Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter (26 page)

“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.

“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.

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.

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.”

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'Brien. 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.