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Updated: May 31, 2025
My parents, John and Mary Sheridan, came to America in 1830, having been induced by the representations of my father's uncle, Thomas Gainor, then living in Albany, N. Y., to try their fortunes in the New World: They were born and reared in the County Cavan, Ireland, where from early manhood my father had tilled a leasehold on the estate of Cherrymoult; and the sale of this leasehold provided him with means to seek a new home across the sea.
"I'd believe that if I seen it," he declared. "Pal, it wasn't Terry that done the talking; it was Gainor. He's seen a good deal of gunplay, and said that Terry's was the coolest he ever watched." "All right for that part of it," said Joe Pollard. "Suppose he's fast but can I use him?
Had it been a lesser deed, they might have let him go. But his victim was too distinguished in their society. He had struck down Joe Minter; the ghost of the great Black Jack himself seemed to have stalked out among them. "You're going to get young Terry Hollis?" interpreted Gainor, and his voice rose and rang over them. Those who had slipped past him on either side came back and faced him.
A slow man it is, but intelligent," says my Aunt Gainor; "sure to get himself right, and patient too. You will see, Hugh; he will come slowly to understand these people." I smiled at the good lady's confidence, and yet she was right. They took him ill at first in that undisciplined camp, and queer things were said of him.
And his courtesy before the first shot was simply the surety of the man who knew that no matter what advantage he gave to his enemy, his own speed of hand would more than make up for it. Gainor, reading their minds, paid no more heed to them. He went straight across the room and took the hand of Elizabeth.
There must have been in this troubled country many such sad scenes as I have tried to recall. Father and son were to part with hot words, brother to take sides against brother. My unpleasant half-hour was but prophetic of that which was to come in worse shape, and to last for years. My Aunt Gainor said, "Do not tell your mother," and I assuredly did not. "He will tell her.
Is that all?" I added. I feared any long talk with my father. We were as sure to fall out at last as were he and my Aunt Gainor. "Yes," he said; "that is all. And tell Wilson to bring me the invoice of the 'Saucy Sally." This time neither of us had lost temper. He had transacted a piece of business which concerned my soul, and I had listened.
My last disaster and poor Jack's wound seemed like enough to widen the gap between me and my parent, and my Aunt Gainor was troubled. "You must be first to tell him," said my aunt. "I think he will say but little. He has given you up as a sheep lost in the darkness of iniquity, and too black to be found easily." I begged her not to jest. I was sore and sick at heart.
She reminded me once more of my father in his better days. Her hands were clasped behind her, which is, I think, a rare attitude with women. Her large head, crowned with a great coil of gray hair which seemed to suit its massive build, was bent forward as if in thought. "What is it, Aunt Gainor?" She did not pause in her walk or look up, and only motioned me to a seat, saying, "Sit down.
There has been a disagreement between two men of honor. The sheriff is now badly wounded. I think that is all. Does anybody want to ask questions about what has happened?" There was a bustle in the group of men. They were putting away the weapons, not quite sure what they could do next. "I am going to tell you exactly what has happened," said Gainor.
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