dudley and three white cavalry officers appeared at the western end of the street. They paused until all fire ceased. Then they led thirty-five mounted troopers in two columns into town. Behind them came one menacing Gatling gun and a nine-pound Howitzer. Their limber chest carried three thousand rounds of small arms' ammunition.

House men cheered as the troopers rode east. The columns continued past McSween's fortress and past the stone tower still held by Peppin's weary men. They stopped directly in front of Montaño's store where Doc Ealy bent over Ben Ellis. Then the soldiers broke formation in a clearing on McSween's north side of the street and opposite Montaño's. As they pitched camp, they trained their deadly Gatling gun on the Ellis store. Within minutes, all of McSween's Hispanic troops in Montaño's ran into the sun, mounted their horses, and careened out of town. Mexicans in the Ellis store joined them. Without the Army firing a shot, the Regulators lost half of their guns when thirty men splashed across the Rio Bonito.

As Colonel Dudley's men unpacked the stores of war, Sheriff Peppin sent Deputy Marion Turner up the street. The Gatling gun kept the peace as the lawman approached Alexander McSween's home. Patrick Rourke opened the door. The deputy handed him a warrant for the arrest of McSween.

McSween answered by spitting a man-size wad of chaw into the cold hearth. Turner walked back to Peppin to report.

Outraged, the sheriff sent a dozen deputies outside. The sun and the bristling weaponry around them brought perspiration quickly to their faces. They kept close to the buildings on the edge of the street as they made their way closer to McSween's. They crawled the last ten yards to the northwest corner of the adobe compound, near the stable.

The men, women, and children inside McSween's home soon smelled oily smoke. Peppin's men had set fire to the west wall. But the rock-hard adobe would not catch and the July wind suffocated the tiny flames. As her home filled with smoke, Susan McSween opened the door and marched into the sun. The House men held their fire.

The woman marched up the street, straight to Lt. Colonel Dudley. She demanded that he put an end to Peppin's incendiary plans. On whiskey breath, the officer declined unless her husband surrendered his garrison. Furious, she walked back toward her home where she saw deputies piling more kindling next to the wall.

This fire had more spirit and the straw within the adobe began to smoulder. After taking a swig from his bottle, Colonel Dudley sent a small squad to Tunstall's house to escort Mrs. Ealy out of danger.

Black smoke began to rise in earnest from the west side of McSween's home. At four in the afternoon, the Hispanic Regulators who had fled regrouped on the north bank of the river. They crouched and fired several volleys into the Wortley Hotel, eight hundred yards away. When their rounds did no more than plow the ground behind the boarding house well out of range, the men mounted, rode north, and never once looked back as flames engulfed one whole side of McSween's home.

At five-thirty, the eastern sky was darkening. Sparks and flames lapped at McSween's. Colonel Dudley sent another squad into the billowing smoke while Peppin's men held their fire. Under protest, the black troopers escorted Susan McSween, Mrs. Shield, and five children out of the house. They marched the prisoners across the street to Juan Patron's house.

Night comes quickly one mile above sea level and the sun went down hard over the Sacramento Mountains. Lincoln's main street was bathed in the orange glow surrounding the McSween home.

“It's time, boys,” George Peppin said with exhaustion in his voice.

Sean felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He looked into Jesse's tired eyes.

“All my Boys will be on the lookout for Patrick. We'll pull him out as soon as we can find him. He must be at McSween's. You coming?”

Sean looked at Liam whose face remained blank.

“All right.”

“Good. We'll stick together outside.”

George Peppin's troops deployed the width of the street. They advanced on McSween's burning home. A volley from the adobe windows broke the formation quickly. Sean, Liam, and Jesse tumbled together behind a water trough fifty yards west of the flaming structure. Gunfire erupted from McSween's windows.

At the far end of the street to the east, Susan McSween heard the volley and walked into the darkness. The orange flames from her home reflected in her perspiration and tears.

The sheriff's posse and John Kinney's Rangers returned fire. The cavalry across from Sue McSween did nothing.

Inside the burning house, Patrick stayed close to Billy who huddled with McSween as half of his compound burned. Smoke and heat swirled through the room where ten stalwarts coughed and cursed. Several men escaped out the back, toward the river.

“Patrick and I can break for the river like them other cowards just done. But we'll go out the east side, open on Peppin's men and draw their fire. When they come after us down by the water, you and the rest can break out of the north side and make for San Patricio in the dark.”

“Patrick?” McSween looked carefully into his eyes.

“I agree with Billy. We'll draw them off you. It'll work.”

McSween nodded.

Outside, Sean looked at the burning home.

“You stay here, Liam. I'm going in for Patrick.”

“Not yet,” Jesse protested. “Wait for them to come out. Their Mexicans might be holed up on the river waiting for us to make a move in the firelight.”

“Take care of my brother.” Sean smiled for an instant, drew his handiron, and rushed across the orange street. He could smell the stench of burning mud when the wind blew into his face.

A kitchen door on the east side of McSween's house opened. Two blazing Peacemakers filled the doorway as Patrick and Billy ran into the brightly illuminated corral. The fence ran around all four sides of the building. When the fence splintered all around them, they dropped to the ground and rolled among the horse pies.

Sean crept toward the burning, western side of McSween's. As he inched closer, he crawled on his hands and knees. On the far side of the building, Billy and Patrick opened fire through the shattered fence rails. A fusillade from the Rio Grande Posse responded in kind. Patrick bit his lip until it bled.