Jack Armstrong’s sightless eyes stared up at them; the whites of them gleaming in the twilight. Ezra, who had grown up with Jack and played with him constantly as a child, gave a cry of horror, “God almighty,” he shouted, “What’s this?”
“Down payment,” explained Pascal nonchalantly, “How do you say? One down, four to go, no?”
It was too much for Ezra Doolan, who stumbled off, retching and gagging. Pascal watched him with amusement and remarked to his father, “Your son is too squeamish, is it not so? I never saw a man behave so when he saw that his enemy was dead.”
The other three comancheros had wandered up and were watching the scene with evident enjoyment. It was clear that this was not the first time that their leader had had a little fun with somebody’s head. One of the men said something in Spanish and Pascal replied in the same language. There were snorts of laughter, which filled Michael Doolan with disgust. He said, “Show some respect, that’s a man!”
Pascal dismounted and then walked up close to old Doolan, kicking Jack Armstrong’s head to one side as he did so. Pascal said, “Let us rightly understand each other. You engaged me to kill men. Very well. I have done so. Don’t lecture me now. I won’t have it.” Then he turned on his heels and the others followed him to the barn, where they would be sleeping that night.
Ezra rejoined his father and brother. When the comancheros were safely out of earshot, he said to his father, “What have you done, pa? What in hell have you done?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned and went into the house. The other two stood there for a while, neither speaking. Then Joseph too followed his brother into the house; leaving his father to meditate upon where his thirst for vengeance had led him and wondering what on earth he had unleashed.
***
Jack had been gone for over two hours and Seth Armstrong had come to and begun to groan and cry in the most pitiable way. His wife did her best to comfort him, but it was as plain as a pikestaff that the man was in absolute agony. “Where’s Jack got to?” said his mother, “He should’ve been back by now, surely?” Anthony and Andrew exchanged looks. They had both, independently, been thinking the self-same thing. Both had the same fear as well; that somehow the Doolans might have caught Jack and injured or, God forbid, even killed him.
At last, almost three hours after his brother had left, Anthony got to his feet and announced, “I’m going out to hunt after Jack. Andrew, maybe you and Tom would stay here and be wary? Something tells me that there’s trouble afoot.” His mother was in the bedroom with their father, or he would not have spoken so openly.
The night was dark, with only a the thinnest crescent of the moon to light the way as Anthony rode towards Parson’s End. There was, he supposed, an outside chance that Jack’s horse had taken a tumble in the dark and he was laying there waiting for aid, but Anthony didn’t think at all that that was likely to be the case. It would be the deuce of a coincidence if two members of the family fell off their horses in that way in the space of a few hours. It was Anthony Armstrong’s considered opinion that his brother Jack had been the victim of some enemy action and he could only guess at the form this might have taken.
He was no sawbones, but it was tolerably clear to Anthony Armstrong that his father was unlikely to recover from whatever injuries he had received that day. There might have been an outside chance, had Pa not been weakened by being shot. As it was, he had been ailing before that gallop had ended in disaster. Anthony had a suspicion that there was some internal mischief in the case and that maybe his horse had rolled on the man, once he had taken a tumble.
The mount that Anthony had taken was showing signs of being inexplicably spooked. The mare was breathing oddly and snuffling the air; her ears twitching and her head shifting from side to side. This was enough to set the young man’s nerves on edge and he drew his pistol and reined the horse.
“What’s the matter, girl?” he asked softly, “Somebody up ahead?” He cocked the pistol and listened carefully. He could hear nothing, other than the breeze rustling a few dry leaves somewhere near at hand. Very quietly, he dismounted and stood there in the darkness for a few seconds, listening and staring into the gloom. The mare was still jittery, but as long as she was not going to be urged on; she seemed happy enough to stand there, waiting to see what would next be required of her.
It seemed to Anthony that some vague and indistinct shape lay on the ground ahead of them and that it might perhaps have been this which had spooked the mare. He could smell nothing himself, but everybody knew that the nostrils of horses were infinitely more sensitive than those of men. Perhaps she could detect some odour of corruption to which he was oblivious. So thinking, the young man strolled over to investigate.
Although the ground was parched and dry, it not having rained for above a fortnight, Anthony found that the earth beneath his feet had a sticky feel; clinging to his boots as he moved forward, as though he were walking through mud. That’s blazing strange, he thought to himself. He bent down and felt the loamy soil of the track. Sure enough, it felt slippery and damp. Moving his head down in that way brought his nose closer to the ground and for a brief moment, he caught a scent which brought back for him ghastly memories. It was the metallic, faintly sweet smell of fresh blood; a lot of it. It would have been impossible to spend as much time on battlefields as Anthony Armstrong had and not become perfectly familiar with that reek. No wonder the mare had dug in her heels and been reluctant to go forward. The stink of blood was the smell of danger.
Most likely it was the remains of some animal left by a predator, but there was no percentage in taking any chances. Anthony moved forward slowly towards the dark mass, his pistol ready and his ears straining all the while for any indication that he was not alone. He could hear nothing. When he reached the formless shape, Anthony reached down a tentative hand and found to his horror that this was no animal, but the clothed body of a human person.
Although he was no smoker, Anthony had got into the habit during the war of keeping a box of Lucifers about him. This proved a practical aid, even in peacetime. After all, you never knew when you might wish to light a lamp or kindle a fire. He took out the box and struck a light. To his utter disgust, he found himself gazing down at a headless body. Almost at once, he recognised the clothes that his brother Jack had been wearing when he had set off earlier for town to fetch the doctor. He might be among the least squeamish of men after his experiences during the War between the States, but this was too much for the young man, who dropped the match and stumbled away to vomit.
Once he had emptied his stomach and wiped his mouth clean, it took Anthony less than a minute to think through his options and decide to carry on at once towards Parson’s End. After all, there was nothing to be done for his brother and there was still a chance that his father’s life could be saved. It was, from all that Anthony could collect, a slender chance; but any chance is better than none at all and it could hardly be clearer that there was nothing to be done for Jack in this world.
There was, thought Anthony as he entered the outskirts of town, no profit at all to be gained from racking his brains trying to figure out who had killed his brother. He knew he could rule out the Doolans; not a one of them had the character to swap off a man’s head. Old Michael Doolan might be after their blood for his wife’s death, but neither he nor his son’s would do such a beastly thing. Anthony fully intended to be revenged for Jack’s death, but for now, he was more concerned with trying to save his father.
Old Dr Drake was sitting in the back parlour with his wife when there came a hammering at the door. “Lordy,” said Mrs Drake, “Surely you ain’t needed this time o’ night? You want I should go and get rid of whoever it is? Tell ‘em to wait ‘til morning?”
“No, it’s not that late. Let me see who it is. If it’s just a case of the croup, I’ll send ‘em packing with a bottle of remedy.”
Dr Drake did not at first recognise the slender young man standing on his doorstep. “Can I help you, son?” he asked kindly, “What’s the problem?”
“You don’t recall me, sir. I’ve not been around for a year or two.”
The old man peered into Anthony Armstrong’s face and gave an exclamation of pleasure. “Young Anthony! You find your way home again, I see. Your mother’s been waiting for you these many months. What’s the matter. She sick?”
“No, sir. It’s my Pa.” Without wasting any words, Anthony sketched out the injuries which his father had received over the last few days. As he did so, Dr Drake’s face grew grave and he said, “Your Pa ain’t precisely what I would call a young man, you know. I’ll come with you now and see what I can do, but it may be that’s not a great deal.”
***
Michael Doolan was sitting with a glass of whiskey in his hand, wondering if he’d taken a wrong turn, when there was a soft knock at the door to his private study. “Come in!” he called. Ezra seldom disturbed his father when he was here and it was only because he was deeply troubled that he did so now. He entered the small room and stood before his father. “Well,” said Mr Doolan, “What’s to do?”
“Those fellows. Them as were making sport with Jack Armstrong’s head.”
“What of them?”
“You ask ‘em to come here and kill the Armstrongs?”
“That’s my affair, boy. You just keep clear of them and recollect that one of the Armstrongs killed your ma.”
“One of ‘em. Jack‘s dead now. You hire them men to kill the whole boilin’ of them?”
“What if I have?”
“It ain’t right. You know it ain’t right, Pa. My Ma’s death done scramble your wits. You ain’t thinking straight.”
In the normal way of things, speaking so to his father would have been taking his life in his hands, but after seeing the awful spectacle of a man’s head being kicked aside like a piece of garbage, Ezra knew that he couldn’t hold his tongue. To his surprise, his father did not look angry; simply continued sitting there, apparently thinking hard. At length, he said, “Happen you’re right. What would you have me do about it?”
“Call ‘em off,” said his son at once, “Send those rascals about their business and talk to Sheriff Bates. He could raise a posse to ride out to the Armstrong place and find which of the others was mixed up with Ma‘s death. This ain’t the way, Pa.”
Once again, his father said nothing for a spell, merely staring moodily out the window. Ezra wondered if his Pa was drunk or something. Then Doolan said, “There’s a good deal in what you say. Maybe I done wrong. I’m affeared though that it’s to late to set things straight now. Those boys out there won’t stop now.”
“You want I should give them their marching orders?” asked Ezra eagerly, “You say the word, Pa. I’m not scared or those types.”
“No,” said his father, with every sign of great reluctance, “We’ll tell them together. You’re right boy. I was so ate up with hatred and grief, that I didn’t stop to think. Your Ma would never have wanted this.” Michael Doolan got heavily to his feet; he felt lightheaded. Maybe, he thought, I’ve drunk as much is as good for me. He went over to a stout closet which stood in one corner of the room. This he opened with a key which hung from his watch-chain. Inside were stacked four carbines, which Michael Doolan only ever brought out when he thought that there was some serious shooting to be done. He reached out one and handed it to his son. “Where’s Joe?” he asked.
“Rode off into town some quarter hour since. You want to wait ‘til he gets back?”
“No, let’s just deal with this now. It’s cost me five hundred dollars, but better lose that money than see myself answerable for a massacre. I don’t know what I was thinking.” While he was speaking, Doolan broke open a box of shiny brass cartridges and handed some to his son. Together, they loaded the rifles and then cocked them. Then the two of them left the room and Michael Doolan led the way to the kitchen.
Katy and Maire were cleaning the range and preparing the food for the next day. The two of them looked up, a little alarmed to see their father and brother both carrying rifles in the house. Their father said, “You girls stay here now. Lock that door and stay clear of the windows.”
“What’s up?” asked Maire, the younger of the two, “Is there some trouble?”
“Nothing for the two of you to fret over,” said their Pa, smiling grimly, “Just do as I bid you now.”
It was pitch-dark outside, with only a moon as thin as a nail-paring and a meagre scattering of stars to provide light as the father and son walked across the yard to the barn. From within the barn came the glow of a lamp and sound of talking and laughter. When Doolan and his son walked in, slience fell. The four comancheros were laying at their ease on bales of straw, passing round a bottle. Michael Doolan noted with irritation that all of them were smoking cheroots. He said, just as he would to any of the other men who worked for him, “Put those out. Anybody smoking in this here barn is liable to instant dismissal!”
A burst of laughter greeted this announcement and the man called Pascal got to his feet. There was something reptilian about the way that he uncoiled himself and rose up to his full height; almost like a rattler getting ready to strike. Very slowly, picking his way delicately across the straw-strewn floor of the barn, he advanced until his face was barely a foot from that of Michael Doolan. Then he halted and said gently, “What would you have, Captain?”
“I’d have you and your men leave my barn. Take that money I gave you and be off with you. I want no more bloodshed.”
“Would you have it so, indeed? We should settle for your five hundred dollars and forget our plunder. Is that the way of it?”
“You listen to what my Pa tells you,” said Ezra stoutly, “He wants you off his land.”
“You gave us to believe that these Armstrongs were like to have some thousand or so dollars hidden in their house,” said Pascal, his eyes boring into those of the older man in front of him, “Is it not so? You promised us the pick of horses, goods and money. All that in addition to the gold you would pay us. You recollect what I say, old man?”
“I changed my mind.”
“Yes? Perhaps then we change our minds. You promised us a house to loot, horses for the taking and I don’t know what-all else. What if we change our minds and take these things here and not at your enemies. How would that be?”
“Don’t you think on it!” said Ezra Doolan, beginning to feel more than a little uneasy at the course that events seemed to be taking. The comanchero leader had still not taken his eyes from those of the older man. He continued, “Perhaps, who knows, you have more than those Armstrongs. Have they two pretty girls, as ripe as juicy plums, looking as though they had never laid with a man? No? You might have more for us than your enemies can offer.”
Hearing his sisters spoken of in this way, Ezra Doolan started forward, meaning to knock the mocking smile from the face of the man called Pascal. His father though, shot out a hand and gripped his son’s arm; holding him back. He said, “Is that all you’ll say?”
Pascal shrugged and replied, “For now, yes. We will not be cheated. No man living has ever given us short measure and lived to boast of it. You would do well to remember that.” Then, as though he was dismissing a servant, he simply turned his back on the two Doolans and went back to where he had been relaxing with the other three men. Once he was again comfortably settled on a bale of hay, he reached into his pocket, extracted a cigarillo and, striking a Lucifer on the heel of his boot, lit it carefully.
***
Dr Drake’s face grew grave as he examined Seth Armstrong. Martha had refused to leave the room and Anthony stood inconspicuously in the corner, observing closely the doctor’s expression. He was able to gauge from this, without any other clues, that his father’s case was a poor one.
“Well,” said Mrs Armstrong anxiously, “What’s the verdict?” Her husband had lapsed into unconsciousness again and so she felt that plain speaking was possible. The doctor though, felt a little delicacy at delivering his diagnosis in the presence of the man concerned; even if he was quite oblivious to the world around him. He said, “Let’s step into the other room, hey?”
Once they had left the bedroom, Dr Drake said, “Martha, I got to tell you that your husband’s not long for this world. He’s got internal injuries, feels to me like his spleen’s ruptured. You’re religious, now’d be a good time to fetch a priest. I doubt he’ll make it through the night.”
If Anthony had not been standing behind his mother when she received this terrible news, he had not the least doubt that she would have collapsed on the spot. As it was, he saw her swaying and was able to guide her gently to a chair. Seeing his mother looking so helpless and frail all but broke his heart. He said, “Just you set here for a space, Ma.”
“What will I do, son? What’ll I do without your Pa?”
Leaving his mother sitting there, Anthony showed the doctor from the house, asking him, “You think my father will be in pain?”
“I’d be surprised if he comes round again, ‘fore he dies,” replied Dr Drake bluntly, “But if he does, I can let you have something to give him. Come out with me to my horse.”
When they were at Dr Drake’s horse, he rooted about in a saddle bag and fished out a small bottle; the glass of which was heavily ribbed, so that even in the dark, one knew that the contents were hazardous. He handed this to Anthony, saying, “Give your Pa a couple of spoonfuls when the pain gets too much for him.”
“What is it?”
“Laudanum.”
“Laudanum? That’s opium in a solution, isn’t it? I knew men in the war that became slobbering addicts to this stuff.”
“To speak plainly boy, I don’t think that your father’s going to live long enough to develop a habit for Laudanum. His life’ll be measured in hours, nothing more.”
“What do we owe you?”
“You or one of your brothers call by when next you’re in town. We’ll settle up then.”
“There’s truly nothing to be done?”
“With a ruptured spleen and your Pa’s other injuries? I’m not a miracle worker.”
After the doctor had ridden off, Anthony went in search of his mother. He found her sitting at her husband’s bedside. The change in her was astounding. All his life, Anthony Armstrong and his brothers had lived in awe of this woman. He recalled the story that Mrs Doolan had told him about his mother chasing into Parson’s End after Jack and fetching him home again. The contrast between the woman who could have undertaken such a mission and the shrunken old lady he now saw sitting there in the gloom of the bedroom was beyond all reason. It was as though she had aged twenty years since hearing the terrible news of her hsuband’s impending death. Anthony stooped and kissed the top of his mother’s head and then handed her the bottle of Laudanum.
“Dr Drake said to give Pa a spoonful or two of this if he seems in pain. It’s Laudanum.” Martha Armstong nodded, without replying. “I’ve one or two matters that require my attention Ma,” he told her, “I’ll be back as soon as may be.”