Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “And he’s going out to search for her?” Petsha said.

  “That is his stated intention,” Bobby said, parroting words he’d heard an older man say. Then, “Right now he’s talking to Shawn O’Brien, the one they call the Town Tamer.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of him,” Petsha said. “But you have no town to tame.”

  “Well then, I guess that’s his problem.” Bobby looked beyond the D’eth brothers into the livery. “Did you see that?”

  “See what?” Petsha said.

  “A shadow back there. Big, real big. It moved fast,” the boy said.

  “I didn’t see it,” Petsha said.

  “Looked like a spook to me,” Bobby said. “I mean, it was huge and blacker than anything.”

  “You have an active imagination, boy. Go now,” Petsha said.

  With a youngster’s capacity to dismiss a disturbing happening from his mind, Bobby smiled and said, “Thanks for the dollar, mister.”

  He turned, waded back to the boardwalk, and vanished into an alley.

  Petsha turned to his brother. “Milos, did you see it?”

  Milos shook his head. “No, but I felt its breath and it was cold as ice. The angel of death is without mercy. It heeds no pleas, no prayers, no promises. It strikes, kills, then moves on.”

  “Then so be it,” Petsha said. “We will meet our death like Romani as our mother taught us.”

  “And woe betide the one who calls himself Dr. Thomas Clouston,” Milos said. “He will join us in hell.”

  “We’ll follow the man Campbell and see where he leads us,” Petsha said. “There is no time to fetch our horses, so we will ride the mount we have.”

  Milos nodded but was silent. There was nothing further to say. Whatever happened now was in the lap of the gods.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Dr. Thomas Clouston was so enamored of his new bride-to-be that he was reluctant to let her out of his sight even for a moment.

  “You’ll be quite comfortable there, my dear,” he said. “Close to my chair.”

  In fact Judy Campbell was chained by one ankle to an iron staple driven into a two-hundred-pound slab of rock in what Clouston called his parlor. The stretched tarp that served as a roof kept out most of the rain, and logs blazed in the fireplace.

  “Clouston, my father will kill you for this,” the girl said. She looked up at the man from her place on the floor. “He’ll hunt you down and hang you.”

  “You grow tiresome, Judy,” Clouston said, smoke curling from the bowl of his pipe. “Be thankful that so far I’ve treated you with respect and that your maidenly honor is still intact.”

  “I’m a whore,” Judy said, venom tight in her voice. “I’ve lain with a hundred men, two hundred, I’ve lost count.”

  Clouston smiled, at ease in his chair. “If I thought that I’d loose you to my boys and let them have their way with you. But lucky for you, my dear, I don’t believe a word you say.”

  “Believe that my father will come for me,” Judy said.

  “He might. But then there’s no fool like an old fool, is there?” Clouston said. “Your father is quite insane.”

  A man coughed outside and Clouston said, “Come in, Hansen.”

  A big, bearded man stepped under the roof tarp, leered at Judy Campbell, then said, “Now they put tents up the Chinese have settled. But feeding them is going to be a problem, especially when they start digging tomorrow.”

  “There’s a shipment of rice and dried cod coming down by rail from Casper with the mining equipment,” Clouston said.

  “I know, boss, but now I hear a derailment will delay the delivery for at least three days, maybe longer,” Hansen said.

  “Well, feed them from our own supplies,” Clouston said. “Damn it all, man, tiny people don’t eat much.”

  “Boss, we’re low on coffee, flour, bacon, and—”

  “Hansen, don’t make your problems mine,” Clouston said. “Feed the coolies with whatever scraps come to hand, and send a man to the railroad depot. I want to know the minute the supply train arrives. We need that mining equipment. How are we now for horses and wagons?”

  “We have just enough to keep the ore rolling from here to the railhead,” Hansen said.

  “Excellent,” Clouston said. “Now find a clean slicker for my bride-to-be and fetch it here. We’ll ride out to the hills and I’ll show her the foundation of our marital fortune.”

  “I’m going nowhere with you,” Judy said. She yanked at the chain. “And I’ll die before I spend a night in your bed.”

  “Are you insane?” Clouston said. “You foolish child, I intend to make you a rich woman. You’ll wear dazzling jewels, dress in the latest Paris fashions, dwell in stately mansions, and travel in fine carriages.” He smiled. “Your little bumpkin head could never imagine the life I will give you.”

  “You may take my body, Clouston, but never my love,” Judy said.

  Clouston snorted. “Love! A fiction made up by the insane. You little fool, all I want is your body!”

  Duncan Campbell knew that no civilized Christian man should be abroad in such vile weather, but he was also aware that the thunderstorms were on his side. With a bit of luck Thomas Clouston and his bandits would keep to their tents.

  He and his riders swung south of the Rattlesnake Hills, then looped north at Saddle Rock peak into hilly canyon country.

  “The rain is keeping up, boys,” Campbell said, water cascading from the brim of his hat. “We might catch them napping, like Bonnie Prince Charlie caught Johnnie Cope.”

  “Boss, is that feller kin to Andy Cope who shot the Fort Smith dentist that time and got hung fer it?” Big Boy Harrison said.

  “No, I’m talking Scottish history and the Jacobite rebellion of 1745 against English oppression,” Campbell said. Then in a deliberate attempt to build his riders’ confidence, he said, “I’ll teach you about Prince Charles Edward Stuart and the Lost Cause tonight at dinner.”

  “Boss,” Harrison said, “no offense, but I reckon I’ll pass on that.”

  Campbell opened his mouth to speak, when his scout, a Southern puncher by the name of Coonan who’d been a captain of cavalry in the Army of the Confederacy, approached. He came on at a canter through the gray veil of the downpour, waving his hat.

  The rancher waited until Coonan drew rein in front of him, then said, “What did you see, Lem?”

  Lem Coonan’s face registered shock. “Boss, an army. Clouston’s got an army camped in a valley back there.”

  “Did you see Judy?” Campbell said.

  “No, sir, I didn’t. All I saw was tents, a sea of tents, thousands of men, women, and children in camp.”

  “You used the long glass?”

  “Sure did. But I didn’t see any better. There’s a rain mist in the valley.”

  Loud enough for the others to hear, Campbell said, “You didn’t see an army, Lem, you saw the tents of the Chinese railroad workers who left Broken Bridle.”

  Understanding dawned on Coonan’s face. “So this is where they went,” he said.

  “Lock, stock, and barrel, every man, woman, and child of them,” Campbell said. “There’s a gold seam in the hills, and Clouston plans to have the Chinese mine it for him.”

  “Heard that in Broken Bridle, didn’t believe it though,” Harrison said.

  “Well, believe it now,” Campbell said. Then to Coonan, “How is the camp laid out, Lem?”

  “Well, sir, it isn’t the Army of Northern Virginia,” Coonan said. “The Chinese are to the north and its seems like they pitched their tents anywhere they felt like. To the south the tents are better deployed, maybe thirty, forty of them, and there are horse lines and a wagon park.”

  “That will be the camp of Clouston’s gunmen,” Campbell said.

  “Boss, there’s only seven of us,” Harrison said.

  “I know that, Big Boy,” Campbell said. “But up until now Clouston has had it all his own way. I think it’s time we shook him up a little
.”

  Harrison was wary, as were the other riders. Even Coonan, a man of proven courage, looked uncertain.

  Finally Harrison said, “What do you have in mind, boss?”

  “Nothing too complicated. We ride in, shoot up those tents, then hightail it out of there. I want Clouston to know he’s in a fight.”

  “But . . . but what about Miss Judy?” Harrison said. “She’ll be in danger.”

  “My daughter knows I can’t let her kidnapping stand. She’s a brave girl, and she bears an honorable name, and it’s what she’d expect me to do.” Then, “Gather round me, men.”

  Duncan Campbell turned in the saddle and pointed west.

  “Lads, there lies the Four Ace ranch and the road to safety,” he said. His Scottish brogue was very thick. “I will not hold a grudge against any man who does not wish to join me in this enterprise. He will be welcome at my table and may dwell free of harm under my roof.”

  The six Four Ace riders exchanged glances, then Big Boy Harrison spoke for all of them. “We ride for the brand, boss.”

  Visibly moved, Duncan Campbell nodded. “Then let us teach that Clouston dog a lesson he won’t soon forget. We’ll remind him that now he’s dealing with men.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Heavy rain and a rising mist cut visibility to less than a hundred yards, and the Clouston encampment looked as though it lay behind a ragged gauze curtain. A covey of wet bobwhite quail, their eyes like black beads, huddled under a clump of sagebrush and watched Duncan Campbell’s riders pass.

  The old rancher moved his men to within two hundred yards of the valley, then ordered them to shake out into a skirmish line.

  “Boss, may I have the honor of leading the charge?” Lem Coonan said.

  Campbell smiled. “We have but a small force, Lem, but surely you’ve earned that honor.” He put his hand on the shoulder of Coonan’s wet slicker. “Lead the way . . . Captain.”

  “One thing more, boss,” Coonan said. “In my trunk in the bunkhouse I have my uniform”—he grinned—“smelling of mothballs, I’m afraid, and the honored flag. If I fall, see I’m buried in one and that that the other drapes my coffin.”

  “I can say you won’t fall,” Campbell said. “But those would be empty words.”

  For a few moments Coonan’s blue eyes studied the black sky, then he said, “It’s been a long twenty years. Now it’s time.” He reached under his slicker and produced his old cap and ball Remington. “Shall we proceed, gentlemen?” Coonan took his place in front of the others and called, “Forward at the trot!”

  The skirmish line lurched into motion and then took up the trot. After a hundred yards Coonan yelled, “Charge at the gallop!”

  As Duncan Campbell kicked his horse into motion, words from the English poet Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade” flashed into his mind . . .

  Into the jaws of Death,

  Into the mouth of Hell

  Rode the six hundred.

  Then, his six, not six hundred, riders screaming wild, incoherent war cries, Campbell was among the tents, the Colt in his hand roaring.

  A man’s remembrance of a gunfight does not progress smoothly from first shot to last, rather it comes to him flickering and cartwheeling, bits and pieces of a few seconds of madness he must later piece together like a collage.

  So it was with Duncan Campbell.

  He rode through the tents and shot into two on his right. A big, bearded man emerged from the second tent, a gun in his hand, and Campbell leaned from the saddle and fired at almost point-blank range. The big man fell, triggering shot after shot into the air. Campbell drew rein and looked around him. He saw Big Boy Harrison, enormously strong, lift a man by the back of his shirt, haul him clean off the ground, and throw him head first into the side of a tent. The tent collapsed and men inside yelled and cursed. Other tents were down and his punchers fired into them. His riders scored hits because he heard men shriek, some in death, others from wounds. Amid the noise and confusion Lem Coonan received a mortal wound from the double blast of a Greener scattergun. A small, slight man, the impact lifted him from the saddle and sent him sprawling on his back. He died on churned-up, muddy ground with a slight smile on his face.

  “Big Boy!” Campbell yelled. “The corral!”

  “We’ve sure played hob, boss!” Harrison yelled, grinning, the light of battle in his face.

  He swung his horse and rode for the corral, a cut between two hills fenced off at the front, its rear protected by a steep hogback.

  Campbell ordered a retreat but failed to make himself heard above the din. Now the Clouston gunmen were getting organized, and in addition to Coonan, two of his men were down.

  Waving to his surviving riders, Campbell rode toward the mouth of the canyon. Two more of his punchers, one with blood streaming down his left arm, followed. Then Campbell saw a sight that made him rein up his plunging horse. Set into the hill on his right was a ruined cabin, and standing outside, a steel ax in his hand, his maniacal face twisted, Clouston roared defiance. At that moment the eyes of Clouston’s gunmen were on Big Boy, who’d dismounted and was pushing open the corral gate. He’d been hit and was making a slow go of it.

  Clouston was beyond the effective range of a Colt, but Campbell two-handed the big revolver to eye level, centered on Clouston’s chest, and fired.

  He had time to see his shot go wide right, but he saw Clouston clutch his left arm and even above the noise he heard the man scream, a shrill shriek of outrage and terror.

  A bullet thudded into Campbell’s lower back, then a second took off the thumb of his gun hand and his Colt spun away from him and landed in the dirt. The old rancher knew he was done for. He swung his mount and galloped in the direction of Harrison, bullets splitting the air around him.

  When he reached Big Boy, he fell out of the saddle, picked himself up, and laid his good hand on the gate. “Pull, Big Boy,” he said.

  “I’m shot through and through, boss,” Harrison said.

  Campbell smiled, blood in his mouth. “Me too. I hope the Pearly Gates are easier to open than this corral.”

  Now Clouston’s men were only yards away, firing as they came. Shot to pieces Campbell and Big Body Harrison fell together. “I think this gate opens inward, boss,” the big man said.

  But Duncan Campbell didn’t hear him. He was already dead.

  Harrison staggered to his feet, tried to bring his revolver to bear, but was hit by a dozen bullets. He fell on top of Campbell and was dead by the time the Clouston gunmen reached him.

  Dr. Thomas Clouston shrieked in pain and grasped his left arm, horrified by the blood that trickled down his fingers and spotted the ground where he stood. He’d been struck by a bullet! It was an atrocity, the wanton act of a savage. Bad enough that his person had been violated, but worse, it made him feel vulnerable, no longer invincible . . . no longer immortal.

  Clouston screamed and ran inside and flopped on his chair.

  Was he insane? Had the bullet that touched his arm also touched him with madness? He looked around and saw that his woman was gone. But that was a minor irritant compared to the assault on his sacred person.

  The man called Hansen stepped under the tarp. “Boss, are you hurt?” he said.

  “Of course I’m hurt, you fool,” Clouston said. “Are you insane?” Then, before the man could answer, “Who attacked me?”

  “Punchers looked like,” Hansen said. “They seemed to be ramrodded by some old coot.”

  “Did we kill them? Did we kill every rotten last one of them?”

  “We killed four, boss, including the old one, but a few escaped.”

  Clouston wailed, “My arm hurts. I need a doctor.”

  “Boss, you are a doctor,” Hansen said.

  “I’m a doctor of the mind, I need a doctor of the body, you idiot.”

  “Let me take a look at it,” Hansen said. “I’ve seen some gunshot wounds in my time.”

  “Gently, you oaf.” Clo
uston grimaced as Hansen took his arm.

  The big man ripped apart the shirtsleeve, studied the wound, and said, “It’s a flesh wound, boss. You got burned.”

  “How could this happen to me?” Clouston said.

  “There was lead flying everywhere, boss. We lost five, and another three wounded. They took us by surprise, coming out of the rain like that.”

  “I said, how could this happen to me?” Clouston said. “I thought I was invulnerable, but now it seems I’m a mere mortal after all.”

  Hansen grinned, ever the frontier diplomat. “You’ll live forever, boss.”

  “That is my intention.” Then, casually, “Send a couple of men out to find my woman and bring her back. She can’t have gone far in this rain. After I bandage my arm I will come down to inspect the enemy dead.”

  Thomas Clouston’s rage was volcanic, erupting into violence. He kicked Duncan Campbell’s lifeless body and screamed obscenities into the old man’s gray face.

  “He’s the one who shot me!” he yelled to Hansen. “The insane pig took aim and shot me!”

  More kicks followed, thudding into Campbell’s face and chest, breaking bones. Finally spent, Clouston stared at Hansen, his eyes red, features twisted by anger and hatred.

  “Have you sent the men out yet to find the woman?” he said.

  “Not yet, boss. I was—”

  “Send them out and tell them to use her like a whore and then kill her. Tell them to let her know she’s dying, let her be aware of my wrath. I don’t want the spawn of this pig anywhere near me. Do you understand?”

  Hansen grinned, a brutish man savoring his thoughts. “Hell, boss, I’ll go myself, me and Matt Simpson. After we get through with her you’ll never see that little gal again.”

  “Make her pay for the sins of her father, Hansen,” Clouston said. He fisted his hands and through clenched teeth snarled, “Make . . . her . . . pay.”