Free The Sons of Grady Rourke by Douglas Savage Page B

administrator to run for sheriff. That’s when the House hired McSween to go after the insurance company.”
    â€œAnd that’s why McSween is down in Mesilla now?”
    â€œYes. Dolan had a warrant issued for McSween’s arrest. McSween, his wife, and Chisum were riding to Las Vegas, New Mexico. Deputy Sheriff Adolph Barrier—an honest man, for out here—arrested the lot of them on the stage road two days after Christmas. He released Sue and Chisum, but dragged McSween down to Mesilla to be arraigned in court. It’s been five weeks now. They ought to be coming back up here any day. I expect the lawyer won’t take too easily to a drumhead hearing.”
    The ex-Confederate knew about drumhead courts martial well enough. Sean nodded.
    â€œI ain’t seen Mrs. McSween since I come to town. Is she here?”
    â€œNo. She went on east. To St. Louis, maybe. She and McSween come to Lincoln in the spring of ’75. Married about two years before that. She wanted to come out here for her asthma. Her cough got better and her husband got himself arrested.” Brady chuckled to the frosted window. “Funny, in a way. McSween was born on Prince Edward Island. I suppose that makes him and Tunstall both British. But McSween speaks American.”
    Sheriff Brady returned to his seat behind the desk.
    â€œI could use one more gun, if you want the work. I won’t bother you unless I need you. You won’t have to wear no tin star. The town will pay you two dollars a week just to be something of an auxiliary deputy—for emergencies and such.”
    Sean nodded and smiled behind his beard.
    â€œEmergencies and such? Least you’re honest about it, Sheriff. Does the town council have to approve of putting me on the payroll?”
    â€œJimmy Dolan approves.”
    Sean nodded. “All right, Sheriff. It’s better than the county poorhouse till we can close my father’s estate.”
    Each man stood up. Sean put on his faded, floppy hat.
    â€œYou could move back into Grady’s ranch with Patrick and forget the whole thing.”
    â€œNo. I can’t. I accept Mr. Dolan’s offer. I’ll thank him when I see him.”
    The lawman pulled two silver dollars from his vest pocket and laid the coins into Sean’s gloved palm.
    â€œI already done that for you, Deputy.”
    Walking back toward the Wortley, the midday sun hung in the violet sky over Sean's left shoulder. Most of Lincoln had taken root over the years on the north side of the single street, on the narrow strip of dirt-poor land between the road and the Rio Bonito. The hotel, the McSweens’ fenced-in compound, Tunstall’s store, the old torréon with its surrounding fence, and a few tiny homes all stood on the frozen strip of land. Sean walked on the undeveloped side of Main Street where only the Cisneros spread broke the snow-covered monotony between the courthouse and Dolan’s mercantile. He had to pull his fur collar up around his face against a chilling, dry wind that blew across the Rio Bonito’s ice.
    The good side of Sean’s face was red from cold and his nose protruding from his beard was moist by the time he stood at the far end of the half-mile long town. The Wortley was at his back as he looked up at the House.
    Sean tried to smile, but his face was too cold. He kicked snow and slush from his boots before he walked inside the House—his new boss.
    J. J. Dolan and Company owned forty acres around the large building. Sean removed his hat after closing the door behind him. Townspeople milled about the first floor piled high with bolts of cloth, barrels of flour and sugar, and shelves of canned goods brought by wagon down from Albuquerque or west from Texas. A pink-faced boy walked out from behind a counter.
    â€œCan I help you find something?”
    â€œI’m Sean Rourke. Looking for Mr. Dolan.”
    â€œHe’s in the lodge