The Cavalier, page 15
“You handle yourself like you’ve seen trouble before.”
Noah nodded, but kept walking. A ghost of a memory from close-in battles he’d been in during the war drifted through his mind.
The older man shifted his weight, calling after him. “Name’s Silas. I’m... what passes for a town elder and county commissioner here. We ain’t got much law to speak of. Not, since one of those two fellars you have locked up killed our sheriff a while back.” He gestured vaguely towards the jail.
Noah stopped and turned to face him.
“Could use a man who knows how to handle situations like this.” He hesitated a moment, seeing Noah’s cold eyes. “You’d be the town marshal, and you can be the sheriff of Calaveras County too, if you like.”
Noah considered him, then looked around at dusty streets and the small collection of buildings. He hadn’t been looking for trouble or a job, but he’d found both. And John was right; he did have a weak spot for doing the right thing.
“Is Bear Valley part of Calaveras County?” Noah asked, noticing the toothy grin of his fellow cavalier, already knowing his answer.
Silas’ eyes lit up, and an excited smile appeared on his face. “Sure is. An’ I’ve heard there’s plenty o’ trouble up that way too.”
Noah looked back down the street. The trouble wasn’t over, not really. Somebody was making a play to control San Andreas, maybe even the entire county, and all of the gold and commerce in it. He had a pretty good idea who it was.
“Alright,” Noah said, meeting Silas’ hopeful gaze. “I’ll take the job.”
Chapter Twenty Three
A suffocating pall cast by Dillon Sinclaire and enforced by the O'Leary brothers lay like a wet wool blanket over Calaveras County. Noah MacLean, its new sheriff, felt it on the wind as he rode up the dusty trail into the Sierra Nevada foothills. Beside him rode John Munson, his deputy, friend, and fellow ghost from the Virginia hills.
They were a pair honed by a different kind of war, one where survival wasn't about standing on the line firing across the way at the enemy, but melting into the woods, striking hard, and then fading away. That training had served them well when it came to cleaning up San Andreas, flushing out the remnants of a gang that had branched off from Sinclaire's operation in Bear Valley. Now, it was time to deal with the root of the problem.
Noah had dealt with the O’Learys before, and still had the sore ribs as a witness to their brutality. They rode in silence, understanding that they could be riding straight into a hornet's nest from which there would be no escape.
A half-mad miner, eyes wide with terror, had stumbled into San Andreas a week prior, muttering about the O’Learys turning Bear Valley into their personal fiefdom, forcing miners to sell claims cheap or just taking them as they saw fit. They used their were using their fists and lead indiscriminately.
As Noah and Munson questioned him, they discovered that the O’Learys had brought in extra guns to tighten their grip as some of the miners tried to fight back.
"Got the stench of Sinclaire all over it," Noah mused. "Hidin' behind hired hands, like a coward wearing lace cuffs."
Noah held signed warrants for Sinclaire’s arrest, and he was intent on serving those warrants and bringing him in.
"He's careful, John. But he leaves trails. And the O'Learys... they're the sort of mess you can't ignore." He hadn’t wanted trouble when he took the job with the Pinkertons or when he’d ridden out to Reno, but trouble seemed to find him anyway. The war was over, and he didn’t want it to come back, but the law meant little without order, and order in Bear Valley had been replaced by brutality.
They rode through a narrow pass, steep hills rising on either side, dotted with scrub pine and tumbled rock. The air grew cooler, the sounds of the outside world dimming. This was the kind of place where trouble liked to hide. Noah's hand rested near the Army-issue Colt on his hip. Though he and John had carried the five-shot Kerr revolver during the war, the newer six-shot Colt had become more familiar to them since. John, ever more outwardly casual, adjusted his own revolver and loosened the Winchester in his saddle scabbard, both of them sensing something was amiss in the quiet stillness.
Suddenly, the stillness was shattered. A rifle cracked from the ridge above, lead whistling past Noah's ear.
"Down!" John yelled, already throwing himself from his horse, rolling behind a thick boulder.
Noah was off his mount a split-second later, trained instinct taking over. He didn't seek cover immediately but moved towards the sound of the shot, using the horses as temporary shields, eyes darting, assessing. Two more shots followed, kicking up dust near where John had landed.
"Three of 'em, high left!" John called, sighting over his rock.
"Too easy," Noah muttered, melting into the shadows of the rocks near the trail. Mosby had taught them deception, the importance of splitting the enemy's focus. They weren't going to charge uphill into a prepared position.
He circled wide, using the uneven ground, moving with silence that belied his sturdy frame. John laid down suppressing fire, forcing the ambushers to keep their heads down, drawing their attention. Noah heard the faint scramble of boots on rock, the quick, sharp commands. These weren't seasoned fighters, not like the men they'd tangled with in the war. Hired guns, lacking discipline.
He reached a point where he could look down on the ridge, seeing three figures silhouetted against the sky, too focused on John. He raised his rifle, took a breath, and fired.
The first man crumpled with a cry. The other two spun, startled, momentarily exposed. John seized the opportunity, his rifle spitting fire. One attacker fell, sliding down the embankment. The third scrambled backward, trying to disappear into the trees.
Noah followed, closing the distance swiftly. He cut him off as the man broke cover further down the ridge. The ambusher, a burly fellow with a week's growth of beard and fear in his eyes, fumbled with his rifle. Noah didn't give him a chance to bring it to bear. A single, clean shot.
Silence descended again, broken only by the snorting of their horses, spooked but held fast by their reins. Noah and John moved carefully, checking the bodies, retrieving weapons. No identification, just cheap clothes and cheaper boots. Hired guns, just as the miner had said.
"Well now, that’s no way to welcome honored guests to the party," John grinned, his thick Virginia drawl exaggerated for Noah’s benefit.
"Means Sinclaire knew we were coming," Noah said, his jaw tight. "And they’ve set the table for us."
They remounted, the brief encounter sharpening their senses. The rest of the ride was tense, every shadow, every rustle of leaves a potential threat. But they reached the mouth of the valley without further incident.
What greeted them wasn't the quiet, dusty canvas-tent mining town Noah had visited before, but a scene of chaos. Gunfire echoed off the valley walls. Smoke rose from a burning shack near the edge of town. Men ran for cover, miners scattering like startled quail. Figures, armed and menacing, patrolled the main street, herding terrified townsfolk, kicking down doors, shooting inside and moving on to the next one.
"Looks like the party started without us," John muttered, pulling his Winchester from its scabbard. There was no wry smile now, only grim determination.
They rode into the thick of it, straight down the main street. Bullets kicked up dirt around them immediately.
"Split up!" Noah yelled, veering left towards a series of overturned wagons and mining equipment offering cover. John peeled right, taking shelter behind a sturdy log cabin.
Noah dismounted, using an ore cart as a shield. He saw them then. Towering figures, leading the charge down the street, their movements brutal and efficient. Sean and Liam O'Leary. No mistaking there size and menacing demeanor. They were comfortably in their element, doing what came naturally to the pair of thugs.
He knew their brutality, still had the sore ribs as proof. The whereabouts of Patrick, their older brother, the most dangerous of the lot, concerned him. Likely guarding Sinclaire, he thought.
"Looks like they brought all their friends!" John called out, his rifle hammering in response to a rush from the nearest threat.
As the miners, who had taken up arms to defend themselves, noticed John and Noah were taking their part in the fight, they turned their fire away from the newcomers and screwed up their courage, battling with greater determination.
The battle to retake Bear Valley was on. It wasn't a strategic objective, not like taking a supply depot or harassing a cavalry column. This was about restoring order, protecting innocent lives, and bringing a powerful man to justice.
Noah and John fought with the practiced rhythm of men who had faced death together countless times. They moved from cover to cover, communicating with sharp barks and hand signals. They didn't waste shots. Every bullet found a mark. The O'Leary brothers' hired guns, while numerous, lacked cohesion. They were thugs, not soldiers, and folded under the concentrated, precise fire from the sheriff and his deputy.
But Sean and Liam were a different story. They were a force of nature. Not phased by gunfire and chaos, they advanced relentlessly, thriving in the atmosphere, their brutality overpowering in its efficiency.
Noah saw Liam charge a miner trying to flee, tackling him and savagely beating him with the butt of his rifle. John dropped the thug next to Liam with a shot. Noah focused on Sean, who was directing his men, his voice a guttural roar.
They needed to get through the brothers to reach Sinclaire, but the two had managed to always put someone in their path, making it difficult to direct fire at them.
Noah and John came back together near the cabin that was being used as an assay office, a sturdy building that offered good cover. Sean and Liam, seeing the two lawmen cutting through their ranks, turned their full fury toward them.
"You think you’re the law now, MacLean?" Sean bellowed, his face a mask of rage, spattered with dust and maybe blood. "We are the law here!"
Liam grinned, a chilling sight as he raised his rifle. "We should have killed you back in San Francisco!"
“No matter,” Sean added. “More fun this way.”
The air was thick with smoke, the crackling of gunfire, the screams of the wounded, and the smell of cordite, just like the battles Noah and John had ridden into during the war. Sean and Liam advanced side-by-side, firing from the hip, their aim surprisingly good, fueled by sheer aggression. The two cavaliers held their ground, patiently waiting for the right moment while they reloaded.
John took a hit to the shoulder, staggering back against the wall. "Stubborn bastards!"
"Stay put!" Noah yelled. He had a shot at Sean, but missed, though it forced him to duck behind a water trough. Liam charged, rifle held like a club. Noah waited until the last possible second, sidestepped, and fired point-blank into Liam's chest. The massive thug recoiled, a look of disbelief flashing across his face, and then crashed to the ground, dead before he hit the dust.
Seeing his brother go down, Sean roared to life and charged, firing wildly in his blind fury. Once he’d emptied his rifle, he pulled out a Bowie knife and kept coming.
Noah fired, but Sean was too close, too fast. The bullet grazed his arm. Sean lunged, the knife a glint of silver. Noah rolled again, years of close-quarters fighting kicked in. He didn't want to wrestle this giant. He needed space.
John, despite his injured shoulder, had reloaded his rifle and took careful aim, waiting for Sean to separate himself from Noah.
The moment came as Sean swung the knife in a wild, powerful arc. Noah ducked under it, the blade whistling over his head, just as John fired. The shot hit Sean in the back, staggering him.
The momentary pause allowed Noah to raise his pistol. He fired two .44 caliber slugs into Sean’s exposed chest. The big man faltered, dropped his knife, and fell forward onto the dusty street, lifeless.
Though there were still shots ringing out from various parts of the valley, silence fell over the immediate area, thick and sudden after the cacophony. The remaining thugs, seeing their leaders had fallen, lost their nerve. They dropped their guns and threw up their hands, surrendering to the two men wearing badges.
“Be damned,” John spat, clutching his shoulder, but keeping his pistol level. “Party’s over and I didn’t even get a chance to waltz.”
"Are you alright?" Noah asked, quickly assessing John's wound. It was bleeding heavily but looked like a graze, painful but not life-threatening.
"Seen worse," John grunted.
The town had grown considerably since Noah’s first visit. Despite the heavy hand of the O’Learys, people had built homes and businesses out of hewn logs. As the chaos died down and they saw the two men with badges tying up the thugs who had surrendered, faces who had been cowering in the shelter of their homes and businesses began to appear in windows and doorways. Noah nodded in the direction of the only two-story house in Bear Valley, which stood slightly above and apart from the rest of the town. "Sinclaire's place. Patrick will be in there with Sinclaire."
They moved towards the house, wary, weapons at the ready. The structure was opulent compared to the surrounding cabins and mining shacks. The door was sturdy.
"Sinclaire!" Noah yelled, pounding on the door. "Sheriff MacLean! Open up!"
No answer.
"Stand back," John said, hefting his rifle and using the butt as a battering ram. It splintered but held. With added blows and kicks from Noah, it finally gave way. Noah and John entered the main room, their rifles leveled.
The house was silent. A half-eaten meal sat on the table. Sinclaire wasn't there. Neither was Patrick O'Leary.
Noah's eyes scanned the room. “Ain’t been gone long,” he said, motioning toward a half-smoked cigar in an ashtray – a particular brand, expensive, not something a miner would smoke.
John went through the kitchen to the back door, which stood slightly ajar. Outside, he discovered a faint trail. "Went out the back while we were busy."
"Patrick wasn't out there because he was in here guarding Sinclaire,” Noah observed. “They pulled out when the main fight started to turn."
"They won't have much of a lead,” John said.
“Nope. And moving fast, they’ll leave a trail a blind man could follow,” Noah replied. He strode purposely toward the front door and across the porch, his eyes scanning the street beyond for his horse. He saw him behind the assayer’s office and turned in that direction.
“You want some help?” John asked, coming along behind.
“Nah. You stay here and help clean things up. Keep those miners from hanging those gunhands,” Noah replied. “Or, hell, let ‘em hang up. I don’t give a damn.”
“I’ll keep them safe for trial,” John chuckled. “Don’t want you to lose your job.”
“And get your shoulder looked at,” Noah called out over his shoulder as he started out on the trail of Sinclaire and O’Leary.
Sinclaire was on the run, but running wouldn't save him. Not from a ghost who was trained to track men.
Chapter Twenty Four
The late autumn air hinted of coming snow in Morrison, California. It was a town carved from hope and some greed, a collection of hastily erected wooden structures leaning against each other as if for support against the vast, indifferent landscape.
Two men, starkly contrasting figures, seeking refuge from the chaos they had left behind at Bear Valley, rode along the single dusty street and paused in front of the ragged cabin, posing as a saloon.
Dillon Sinclaire was a man who seemed out of place in the rough-and-tumble mining camp. His tailored coat, though dusty from the ride, still held its shape, and his movements were smooth, betraying none of the fatigue that should have come with a frantic escape. He was handsome, radiating a dangerous charm that had opened many doors and closed the fates of just as many. Beside him, slouching with a casual brutality, was Patrick O’Leary, a mountain of a man, his face a road map of past brawls, his eyes holding a glint of cruel amusement. He wore his toughness like a second skin, comfortable in the world’s mud and blood.
“We goin’ in for a drink?” O’Leary asked.
“Do as you like,” Sinclaire responded. “I’m not going into that filthy place.
“Suits me just fine,” he said, swinging a leg over his saddle to dismount.
“Wait!” Sinclaire commanded.
Since Sinclaire paid him for his work and paid him handsomely, O’Leary froze in place and then returned to his leather seat.
“Our friend MacLean, maybe the man with him, will be hard on our heels. The Bear Valley business drew some unwelcome attention. Up to this moment, no one can directly connect me to you and your brothers. I would like to keep it that way." He glanced at O'Leary, a subtle dismissal in his eyes. "We part ways here."
O'Leary didn't flinch. "Alright. What’s your plan?"
"I'm riding to Sacramento and then catching the train to San Francisco. I’ll make sure I’m seen there when news of the chaos in Bear Valley reaches civilization," Sinclaire smiled as he spoke. "As long as I'm not seen with you, the connection is harder to prove. Deniability is key."
"And MacLean?" O'Leary asked, a low growl in his voice. He had dealt with MacLean twice before. Each had gotten the upper hand, so the score was tied. He was itching for the tie-breaker.
"He's on our trail," Sinclaire stated with confidence. "And will arrive at any minute, knowing his uncanny ability to get in the way. I want you to stay back and handle him."
O'Leary grinned, a wide expression full of menacing glee. "Handle him. I like the sound of that."
"Keep him occupied while I escape; permanently, if you please. But most importantly, do not let him follow me. Come along to San Francisco when you’re finished, but don't try to find me. I'll find you when the time is right. When this all blows over. Understand?"
"Gotcha. You take the fancy train. I take care of the pest." O'Leary flexed his large hands, the knuckles thick and scarred.
