Novel 1979 - The Iron Marshall (v5.0) Read online

  “I hear those redskins can’t shoot worth a damn.”

  “Don’t you believe it! Some shoot as good as any white man. And they’re almighty sly about it. They don’t see no sense in setting themselves up as targets, so they just pop you off from behind any rock or tree.”

  That was the summer when Shanaghy learned how to shoot.

  Chapter 2

  *

  SHANAGHY AWAKENED IN the cool hour of dawn. For a moment he lay still, trying to remember where he was and how he came to be there. He recalled being kicked off the open gondola, then went back to his thoughts about New York.

  John Morrissey had gone to upstate New York on some political business, and Shanaghy, now promoted to a position as one of Morrissey’s lieutenants, had dropped around to the Gem to check receipts. According to plan he had met Lochlin there. They had barely seated themselves at the table when Cogan, a bartender, stuck his head in the door.

  “Mr. Shanaghy, sir? There’s some men comin’ in that look like trouble.”

  Leaving Lochlin at the table, Shanaghy stepped over to the door. He glanced quickly around. There were four men at the bar, all standing together, and there were others scattered about the room. They all had beers, but there was something about them…

  The place was crowded, but somehow the men Cogan had mentioned stood out, and one of them…Shanaghy turned sharply. “Lochlin! Look out! It’s Childers’ men!”

  He stepped quickly out into the saloon and pulled the door shut behind him. He had started around the bar when one of the newcomers deliberately knocked the beer from the hand of a bricklayer who stood beside him. The bricklayer turned to protest and the man lit him. Then they started to break the place up.

  Shanaghy ducked a blow and drove a fist into the middle of the nearest man, and kicked another on the kneecap. The door crashed open and he saw a dozen men coming in, all armed with pick-handles and other clubs.

  Too many! “Cogan! Murphy! Run!”

  Shanaghy spun a table in the path of the advancing men, and when several fell he crowned them with a chair. Ducking around the bar, he armed himself with bottles which he threw with unerring aim.

  Another man went down, screaming. A bottle missed Shanaghy by inches and he ducked through the door to find Lochlin. The man was gone. He had scooped up the money he was to count and scrambled out the back door.

  Slamming the door into place, Cogan, who had joined him, dropped a bar across it and they ran for the alley. There were too many to fight, too many altogether.

  They had almost reached the back door when there was a shot and Lochlin staggered in, bleeding.

  “Upstairs!” Shanaghy told them quickly. “Over the roofs!”

  He stopped and lifted Lochlin bodily from the floor, holding him in place with one arm while he scooped up the moneybag with the other. He ran up the steps, blessing his good luck for all the years at the blacksmith’s anvil, and then they came out on the roof, barring the trap behind them.

  The sky was covered with low clouds, and it was beginning to rain.

  Murphy, another aide of Morrissey’s, had joined them. “There’s a rig at Kendall’s,” he gasped.

  Suddenly, from behind a parapet of a roof, a group of men raised themselves up. Shanaghy’s glance counted six. He turned. As many more were coming across the roofs behind them.

  “This time,” somebody yelled, “ye’ll not get away!”

  Shanaghy dropped the moneybag and drew a snub-nosed pistol from a waistband holster. “I’m givin’ y’ fair warnin’,” he said, “git to runnin’ or somebody dies!”

  “Hah!” a big roughneck shouted, lifting a club in one hand and a half-brick in the other, ready to throw. “Y’ll not git away this…!”

  Men had been killed with sticks and stones for millions of years before a firearm was invented, and Tom Shanaghy did not hesitate. He had been well taught, and during the four years he had operated the shooting gallery he had practiced daily.

  He palmed the gun and he fired even as the big man spoke. The gun was a .44 and Shanaghy fired three times.

  The big man cried out and staggered. Another fell, and then they were all running.

  Somehow Shanaghy and his men got to Kendall’s, got into the rig and fled. Cogan was holding Lochlin while Shanaghy drove, and never would he forget that wild night drive through the dark, rain-whipped streets.

  Where should they go? Shanaghy wondered. His own place was known and would not be safe. Lochlin’s bachelor quarters would be unsafe, too. Yet there was a hiding place, a place Morrissey kept off Broadway. He drove there.

  There was a floor safe in Morrissey’s bedroom and that was where Tom took the money. He withheld a handful of bills, made a hasty estimate and dropped a note into the safe with the remainder of the money.

  Giving Cogan and Murphy each $100 running money. They will hide out in Boston…you know where. I am taking $500 and leaving $500 with Lochlin. He’s hurt bad but I’ll get Florrie in to take care of him. Watch yourself.

  Shanaghy

  He gave money to each of the men and told Cogan to get word to Florrie to come and care for Lochlin. Then he reloaded his pistol and went to Morrissey’s desk for another…There were two there and he took one.

  He got Lochlin on the bed and bound up his wound as best he could. He’d been shot in the side and was unconscious, his clothing soaked with blood.

  Florrie came to the door and he let her in, giving her Lochlin’s money. “Tell nobody he’s here and keep out of sight. I don’t think you’re known to them anyway.”

  “What will you do?”

  “First, I’ve got to get that horse out of sight and into a stable. If they see it they’ll trace Lochlin to this place. I’ll think of myself after.”

  He went out through the kitchen window and down the back stairs. All was dark and silent. Thunder rumbled in the distance and there was occasional lightning. When he came out of the alley, the horse was standing there, head hanging. Shanaghy looked carefully around, then crossed the walk and got into the rig, turning the horse down the street. The top and sides kept most of the rain off. He dried his right hand and felt for his guns.

  He had killed a man up there…perhaps two. But they were coming for him and would have killed him. His quick shooting had saved many other lives…probably.

  He drove down the dark streets.

  John Morrissey was a man who had lived with trouble, and so he was constantly aware of its proximity. Wisely, he had prepared hideouts where he could hole up until softer winds blew, and stables where horses could be found. It was to one of these Shanaghy now drove.

  All was dark and silent. There were two horses in the stable and several empty stalls. Shanaghy led his horse inside, dried him off and put oats in the bin. The rig he put into a carriage house out of sight and then he went to the house hard by. Over a cup of hot coffee he considered the situation.

  Eben Childers had planned well. Obviously they had known that John Morrissey was out of town. The place on Barclay Street had probably been hit as well, and Childers’ men would be on all the streets. It was no time to be out and about.

  Morrissey would know of what had happened within a matter of hours, but Shanaghy, knowing his man, doubted that John would make any move until the force of Childers’ drive was spent. Knowing such men as Childers used, Shanaghy knew that within hours, when victory seemed complete, they would begin to drink. Some would simply turn in to rest, others would scatter to find their doxies or whatever. And that would be the time to strike.

  Sitting alone in the empty house with a coal-oil lamp on the table beside him, Tom Shanaghy plotted the strategy of the days to come. He would have to get in touch with Boynton and Finlayson, and they would gather the boys for him so they could be ready to strike back.

  He paced the floor, muttering to himself, trying to plan the counterattack as John would plan it, trying to foresee all that must be done.

  First, he must get word to Morrissey. Then, when Boyn
ton and Finlayson had gathered the gang together, they would choose their targets and strike.

  Finally, weary with planning, he went to sleep. He awakened in the light of a chill, rainy dawn and dressed. He checked his guns and then went down to the street. There was nobody around but he had not expected to see any people. This was a quiet neighborhood and it was Sunday.

  Boynton would be in the Five Points. Shanaghy went through the streets until he reached Broadway and there he hired a hack. When he mentioned the Five Points the driver refused flatly. “No, sir, I’ll not be goin’ yonder. Not for any man. They’d steal the fillin’s from your teeth, yonder. I’ll take you within a street or two, that’s all!”

  No argument would suffice, and Shanaghy didn’t blame him.

  He found Boynton sleeping off a drunk and shook him awake. Shanaghy made coffee and forced a cup on the reluctant giant. Slowly, word by word, he filled Boynton in on all that had happened. “You’re to get twenty good men…tough men.”

  He went ahead carefully with the planning. They would gather in three positions, then strike fast and hard.

  John Morrissey had made enemies, and Childers had tied in with some of them. Mostly they were former followers of Butcher Bill Poole, the only man who ever bested Morrissey in a rough-and-tumble fight. Sometime later, Poole had been shot and killed by Lew Baker. That was in 1855, and the funeral procession for Poole had been the largest in the city until that time.

  Several hundred policemen had led the procession, followed by 2,000 members of the Poole Association, a political faction. That was followed by nearly 4,000 of the Order of United Americans, and hose-and-engine companies from New York, Boston and Baltimore, as well as Philadelphia. As a special honor guard were two companies of militia named for Poole, the Poole Guards and the Poole Light Guards.

  When the rites were completed, the various sections broke up, but the Guards and the Light Guards stayed together. It was evening before they reached Broadway and Canal Street, where a building was undergoing demolition. There, unknown to the Poole men, a number of the Morrissey faction had concealed themselves. The Original Hounds and a crowd of the Morrissey shoulder-strikers waited until the Poole men came within easy range, and then they cut loose with a shower of bricks and stones. Several Poole men went down, but they were the better-armed and charged the Morrissey faction with fixed bayonets.

  Scattering, the Morrissey men took to the alleys and roofs. Yet all of them were not to escape, for later that night the Poole men attacked the engine-house where some of the Original Hounds were holed up, destroying the place and putting them to flight.

  Despite the victory, the Poole forces were never again to wield their former power. Some of them, filled with hatred for Morrissey, had joined Childers.

  Although Morrissey still maintained an interest in the old Gem Saloon, he no longer owned it. After operating other gambling houses, he had confined his interests to places on Barclay and Ann Street.

  From Boynton’s place, Shanaghy had gone on to find Finlayson. A thin, wiry man, he stared at Shanaghy and shook his head. “John’s been beaten this time,” he said, “beaten! They waited until he was out of town and then they moved. They’ve too much power.”

  “You believe that an’ you’ll believe anything,” Shanaghy said. “Old Smoke has power where they’ve got none, an’ Tammany will help him…if he needs it. But if we move fast—”

  “Time ain’t right,” Finlayson objected. “They’ve got it all goin’ their way. If John was only here…”

  “You won’t help?”

  “Time ain’t right,” Finlayson shook his head. “You’ll get yourself killed. I—”

  “Forget it.” Shanaghy could see that the man was frightened, his confidence shattered. “We’ll do it without you.”

  He left on the run. He moved fast. He found O’Brien and then Larry Aiken and Linn. They were ready to move and glad somebody was doing something.

  “At ten,” Shanaghy told Aiken. “Don’t wait for me, just move. By that time most of them will be drunk or sleeping it off.”

  Seated over a table he showed them on a sheet of paper how each move would be made, and when. Little did he guess that he would never be there to take part. Yet Larry Aiken was a good man, a tough man.

  He remembered the night well. After leaving Aiken, he had come out on the street and started for a livery stable. He needed a rig now. There was a place up the island where he could get some guns. Unless he missed his guess, all of Childers’ men would be armed.

  He hired a rig. As he was hooking the trace chains, the hostler whispered to him. “Bye, I’m a friend of McCarthy’s, so watch your step! Eben’s got five hundred dollars for the man who brings you in alive—to him.”

  The hostler paused, looking around warily. “They’re after you, bye. He aims to cripple you and blind you. He’s said as much.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Shanaghy said. He stepped into the rig and gathered the reins. “Open the door, then. And thanks. I’ll not forget, nor will Morrissey.”

  He drove into the street and turned uptown. No hurry, now, he told himself. Take it easy. Five hundred? That was enough to turn all of the Five Points after him, and many another besides. Who could he trust?

  He left Delancey Street behind him and felt better. He drove on, holding the speed down so not to attract attention. He put his hand on his gun. It was there. He felt for the other…it was gone! Dropped from his pocket, probably, while he hitched up the horse. He swore softly, bitterly.

  Well, now. If he could get to that man on Twenty-fourth Street, he’d have guns a-plenty.

  Almost an hour later, after driving around the block and seeing no one, he pulled up in an alley and stepped down. Suddenly, he was uneasy. He knew about this source of weapons, so might not Childers as well?

  It was dark and silent, with only the rain whispering on the street. He put a hand on the horse’s shoulder. “You wait, boy. I’ll be back.”

  Yet he did not move. The bricks of the street pavement glistened wetly. He saw the dark maw of an alley opening toward the north, and beyond it a row of houses, each with steps and iron railings. He felt for the gun again, still irritated with himself. When had he ever trusted to a gun? Yet if there were too many of them, he must.

  He studied the house where he must go. A faint light showed from under the shutters. What was the man’s name?

  Schneider…He stepped around the horse and went quickly up the steps. There were eight steps and an iron railing on either side. Under the steps there were other steps leading down.

  He lifted the knocker and rapped, not too loud. There was a sudden movement within. A chill went up his spine. Was that a movement behind him? He turned sharply…nothing.

  Within there was a rustle of movement, and then a voice through the door. “Who is it?”

  “Shanaghy,” he said.

  A chain rattled and the door opened…not a crack, but suddenly thrown wide.

  There were three men! They had him then…No, by the…!

  Behind him there was a scurry of feet, and Shanaghy did the unexpected. Instead of trying to turn, of trying to escape, he went at them.

  He was shorter than any one of the three, but he was stronger. He went into them with a lunge, and he swung a fist at the nearest. He had hit for the man on the right, knocking him into the way of the others. Then he had the gun out and he fired.

  There was a muffled blast and the hit man screamed. Turning sharply he fired into the crowd suddenly closing in behind him, then darted down the hall. He smashed open the first door he came to, saw a frightened blonde woman catch up a blanket and hold it before her, and then he was past her and throwing a chair through a window. He went out, hung for an instant, then leaped across the areaway and crashed through the glass of the window opposite.

  The room was empty. He ran through it, tried to gauge the best way to go, then ran down a hall. Behind him, somebody yelled and a door slammed open. “Stop, thief!” a woman shout
ed.

  He went up the steps three at a time, turned at the landing and ran on up. At the end of the hall he saw a gap, then a slate roof opposite him. It was wet and slippery. Behind him he heard screams and curses. He stepped to the window-ledge and leaped, catching the edge of the gutter with his hands. It broke loose at one end and he clung to the metal as it swung him toward the ground. He dropped the final ten feet and ran through a gap between the buildings.

  After running down an alley, he ducked across a street, up another alley then along a street toward the north. He paused there once, to listen. They were coming, all right. They were scattering now.

  Think…he must think.

  The railroad yards, with all those cars standing, it would be dark there. He ran.

  With all his hard work, he was in good shape, in better shape probably than any of his pursuers, unless some of Childers’ foot-racers were among them. Foot-racing was a popular sport, and most gamblers had one or two on the payroll.

  He ducked down another alley and turned into a street lined with trees. He paused, then walked on, catching his wind. He felt for the gun.

  It was gone…

  It must have fallen from his pocket back in an alley somewhere. He hoped they had not found it, that they wouldn’t know he was unarmed.

  Somebody crossed the street behind him and he heard a shout. He ducked into an alleyway…blind!

  He turned back and went up the street, but they were closer now. They were spreading out, coming at him. Ahead of him there was a low fence, and he smelled wet cinders and coal smoke. Then he saw the cars. Over there was an engine, puffing thoughtfully as it waited. He dropped a hand to the fence rail and vaulted it easily, then slid down a bank and lost himself in the darkness.

  A train whistled and he heard the chug-chug of a starting engine. Somebody fired a shot and it ricocheted over a car ahead of him.