The Legend of Shamus McGinty's Gold Read online

  The Legend of Shamus McGinty's Gold

  Fergal O'Brien, Volume 1

  I. J. Parnham

  Published by Culbin Press, 2020.

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First published in 2002 by Thomas Bouregy & Co., Inc.

  Copyright © 2002, 2020 by I. J. Parnham

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

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  Chapter One

  “WHAT KIND OF FOOL GOES outside on a day like this?” Vance asked.

  His question made Quinn Rogers turn to the saloon’s batwings. Outside, the wind drove the snow horizontally and deepened the snowdrift on the porch.

  “Nobody’s outside,” Quinn said.

  For a moment the snow relented and a man’s outline appeared on the porch. The man raised his arms to shield his face from the latest blast of snow and then staggered forward and grabbed the door jamb.

  He half-walked, half-fell into the saloon. A solid coating of snow encased the man from head to foot. A thick layer of ice encrusted his hat. Although Quinn didn’t want to stray from the stove’s comforting embrace, he shuffled along the bench to provide the man with enough space to sit in the warmth.

  The man staggered another pace and fell to his knees. Snow plummeted from his shoulders to the floor and added to the snowdrift. With a cry of alarm the bartender dashed from behind the bar, took the man’s nearest elbow and gestured to Quinn.

  “Help me,” he said.

  Aside from Quinn’s four men and the bartender, the only other man in the room was a heavily bearded man who sat by the bar. This man all but disappeared into his buffalo-hide jacket and only his eyes, framed by fur and his hair, were visible.

  With regret, Quinn stood up and shuffled away from the stove. Immediately, the cold permeated his body. In eagerness to return to the warmth, Quinn grabbed the man by the spare elbow and dragged him along the floor.

  Despite the man’s thick skins, he was light and his trailing feet left a white path of fallen ice. Beneath Quinn’s grip, the man’s bony elbow and upper arm were free of surplus fat. The man regarded him. Rheumy eyes flashed their gratitude.

  “Let’s get you closer to the stove, old-timer,” Quinn said. He maneuvered the man onto the bench.

  With a thin, shaking hand, the man removed his frozen hat from his head to reveal sparse hair as white as the landscape outside.

  “Thank you kindly, young man,” he said, his voice gravelly and tired.

  Vance pushed a mug of coffee into the man’s hand. As the hot tin mug touched the man’s fingers, he sighed. With his eyes closed, he hunched over the coffee and let the warming fumes smother his face. Vance waggled his coffee mug from side to side.

  “Bartender, more coffee,” he shouted.

  Quinn smiled. In the five years that Vance had worked for him, he’d never sat in a saloon and ordered anything but the roughest whiskey. The bartender dashed behind the bar and returned with a new pot of coffee.

  He slammed it on the stovetop and rocked back and forth on his heels, making exaggerated arm movements across his chest in a futile attempt to generate heat. Then he hurried back across the saloon as a howling blast of icy wind blew through the doorway.

  “So, old-timer, what were you doing outside on a day like this?” Quinn said.

  “The name’s Morgan.”

  Quinn poured more coffee. “Well met, Morgan, but what were you doing? The snow trapped us here three days ago and nothing could make us leave this stove.”

  Morgan slurped his coffee. “I’m searching, like I always do. I came to Idaho for information, but I thought I’d pay for the journey by turning into a lump of ice, and having to wait for the thaw before someone would find my frozen bones. Now I can die in the warmth.”

  Morgan shook his head and murmured something. Ice clumps showered from his scalp and sizzled against the stove. Then his eyes closed and, with a small sigh, he fell to his right against Quinn’s shoulder. Quinn pushed Morgan back into an upright position.

  “Drink your coffee,” Quinn said. “You just need warmth.”

  Morgan chuckled. “I need more than that. I know when my time has come, and that time is now.”

  With stately grace, Morgan tumbled from the bench to the floor. He lay on his side, the coffee splashing across the saloon floor beside him. Quinn dropped to his knees beside the prone old-timer.

  The only action he could think of was to get more warmth into Morgan’s frail body, so he drew Morgan’s legs to his chest and wrapped him around the base of the stove. From inches away, the heat would burn Morgan’s skin even through his thick clothes, but the cold was the greatest danger to him.

  By the bar, the bartender nodded in encouragement while the heavily bearded man watched on. Wisps of steam rose from Morgan’s clothes. As small pools of water spread from his body, Morgan gasped and waved a hand, beckoning feebly toward Quinn.

  In curiosity, Quinn edged forward as Morgan’s lips formed the shape of words. Despite his closeness, Quinn couldn’t hear what Morgan said.

  “Don’t speak. Concentrate on getting warm.”

  “Come closer,” Morgan said, his voice weak.

  With a sigh, Quinn leaned forward. He positioned his ear above Morgan’s mouth.

  “What do you want to say?”

  “Come closer.”

  Quinn smiled. “I can’t get any closer, old-timer.”

  “All right, I’ve probably not got much time left, so before I die I need to tell someone my secret.”

  Morgan coughed. The action shook his head and freed more ice clumps to clatter against Quinn’s face.

  “This isn’t the time for last messages. You’ll be fine.”

  Quinn raised his head and smiled in the hope that Morgan might believe him, but when Morgan frowned he leaned down again and positioned his ear close to Morgan’s mouth.

  “Have you heard of the legend of Shamus McGinty’s gold?” Morgan said, slurring his words.

  Quinn’s men chuckled while Quinn sat up, sneering.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard a lot of meaningless talk about finding the gold when you’re not looking for it, or some other fool thing.”

  Morgan rolled onto his back and raised a shaking finger.

  “The exact words of the legend are that there’s enough gold to make you think you can live forever, but Shamus McGinty has hidden the gold where nobody can ever find it.” Morgan coughed and took several shallow breaths. “The only way to find the gold is to stop searching, but when you have found it, you won’t know that you have.”

  Morgan closed his eyes so while smiling, Quinn leaned back on his haunches.

  “This isn’t the time for fireside tales.”

  “This is the time for fir
eside tales,” Morgan said, his voice gaining strength. “If I don’t tell someone soon, I never will. So, tell me, what else do you know about the legend?”

  Morgan opened his eyes and with a thin hand, he grabbed Quinn’s chin. With a claw-like grip, he dragged Quinn’s face down to his, but surprising himself with his gentleness, Quinn laid a hand over Morgan’s hand and opened his fingers.

  “Like you say, it’s a legend. Nobody has ever found the gold that Shamus discovered because nobody knows where he hid it. Since McGinty disappeared forty years ago, I doubt anyone will ever find it, assuming the gold existed.”

  Morgan wheezed, his face slackening. His gaze seemed to be far from this cold saloon.

  “The gold existed and I know where Shamus hid it.”

  With only a slight interest in this tale, Quinn shook his head and smiled.

  “You don’t know. Now rest.”

  As Morgan turned, the gaze from his rheumy eyes pierced Quinn, demanding his attention and hinting at the man that he once used to be.

  “Tell me one thing. Do you think I’m old enough to have known Shamus McGinty?”

  On Morgan’s small amount of visible skin, the numerous scars and unhealed blemishes suggested the colorful life he’d lived.

  “You are old enough,” Quinn said, and leaned forward. “But if you knew Shamus, prove it. Showing me his gold will be a good start.”

  Morgan drew in a long rattling breath. Quinn thought this might be Morgan’s last breath. Then he breathed again with a short rasp and, with a bony finger, gestured through the batwings.

  “The gold is far from this frozen wilderness. It’s in the warmth, down south in Kansas, except Shamus hid the gold well. Nobody could find it from directions.”

  “Hidden isn’t much use to us.”

  “Maybe not, but I’ll take you there and you can have as much gold as you want,” Morgan said with a gleam in his eyes.

  “The old-timer isn’t fit to travel to Kansas,” Vance said. “The only thing he’ll do is die.”

  Having played along with Morgan’s game for long enough, Quinn drew his Colt from under his skins. With a steady hand, he aimed the weapon at Morgan.

  “Vance is right. You won’t live long enough to take us to the gold. So, you’ll tell me. Where is it?”

  Morgan laughed. “Your threats to a dying man aren’t concerning me.”

  Quinn gripped his Colt tightly for a few moments and then sighed. He grimaced and pushed it back into his holster.

  “What do you suggest then?”

  With a bent finger, Morgan beckoned and Quinn leaned forward. He pressed his ear to Morgan’s mouth and Morgan whispered a few words. With a smile, Quinn pushed back from Morgan to face his men.

  “What did the old-timer say?” Vance asked.

  “He said, ‘make me live.’”

  As Morgan closed his eyes, small ice slips on his eyelashes nestled on his hollowed cheeks.

  Quinn slumped back on the bench. “What do you reckon, Vance?”

  Vance kneeled beside Morgan. He rocked his head to the side and laid it on Morgan’s chest.

  “He has a heartbeat. He’s still with us.”

  “No, I meant about the gold,” Quinn snapped.

  “I’ve heard the legend, but if we want to find out if the old-timer is telling the truth, we’ll have to help him.”

  “In that case go to the horses and get more blankets!” Quinn shouted as he jumped to his feet.

  Vance and his three other men rose up and strode to the batwings. Vance stopped in the doorway and turned back.

  “And if we make him live and he’s lying to us?” he asked.

  Quinn leaned over Morgan. His shadow produced by the nearest oil lamp darkened the prone old-timer.

  “I’ll make him wish he’d frozen to death.” Quinn waited until a hint of a smile twitched at the edge of Morgan’s mouth and then turned to the bartender. “Get more hot coffee.”

  The bartender nodded and slipped into his back store. The heavily bearded man, who’d sat by the bar, had now gone. Quinn hadn’t heard this man leave, but he dismissed him from his thoughts as he had other matters to consider.

  Visions of more gold than any man could ever want dangled in his mind and to get it, he only had to make Morgan live. Interrupting his thoughts, the bartender returned and placed another steaming pot of coffee on the stove.

  “It looks like this old-timer was worth saving,” the bartender said. “I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on Shamus McGinty’s gold.”

  “So you were listening to our conversation, were you?”

  The bartender rubbed his hands. “Yeah, I tend to listen when gold gets mentioned.”

  With a quick twitch of his arm, Quinn drew his Colt and aimed it at the bartender’s forehead.

  “That’s unfortunate,” he said.

  Chapter Two

  RANDOLPH MCDOUGAL STOOD by the wall of New Hope Town’s bank. The occasional wagon trundled along the rutted main drag, sloshing through the mud that last night’s downpour had created.

  Despite the rising heat of the early afternoon, few people walked by. The few that had ventured outside had congregated in front of the Lazy Dog Saloon. There, for the last half-hour, a traveling tonic seller had set up a small display of his wares.

  The tonic seller was thin. His clothes, which would be tight on Randolph, drooped from his body. He bustled before his green-and-gold wagon. On every side, the wagon proclaimed proudly that he was ‘The World Famous Tonic Seller, Fergal O’Brien.’

  A collection of small bottles graced the table in front of Fergal. Each bottle contained an amber liquid, which glistened in the crisp sunshine. These shining offerings transfixed the small crowd, who nudged one another and chatted as they waited for the show to begin.

  Randolph sighed and waited, too. Fergal raised his hat and ran a hand over his unkempt ginger hair. The effort failed to provide order. With his hat replaced at a jaunty angle, Fergal splayed his red and gold jacket, displaying the bright green vest beneath.

  He raised his arms, his sleeves falling back to reveal a length of thin arm to the elbow. For a minute, he stood with his arms aloft, his head raised to the sky. The townsfolk chuckled and debated what Fergal was about to do. With a darting movement, Fergal lowered his head and waved an arm across his chest.

  “Welcome, welcome, welcome, I bid you welcome,” he said quickly, running the words together. “You are the most honored guests of Fergal O’Brien’s traveling medicine service. Somebody say, ‘Howdy, Fergal.’”

  An uncomfortable silence greeted his request. With his arm poised across his chest, Fergal waited until a young man from the middle of the crowd coughed.

  “Howdy, Fergal,” he said.

  Everybody around the young man laughed and turned to him. Several people patted him on the back. Fergal completed his arm’s journey across his chest and clapped his hands.

  “Excellent, and what’s your name, young sir?”

  “Everybody calls me Jed.”

  “In that case, may I call you Jed, too?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’ve got no other name.”

  This small witticism produced more chuckling from the townsfolk. With a sigh, Randolph sauntered from the bank wall, favoring his right leg. He nodded to the gaunt, buckskin-clad man who had walked from the bank, and hobbled halfway across the main drag. He stood next to a heavily bearded man and watched the show from this nearer position.

  “Hallelujah!” Fergal shouted and threw his hands aloft. Then he lowered his voice. “I’ve only been in New Hope Town for a few hours and I’m already on first-name terms with Jed and made many new friends. I can see I’ll enjoy being here. This is a friendly town. Am I right or am I right?”

  “You’re right,” Jed said to a round of encouragement. “Folks here are friendlier than in Fall Town.”

  “Great,” Fergal said with a grin. “I’ll make a note to avoid Fall Town if it isn’t as friendly as this place.”

&
nbsp; “That’s a good idea. Nobody worth knowing lives there.”

  Fergal sighed and rubbed his hands. “Did I mention that it sure is nice to be among friends? This is the friendliest town I’ve ever been to.”

  As one, the townsfolk smiled back. Fergal leaned over his table and winked at Jed.

  “I can tell you, it sure makes a change from visiting Redemption City,” he said with his voice lowered to a whisper.

  “You’re right,” one of the townsfolk said. “The folks there are worse than those in Fall Town.”

  Further agreements echoed this comment.

  “Why?” Jed said, interrupting the townsfolk’s growing applause. “What’s wrong with Redemption City?” He pushed forward to stand before Fergal.

  Fergal coughed. He reached beneath his hat and scratched his head.

  “Nothing. I’m only jesting you. Now, I want to tell you a story.”

  “I was born in Redemption City,” Jed said stiffly. “There’s nothing wrong with the people who live there, and you’ve got no reason to insult my hometown.”

  “I wasn’t insulting Redemption City, but I do want to tell you a story,” Fergal said, his grin fading to a fixed smile.

  “It sure sounded like that to me.” Jed turned to the crowd and placed his hands on his hips. “It sounded to me like he was insulting Redemption City.”

  Fergal raised an imperious hand and waited. A round of shushing quieted Jed. When Fergal spoke again, his voice was low, but commanding.

  “Many years ago, an ancient native tribe who lived on the banks of a river to the north of New Hope Town worshiped a god whose name is no longer known. Their god was kind and the tribe prospered. For long years beyond counting, the tribe guarded their secrets. Then something happened. Shall I tell you what happened?”

  “Yes,” someone shouted, followed by a rising, chorused agreement.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with Redemption City,” Jed said.

  Fergal looked over Jed’s shoulder. “A group of pioneers settled to the south of this tribe, and within the group there was a young man. As the farming life bored the young man, he left his people and wandered into the hills to the north. Unfortunately, he fell into a river. The young man nearly drowned, but he grabbed hold of a passing log and dragged himself above water. He feared that the current would pull him under the grinding water. So he couldn’t release his log and swim to the riverside. Without a choice, he drifted down the river, traveling ever farther from his people. Then, as he prepared to meet his maker, the log washed up on the riverside. The young man was too tired to stand, but he was lucky. Do you want to guess where he’d washed up?”