Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  Clouston contemplated the wisdom of riding over there and gunning the marshal. But as members of such a risky profession, many of those men were good with a gun and he’d be putting himself at too much risk.

  The failure of the ore wagons to arrive and the loss of his bride weighed on Clouston, and he felt a little weary. He decided matters could wait until tomorrow when he felt more refreshed and in a better mood for the day’s killing.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Shawn O’Brien figured the man he saw in the rain, long, white hair spilling from under his hat, had to be Thomas Clouston. If he’d had a rifle, he’d have taken a pot at him, keep him honest.

  He told as much to Hamp Sedley who’d arrived with his horse, beef sandwiches, a bottle of cherry soda pop, and some news.

  “You’d have missed him anyway,” Sedley said. “Who the hell can shoot in this downpour rain?” He glanced at the dark sky. “Let’s move to the office and show Clouston that we got enough sense to get in out of the rain.”

  After they stepped inside, Shawn stood at the window and looked out at the now empty flat. Chewing on a sandwich he said, “What’s your news?”

  Sedley shook his slicker, scattering water everywhere. “Sheriff Purdy, if you’ll forgive that expression, decided to call the meeting earlier. Right now somebody’s punching holes in the air with his forefinger and saying nothing that makes a lick of sense.”

  “Is Brown getting any volunteers?” Shawn said.

  “I don’t know. I didn’t stick around. But I can tell you this, those two weird D’eth brothers were in attendance and so was Pete Caradas.”

  “Burt Becker?”

  “No. I heard he’s keeping to himself, still grieving for Sunny Swanson.”

  Sedley joined Shawn at the window. “What are we looking for?” he said.

  “Thomas Clouston marching an army toward us,” Shawn said. “Then we skedaddle and spread the good news. At least, that’s what Saturday Brown says.”

  “He says he killed a man and wounded another today,” Sedley said.

  “He did. Both of them were Clouston gunmen.”

  “Got a bad attitude that feller,” Sedley said. “I don’t know if he scares Clouston but he scares the hell out of me.”

  “He’s old school, Hamp, doesn’t take any sass.”

  Sedley took a bite from his sandwich. “Clouston isn’t coming this way today. Great generals don’t like to fight in the rain. Napoleon didn’t.”

  “Waterloo was fought in a rainstorm.”

  “Yeah, and as I recall he lost that one.”

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside and Shawn drew his Colt.

  But the visitor was Saturday Brown. Judging by his muddy boots he’d walked all the way from town.

  As Shawn holstered his gun, Brown said, “Meeting’s over. I got eighteen volunteers, dismissed those who were too young, too old, or too sick, and ended up with seven men. Three of them were in the war but none of them were fighting soldiers, a teamster, a quartermaster’s clerk, and a medical orderly.” The lawman shrugged. “Ah well, a man has to do his best with what he has.”

  “And what’s your best, Marshal?” Shawn said.

  “They will man this redoubt and repulse the enemy, even though their womenfolk are agin it.”

  Shawn’s heart sank. Seven volunteers, none of them fighting men, up against Clouston’s hired guns. He didn’t like the odds.

  “What about Caradas and the D’eth brothers?” he asked.

  “Who knows?” Brown said. “They didn’t volunteer, just sat warming their chairs when I asked for a show of hands.”

  “Clouston looked the place over a short time after you left,” Shawn said. “He sat his horse a ways off where I couldn’t get a shot at him.”

  “He’ll attack here tomorrow, take down my sign, and then destroy the town,” Brown said. “At least that’s his intention.”

  “When do your volunteers get here?” Shawn said.

  “As soon as it gets dark,” Brown said. “They all have rifles and I can guarantee Clouston and his men a warm reception. Look out there, O’Brien. They’ll charge across the flat and we’ll catch them in the open.”

  “Clouston’s men will be in the open for a couple of minutes at most, and then they’ll be among you,” Shawn said. “Will your men stand against trained horseback fighters?”

  “That’s a question I can’t answer until it happens,” Brown said. Shawn saw doubt in his eyes. “But no matter what happens I’ll live or die on this ground. It’s my job.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  By evening the rain was a memory kept alive by the muddy street and the washed-clean air. The moon was just beginning its climb into the purple sky as Shawn O’Brien and Hamp Sedley stepped into the Streetcar.

  Four men sat at a table, a pot of coffee and cups in front of them.

  Shawn was suddenly interested. When draw fighters forsook whiskey for coffee it meant they anticipated gun work ahead.

  Pete Caradas lounged in his chair, his elegant self. Burt Becker regarded Shawn with an almost psychotic hatred, and the D’eth brothers sat upright, their dark faces empty of expression.

  Sedley, not the most diplomatic of men, grinned and loudly said to Shawn, “Well now, there’s four rannies you don’t want to ever meet in a dark alley.”

  Caradas smiled. “Sedley, I’m willing to overlook your little faults since we’re both members of the gambling fraternity, but sometimes you really do push your luck.”

  “Only a jest, Pete. No offense intended,” Sedley said.

  “And none taken,” Caradas said. “This time.” Then to Shawn, “The stalwart sons of Broken Bridle marched out an hour ago. You missed a grand sight.”

  “I was at dinner,” Shawn said. “All seven of them, huh?”

  Caradas said, “Eight, if you include Marshal Saturday Brown. But I would value him pretty high. He’s probably worth three or four of us ordinary mortals.”

  Shawn ordered a beer, then holding the glass in his left hand he said, “Why the meeting, Pete?”

  “Oh, just settling our differences,” Caradas said.

  Becker, a clean bandage tied around his chin, looked more than ever like a belligerent rabbit. “You weren’t invited, O’Brien,” he said.

  “Try not to talk too much, Burt,” Shawn said. “You must give the jaw I broke some rest.”

  Caradas said, “Please, Mr. Becker, let us not be inhospitable. You’re welcome to join us, O’Brien, but you’re too late to take part, since we just passed a resolution.”

  “And that was?” Shawn said. The saloon was empty and the sheet music open on the piano was the soulful ballad, “A Soldier’s Farewell to His Dear Old Mother.”

  “We resolved that we would support Marshal Brown in his endeavors against our mutual enemy, Doctor Thomas Clouston,” Caradas said. He poured coffee into his cup, then added, “But lest you think us too noble, we are not singing ‘John Brown’s Body’ and fighting to free the slaves. The D’eth brothers sitting next to me like twin sphinxes are contracted to kill Dr. Clouston, a commission they are most anxious to fulfill. And Mr. Becker here wants the Rattlesnake Hills and all the gold contained therein.”

  “And you, Pete, what do you want?” Shawn said.

  “Me? Just craving a little excitement is all. I’ve grown more than a little bored with this hick town. And, I might say, with Dr. Clouston. He’s caused enough mischief and it’s time for him to go.”

  “How do you plan to play this?” Shawn said.

  “We’ll join the marshal’s merry band sometime in the night and wait Clouston’s attack,” Caradas said.

  “Suppose he attacks Broken Bridle?” Shawn said. “There’s only old men and boys to defend the place.”

  “Sedley, tell Mr. O’Brien what we’re doing,” Caradas said.

  “Rolling the dice,” Sedley said. “Hoping we make the right call.”

  “There’s your answer,” Caradas said. “And what about you, O’Bri
en. Will you fight?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Shawn said.

  “Then you will join us at the barricades?” Caradas said.

  Shawn nodded and smiled. And he was still smiling as he said, “Pete, we’d better pray that we’ve made the right call. I heard the banshee crying over dead men in the hills last night.”

  Shawn and Sedley had just stepped out of the Streetcar when the Medicine Bow militia showed up, trudging through mud as they emerged from the darkness . . . three old coots leading four mules burdened with the various parts of a small cannon.

  The man in front, wearing a ragged blue coat with tan facings and brass buttons, halted his caravan outside the saloon and said to Sedley, who was closer to him, “Colonel Jeb Calhoun of the Medicine Bow Dismounted Mule Militia at your service. I’m looking fer Deputy United States Marshal Saturday Brown, late of our fair city.”

  “Are there more of you?” Sedley said, horrified.

  “No, just us. Me, Major Dan Sheehan, and Captain Tom Delaney, plus four mules and a twelve-pounder mountain howitzer, model of 1841.”

  “Hell,” Sedley said, “how old are you fellers?”

  “Right impertinent question to ask, sonny,” Calhoun said, bristling. “But if you must know I’m eighty-one, Major Sheehan is two years younger nor me, and Captain Delaney is only seventy-five.”

  Shawn stepped to the edge of the boardwalk and said, “My friend means that we thought there would be more of you.”

  “This is the militia, sonny, all of it,” Calhoun said. “The younger fellers all quit to go strike it rich in Cripple Creek, Coloraddy.” The old man had a beard down to a brass belt buckle engraved with the words, NUMQUID AUT MORI, as had his two companions. “Now point the way to Marshal Brown and don’t let me hear no more sass.”

  Shawn directed the colonel to the rail depot, then said, “Call out when you get close. Those boys up there are a might touchy.”

  After the old men and their mules disappeared into the night, Sedley said, “If Saturday Brown never had a heart attack before, he’ll have one now when he sees his militia.”

  Shawn said, “Who knows? Maybe they can hit something with that old peashooter.”

  Sedley said, “Not even the side of a barn. And if they’re lucky they’ll get one shot off before Clouston’s boys are among them.”

  “Well, let’s hope they make it count,” Shawn said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  It was on the owlhoot side of midnight when Shawn O’Brien and Hamp Sedley joined Saturday Brown and his volunteers at the rail depot. To Shawn’s surprise Pete Caradas, Burt Becker, and the D’eth brothers were already there.

  Deputy United States Marshal Brown was not impressed.

  “I thought I told you rannies to stay in town,” he said, his shaggy eyebrows joining over the bridge of his nose like an old angry bull. “What if Clouston attacks there first?”

  “Marshal, we’re rolling the dice,” Shawn said.

  “Well, I hope you call it right,” Brown said. “Man the defenses. The boys already there will make room. And don’t step in front of that damned cannon.”

  “That’s not the way to play it,” Shawn said. “Becker’s jaw is broken and he can’t shoot a rifle and I’m not real good with a long gun.”

  “Same goes for me,” Caradas said. “And I’m sure our silent friends here feel the same way.” He grinned at the stone-faced D’eth brothers. “Ain’t that right, boys?”

  Milos and Petsha remained silent and Caradas said, “See, they don’t want to grab a musket, either.”

  “Then how do you want to play this, O’Brien?” Brown said.

  “We’ll be your reserve, Marshal,” Shawn said. “If Clouston breaks your line, we’ll join the fight. By then it will be close work and rifle skills won’t matter.”

  “O’Brien, who made you general?” Becker said, his throat working as he formed each torturous word.

  “He makes sense, Burt,” Caradas said. “In this outfit, that qualifies him as a general. What do the D’eth brothers say?”

  “We’ll go our own way, Caradas,” Milos said.

  “Then make sure you’re pointed in the right direction,” Caradas said. “I’d hate to shoot you boys as deserters.”

  “Big talk. Empty talk,” Milos said.

  “Well, now that’s settled,” Shawn said, smiling. “All we have to do is hunker down and wait. It’s going to be a long time until dawn.”

  “Where the hell do I go?” Sedley said.

  “You’re in the reserve,” Shawn said. Then, “It will be close, Hamp. Just take your time and use the sights.”

  “Or haul off and chunk your piece at somebody,” Caradas said.

  Sedley frowned. “We sure got no shortage of funnymen around here.”

  A couple of hours later when the night was as dark as pitch, Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy showed up with his crutch, his rifle, and his woman.

  Saturday Brown was incensed, boiling with rage.

  “Why the hell did you bring a woman here?” he said. Despite his anger the quiet of night hushed his voice. “Git her back home.”

  Purdy shook his head. “Jane insisted on coming. She’s taken a set on it.”

  “I’m staying right here, Marshal,” Jane Collins said. “If you want to get rid of me, you’ll have to shoot me down like a common criminal.”

  Watching her, Shawn was surprised at how pretty Jane was. He’d only seen her once before when she was released from Becker’s dungeon, and then she hadn’t been at her best. And it seemed that with so much on his mind Saturday Brown was not in the mood to tangle with a stubborn woman. “Then you’ll stay in the depot office and not come out until I tell you to. Understand, missy?”

  “I can take care of myself, Marshal,” Jane said, her little square chin set and obstinate. She reached under her hooded cloak and produced a Remington derringer from the pocket of her dress. “My intended gave me this.”

  “Purdy, I’m holding you responsible for your woman,” Brown said. “See she doesn’t get in the way.”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Purdy said. “After I get Jane settled, where do you want me?”

  “You got a rifle, so I want you in the firing line. Find yourself a berth among the others.” Brown glared at the girl. “Why in God’s name does a pretty little gal want to be here? Is it to be close to Purdy?”

  Jane Collins shook her head. “No. It’s not that.”

  “Then what is it, ma’am, if I ain’t out of place in askin’?”

  “I want to watch Burt Becker die,” Jane said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Just before dawn Dr. Thomas Clouston’s gunmen ordered the Chinese to remain inside their tents and that anyone caught outside would be shot on sight.

  Something big was afoot, and Sammy Chang knew that the time was approaching when he must raise the Black Dragon flag of revolt that the women had been secretly sewing for days. He heard Clouston yelling orders, and the whinny of horses and the clank of weapons and equipment told him the oppressors were mounting up to do battle.

  He readied his Tranter revolvers and bided his time . . .

  Thomas Clouston was pleased. He’d touched a hunchback for good luck and now it was high time to settle with Broken Bridle and wipe that vile pestilence off the map. But first he would take back what was his. It was a matter of pride, not necessity, but he could not allow such an affront to stand. The marshal who confiscated the greenstone would pay for his crime on the gallows, and Clouston planned to watch him kick.

  Dressed in his cloak, astride his great horse, Clouston puffed on the S-shaped pipe clenched between his teeth and studied the defenses in front of the rail depot. He swept his telescope across the greenstone barricade and counted eight, perhaps nine, men. But then, behind the pathetic fortifications he spotted something that gave him pause—a small cannon manned by three graybeards.

  Clouston removed the glass from his eye, slammed it shut, and studied the terrain between h
imself and the enemy. He calculated the cannon could get off a single shot, effective enough if it was loaded with canister and the old geezers could shoot. Somehow he thought that unlikely since they were obviously not regular army artillerymen. But in any case, he’d touched the old Chinese hunchback so all the luck in the world would be with him.

  As a precaution, Clouston gave the order that his men should shake out into a loose line, leaving ten feet of space between the horses to reduce the effect of grapeshot. He had lost men through death and desertion but could still field eighteen gun-savvy horsemen, more than enough for the task at hand.

  Six conscripted Chinese boys carrying large kettledrums, the very drums that had terrorized Broken Bridle for so long, stepped in front of the mounted men.

  In that moment Thomas Clouston imagined he was a frontier Napoleon.

  He turned to the man at his side. “Mr. Smith, we will advance at a walk. Order the drums to set the pace.”

  Smith barked out the orders and the line advanced. The horsemen drew their Colts and held them up beside their heads and the kettledrums pounded.

  After a hundred yards, Clouston yelled, “Music to the rear! Advance at the trot!”

  Horse harnesses jangled as the gunmen kneed their mounts into a fast trot.

  “Damn you! Keep your line!” Clouston roared.

  He placed his pipe in a coat pocket and grabbed his steel battle-ax. Ahead of him he saw a puff of white smoke, and then a cannon shell shrieked high over his head. He heard a dull Crrrump! as it exploded harmlessly somewhere in the hills.

  “Forward at the canter!” Clouston yelled. Then, “Charge!”