Return To Ballyickeen

By Mike Poppe

Note: This book is a Revised editionof the follow up to another of my novels, "Follow The Sun".
Leaving behind his Mohegan and Arapaho wives and his sons in their cabin in frontier Colorado, Sean Eaton is compelled to return to his homeland of Ireland.
When word came that his cousin Grady had been murdered on the orders of the Earl of Morrison, Sean remembered clearly how that it was Grady who made it possible for him to escape being killed and start a new life in America.
The powerful Earl had learned of Grady's assistance in helping Sean to escape being killed by the Earl's men. Now, Grady was dead, and his wife and children were without a husband and a father. The burden of responsibility lay heavy on Sean's heart, and he knew he could do nothing less than return to Ireland and settle accounts with the man who had ordered Grady's murder.
It was a difficult challenge that lay ahead,and well he knew, that his chances of ever seeing his own family again were remote.
Still, the task ahead was a matter of honor. To Sean Eaton, that was everything, even if it meant the loss his own life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Poppe
• Release date: Aug 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476008929

Mike Poppe

I was born in Rector, Arkansas, a small farming based town in Northeast Arkansas. Later, my parents moved to St. Louis in search of better economic opportunity. At age 16, disallusioned and bored with the “One Size Fits All” educational system, I dropped out in the 10th grade.Just as soon as I turned 17, I joined the Marine Corps. The education the Corps provided, wasn't always polite and pleasant, but it most certainly was not boring. My four year enlistment included one year in South Vietnam. 7 November, 1965 to 6 November, 1966. At the end of my enlistment, having attained the rank of Sgt E-5, I returned to civilian life.After nine months as an Industrial Engineering Clerk, I took advantage of an opportunity to move into transportation. For the next 34 years, I was a dispatcher and driver supervisor in the Trucking Industry.In 2011, the rise in popularity of E-books caught my attention. A life long avid reader, I'd always believed I could write a book, but didn't know how to go about getting it published. The birth of E-Books changed all that. In the fall of 2011, fulfilling a life long dream, I published my first book, The Sparrows Whisper.Today, my wife, Mary Katherine, and I, live in a small rural town in Southwestern Illinois. With the encouragement of family and friends, I've published a total of 13 novels. The split between my books has been divided pretty evenly between Mysteries and Westerns. Work on number 14, is under way.For all those that have taken the time to read my books, I appreciate your interest very much.

Book preview

Chapter One

The man known as Dover watched as an eagle, in search of food for her babies, swooped down and snatched up a squirrel in the grip of her strong talons, then headed west for a distant tree line on the cliffs. Dover, astride the Appaloosa horse given him by the Nez Perce, had been waiting halfway down the hill, among a stand of Pines, for more than a half hour. There were no obvious indicators of danger in sight, yet he had sensed something amiss, and stopped. Having ridden this wild country for most of his life, he had learned that at times, it was wise to rely on his senses more than anything else.

Of course, at times a man's patience is swayed by reasons that cause him to take risks he normally would avoid. Dover, anxious to see a couple of valued friends he hadn't seen in years, decided to make a calculated gamble, and ease on down the hill. No sooner had he nudged his horse into starting down the trail, when a rabbit on his way to the water hole at the bottom of the hill, suddenly darted into the nearby brush. The sudden caution was reason enough for Dover to bring his mount to an abrupt halt.

For more than an hour, Dover continued to wait in the saddle, moving only when he had to. If necessary, he intended to stay right there until the sun went down, before moving on down the hill. While there were always exceptions, most of the tribes in this area tended to avoid fighting at night whenever possible. Ignoring the sting of sweat in his eyes, Dover slipped his knife from it's deer skin scabbard, then held it alongside his leg, to keep sunlight from reflecting off the blade.

Like his owner, the big Appaloosa had spent his life in this country. His own instincts had proven time after time to be dependable. For that reason, when his horse's ears suddenly lifted, Dover immediately turned just in time to avoid a killing slash from a Ute warrior's knife. The cut along his shoulder was a welcome trade in place of the almost certain death the Ute had in mind for him.

No sooner had the Indian hit the ground, than he began scrambling to his feet so he could make another try at the white man. Had Dover reacted a second slower, the lean battled hardened warrior might have made it. Unfortunately for him, the man known only as Dover, had immediately followed him to the ground, where he went on the attack. The Ute was only halfway to his feet, when Dover's razor sharp knife did it's work. When the warrior's apparently lifeless body dropped to the ground, Dover followed up with a quick slash across his throat. The veteran frontiersman had learned long ago that to assume your enemy was dead, was foolishness that could get you killed.

Anticipating there would be at least one more attacker around, Dover immediately turned, hoping to beat his enemy to the first move. Despite his quick reaction, an arrow from the bow of a second Ute attacker went deep into his right side. The horse, like his rider, was a veteran of many such battles. The bond of loyalty between horse and rider, kept him in place at a time when it made the difference in life or death for Dover.

The warrior leaped from his cover and rushed forward to bash in Dover's brains with a war club. Thanks to the discipline of his horse, Dover was able to pull a pistol from his saddle scabbard, before the Ute could bring his war club to bear. A single bullet from Dover's pistol fired at point blank range ended the tall Ute's life. Despite what had just happened, Dover looked down at the two courageous warriors with respect, and hoped that according to their beliefs, both would now go to the plentiful hunting grounds reserved for warriors who died bravely in battle.

Fighting through the pain of his wounds, Dover pulled himself into the saddle, then guided his horse into the thickest cover available nearby. From there, he would wait to see if another attack was forthcoming. Within an hour, animals and birds once again began moving down to the water hole, a fairly certain indicator that whatever Indians might have been nearby, were now gone.

That the other Indians, if indeed there had been more, were gone, came as no surprise to Dover. Two warriors being killed in a surprise attack on one man, would have been considered to be a sign of bad medicine. In comparison to the towns and cities of the white man, Indian villages were usually small, because that was the only way they could keep their people fed. This made the death of even a single warrior, a significant blow to the tribe, for each warrior, was also a hunter needed to help feed his people.

After allowing yet another hour to pass, just in case any of the Utes might have decided to return, Dover rode on down to the water hole. After allowing his horse to drink, the mountain man refilled his canteen and water bag. While his mount grazed on a plot of healthy grass near the water hole, the rider took the edge off his hunger with a snack of the cold flour he carried for times when food was in short supply, or when a fire was a dangerous luxury.

Climbing back into the saddle, the man known as Dover rode due west, eventually picking a spot in heavy cover to spend the night. Before turning in, he used his knife to cut most of the arrow shaft off, leaving the arrowhead and six inches of the shaft still buried in his flesh. He had little choice but to gamble that he might last long enough for the arrow to be removed at a later time.

* * *

A days ride east of the Wind River mountain range, Dover came upon the campsite of a group of trappers. After first hailing the camp from a prudent distance away, and receiving a friendly invitation, he rode slowly into the clearing, keeping his hands in clear sight. Western men tended to be somewhat suspicious of strangers, particularly at night. Dover's arrow wound was worry enough as it was. He wasn't anxious to do something that one of the trappers might misunderstand, and add a bullet in his gut, to his list of problems.

As it turned out, one of the men had a Cheyenne squaw, who he claimed had removed arrowheads out of his own body on two different occasions. With a few of the larger trappers holding Dover still, while he bit down on a piece of buffalo hide, the woman went to work. As quickly and efficiently as she might butcher a buffalo, she cut deep and accurately. When at last she pulled the arrow head from Dover's body, he had already passed out from the pain and his weakened condition. All the men in the camp agreed that a surgeon could not have done a better job, and celebrated with a few rounds of home made whiskey.

Two mornings later, Dover left the squaw his best knife, as a sign of his appreciation, said goodbye to her and the the trappers, then headed south. The frontiersman had not been gone a half hour, when another trapper rode into their camp from the east. After listening to the story of the rider's attack, and the removal of the arrow head from his side, the stranger remarked, Sounds like a man with the bark on. Did he give his name?

Aye, answered a tall trapper with a Scottish accent. I've seen him before. That feller's a man to ride the river with. Goes by the name of Dover.

A voice from the rear of the group asked, What's the rest of his name?

Sorry Laddie, replied the Scotsman. From what I know, that's the only name he'll answer to.

Chapter Two

Rising from the table I'd built with my own hands, I slipped on my deerskin moccasins, then retrieved my rifle from the rack above the door. Mariska, my tall beautiful Mohegan wife, looked up from her cleaning. Sean Eaton, did you have it in mind to just take off without a word of where you are going, and when you might be back? What if you get hurt again? Senta and I won't have a clue as to where we should start searching when you don't come home.

I kissed her, then winked at my young beautiful Arapaho bride.And would ya be believing her now? You'd think I was in the habit of just walking off without a word. Grinning at Mariska, I said, Of course I was going to tell you where I'm going. Don't I always?"

Usually, she agreed. I'm sorry. It's just that I had a dream last night that has me a little on edge.

A dream was it now? Sure and let's hear all about it, so we can toss it aside and move on. What do you say?

Dismissing my suggestion with a quick shake of the head, she replied, There's no need Sean. It was nothing. I guess I was just tired from not sleeping well.

I wasn't buying it, but despite repeated attempts to get Mariska to talk about her dream, she continued to refuse to discuss it. Then she sent me on my way with a firm reminder. Our meat supply is getting lower than it's been in some time. This would be a good day to nail a big animal. One that will feed the five of us for several days.

Although I hadn't mentioned it to either of my wives, I had myself took stock of our provisions, and reached the same conclusion. As I began making my way up a nearby trail, where I'd seen Elk and Bears recently. Keeping meat supplied for my family was always a full time job, but as winter grew nearer, and game became more scarce, success in my hunting became much more critical.

Following a longstanding habit, I turned to check my back trail before I had traveled far from the cabin. To my surprise, off to the east a rider was moving slowly in the direction of our cabin. Slipping behind a group of Ponderosa Pine trees for cover, I watched for several minutes to be sure he was alone. Once satisfied there were no other riders to worry about, I started moving back down the trail.

Arriving back at the cabin, my first move was to alert my wives, so they could stand ready to defend our cabin and our children, should it became necessary. It wouldn't be the first time. Then, I took up a position behind a pile of fallen aspen trees on the south side of the cabin. From there, I would be able to cover the rider with my rifle, all the way to the front door.

The more I watched this rider, the more I was sure I'd run across him before. That he was no pilgrim, was evident from the way he approached the cabin. A greenhorn would have rode straight up to the front door. This man rode first one way, then the other. It slowed his progress, but made it difficult for anyone lying in ambush, to be exactly sure what approach he intended to take next. Even though his head barely moved in any direction, I was sure those eyes were constantly scanning the cover around him, as he drew nearer the cabin.

When at last, the rider pulled up in front of the house, I had the sights on my rifle lined up dead center on his chest. Then, he called out, Hello the house. I'm riding friendly, and hopeful there might be a beautiful woman on the other side of that door. One who knows how to make great coffee.

When I stepped out into the open with my rifle now in the crook of my arm, the rider turned his head in my direction, smiled, and waited for my response.

I returned his smile. Well now, it's glad I am, to hear you're riding friendly. For sure, if I'd killed you by mistake, Mariska would never have let me hear the last of it.

A wide grin crossed the face of the man I knew as Dover. He quickly dismounted, and ambled over to shake my hand.

Sean, there were times when I wondered if I'd ever lay eyes on you and your beautiful wife again. Passing his arm in a sweep of the area, he added, Plain to see, you've learned a mite since I found you knocking on death's door back in Mississippi. In those days, I could have stolen your rifle right out of your hands without your even knowing I was around.

***

Dover's words took me back to my forced exodus from my homeland of Ireland. When I first arrived in America, as a poor hungry seventeen year old refugee with no family, I had been wrongly forced into indentured servitude.

After lulling my guards into believing that I was content with my fate, one night, during a fierce storm, I made my escape. Once outside the prison, disguised as a farm, because I knew my captors would expect me to head south into the cities to hide, I decided to head west instead, into a land I knew nothing about. Fully aware I was, knowing it might well be the death of me, but I'd decided I preferred to die a free man, than live as a slave. Looking back, I knew that I'd had more luck than sense as I kept putting one foot in front of the other, moving westward always.

It was on that trail, that my wife Mariska and I first met. It was the grandest bit of luck a poor Irish lad like myself, could have ever hoped for. What an unlikely pair we made. Me, a refugee from Ireland, with a price on my head, and no reason to expect to stay alive long enough to face the coming winter, and a tall beautiful Mohegan girl, who was returning to her village, after having made her own escape from kidnappers.

Joining up for mutual safety, I'd managed to have a poisonous snake sink his fangs into my arm. Because there are no snakes in Ireland, I'd not a clue as to what I should do. Had it not been for Mariska's wisdom and constant care, I would have died right there on the trail, where all my grand dreams would have died with me.

After staying the winter with the Mohegan people, Mariska and I were married, then headed west to find a place where we could build a future together. Along the way, Dover stumbled upon us in Mississippi at a time when we were both in grave danger. Truth was, he was to save our lives a couple of times, before he eventually headed north for his annual visit to spend the winter with the Nez Perce, who kept a lodge for him.

* * *

Bringing my thoughts back to the present, I shook Dover's hand, then replied. It's true that I've learned a few things, but most of what I know, I learned from you before you left. Come on inside. Mariska will be happy to see you again, but I'm damned if I know why.

Before I could reach for the door, it flew open and Mariska, smiling from ear to ear, rushed out and threw her arms around our former trail partner so enthusiastically, that he struggled to stay on his feet.

Dover, we've missed you so much. Every day when I'm making coffee, I catch myself half expecting you to ride up begging for a fresh cup of coffee. Holding him at arm's length, she flashed a big grin. Those pretty young Nez Perce girls must have been taking really good care of you. I swear, you look younger than when we last saw you.

Dover winked. Well Ma'am, maybe so, but truth is, I reckon those girls would be glad to tell you that I've been taking pretty good care of them.

Mariska said, Of that I have no doubt. Then she grabbed him by the hand, and led him to the cabin door. Come on in. I'm dying to hear what you have been up to these past three years.

As we stepped inside, the first thing Dover saw, was a beautiful eighteen year old girl standing beside two young boys. Mariska reached out and took the girl's hand. Senta, you have heard us talk about Dover. Well, at last, here he is.

I pointed to Senta and the boys. Dover, this is Senta, my second wife. Her father is the chief of the Arapaho village over on the bank of the South Platte. The oldest boy is Chance Dover Eaton. Mariska is his mother. The youngest child is Patrick Grady Eaton. Senta is his birth mother.

Mariska poured Dover a cup of coffee and watched nervously as he took his first sip. Her eyes brightened when he said, Ma'am, you still make the best coffee I've ever tasted. It's worth the ride down here from the other side of Montana.

She smiled and shook her head. After all this time, and all we have been through together, and you still call me, Ma'am."

Yes Ma'am, he answered. I reckon I don't change much.

Mariska gave him a hug. Well, enjoy your coffee, while I try to bring you up to date on what you have missed during your absence.

Taking four steps to her right, she wrapped her arm around Senta. "As Sean told you, Senta is his second wife. Her father is Tadu, chief of the Arapaho people now camped over on the South Platte. He is also Sean's blood brother. During our