That last was met with a murmur of agreement.
“And the girl . . . what’s her name?”
“Flora March,” a man said.
“Hang her,” Perry barked. “Wherever you find her, don’t waste any time. Just string her up. Now is that also clear?”
“Sure is, boss,” a man said.
“I’ll pay a thousand dollar bonus to the man who brings me O’Brien’s head in a sack and his eyes on a plate,” Perry offered.
That brought a cheer that he cut short, much to Jacob’s relief. He didn’t want to be the only sourpuss at the party.
“All right. You men be about your business,” Perry said. “Be advised, I want only two searchers at any given time. We must leave enough guards on the foundry floor to keep the trolls in check. Mr. Ross, you will remain in the construction bay and Mr. Killick so will you. You two men stay. The rest of you may go.”
After the foremen filed out of the office, Perry asked, “How long to repair the damage to the prototype ship, Mr. Killick?”
“I have men working on it right now,” the little man said. “She’ll be ready to go by this time tomorrow, evening at the latest.”
Perry looked at Jacob. “Mr. Ross, how are your gun crews?”
“Trained and ready,” Jacob said. That was true. Under Manuel Cantrell’s tutelage, the Mexicans were a quick study.
Perry nodded. “Very well. The bombardment of Big Buck will take place the day after tomorrow. And you have been informed about the bomb?”
“Sure have. It will blow what’s left of the town and its people to smithereens.”
Perry allowed himself a smile. “I’m warming up to you, Mr. Ross. We’re both on the same page of the book.” He picked a small piece of blotting paper from the corner of his mouth and stared at it a moment. “Despite my anger over yesterday’s spoiled outing, this O’Brien business is in fact a trivial matter. My men will find him and kill him. It’s as simple as that. Count Von Jungen will return soon and I want to show him a destroyed town and say, ‘Look. This was done by a small air weapon, mein lieber Graf. Imagine what a full-sized, twenty-four gun steam frigate will do.’” Perry smiled. “Are you catching my drift, Mr. Ross?”
Jacob nodded. “The count will be suitably impressed.”
“Excellent! Now I’m in a good mood again.” Perry reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a Colt. “I’ll take a stroll around the foundry and shoot the first troll I see slacking. It doesn’t compare to a hunt for a harlot, but it does relieve my anxiety.” He stared at Jacob. “Keep uppermost in your mind that the frigates are everything. Millions of dollars are at stake, Mr. Ross. Oh dear, yes, many, many millions.”
* * *
“So this Shawn O’Brien feller played hob, huh?” Jacob asked Killick as they walked back to the construction bay.
“The man’s not human. Damn him, he became the aggressor. He went at us like a starving wolf after a lamb.”
Jacob felt a surge of brotherly pride. Nobody ever considered the Town Tamer a pushover and he’d proved it yesterday out there in the scrub country.
Killick was talking again. “Poor Mr. Breens was struck by one of O’Brien’s bullets and then fell to his death. And I don’t even want to talk about Mr. Kilcoyn. His left buttock hurts terribly, I’m told.”
Jacob decided to play the loyal employee. “Well, now Shawn O’Brien’s reign of terror will come to an end. Mr. Perry has seen to that.”
Killick shook his head. “No, Mr. Ross, I’m not too sure it will. I’m not too sure it will at all.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Shawn O’Brien stared into the hotel room mirror and did not like what he saw. His face still showed the purple and yellow legacy of the kicking he’d taken and his eyes had an odd, haunted expression. He looked . . . vulnerable . . . and that was death to an O’Brien.
Flora March lay on her back in the bed, her arm over her eyes hiding tears. She had no confidence that he could protect her from Caleb Perry. She’d refused a room of her own, clinging to whatever slender protection Shawn represented.
Turning his attention to the mirror again, he searched for any lingering trace of the Town Tamer. He thought he’d rediscovered that young man yesterday during his battle with the flying machine, but whatever he’d found was gone, holed up in a hotel room with a terrified girl who barely spoke to him. Unable to bear the sight of the man in the mirror, he turned away and stepped to the window. Nothing had changed. The street was still thronged with wagons and people crowded the boardwalks—mostly plump matrons with shopping baskets over their arms and a few young belles wearing impossibly small top hats above their swept-up hair, bustles of the largest size, and layers of petticoats that made their high-heeled ankle boots look like they were wading through snow. Big-bellied businessman sporting gold watch chains as thick as shackles tipped their hats to the matrons and smiled at the belles, who fluttered the black fans of their eyelashes in appreciation.
Big Buck hadn’t changed. Only Shawn O’Brien had changed.
Flora lifted her forearm from her eyes. “What do you see?”
Without turning, Shawn said, “The street. Every time I look out this window, I see the street.”
“Is there coffee in this hotel?”
“Yes. There’s an urn downstairs. Do you want a cup?”
“I could sure use it.” Tears reddened her eyes. “You can leave me for that long. I’m not going to walk out on you, Professor.”
Shawn smiled. “A woman has already done that to me. I’m getting used to it.”
“Who was she?”
“Someone you don’t know. I’ll get your coffee.”
“I’d like a bathtub.”
“I’ll talk with the clerk. I’m sure that could be arranged.”
“And soap.”
“Normally that goes with the tub and so does a towel. Even in Big Buck.” He put on his hat, buckled on his gun belt, and stepped out the door . . . into hell.
* * *
Nine times out of ten a few hard words precede a gunfight. Only when the talking is done does the fight commence and the conflict is then summed up in two or three seconds. But Bonzo Hones and Gus Orlo, Abaddon foremen both, were not, by nature, talking men.
It was Hones who uttered the only words spoken that morning when he saw Shawn on the stair landing . . . “That’s him!”
Hones’s gun came up pretty fast. Orlo, surprised by the suddenness of the confrontation, was a tad slower.
Shawn O’Brien was faster on the draw and shoot than either of them.
The moment he heard, “That’s him!” and saw Hones go for his gun, Shawn drew and fired. Orlo drew, but Shawn ignored him and pumped a second bullet into Hones. The man roared, threw up his hands and as his Colt clattered onto the stairs, he toppled backward onto Orlo. Both men fell but Orlo got off a shot that thudded into the stair riser just under Shawn’s boots. In a tangle of arms and legs, the Abaddon gunmen clattered down the entire staircase and landed in a heap at the bottom. Orlo, thin and wiry, pushed the large, dead bulk of Hones off him and quickly scrambled to his feet. He looked around for his fallen Colt and an expression of horror flashed across his face when he saw that it was on a stair halfway between him and Shawn.
Orlo’s long, narrow face grew longer as he stared up at Shawn. “Hell, I’m a dead man.”
Shawn nodded to the blue Colt on the stair. “Pick it up and get to your work.”
For a moment, Orlo hesitated, then he made a dash for the revolver, taking the stairs two at a time. Shawn let the man pick up the Colt before he shot him.
Hit hard, the gunman leaned against the balustrade and his gun slipped from his hand. “You didn’t give me an even break, damn you.”
“I live longer that way. What’s your name?”
“Gus Orlo.”
“Good night, Gus.” Shawn fired and the man crashed through the flimsy bannister and thudded onto the floor . . . at the feet of Claude Finain, the nervous desk clerk.
Finain’s horrified gaze lifted from the dead men to Shawn on the landing. He didn’t say a word, just stared, his mouth agape.
“They wanted a fight,” Shawn said as he thumbed fresh shells into his Colt. “They got one.”
Like a man waking from a bad dream, Finain said. “Both these boys work for Abaddon.”
“Not any longer. I just retired them.”
The shooting had attracted a crowd that gathered outside the hotel door, but it parted to let Mayor John Deakins through. “What’s going on here?”
“You see it, Mayor,” Finain said. “O’Brien shot them both.”
Shawn’s boots and spurs sounded on the stairs and then he stepped into the lobby. “They drew down on me, Mayor. I didn’t get time to pass the time of day.”
Deakins looked ill. “That’s Bonzo Hones and Gus Orlo, Abaddon men. Mr. Perry is not going to like this.”
“I don’t suppose he will.” Shawn looked at the bodies. “They were surefire killers and didn’t amount to much.”
“Two against one,” Deakins said. “I suppose it’s a clear case of self-defense, Sheriff.”
Shawn nodded. “I suppose.”
“Then that’s it,” the mayor said. “One of you men out there, get the undertaker.”
“No,” Shawn disagreed. “I want Caleb Perry to take care of them. They’re his.”
Deakins was stunned. “I can’t ask Mr. Perry to do a thing like that.”
“No, but I can.” Shawn pushed past Deakins and the gawkers and stepped into the street. After a few moments, he saw what he was looking for—a brewery dray drawn by two Percherons stood outside the saloon. He crossed the street.
Ambrose Hellen met him at the door. “All right. What happened, O’Brien?”
“Two of Perry’s men drew down on me.”
“Their mistake.”
“Seems like.”
The driver of the dray, a small, wiry man named Winter Quale, came out from the gloom behind the bar. “Just in time, Sheriff. A new load of Milwaukee’s finest right off the train, guaranteed fresh and ready to bust heads.”
“Glad to hear it,” Shawn said. “I’m commandeering your wagon for police work.”
The little man shook his head. “That won’t do, Sheriff. I still got deliveries to make and I’m always on time. Quale by name, Quale by nature, folks always say.”
“I’ll bring it back soon.” Shawn looked at Hellen. “Shotgun?”
The bartender nodded, stepped inside, came back with the Greener, and handed it to Shawn. “It’s loaded. Double-aught buck.”
“I’m obliged.” Shawn turned and yelled across the street, “You men, carry those bodies over here.”
“Now see here, Sheriff . . .” Quale said.
“Mister, don’t give me problems when I’ve got a scattergun in my hands,” Shawn said. “I get all nervous and twitchy.”
Winter Quale read the writing on that wall clear enough and he beat a hasty retreat. “Just don’t damage my beer.”
Shawn grinned. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The two dead men were loaded onto the back of the dray where there was space.
One of the makeshift pallbearers asked, “Where are you talking these boys, Sheriff?”
“Back to the feller who sent them.”
“I sure hope you know what you’re doing,” the man said.
“So do I.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The Percheron team handled well but would not be hurried as befits horses that haul a precious commodity like beer. The trouble was that their slow pace gave Shawn O’Brien time to think, the last thing he wanted. Too much thinking made a man build obstacles on a bridge he hadn’t crossed yet and could weaken his resolve . . . but not for a moment did Shawn consider turning back. He was about to toss the dice and he’d live or die by how they rolled.
To the north, the sky had a strange amber tint as though a dust storm was kicking somewhere. A single buzzard rode the upper level winds, a black shape gliding as effortlessly as a fallen angel. Abaddon loomed in the middle distance, more fortress than foundry. Three men stood outside the main door, their backs against its iron panels. They saw Shawn coming but didn’t stir. To their mind, a brewery dray was a welcome sight that did not offer any kind of threat.
That changed when one of the Abaddon gunmen recognized him and whispered a warning to the others. The three became alert, their rifles at the ready.
Shawn saw no friendly faces in the group as he halted the team. “Howdy boys.” The butt plate of the Greener rested on his right thigh and its hammers were back.
“What the hell do you want?” The guard had a thick black mustache and heavy eyebrows.
“Got a couple of your friends in the back,” Shawn said.
“They drunk?” Eyebrows asked.
“If they were, I’d say they were dead drunk, but since they were sober when I shot them, I’ll just call them dead. Tell Perry to get out here and collect what’s his.”
After studying on that for a spell, Eyebrows motioned to a younger companion. “Ellis, go back there and see what the hell he’s raving about.”
Shawn let the fore end of the shotgun slap into his left hand. “Shuck the rifle and belt gun first, Ellis. I’m not what you’d call a trusting man.”
Ellis looked at Eyebrows for guidance.
“Do as he says.”
Ellis laid his Winchester on the ground and placed his Colt beside it.
“Step easy now, Ellis,” Shawn said. “Like you were in church.”
The man walked to the back of the wagon and after a few moments sang out, “Esau, it’s Bonzo Hones and Gus Orlo.”
“They dead?”
“Yup.”
“You sure?”
“I’ve never seen two rannies deader.”
Esau glared at Shawn. “Well?”
“They drew down on me.”
“Bonzo and Gus were good men. Fast on the draw.”
“Not fast enough, apparently.” Shawn kept his eyes on Esau as he yelled, “Ellis, get them down from there. I don’t want them two souring the beer.”
“Mister,” Esau said, “don’t you know that you’re already a dead man?”
“I’ve reckoned that a time or two before now, but I’m still here. Now get Perry and tell him to come outside and claim his dead. Tell him the Town Tamer is here and that he’s himself again.”
Esau nodded to the third man who took a massive iron key from his belt, unlocked the door, and stepped into the inferno.
Shawn smiled at Esau.
The man tried to ignore him but said finally, “You got nothing to smile about, O’Brien.”
Shawn’s smile stayed in place. “As long as I’m holding this here scattergun, neither have you.” He glanced at the sky. “Funny kind of day, huh? Overcast sky but real hot. Makes a man wish he was up north somewhere, Montana way maybe.”
“Texas is good enough for me,” Esau said.
“I’d say you’d a pretty rough upbringing, Esau, but you had a good mother, huh?”
“You keep my mother out of it. Just shut your trap.”
“I had a good mother, but she died when I was still young. That’s hard on a boy, having no mother. I have a fine pa though. How was your pa, Esau?”
“I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Why not, Esau?”
“You’re the devil.”
“Nah. I’m a living saint.”
“You’re a damned mick. Every mick I ever met was the devil. My pa told me it’s all that damn popery that turns people into devils.”
“Ah, he must have been a fine man, your father,” Shawn said.
“The hell he was. I was ten years old when he was hung fer a hog thief.”
“I’m right sorry to hear that, Esau. Ellis, just you let them guns lay right where they’re at.”
The man looked defiant, but Esau said, “Let them be, Ellis. He’ll kill you if you don’t.”
“Listen t
o Esau, boy,” Shawn said. “He gives good advice like his pa taught him before he was hung for stealing a hog.”
“Don’t talk to him, Ellis,” Esau said. “He’s a devil.”
How that conversation might have ended Shawn would never know because the door opened and Jacob O’Brien stepped outside, followed by two gunmen and finally Caleb Perry.
Shawn was surprised by how short Perry was, but the man was very muscular and his rugged face looked as though it had been chipped from granite. He reminded Shawn of the hard-bitten ranchers he’d known as a boy.
Like them Perry wore a holstered Colt. “You got something to say to me, O’Brien?”
“Yeah, I have. Bury your dead.” He glared at Jacob. “And you, the one with the shifty eyes, keep your hand away from your gun.”
“Do it, Mr. Ross,” Perry said. “The scoundrel has the shotgun aimed right at my belly and he’s liable to use it.”
Shawn nodded. “Wise words. Double-aught buck can scramble a man’s guts. I said keep your hand away from the iron, mister. I won’t tell you again.”
Suppressing a grin, Jacob let his hand drop. “You scare me, O’Brien.”
“I should. I’m the Town Tamer, a title I don’t take lightly.”
“Is ‘bury your dead’ all you have to say to me, O’Brien?” Perry snarled.
“Yes, Perry, that and a warning: The more men you send against me, the more of them I’ll kill. Soon, you’ll be the only one left and then I’ll kill you.
“Oh, there’s one more thing. You’re a lowdown piece of human vermin, walking, talking filth, and I look forward to the day I put a bullet in you and rid the world of a monster.”
“O’Brien, you won’t live beyond tomorrow,” Perry threatened, his face black with anger. “Count on it.”
Jacob offered advice. “O’Brien, after making a threat like that, I suggest you lie low. Understand me? Just lie real low.”
“No need for that, Mr. Ross. O’Brien is aware that he’s a dead man.” Perry stepped to the door and one of his gunmen opened it. “If he makes any kind of fancy move with the shotgun, kill him. Otherwise let him go.”
Jacob looked at his brother with amused eyes. “Ta tu fear dusachtach.”
Better Off Dead Page 17