Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  Suddenly Caradas was angry. “Sedley, I warn you, don’t ever do that again. If they’d drawn down on me you’d have been between me and them, obscuring my targets. That’s the only edge the D’eth brothers need.”

  Sedley was apologetic and shrugged his shoulders high, hands spread. “Hell, Pete, they don’t even know you work for Burt Becker.”

  “Maybe they don’t, but I can’t count on that.” Caradas forced himself to simmer down. “Just don’t pull a grandstand play like that again.”

  “Shawn?” Sedley said.

  “Man’s right, Hamp. If they’d had a mind to, the D’eth boys could have used you for cover.” Shawn smiled. “You’d have been a great loss to the gambling profession.”

  Caradas nodded. “I usually just shoot people who get in my way, Hamp.” But he said it grinning and Sedley took no offense.

  Sedley’s rash move had been a minor irritation, nothing more.

  But much worse was to come, and soon the death knell would toll in Broken Bridle.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  At first Shawn O’Brien thought a fistfight had broken out on the dance floor, but he quickly realized that was not the case . . . it was more serious than that.

  Above the noise of the crowd he heard a man yell, “I say we kill every man jack of them and hang the crazy doc!”

  “Shut up them damned drums forever!” another man shouted.

  That last drew the excited approval of men who’d drunk too much whiskey. They considered themselves as individuals no longer but part of a mob, and that was much more exciting.

  A portly man in a broadcloth coat and collarless shirt waved his arms for quiet. “Listen, everybody. Listen to me! Quiet down.”

  After the babble of conversation died away, a saloon girl yelled, “Talk to us, Oskar!”

  Oskar Janacek, the brewer, puffed up a little with self-importance.

  “Every man who can carry a rifle follow me to the brewery,” he said. “I have a wagon big enough to carry all of us and a pair of Percherons to haul it.” When the cheering passed, Janacek yelled, “By God it’s high time we rousted out those black-hearted villains in the Rattlesnake Hills!”

  Like a conquering general with an army at his back, the big brewer stomped to the door and others followed him.

  Whiskey and smoldering resentment is a combustible mix, and Shawn reckoned Janacek had been rabble-rousing for some time before the crowd got worked up and the shouting started.

  Beside him, Pete Caradas said, “Oh dear, I have a feeling this isn’t going to end well.”

  One of the relief bartenders hollered, “Wait for me, boys!” He untied his apron, threw it on the floor, and hurried from behind the bar.

  “Here, Joe, you’ll need this,” a gray-haired man said. He pulled a four-barreled pepperpot revolver from his pants pocket and passed it to the bartender, a tall, sallow man with a prominent Adam’s apple.

  “Give ’em hell, Joe,” the gray-haired man said.

  Joe grinned and ran to the door, waving the pepperpot above his head to cheers from the thinning crowd.

  “I’d better stop this,” Shawn said.

  “It’s none of your concern, O’Brien,” Caradas said.

  “I promised to save this town, not sit back and watch it destroy itself.”

  “Then it’s a job for the sheriff, not you.”

  Shawn rose to his feet and adjusted his gun belt. “I could use your help, Pete,” he said.

  The gunman shook his handsome head. “Count me out. My job is to protect Burt Becker and I’ll do it right here.”

  “A wise move, Pete. Especially now them D’eth brothers are in town,” Sedley said.

  “Hamp, you’re always such a big help to me,” Shawn said, frowning.

  He walked to the door and Sedley followed. Behind them, Pete Caradas shook his head and smiled.

  A glowing moon rode high over Broken Bridle and spread a silver light, but Shawn O’Brien was struck by how dark and gloomy the town seemed, the stores and businesses lining the boardwalks as dreary as a row of slave quarters. North to the Rattlesnake Hills drums pounded a warning into the night, and alarmed coyotes yipped and howled among the shadowed hollows. There was no wind and the air smelled of dust and horse dung.

  Their spurs ringing, Shawn and Hamp Sedley walked along the boardwalk toward the brewery where male voices were raised, playfully loud and chiding.

  A team of big gray Percherons was already hitched to the brewery dray, a flatbed wagon with two rows of retaining chains on each side. A dozen men had already clambered aboard, carrying an assortment of long guns. Bottles passed around and laughter bellowed with whiskey courage.

  When Shawn reached the open ground where the dray stood, he realized he was stepping into a powder keg that was about to blow.

  Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy, his arms waving, was exhorting Oskar Janacek to go home to bed. Two men holding rifles and lanterns flanked the big brewer, and he was obviously on the prod.

  “No, Sheriff, you go home to bed,” Janacek said. “You’re damned useless and that’s why we’re taking the law into our own hands.”

  “Wait until tomorrow and we’ll talk then,” Purdy said.

  “Talk! That’s all you ever do is talk!” the brewer said. He poked Purdy in the chest with a forefinger as thick and stiff as a hickory wheel spoke. “Where are the Chinese who murdered Dave Grambling? Why haven’t you hung them? Because you’re yellow, Sheriff, and you’re weak. Now get the hell out of my way.”

  Janacek pushed Purdy aside and stepped to the wagon. “Are we ready to quiet those drums forever, boys?” This drew a ragged cheer, and a man in the dray yelled, “Let’s go get ’em, Oskar.”

  “Oskar Janacek!”

  The brewer turned. Purdy had his .38 at eye level, aimed directly at the big man’s head. “You’re leading those men nowhere,” the sheriff said. “Go home, and that goes for the rest of you.”

  Janacek was a big man who weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, all of it solid, and in all his fifty years he’d stepped aside for no one. He was one of the few merchants in town who’d refused to pay tribute to Burt Becker, and now he did what Shawn O’Brien feared he’d do.

  Moving with surprising speed and agility, Janacek stepped in on Purdy, wrenched the revolver from his fist, and backhanded him, a powerful blow that sent the young sheriff to his knees.

  Beside him, Shawn heard Sedley groan. But when the brewer steadied himself to get the boot in, Shawn yelled, “No! That’s enough!” His Colt was in his hand.

  Immediately long guns rattled, and a dozen and more rifles and shotguns were trained on Shawn.

  “You dealing yourself a hand, O’Brien?” Janacek said.

  “I told you he’s had enough,” Shawn said. “If I take cards in this game, you’ll be the first to know it, Janacek.”

  The big man had sand, but now was not the time to prove it. If the ball opened, O’Brien would not survive, but then neither would he. Janacek let it go.

  “Come on, boys,” he said. “We’ve wasted enough time here.”

  He tossed Purdy’s revolver into the dirt in front of him, and amid cheers and some jeers directed at Shawn, Janacek clambered into the driver’s seat of the dray and slapped the reins.

  The Percherons took the strain and the wagon trundled into the street, lanterns bobbing with its every movement. Someone took up a song and the others joined in, singing lustily, the whiskey bottles making their rounds.

  Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,

  Cheer up comrades they will come,

  And beneath the starry flag

  We shall breathe the air again,

  Of the free land of our own beloved home.

  “Sing now,” Shawn said, watching the dray leave. “As my father says, you’ll soon be supping sorrow with the spoon of grief.”

  Jeremiah Purdy struggled to get to his feet. “I have to stop them,” he said.

  “You can’t stop them,” Shawn said. “N
othing can stop them, not now.”

  “Those damned drums . . .” the sheriff said.

  “Where those boys are headed there will be plenty of drums and a warm welcoming committee, depend on it,” Shawn said.

  “I’m going after them,” Purdy said. “I have to turn them, bring them back. Let me up, O’Brien.”

  “You haven’t done very well so far, Sheriff,” Sedley said. “What do you plan to do different?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll play it as I see it when I get there.”

  “How come that doesn’t inspire me with confidence?” Sedley said.

  “Hamp, leave him alone. He’s had a bad night,” Shawn said. He helped Purdy to get to his feet, gave him his .32, and said, “You’re the town sheriff and you’ve got a job to do. I won’t stand in your way.”

  Sedley bent and picked up something from the ground. He handed Purdy his round, wire-rimmed glasses and said, “Here, you might need these, help you see better when you set off that little pistol.”

  After the young sheriff put on the spectacles he looked like a fourteen-year-old boy. “Don’t like me much, do you, Hamp?” he said.

  “Nope, I sure don’t. I think you should go back East and be a professor or something. You ain’t doing much good in this town.”

  “Maybe I will go back East, but only when my work here in Broken Bridle is done.”

  Sedley shook his head. “You may be a college boy, but I think you’re as dumb as a snubbin’ post.”

  To Shawn’s surprise, Purdy smiled. “You know, you could be right,” he said.

  Ragged volleys of gunfire scarred across the dark face of the quiet night.

  “Oh God no, not that,” Shawn said. He read the question on Purdy’s face. “They’re shooting up Chinatown as they drive past.”

  Purdy looked stricken. “We have to stop them!” he said.

  Without another word he turned on his heel and ran into the street. Shawn and Sedley followed, but they walked. The shooting had stopped and the culprits were well gone. There was no need for hurry. Now the only question was: How many Chinese had been killed?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The total casualties from the attack on Chinatown were three: A chicken trampled in the stampede away from the firing, a mule grazed by a flying bullet, and an iron cooking pot holed by a .44-40 rifle slug.

  Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy was relieved, but the tent city at the end of the tracks was now a dangerous place for a white man to be. The town was angry, like a wounded, fanged, and clawed beast ready to lash out at its tormentors, and now its rage found a focus, the man who represented the law in Broken Bridle.

  “Those who did this will be found and punished,” Purdy said as a hostile crowd gathered around him. “I give you my word the guilty parties will be brought to justice.”

  Silence is a terrible weapon.

  A sea of faces, their eyes hollowed by darkness, stared at the lawman. No one uttered a sound, but the basilisk breath of the crowd was an ominous hiss in the quiet.

  Shawn O’Brien had it figured out. If the crowd broke violent he had five shots to turn it. But if the Chinese took their hits and kept on coming, then he was a dead man. Beside him, Hamp Sedley looked unwell.

  Then something incredible happened. The crowd shut down, turned their backs, and silently filed away into the gloom, now and then light from colored paper lanterns gleaming on bent heads and stooped shoulders.

  The three white men found themselves alone, surrounded only by darkness.

  “Well, don’t that beat all,” Sedley said. He sounded relieved.

  Purdy turned to Shawn. “What do you make of it?” he asked.

  Shawn shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of it. They had me scared for a while there.”

  “Well, they’re quiet now,” Purdy said. “I guess that’s the main thing.”

  “I reckon it’s the lull before the storm,” Sedley said, exactly echoing Shawn’s own thought.

  “You men should go back to the hotel,” Purdy said. “I’m going after those idiots and bringing them back here.”

  As the drums pounded from the Rattlesnake Hills, Shawn said, “Better be quick, Sheriff. Or there will be none left to bring back.”

  “There’s always a chance Janacek and the others will prevail and drive Clouston and his gang away,” Purdy said.

  “And there’s always a chance pigs will fly,” Sedley said.

  “Look on the bright side, O’Brien,” Pete Caradas said. “Maybe Clouston will ignore them, let Janacek and his boys bumble around in the dark for a while before they come back to town with hangovers and their tails between their legs.”

  “You think that’s likely?” Shawn said.

  “As likely as you being the best man at my wedding,” Caradas said.

  “I’m very hurt,” Shawn said.

  Caradas’s smile fleeted, then his face grew grim. “Those boys are headed into serious trouble. Clouston will lay for them and cut them to pieces. He has fighting men. Do you know what professional guns can do to a drunken rabble?”

  “Put them through a meat grinder, especially in the dark,” Sedley said.

  “You got that right, gambling man,” Caradas said.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Shawn said. “We have to get Becker on his feet and put a gun in his hand. After routing Janacek, Clouston could counterattack and drive right into Broken Bridle.”

  Caradas looked around at the thinning saloon crowd, then turned back to Shawn and smiled. “O’Brien, I’m not going to fight for this one-horse town and neither is Becker. Is that clear or do I have to put it in writing?”

  “If Clouston gets here, you’ll have to fight,” Shawn said.

  “Why? He’s got nothing against me.”

  “You killed one of his men,” Shawn said. “Clouston will nail you to a cross or flay your hide for that.”

  “He let me go, remember?” Caradas said.

  “Only because he knew he’d catch up with you later,” Shawn said. “You haven’t tried to leave town recently, have you? I don’t think you’d make it a mile before Clouston caught you.”

  Uncertainty flickered in Caradas’s strange, lifeless eyes. He looked over the saloon patrons again. “Most of them went home after the Chinese were attacked,” he said. “They’re scared.”

  “And so they should be. They should be scared of both the Chinese and Clouston. Of the two, I’d say Clouston is the worst.”

  “What do you say, gambling man?” Caradas said.

  “I say this, Pete. You see the clock on the wall over the bar, what is it telling us?” Sedley said.

  “That it’s thirty minutes after midnight,” Caradas said.

  “No, it’s telling us that time is running out fast,” Sedley said. “I say at first light we get the hell out of this town.” He turned his attention to Shawn. “You made a promise to a man you barely know to save his son. Well, you discovered that the son isn’t worth saving, so cut your losses and move on now, before it’s too late.”

  “No, Hamp, I’m no longer in the business of saving Connall Purdy’s son, I’m trying to save this town. Broken Bridle isn’t much, a mean little outpost of civilization on the edge of nowhere, but as a civilized man I recognize its right to exist. Men like Thomas Clouston would take us back to barbarity by destroying the very fabric of our civilization for his own ends. He seeks to end the basic right of freedom, free speech, and the right to live without fear of oppression. Damn it, I’m an American and I won’t lick the boots of any tin pot dictator. To me this town represents freedom, ideals, the ability of Americans to strive for something better for our children than we knew, and I won’t let madmen like the Thomas Cloustons of this world destroy it.”

  Shawn smiled. “And if I ever talk that much again you have my permission to shoot me.”

  “Willingly,” Pete Caradas said.

  “Well, Abraham Lincoln, does that mean we stay?” Sedley asked.

  “It means I stay, Hamp,”
Shawn said. “You have to make your own decision.”

  “Then I guess I’ll stick,” Sedley said. “Right at the moment I’ve nothing better to do.”

  Caradas roused himself from thought. “Here’s what I’ll do, O’Brien: If Clouston raids into Broken Bridle and fires shots at my valuable person, I’ll shoot back. Can I say fairer than that?”

  “You obviously didn’t take my speech to heart,” Shawn said. “But, yes, I’ll accept that for now.”

  “Good, now have a glass of this wine and we’ll drink on it,” Caradas said. “Afterward, I’ll see if I can rouse the sleeping beauty upstairs.”

  “What kind of wine is that, Pete?” Sedley said.

  “Monkey piss,” Caradas said. “It’s what passes for claret in this outpost of American civilization.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The marching songs had ended, ground away by the jolting misery of the brewer’s dray. The whiskey bottles were empty and men yawned and thought of soft beds and warm, drowsy wives. Moonlight lay on the ground like hoar frost, and now that the drums were silenced, there was no sound but the steady creak of the wagon and the soft footfalls of the massive hooves of the Percherons.

  Oskar Janacek drew rein when the towering bulk of a Rattlesnake Hills blacked out the stars. His voice loud in the quiet, he said, “Scouts forward.”

  The two men designated for the job remained where they were, huddled in the back of the dray. Near them a man coughed up phlegm and spit over the side. A cloud obscured the jolly face of the moon, like a fat man using a handkerchief.

  Janacek’s voice took on an edge. “McPhee, Baker, forward.”

  “Go to hell, Janacek,” the man called Baker said. “There’s nothing here but cactus.”

  “I say we turn around,” Lou McPhee said. He was a tall, stringy, sour man, and his passion for the expedition had waned an hour before. “What do you say, boys? We can go back and kill some more of them heathen Chinese.”

  That last was greeted with little enthusiasm. What in town had seemed a splendid adventure had rapidly become an ordeal. The dray was designed to transport beer barrels, not men, and it was an uncomfortable perch. Add to that burgeoning hangovers and the open hostility of the land around them, and the expedition had started to fall apart. Men whispered to one another that the drums had stopped and wasn’t that the whole point of the exercise in the first place?