The Sons of Grady Rourke (7 page)

“Thanks.” Patrick sat down and set his hat on his lap. He opened his fur trailcoat wide in the room warmed by the fireplace.

“Is Billy getting more supplies for you?”

“No. I come in to ask for work. Seems I can't get at Pa's account in your bank till our other brother musters out of the cavalry. I can't get by just on the ranch. I don't even know what the cattle rents are.”

“Chisum's herd?”

“Yes. I suppose I could go down to his place. Maybe he needs another hand?”

The Englishman put his paperwork aside to give his guest his full attention.

“John Chisum's ranch is South Spring River, fifty-five miles east of here where the Rio Hondo meets the Pecos River. It's a long haul if you're also running your father's spread alone. The cattle are probably putting twenty-five dollars a month into your father's account here at the bank. I'm pleased to tell you that the Lincoln County Bank is the only one in town. There are only two other banks in the whole territory. I'm an owner, but I'm carried on the charter as just the cashier. John Chisum is president and Mr. McSween is vice president.”

“Chisum's in the banking business, too?”

“Yes, indeed. It's the three of us against the House and their whore sheriff. John probably runs eighty-thousand head now. He might pay you to join his operation here in Lincoln. Can you handle that sidearm?” Tunstall nodded toward Patrick's Peacemaker high on his right hip.

“My piece? I'm passable with it. But I was thinking of cow punching for Chisum, not using my Colt.”

“You don't seem to understand yet.” There was no trace of impatience in Tunstall's voice. “John Chisum has taken up with McSween and me. That puts him on our side of the fence. Dolan's gang is on the other side.”

“Over cattle, too?” Patrick had never seen anything like this, not even in the far western gold fields where men killed each other over a scrap of bread.

“Especially cattle. Dolan's henchmen—the Jesse Evans Gang—have made a fine living stealing Chisum cattle and selling it back to the Indian Agency for the Apache reservation. They hide the cattle down around Seven Rivers. Remember: That bunch wasn't above stealing my horses from my ranch down on the Rio Felix. And make no mistake,” Tunstall leaned forward, resting his elbow on the lawyer's roll top desk, “Jimmy Dolan is at the bottom of that cesspool. He owns the House, and the Boys rustle and murder for him.”

“Murder? I thought Dolan was just another shopkeeper.”

“Murder, Patrick. Just last year, he shot and killed Geraldo Jaramillo. Sheriff said it was self defense. But he shot him three times. Dolan is a killer and a rustler. He just lets Jesse Evans do his dirty work so Dolan can keep his hands clean. That's why Chisum could use one more gun here in Lincoln.”

Patrick looked down toward his hat balanced on his right knee. He toyed with its faded crown. He had not come home to become a gunman.

“My brother's still at the Wortley, you know.”

“Yes. And I've seen him—not in here, of course, but on the street—with some of Jesse's men. Sean is in rough company, I'm afraid.”

“And if I hire on with Chisum?”

“Then you and Sean might very well end up on opposite sides of the street.”

Patrick nodded.

“Then I can't do it. I can'take no job with Chisum.”

Tunstall leaned back and folded his hands in his lap. His brow pursed with a moment's deep thought. He seemed genuinely concerned.

“Well, Patrick, even if you could hasten the probate process of your father's estate, Mr. Shield has gone to Mesilla for a week, maybe longer. Perhaps Liam will be here by the time Mr. Shield and Alex get home. I'm just thinking: Chisum has his men based out of South Spring River. No one really works this end of his spread. You're living on your father's ranch anyway. Why not hire on just to watch the Chisum cattle grazing on Rourke land? I can just about guarantee he'll pay two dollars a week for that. The Evans men shouldn't bother you much—especially with Sean living at the Wortley in House territory. Besides, I could probably arrange an increase in the grazing rents if you need it.”

“What authority do I have over the grazing rights?”

“You seem to be running the spread. Sean has elected not to participate. Even though Chisum's lease was with Grady, you have certain rights as one of the heirs to the estate. After all, the lease will descend to you and Liam once the will is probated. I think Mr. Shield or Alex could get some kind of temporary order giving you power of attorney when the judge visits here on his circuit.”

“Would I have authority to cancel the lease altogether, if I wanted to?”

“I suppose. But you need the money.”

“Yes. That's true.”

“Then you'll continue the cattle grazing, for the time being?”

“Yes. I don't have much choice.”

“Fine. I'll tell John when I see him. Now, about your hiring on to protect the cattle on Rourke land?”

“Do you speak for Mr. Chisum?”

“No one speaks for John Chisum except John Chisum. But we're partners. I can hire you until he disapproves. His money is good until then. And I'm quite certain he'll approve. One more gun is one gun not in Dolan's service.”

Patrick looked down again. He studied his spurs where he crossed his legs.

“All right. Till Liam is accounted for and we can settle up Pa's business.”

Tunstall patted his blackclad knees before he stood.

“Splendid. I'll have Billy put you on the payroll at once. Do you need an advance?”

“No, thanks. I still have some coin. I'll be on my way, Mr. Tunstall.”

“John. Please. I'm John. Chisum is Mister.” He extended his hand, which Patrick took. “And I hope that you can talk some sense into Sean before ity's too late.”

“Yes. I'll try. I'll look forward to meeting Mr. Chisum.”

“Good. I'll send word to you if I have need to ride overto South Spring”

Patrick nodded, fixed his hat low over his eyes, and walked out of the office. Billy Bonney looked up and nodded cheerfully.

The Rourke brother's pace was brisk when he walked down the frozen street toward the Wortley. He left his horse in Tunstall's paddock where the animal rubbed noses with blind Colonel. Patrick's spurs made no sound on the packed snow that crunched underfoot. For a town where there were two clearly drawn sides and everyone was on one or the other, the townspeople were friendly. They nodded and touched the brims of their hats when Patrick passed them.
Anglos
in black suits or ranching clothing and Mexicans uniformly dressed like Indians or cow punchers were equally civil to the new man in town.

The crowd inside the adobe hotel surprised Patrick. The boarding house was full of hungry-looking men in shabby trail dusters and baggy pants. The dark-faced clerk at the desk nodded.

“He's in the cantina.”

“Thanks.”

Hat in hand, Patrick found Sean sitting at a large table where all seven chairs were filled. There were three bottles between them but Sean was the only one without a glass at his place.

“Patrick? Come to visit your ex-brother?”

“Sean.”

When Sean stood up, Patrick noticed that his brother's eyes were not bloodshot and his breath did not smell like kerosine. He could smell strong tobacco instead. Sean pulled a chair from a nearby table and wedged it in close to his. He gestured toward the empty seat. Patrick remained standing and eyed the strangers at the table: young men in their mid-twenties with unkempt hair, scruffy beards, and heavy gunbelts. One of the men looked older, in his thirties. He alone wore a business suit and a clean, white shirt.

“This here is my little brother Patrick.”

The strangers nodded.

“This is Jesse Evans,” Sean said as if he had known all of his life the man smiling without pretense.

“Mr. Evans.”

“They call me Captain. It's an honorary.” Jesse Evans chuckled. When he stood up for a moment until the brothers got seated, Patrick was surprised that the cattle rustler was rather stocky and short, maybe 150 pounds on a 5-foot, 6-inch frame. His gray eyes were not killers' eyes. Greasy, blond hair fell over his forehead. “Come to join the Boys? Sean has decided to ride with us.”

Patrick looked sideways toward his clear-eyed brother. Sean blinked and looked down at the table.

“Don't think so, Captain. I'm running our father's ranch until the lawyers get back and our other brother gets here. Then we'll settle up and get things back to normal.” Patrick kept looking at Sean who did not look up. He sat on Sean's good side and could not see his shattered face.

“You had business with the Englishman.” Evans did not ask a question.

Patrick wondered who had watched him.

“Yes. Banking”

“Oh. The Englishman and McSween think they can put the House under. What do you think?”

“I think it's none of my business, really.” Patrick was not about to be drawn further into the village's civil war.

“That's my brother,” Sean said quickly. “Keeping his nose to his own affairs.”

“Admirable quality,” Jesse Evans nodded. “Understand Chisum is grazing on your daddy's land?”

“Seems so.”

“Chisum paying you rent?”

“Not directly. It goes into our father's account at the bank. For a while yet.”

“Tunstall's bank, you mean. Tunstall and Chisum.”

“There ain't no other bank in town,” Patrick shrugged. “There weren't no choice.”

“Guess not. If Tunstall and the lawyers had their way, we'd all owe our souls to their bank.” The older man in the clean shirt beside Jesse Evans spoke. “I'm Jimmy Dolan.”

Patrick looked Dolan in the eye. He wanted to see the rest of the story when it came at him. Dolan spoke without an Irish accent.

“The Englishman and McSween are swindlers and thieves. The ranchers here abouts have to trade their government script for real money at their bank. Tunstall gives them two-thirds of the face value. The exchange rate is thievery, pure and simple. And townsfolk who farm or want to buy land have to get credit at Tunstall and Chisum's private little bank. When they can't make the payments, the bank gets their land. They're breaking the ranchers' backs. You best not have nothing to do with them people.”

Dolan was visibly angry. His words hissed out through clenched teeth. Patrick listened politely.

“And that there Britisher is buying up land what ain't legal for someone what ain't a real citizen.”

“How's that?” Patrick leaned slightly toward Dolan.

“Your daddy and most of the folks around here bought their spreads by the new Desert Lands Act. Passed about a year ago. Folks can lay temporary claim to a whole section of U.S. Government land for twenty-five cents an acre if they promise to work it and irrigate it for three years. After that, they can buy clear title for another dollar per acre. But it's only open to real Americans, not Englishmen. Tunstall had local people buy up over three-thousand eight-hundred acres in their names and then sell it to him. It's thievery and it ain't even American thievery! You keep clear of them Protestants. The House is Irish: Murphy started it and I bought him out. I come to this country back in '48 when I was a boy. The potato famine in '45 is what sent the lot of us over. Joined Mr. Lincoln's army when I was only fifteen. Served till '69. At least we're citizens now. Not like the Englishman and his Protestants. You hear me?”

“Yes,” Patrick nodded. He glanced sideways toward Sean. “But it's too late. I'm thinking of going to work for Chisum. I ain't got help for Pa's ranch and I ain't got money to keep it going much longer. If Chisum wants to rent grazing rights, I got to sell it to him.” When Sean looked away, Patrick turned back toward James Dolan. “I ain't got a choice. Leastwise not till Liam comes home.”

The owner of the House and the Wortley Hotel—who hired the likes of Jesse Evans to rustle Chisum cattle—shook his head as if truly disappointed.

“That ain't much of a choice, Patrick.”

“Everyone keeps telling me that you can't live in Lincoln without you make a choice of sides. It don't make any sense to me. But I suppose I done what I had to do. I choose Tunstall and Chisum. I ain't going to lose Pa's ranch.”

“All the same,” Evans said, “you ain't chose right. Not like Sean here. He'll be riding with us and the House.”

Patrick looked at Sean until the older Rourke brother had to tum his head to face Patrick squarely.

“I can come over here if you'll come back to the ranch, Sean.”

“No. I'm part of the House now. And the House don't take to Chisum cattle or to their bank.”

Before Patrick could respond, a sturdy middle-aged man entered the cantina. He was tall, in his late forties, and had black hair and a black mustache that curled down past the corners of his mouth. He wore a silver star on his shirt. Jesse Evans the bandit smiled broadly and waved. The lawman nodded and walked toward the table. Two of Evans' men moved their chairs sideways to make a chair-size space between them. The new man pushed a seat between them and sat down. He immediately looked at Patrick.

“You're Grady's other boy?”

“Yes. Patrick.”

“I'm Sheriff Bill Brady. You're the one who ain't never soldiered?”

“Yes,” Patrick stammered and looked down at his dirty hat atop the rough table. “Sean here and our brother Liam was soldiers. And our Pa. But I ain't been.”

“That's all right, son. I didn't mean no disrespect. I wore the blue, like Jimmy here, in the war. I know Sean wore the gray. But it don't matter out here. I was a major in the New Mexico Volunteer Cavalry. Fought more Navajo and Apaches than Rebs during the war anyway.”

Patrick nodded. He wished for a drink so he would have something to fidget with instead of his hat.