Clouston sighed. “Yes, perhaps you’re right, Nate. I blame myself for asking too much of you.”
“I’ll get it right the next time, boss. Kill a dozen, maybe, an’ get them Chinamen riled up real good.”
“Is that ever so, Nate? Then we are perfect friends again.”
Clouston indicated to the floor in front of him. “Come, kneel before me and I will impart my blessing and pray that we mend fences.”
If Tryon thought that strange, he didn’t let it show. He kneeled in front of Clouston, removed his hat, and lowered his head.
He died so quickly it’s doubtful he felt the ax blow that split his skull open. Nor did he have time to realize that Dr. Thomas Clouston did not tolerate failure.
As Tryon toppled over onto his side, the doctor yelled, “Somebody!”
A few moments later a couple of his men stepped into the parlor.
“Remove that,” Clouston said. “It’s leaking brains all over my floor.”
He puffed his pipe into life and without visible emotion watched his men drag the corpse outside.
“Oh, Hansen,” he called out. “Has Wilson arrived with the new men yet?”
The man called Hansen dropped his part of the deadweight burden and said, “Not yet, boss.”
“Then let me know when they do,” Clouston said. “I want to welcome them to our merry outlaw band.”
The doctor’s anger had somewhat abated now the guilty party had been punished, but he vowed he’d no longer put trust in the Chinese.
With the new men he’d recruited—hopefully Dan Wilson had done his job—a direct assault on Broken Bridle was the obvious course.
The only real opposition he’d face was Burt Becker and his gunmen, but they could be overwhelmed, especially if his straw men idea went as planned.
Clouston sighed. The burden of command was indeed a heavy one.
Then he sat upright with a jolt, remembering something he’d almost forgotten . . . his reason for journeying to Wyoming in the first place.
Suppose he hadn’t cured Hugo Harcourt, one of his last patients before he was booted from the medical profession? Suppose, even after his best efforts, the man had remained stark, raving mad? Could he have imagined the stuff about the Rattlesnake Hills and sent him on a wild goose chase?
Clouston sat back in his chair and thought the problem through.
No, it was impossible of course. When Dr. Thomas Clouston said a madman was cured, then he was cured, especially when his family had paid a small fortune for his treatment.
Hugo’s millionaire father had his finger on the pulse of the New York business scene, where rumors were rampant about the hills and the millions that could be made. And old Sanderson Harcourt himself had provided that information, not his idiot son.
Clouston smiled to himself.
No, all was well. But the Chinese still remained the key.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Chinese riot had the town of Broken Bridle on high alert as Burt Becker struggled out of bed, fighting back the pain of his broken ribs and fractured jaw.
For a moment he held on to the headboard as the room spun around him and the floor rocked under his feet. But Becker’s pain and weakness filled him with a mighty resolve.
For every moment of agony he suffered, Shawn O’Brien would be paid back a hundredfold. In the end the pretty boy would beg for death and Becker would laugh in his face, then kick his damned teeth in.
Unsteadily, the big man made his way to his hotel room window and pulled wide the curtains. Immediately he was bathed in morning light; yet there were already armed men in the street, on guard and ready.
What the hell had happened?
Becker had no time to ponder that question, because the door opened and Sunny Swanson stepped inside. She looked more school ma’am than saloon whore. Her morning dress was gray with white at the collars and cuffs as befitted a respectable young lady, and her hair was pulled back in a severe chignon.
“You shouldn’t be out of bed,” she said.
Becker tried to speak but the tight bandage wrapped around his jaw stifled his words.
“Hnn . . . hnn . . . hnn . . .” he said, his head jerking back and forth from the effort. He didn’t try to speak again.
Sunny put down the bowl of thin beef broth she carried. “Back to bed and eat this, Mr. Becker,” she said, waggling a forefinger. “You’re a very naughty boy.”
Becker ignored that and the broth and slowly, laboriously, and painfully he began to climb into his clothes. As he pulled on his boots Sunny chided him unmercifully, but he ignored her, his mind fixed on what had happened in the town.
He didn’t ask himself any more questions. He’d discover all the answers he needed very soon. But now her nursemaid job was apparently over, Sunny decided to fill Becker in on what had happened while he lay unconscious.
“The Chinese rioted yesterday,” she said. “They tortured Dave Grambling to death, turned his body inside out the newspaper says.”
The girl read the question on Becker’s surprised face. “Seven white men dead and twice that number of Chinese,” she said. “That’s what the paper says.”
The big man’s expression changed from amazement to concern.
“Pete Caradas wasn’t among them,” she said.
Relief flooded through Becker. He buckled on his revolvers, then shrugged, wincing, into his frockcoat. He got his wallet from the inside pocket and threw some bills onto the bedside table.
“Sssanks,” he said through teeth as tight as a bear trap.
Sunny picked up the money, gave it a onceover, smiled, then said, “You’re welcome. You can call on me anytime, Mr. Becker.”
Becker nodded and picked up the soup bowl. He tilted back his head and let the broth trickle into his mouth until it was gone. The bandage under his chin was stained brown.
The beef broth helped, but Becker felt weak and light-headed. He was in no shape for a fight of any kind, not today and probably not tomorrow, or even next week.
For the first time in his life he felt powerless and vulnerable.
He walked to the door, opened it for Sunny . . . and took his first step into hell.
The early morning sun hung in the blue sky like a gold coin as Burt Becker stood on the porch of the hotel and lit a cigar. To his joy a man could still smoke, even with a broken jaw.
Men with rifles lounged on boardwalks and stared at the pretty women who passed, then exchanged grins and whispers.
But most of the riflemen, at least a dozen in number, were concentrated at the western edge of town where they could meet any attack from the Chinese.
Usually at this time of day, the tent city would be noisy, clamoring with Oriental voices, but that morning it was eerily silent, as though holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
A locomotive, two cars and a boxcar attached, hissed and steamed on the track like a snoozing dragon. The engineer leaned out his window and talked to Sheriff Purdy, who looked small and insignificant beside the massive bulk of the 4-4-0.
There were no passengers in sight, and no Chinese, either.
Worrisome that, Becker thought, kind of eerie. But no matter, his fight must be with crazy Tom Clouston, not with a bunch of rioting Orientals.
Becker’s battered face and hogtied jaw drew the attention of what he called the local yokels. Some of the men on guard stared in his direction and sniggered.
In no shape to fight, he decided it was high time he was off the street and into the dark, cool confines of the Streetcar Saloon.
And that led to another thought.
Had that mouthy little slut Jane Collins been fed in his absence? If not she must be mighty hungry about now. Ah well, serve her right for being so damned uppity. Becker’s grin hurt his jaw.
“Riders coming in,” one of the guards yelled.
Becker’s eyes probed the wagon road that led into town. Two men were coming on at a walk, sitting their horses straight, like cavalryme
n on parade. Army officers, maybe, he thought.
Becker was about to dismiss the men, but as they drew closer the black and white cowhide vest one of them wore caught his eye.
June Lacour wore a vest like that.
So he and Little Face Denton hadn’t been killed! Somehow two of his top gun hands had survived and this was going to be a cause for celebration. A man with a broken jaw could still drink whiskey.
Smiling tight, Becker walked forward to greet his men. But after ten paces he stopped.
And learned that a man with a broken jaw could also scream.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“I never heard a man make a sound like that,” Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy said. “And I never saw a man fall apart the way Burt Becker did.”
“Straw men, you say?” Hamp Sedley said.
“They was skun,” said Utah Beadles, a mean old former range cook Purdy had sworn in as a deputy after the Chinese troubles.
The young sheriff answered the question on Shawn O’Brien’s face.
“Both men had been skinned by an expert,” he said. “The skins were stuffed with straw, even the faces and most of the hands.”
“June Lacour and Little Face Denton,” Shawn said. “You’re sure it was them?”
“Damn sure,” Beadles said.
The new deputy had a huge head, and a few strands of lank gray hair dripped from under his hat and fell on his shoulders. His left eye was as white as a seashell, but his shooting eye was blue and keen. Beadles was a thin old man, but he was significant.
“It was them all right,” Purdy said. “Becker called out their names over and over.”
“Where is Becker?” Shawn said.
“He was carried into the Streetcar.”
“His eyes rolling in his head, raving like a lunatic,” Beadles said. “I guess ol’ Burt never seen fellers skun afore.”
“Have you?” Sedley asked. He’d decided to dislike the old-timer.
Beadles was nonplussed. “Down to the Strawberry River way I seen a puncher after the Utes got through with him. His name was Bob Hughes and he got hisself skun from big toes to scalp. A rum one was ol’ Bob, an’ no mistake. He was too fond of squaws and in the end that done for him.”
“Some Ute women are said to be real pretty,” Sedley said, warming to the deputy a little.
“I reckon they are,” Beadles said. “But I always was keen on Cheyenne gals myself, the younger the better. Sun dries them out early.”
“Where are the”—Shawn hesitated a heartbeat—“the bodies?”
“At the livery,” Purdy said. “Utah and me got them off the street in a hurry. The folks in this town are scared enough, and those two boys don’t need a doctor.”
The four men stood on the boardwalk and now the young sheriff looked in the direction of the Rattlesnake Hills. “Damn those drums,” he said. Then, “O’Brien, do you want to take a look at the—” He waved a despairing hand.
“Yeah,” Shawn said. “I doubt if we’ll learn anything, but it’s worth a try.”
“Learn anything?” Beadles said. “Hell, sonny, we all know who done it.”
“The crazy doc you mean?” Sedley said.
“None other,” Beadles said. “Listen to the damned drums, sonny. You think they ain’t on the brag, telling us he done it?”
It did seem to Shawn that the drums were louder, more insistent and menacing.
Purdy turned bleak, hopeless eyes to him. “This town has five new widows and a grieving mother,” he said. “God knows, the Chinese may have three times that number.”
“You’re telling me you won’t ride against Clouston?” Shawn said.
“I’m telling you Broken Bridle won’t accept more dead men, O’Brien. The women sure as hell won’t.”
“What about Becker’s hired guns?” Sedley said.
“What hired guns? Now he’s only got Pete Caradas and a couple more.”
“Except ol’ Burt ain’t fit to do anything, not after he saw them straw men,” Beadles said.
“Shawn, you got friends in Washington,” Sedley said. “Call in some favors and get the army here. Hell, a troop of cavalry will be enough to take care of Doc Clouston and his guns.”
“This is a civilian matter and the army is already stretched thin with the Indian problem,” Purdy said. “You can wire Washington, O’Brien, but I don’t think you’ll get anywhere.”
“I don’t think so, either,” Shawn said. “Besides, it’s my father who has the ear of the government bigwigs. I reckon we have it to do by ourselves.”
“Tell me how,” Purdy said. He looked incredible young and vulnerable, like a timid twelve-year-old surrounded by bullies.
“I don’t know how,” Shawn said. “Not yet I don’t. But I think this town is worth saving. Make what you will of that, Sheriff.”
The men shuffled to one side of the boardwalk to let a pretty woman in a poke bonnet pass. She had a couple of young ’uns clinging to her skirt.
But the woman stopped and said to Purdy, “Sheriff, is it true that the Chinese have threatened to murder us all in our beds?”
Purdy managed a smile. “Who told you that, Mrs. Wright?” he said.
“Mrs. McGivney told me. She heard it from Mrs. Scott who heard it from—”
“Madam, I assure you that you’re quite safe,” Purdy said. “The Chinese harbor no ill will toward Broken Bridle and its citizens.”
“Well, I hope not,” the woman said. “Mr. Wright is talking about pulling up stakes and heading for Cheyenne where it’s safe for a young family like ours.” She put her hands to her ears. “Away from those awful drums.”
“No need to leave, Mrs. Wright,” Purdy said. “You and your husband and children will be perfectly safe and sound, I assure you.”
“I do hope so, Sheriff,” the woman said. “Mr. Wright has been unwell of late and is under the doctor’s care. I do worry about him so.”
Shawn O’Brien touched his hat and smiled.
“Give Mr. Wright our regards, ma’am, and tell him we wish him a speedy recovery.”
The woman dropped a little curtsy and said, “Thank you, kind sir.”
Shawn bowed. “Your obedient servant, ma’am.”
After Mrs. Wright left with her brood, Sedley grinned and said, “Shawn, you’re still very much the Southern gentleman, aren’t you?”
“Is there any other kind of gentleman?” Shawn said.
The straw men had been removed from their horses and were propped in a corner of the livery and partially covered with hay.
Shawn O’Brien pulled the straw away and his breath caught in his throat. Beside him he heard Hamp Sedley’s sharp intake of breath.
The skins were grotesque, stuffed with prairie grass and straw and then held upright with a T-shaped frame before they were tied onto the horses.
There was no longer anything human about them.
The eyes, nose cavities, and mouths looked like holes burned in canvas with a cigar. Shawn couldn’t tell June Lacour or Little Face Denton apart.
“This is an obscene thing to do to men,” Sedley said.
“From all I’ve heard about Clouston, the man himself is an obscenity,” Shawn said. “In the name of medical science he’s taken more innocent lives than the West’s worst outlaws combined.” He stood and stared at the vile things that once had been men. “Judging by the amount of blood on their hides, Lacour and Denton were not dead when this happened to them,” he said.
“Skinned alive, by God,” Sedley said.
“I reckon that’s how it was,” Shawn said. “Nothing they ever did in life deserved such a death.”
He covered up the remains again and said, “Later, I guess this is what we bury and call them bodies.”
“It will be kinda like burying a well-dressed gent’s duds instead of him,” Sedley said.
“Yeah. Kinda like that,” Shawn said. He stepped to the barn door. “Let’s go talk with Burt Becker.”
“Is that wise, Shawn?” S
edley asked. “He’s liable to take one look at you and start shooting.”
“From what I hear, Becker is in no shape to shoot anybody,” Shawn said.
“Unless he’s faking it,” Sedley said. “He’s a sneaky one is ol’ Burt.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The two D’eth brothers rode across the grass and sagebrush country west of Savage Peak. Ahead of them lay uplifted, craggy mountains of red granite rock, here and there stands of limber pine, aspen, and juniper.
It was wild, untamed country, hard and unforgiving, but no wilder or harder than the two young men who rode among its shadows.
Both were tall, lean as hungry wolves, their eyes, mustaches, and hair black as ink, a mark of their French Roma heritage. Each carried an ivory-handled Colt shoved into his waistband and a boot knife with a three-inch steel blade.
Petsha and Milos D’eth were twins, two separate bodies conjoined in spirit—heartless, pitiless, vicious assassins for hire who came at a bargain rate, two for the price of one.
But lawmen from Texas to Montana would swear that one D’eth twin was plenty more than enough.
When the brothers spotted the sagging clapboard cabin ahead of them they drew rein. A trickle of smoke rose from the chimney and a pregnant sow rooted in the front yard.
At the same time both men kneed their horses forward, and when they were within a few feet of the door they again halted.
After a few moments a dour, bearded man stepped outside. He held a Sharps rifle across his chest.
“Go away. I have nothing for you,” he said.
Now, a man with even a lick of sense should have known that strangers who rode blood horses and dressed in the broadcloth and white linen finery of gentlemen don’t seek handouts.
But John Layton, tinpan miner and former farm laborer, was far from being a smart man. Not that it made any difference, since the D’eth brothers planned on killing him anyway, stupid or clever.
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