"It's grown," O'Brien said as he and Hall rode into Denver City.  A jumble of tents and shacks clustered the town's outskirts on both sides of the South Platte and eastward along Cherry Creek.
     "Yes, there's always another fool trying to find his fortune out West," said Hall.
     O'Brien shot Hall a look, then glanced back at the cold Rocky Mountains, the wind rolling down from their rugged peaks out to the eastern plains.  He was not such a fool as to let Joseph Hall annoy him.  Hall was still in a prickly mood, though he'd come back to Avery much sooner than O'Brien had expected.
     "So, what do you think of him?" Hall asked.
     "This bag of bones?" O'Brien said, patting the thin withers of the horse Hall had loaned him.  It was the first horse he'd had a leg over since New York, and the worst excuse for a horse he'd seen since leaving Ireland.  He hadn't mentioned it to Hall, because Hall could turn such things against one, but in fact he'd grown up around horses in Racecourse, and loved them, and hated to see them broke down like this poor old nag.  He shook his head and said, "I think he has maybe a year or two left in him."
     "Well, he's in better shape than when I bought him.  Let you have him for fifty dollars."
     O'Brien laughed.
     "I could get twice that," Hall said.
     "And you paid half as much, I'll be bound," O'Brien answered.  "No, save your breath.  I've got no fifty dollars to give you.  Dooney only gave me ten for a week's diggings, and I need every penny for clothes.  I've a hole in one boot that's as big as a dollar."
     "Well," Hall said, "I just happen to know where you could get that fifty dollars, and more besides.  Did you hear our new governor's planning to call for volunteers?"
     "That again.  Aye, I heard."
     "Hear he's going to make any man a captain who brings in twenty-five men?"
     O'Brien had not heard that.  "I see," he said slowly as they headed down Larimer Street.  "And when am I to congratulate you, Captain Hall?"
     Hall laughed.  "Oh, not me.  I'm too lazy to be a leader of men.  A captain's got to be able to knock heads together; I'd just want to shoot 'em and be done with it.  I was thinking of you, my friend."
     "Me?" O'Brien laughed.  "A captain in the army?"
     "Why not?"
     "Because they don't want my sort for officers, even if I had the money.  They want the fine gentlemen for that."
     "You weren't listening, Red.  You don't buy a commission here the way they do in Europe.  All you need is twenty-five men, and you can get them in Avery."
     "You've got it all planned, have you?" O'Brien said.
     "Yep," Hall said, smiling as he leaned back in his saddle.  "It should be a cavalry company, I reckon.  Twenty-five brave fellows, galloping into Denver.  What do you think?"
     A shadowy army of warriors appeared to O'Brien, descendants of King Brian Boru, bright swords aglitter and proud horses snorting.  It pulled at his heart, that vision, and whispered of honors to be won.  He drew in a deep breath, and just as he did so the nag stumbled--a bad omen.
     "I think," he said after he'd steadied the horse, "that you're hoping to sell me your breakdowns for this fairy-tale company.  Best look elsewhere."
     "Now, Red--"
     "Joe Hall!"  The voice came from down the street.  O'Brien glanced up.
     "Hey!" Hall shouted, breaking into a grin.  He waved to the man who had hailed him--a tall fellow with a wide, friendly face and mutton-chop whiskers--and kicked his horse into a trot.  O'Brien followed, reining in beside Hall, who had dismounted and was pumping the tall fellow's hand.
     "Good to see you, Logan," Hall said.
     "Likewise," Logan replied.  "Come have a drink--I'm meeting Hambleton at the Criterion."
     "How'd you get him to go in there?" Hall asked.  "I thought he didn't care for Southerners."
     Logan grinned.  "No, but he knows Charley Harrison's got the best whiskey in town."
     O'Brien slid from his saddle, and Hall glanced his way.  "Sam Logan, I'd like you to meet my very good friend Red O'Brien.  He's got a claim up in Avery."
     "Oh?" Logan said, shaking hands.  "And how's mining in Avery?"
     "Cold and dry as a witch's teat," O'Brien answered.
     Logan laughed and said, "Come on along, then.  You can warm up with a glass of whiskey."
     "I'll catch up," O'Brien said, nodding toward Wallingford & Murphy's Mercantile nearby.  "Need to buy a few things."
     "Don't be long," said Hall, throwing an arm around Logan's shoulders.  As they went on down the street, O'Brien tied his borrowed nag to the rail outside the merchant's and went in.
     "Good morning, Mr. Murphy," he said, taking a grey woolen shirt from a stack near the door.
     "Morning," Murphy answered from behind the counter.  He seemed preoccupied in unwrapping some cloth.  O'Brien chose two pairs of trousers, some socks and long underwear, and carried his purchases up to the counter, where Murphy added them up.
     "Six dollars and thirty cents."
     "How much for the boots?" O'Brien asked, pointing to a shelf behind the counter.
     "Seven dollars a pair."
     "Could I pay you on credit?" O'Brien asked.
     Murphy shook his head.  "Sorry.  Cash only."
     "Then where can I find a good cobbler?"
     "Independence," Murphy said with a laugh.
     Annoyed, O'Brien paid for the clothes and went down the street to the shop of a saddler, who agreed to add some leather to his boot soles for fifty cents.  O'Brien left the boots and the horse with the saddler and walked barefoot back toward the Criterion.  Before he had reached it a shouting arose up ahead.  He passed by the saloon to see what was the matter.
     A crowd was collecting outside Wallingford & Murphy's.  On its roof was a flag he'd not seen before; one wide, white stripe between two red ones, with a circle of stars on the blue corner.  Murphy stood before his door exchanging hard words with the crowd.  O'Brien moved closer, and caught the words "damned secessionist."
     "That again," he muttered.
     "You got something to say about it?"
     O'Brien looked up to find a great buffalo of a fellow glaring at him.  "Not a thing," he said.  "What flag is it, then?"
     "It's a damned Confederate flag, that's what!"
     "They call it the Stars and Bars," Hall's voice drawled from behind them.  O'Brien turned.  Logan was there, too, frowning at the shopkeeper's new flag.  "Take it easy, Hambleton," Hall added.  "O'Brien's all right."
     The crowd was getting bigger, and the shouting louder.  A man pushed at Murphy and he yelled back in anger.
     "Someone's going to get hurt," Logan said, and began to push forward.  Hall and Hambleton went with him, and O'Brien followed, mindful of heels near his feet.  Logan reached the store and climbed up on the rail out front.  This distracted the mob, which paused in haranguing the merchant to watch Logan scramble up onto the roof.  In two steps he was at the flagpole and hauling down the banner.  A cheer went up, and Logan jumped back to the ground with the bundle of cloth in his hands.
     "Keep it to yourself, Murphy," Logan said, handing it to its owner.  "Your neighbors don't like this flag."
     "I have a right to display whatever flag I wish on my own property," the merchant fumed.
     "Colorado is a Union territory!" someone shouted from the crowd, and a roar of agreement went up.
     Hambleton stooped to pick up a rock, which he aimed at the store's expensive glass window.  O'Brien jostled his arm, and the rock struck the wooden wall instead.  Hambleton turned on him, eyes blazing with fury.
     "I wouldn't," O'Brien said, his thumb stroking the hilt of the sharp hunting knife that a flick had brought into his hand.  Hambleton glanced at the blade, and then back at O'Brien's face.  O'Brien knew the look; a fighter thinking, wondering how strong his opponent might be and if flesh could be quicker than blade.
     "Try it then," O'Brien said softly, shifting his grip on the knife.  Someone screamed, and the crowd melted away, leaving Hambleton and O'Brien facing each other across two yards of dirt.
     Logan hurried up to put a hand on the buffalo's shoulder.  "Enough, Josiah," he said.  "It's over."
     Hambleton, nostrils flaring, stared hard at O'Brien, then strode to the merchant and pulled the flag out of his hands.  To the crowd's great delight, he threw it in the dust at Murphy's feet and ground his heel into it.  "No one flies that rag over this city!" he shouted, and the crowd cheered.
     Logan came between his friend and Murphy, and began coaxing Hambleton away.  The buffalo tossed one malevolent glance at O'Brien, who watched him away down the street, then looked at the merchant.  "Best get inside," he said with a jerk of his head.
     Murphy, still angry, picked up his flag and went back into his shop.  Left with nothing to look at, the watchers began to disperse.  O'Brien put away his knife.
     "That was good of you, Red," Hall said slowly.  "You a friend of the Confederate cause?"
     "Just a decent citizen trying to keep the peace," O'Brien answered.  Privately, he thought he was more a damned fool who reacted without thinking.  This quarrel was none of his business.
     "You deserve a reward, then," Hall said.  "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."
     O'Brien glanced at the Criterion, famous for two things; good whiskey, and the rowdy Southerners who made it their haunt.
     "No, I'm not in the mood anymore," he said.  "You go on."
     Hall frowned at him, looking puzzled.  "Murphy's no friend of yours, is he?"
     "No."  O'Brien looked at the empty flagpole atop the store.  No, he wasn't a friend of secession, but he'd seen enough hopes trampled down in the dust to last him a lifetime.  "A flag doesn't belong in the dirt," he said with a shrug.
     A corner of Hall's mouth turned up.  "Why, Red!" he said softly.  "I do believe you have the makings of a patriot!"

Next stop:  Santa Fé

Copyright © 1998 by P.G. Nagle. All rights reserved.