“The agent is lost somewhere up the track,” Lark Rawlings said. “And now I advise you to get lost with him.”
“Well, thanks for the advice, but I think I’ll look around for a spell,” Brown said. Then, looking Rawlings up and down, he said, “By your surly demeanor, I’d say you work for Thomas Clouston. Am I correct?”
Rawlings, a man on a short fuse, came down the steps from the depot and walked toward the marshal. He stopped when he was about seven feet from Brown and that made the lawman smile inwardly. It was the draw fighter’s comfortable distance.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me, pops, but you git,” Rawlings said. “I won’t tell you again.”
Saturday Brown dropped the old coot act like soiled pants. “Not too bright, are you, son?” he said. “Your slicker is buttoned. Now see mine, it’s closed in front of me, but it ain’t buttoned. Know why?”
Rawlings was suddenly uneasy. His gun was under the slicker and this old-timer didn’t scare worth a damn.
“I’ll tell you why,” Brown said. “It’s so I can get to the iron real easy. He pushed the slicker away from his holstered Colt. “See what I mean?”
Rawlings was caught flatfooted and he put the tip of his tongue to his top lip, his brain whirling.
“Well, don’t just stand there, son,” Brown said. “Say something.”
Rawlings undid the top button of his slicker. “You go to hell, Methuselah,” he said.
Brown shook his head. “Oh boy, did you say the wrong thing.”
He drew and fired, fired again.
Two bullets crashed into Rawlings’s chest, immediately staining the front of his slicker bright red. The big man’s knees buckled and his face registered shock at the time and manner of his death.
Brown watched Rawlings fall, then said to dead ears, “Son, any friend of Thomas Clouston is no friend of mine.”
“I’m sorry it had to end this way, but he was a mighty threatening man,” Saturday Brown said to Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy. “And name-calling and low down.”
Purdy, leaning heavily on a crutch, a fat bandage around his wounded leg, stared at the body, then looked at Brown. “His gun is still in the holster.”
“Is that a fact?”
“You didn’t give him much of a sporting chance, did you?”
Brown looked stunned, his eyes filled with disbelief. “Hell, no, I didn’t. I had the drop on him. In a gunfight you don’t give the other fellow a sporting chance. It’s a good way to get yourself killed. Son, I declare that sometimes you sound like you went to West Point.”
Purdy turned away from Brown and watched as a couple of wagons pulled in, each piled high with greenstone. Two young Chinese women were up on the driving seat, and when they saw Rawlings’s sprawled body, they exchanged words that the sheriff did not understand. The older of the women climbed down from the wagon. She grabbed a large chunk of greenstone and without a glance at Brown or Purdy stepped beside Rawlings’s body. Her beautiful face expressionless, she raised the rock above her head, then threw it down with all her strength into the dead man’s groin. She stood motionless for a moment, then spat on the bloody corpse. The girl turned and regained her place on the wagon seat.
Saturday Brown smiled at the girl and said, “Not one to hold a grudge, are you, honey?”
But she made no answer. She turned the horses and drove north along the track, the second creaking, overloaded wagon following.
Brown said, “Sheriff, call a town meeting for tonight. I got some speechifying to do.”
Purdy said, “Brown, I’m still considering a charge of murder against you.”
Brown said, “For what?”
“For the murder of the man lying at your feet.”
“That wasn’t murder, it was self-defense,” Brown said. “I don’t want any grief with you, son, so don’t give me any. Just call that meeting like I told you.”
“What do you plan to say?” Purdy said.
“That I need fighting volunteers to battle Thomas Clouston. I won’t ask you, Sheriff, since you’ve already volunteered.”
“You know what happened last time. The widows and orphans are still crying and our town lost a third of its population in just a couple of days.”
“This time it will be different,” Brown said.
“How can you be so damned sure?” Purdy said.
“Because this time I’ll be the feller in command,” Brown said. “Oh, an’ send the undertaker for the body, makes the place look untidy.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
“‘I’ll be the feller in command’ . . . is that really what he said?” Hamp Sedley asked.
“Yeah, his exact words,” Jeremiah Purdy said. His wounded leg was straight out in front of him, the crutch leaning against a wall.
Sedley said, “Then we’re headed for another massacre.”
“Where is Brown now?” Shawn said.
“I left him at the restaurant,” Purdy said. “He says killing a bad man always gives him an appetite.”
“I’ll go talk to him,” Shawn said. “See what he has in mind.”
He crossed the floor of the hotel room and took his slicker from the hook behind the door. “If I leave you gentlemen here can I be assured that you won’t drink all of my bourbon?” he said.
Purdy smiled. “I’m going. I have to check on Jane. She was at Sunny Swanson’s funeral this morning. Although they hated each other, Jane said it seemed like the right thing to do.”
“A right-thinking little gal,” Sedley said. “You got a keeper there, college boy.” He pointed at Purdy’s wounded leg. “If that don’t kill you.”
“The only one that shed tears for Sunny this morning was Burt Becker,” Shawn said. “Surprised me. I didn’t think he was capable of grief.”
Purdy said, surprised, “You were there?”
“It seemed like the right thing to do,” Shawn said. “Sunny was a pretty woman who deserved better than she got.” Then, “I knew another woman who died way too young. I reckon she would have expected me to attend the funeral.” He shrugged into the slicker. “Ah well, it’s hard to let go of old memories, huh?”
“Want me to come with you, Shawn?” Sedley said.
“No, I can handle this by myself. Why don’t you go speak to Judy Campbell? She’s living with Mrs. Flood, the blacksmith’s wife. Ask Judy if she plans on heading back to the Four Ace. If she does, we’ll arrange an escort.”
Sedley said, “Sure, but why don’t you do it yourself. I always figured she was sweet on you.”
Shawn said, “I think she is, but I don’t want to give her the impression that it works both ways. Those memories I talked about are still on my back trail, and right now they feel awful close.”
Saturday Brown sat back in his chair. He had a piece of apple pie the size of a dime stuck in his mustache. “Well, what do you think, cowboy?”
“There’s no guarantee he’ll come after the greenstone,” Shawn said. “He might attack Broken Bridle instead.”
“When he hears that the stone had been confiscated by a marshal, he’ll come after it all right.”
Shawn said, “I wish I was as certain as you are. Provided there are any volunteers, and that isn’t a cinch, the town would be unprotected.”
“Not if the draw fighters, you, Pete Caradas, Burt Becker, and Sedley, are here to protect it,” Brown said. “I need riflemen, boys who fought in the war or are hunters. Fast guns aren’t the berries for what I got in mind.”
“Brown, I think your guitar ain’t tuned right, but I can see logic in what you say, and that means I must be as crazy as you are.”
“O’Brien, did you know that some folks spend their entire lives sane?” Brown said. “You any idea how boring that must be?”
Shawn smiled and then said, “What did you ask for when you sent the wire to Medicine Bow?”
“An army, O’Brien! The entire city militia! Hell, I don’t know, maybe a hundred men.”
“They’d be handy if they get
here in time,” Shawn said.
“I reckon, but I don’t know if there was an answer to my wire, so we may have to do it with what we have. And I won’t know what we have until after tonight’s town meeting.”
Shawn said, “You know that any man who takes a message to Clouston to tell him that a federal marshal has confiscated his greenstone will end up dead? And don’t look at me. I’m not real inclined to do it.”
“And I’m not doing it, either. I can’t ask a man to do what I won’t.”
“So how does Clouston get the word?” Shawn said.
“I’ll show you,” Brown said. “Come with me to the sheriff’s office.”
“By the way you’ve got a piece of pie stuck in your mustache,” Shawn said.
“From this town or another?” Brown said, laying money on the table.
“It’s fresh. I’d say this town.”
Brown wiped off his mustache with the back of his hand. “Then it ain’t worth saving for later,” he said.
“Well, what do you think, O’Brien?” Saturday Brown beamed. “Ran up this little beauty all by myself.”
The marshal stood beside a crudely painted sign about the size of a house door. It read: THIS PROPITY CONFISKATED BY ORDER OF FEDRAL MARSHAL.
“I used red paint so Clouston can see it real good from a ways off,” Brown said.
Shawn nodded. “That spelling will scare him, all right.”
Brown said, “Make him mad is what I want.”
Shawn said, “It’s sure to do that.”
“Crackerjack!” Brown said. “Now help me carry it to the rail depot.”
In a pouring rain, Saturday Brown propped up his sign with greenstone where it would be seen from the flat. He handed Shawn a ship’s telescope and said, “You see a wagon with a white man at the reins, give me a holler. You understand that, son?”
Shawn, feeling like a fool for giving into the old lawman’s crazy notions, allowed that he did.
“Good. And then give me room. I need plenty of room when I’m about to do some serious shootin’.” Like a man peering through a waterfall as rain ran off his hat brim, Brown frowned and said, “You ain’t sharing my excitement, O’Brien.”
“Standing here in the rain looking for a white man driving a wagon just isn’t that exciting, Marshal,” Shawn said.
“You just wait. Hell, son, they’ll write about us in a dime novel afore this is done.” Brown tried to build a cigarette, but the rain-battered paper and tobacco dropped out of his fingers. “Keep the spyglass to your eye while I get under shelter for a smoke. When you see the white man—”
“Holler. Yes, you already told me,” Shawn said.
“You catch on quick, O’Brien. Must be all that fancy education you got as a youngster.”
Three wagons driven by Chinese women came and went, their greenstone dumped farther up the track. Then after an hour Shawn saw what he wanted, a fully loaded wagon with a white man up in the seat, a couple of Chinese men walking alongside the beautiful Percheron team.
“Marshal!” Shawn said.
“Yeah. I see him,” Brown said.
“Then why have I been—”
“Just giving you something to do, son, while we waited,” Brown said. Then “Let him get closer and hope he has good eyesight.”
The wagon drew nearer, coming straight ahead. That amused Brown. “He’s a white man all right. Gonna dump his load right here and then get out of the rain.” The marshal looked at Shawn. “I seem to recollect hearing that you have a fine singing voice, O’Brien. Or was that one of your brothers?”
“No, I’m the only one who sings,” Shawn said.
“Good,” Brown said. “So git out there and sing out to that feller to mind the sign. He’s close enough now.”
“Damn it all, Marshal, why don’t you do it?” Shawn said, irritated.
“Because I don’t have a fine singing voice, son. Now go and do what I told you.”
Shawn angled Brown a look, but the marshal was oblivious. He kept his eyes fixed on the wagon, a Winchester propped upright on his hip.
Shawn stepped over the piled greenstone and then yelled to the wagon driver, “Hey, you!”
The man drew rein. The collar of his slicker was up around his ears; his hat was pulled low and Shawn couldn’t see his face.
“Point to the sign, O’Brien,” Brown said. “And then holler, ‘This here is Federal property.’”
Shawn did as he was told. The wagon driver craned forward in the seat and peered through the rain at the sign.
“Now say, ‘Git the hell away from here,’” Brown said.
“Git the hell away from here!” Shawn yelled.
The driver’s only answer was a rude, one-fingered gesture. He slapped the reins and the Percherons lurched into motion.
“He doesn’t seem to be very impressed by your sign, Marshal,” Shawn said. “Now what?”
“Now I plug him,” Brown said. “Make him pay attention.”
“Huh?” Shawn said, turning. But he was too late. Brown’s rifle roared.
Shawn saw the wagon driver jerk in the seat, and blood spurted from a hole in his right shoulder just under the collarbone. The two Chinese men threw themselves flat on the muddy ground.
Brown levered a round into the chamber and said, “Now I’ll clip both his ears.”
“No!” Shawn yelled. “Damn it, Marshal, he’s had enough.”
Brown stood still for a few moments and watched the wounded driver frantically turning the wagon. “Yeah, you’re right, son,” he said. “I reckon he’s had enough. But mark me, one day Saturday Brown’s good nature will be his undoing.”
The marshal absently fed shells into the Winchester, his eyes on the retreating wagon. “This will make Clouston good and mad. I’m counting on the rain keeping him to home until I can get my riflemen in place on this ground.”
Shawn said, “Broken Bridle has already paid a high price battling Clouston. I don’t think you’ll find many volunteers. Hell, what am I talking about? There aren’t that many men of fighting age left.”
“Then I’ll pray that the Medicine Bow militia arrives in time, and if the worst comes to the worst I’ll recruit draw fighters.” Brown stared at Shawn, a slight smile on his lips. “They’re better than nothing, I guess.”
Shawn let that go without comment, then said, “Clouston always does the unexpected. He might attack in the depot in the rain.”
“I suspect he might get up to some devilry,” Brown said. “That’s why you’ll stay here, son, and I’ll send Sedley with your hoss. Keep the glass and if you see Clouston and his men coming, ride hell for leather to the Streetcar. I’ll set up a defense in the saloon with Becker and Pete Caradas and any other fighting men I can round up, maybe even them two D’eth assassins and the sheriff.”
Saturday Brown frowned. “Son, look at me. Are you understanding all this?”
“I got it, Marshal,” Shawn said. “I don’t like it, but I got it.”
“Then I’ll leave you to your duties,” Brown said. “And if Clouston comes this way afore the militia gets here, God help us all.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
“I smell madness here,” Dr. Thomas Clouston said. “I can sniff it out like a terrier sniffs out a rat. One of the men got shot, you say?”
The short, stocky man who’d brought the bad news nodded. “Uh-huh, Len Baxter took a bullet in the shoulder.”
“And they have a sign saying my greenstone has been confiscated by a federal marshal?” Clouston said.
“That’s what Len read, before he got shot.”
“Then there’s lunacy afoot and I must stamp it out like a contagion.”
Clouston set his S-shaped pipe on the table beside him and rose from his chair. Moodily he watched the slanting rainfall. The air smelled fresh as the downpour washed the dusty land clean. Thunder rumbled in the distance and lit up the steel-blue clouds.
“How many men showed up for roll call this morning?” he asked.<
br />
“Seven,” the stocky man said. “And nine on guard and wagon duty.”
“Now down to eight,” Clouston said.
“Len Baxter is out of it, boss. He can’t shoulder a rifle or lift his arm to shoot a revolver.”
“Then get rid of him,” Clouston said. “He’s of no use to me any longer.”
“You mean pay him off?”
“I mean pay him off with lead.” Clouston studied the stocky man. “What’s your name?” he said. “It’s slipped my mind.”
“John Smith, boss.” The man looked uncomfortable. He had the broken-nosed, scarred-eyed face of a bareknuckle club fighter.
“Well, John Smith, I fear that Lark Rawlings has been either killed or captured, so you are now my new second in command, and that means a double share of the gold we dig out of this hellhole.”
Smith’s dark eyes glittered, reflecting the oil lamp that hung above his head. “Well, thank’ee, boss,” he said, grinning.
“Prepare the men. Tomorrow we will occupy the depot, take back my property, and then destroy the town. I want every man I have on the attack. The Chinese can remain unguarded for a few hours. If they try to escape we can round them up later.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Smith said, playing the good soldier.
“And, Mr. Smith, take care of that bit of unpleasantness.”
“You mean Baxter?” Smith slapped his holstered gun. “I’ll take care of that right now.”
“Good,” Clouston said. “It seems that you and I will get along just fine, Mr. Smith.”
Thomas Clouston thought riding in the rain uncivilized and a possible sign of madness, but he nevertheless saddled up and headed toward the rail depot to take a look for himself. There was no sound of thunder, but a gloomy rain sheeted across the brush flats driven by an east wind.
Clouston halted when he was still out of rifle range and put his ship’s glass to his right eye. He swept the telescope over the depot office and then to the rails where his greenstone lay piled. The glass was of good quality, made for the Prussian army, and brought the land closer and in fine detail. Beside the painted sign—an outrage, Clouston told himself—stood a solitary figure in a tan-colored slicker. He didn’t recognize the man, but he might be the federal marshal. It was clear the lawman didn’t expect anyone to contest his confiscation of the greenstone, at least that day.
Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter Page 24