Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter (22 page)

“Name's Deputy United States Marshal Saturday Brown and I got me a dead man outside.”

Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy had gotten up from his coat at the back of the office to answer Brown's pounding, and he looked tousled, his weak eyes blinking behind his glasses.

“What happened to him?” he said.

“My official report will say that I shot him in error, that I mistakenly took him fer a lawbreaker. Mistakes like that can cost a man his pension.”

“What's the deceased's name?”

“I don't know. Afore he died he said he'd been working for the Four Ace ranch, said he wanted to put a heap of git between him and the Rattlesnake Hills. That's all I know about him.”

“We all want to put a heap of git between us and those hills,” Purdy said. “This town has already lost a third of its citizens.”

“I figgered something like that. The wagon road was mighty churned up. Take a lot of wheels to do that.”

“I reckon some of that was caused by Thomas Clouston's ore wagons. Seems he has more arriving every day.”

“By nature, I'm a drinking man, Sheriff,” Brown said. “You got any whiskey to wet my pipe, like?”

Purdy opened his desk drawer and produced a bottle of Old Crow and a couple of glasses. “Take a seat, Marshal,” he said.

“Don't you want to see the dead man?” Brown said, his eyes measuring the young lawman. “Maybe you can put a name to him.”

“You sure he's dead?” Purdy said.

“When I shoot a man that's the way he usually ends up.”

“Well then he can wait.”

Brown watched Purdy pour the whiskey, picked up his glass, then said, “All right, Sheriff, tell me what's going on with this town. I want to hear everything, so start at the beginning.”

“It will be long in the telling,” Purdy said.

“The night is young,” Brown said. “It ain't really since it's past my bedtime, but I'm listening.”

After many stops and starts and pointed questions from Saturday Brown, Purdy told the story of Clouston's arrival in the Rattlesnake Hills and the tragic effort of the men of Broken Bridle to oust him from his stronghold. He also mentioned his college education and the kidnap of his betrothed by Burt Becker.

It took Brown a while to answer, as he mulled over what Purdy had just told him. Then he said, “Clouston's a doctor, you say?”

“Yes. A psychiatrist.”

“I've heard o' them. Never had much need for one though,” Brown said. He shoved his empty glass across the desk. “Fill that, son,” he said.

Glass in hand, the marshal said, “Clouston ain't stupid. He'll attack this town all right, but only when the Chinese dig the gold out of the ground.”

“I don't catch your drift, Marshal,” Purdy said. “I told you, Clouston fears a gold rush.”

“Hell, you already said a third of the folks in this town have lit a shuck. Don't you think that the word is already out that there's gold in the Rattlesnake Hills? He'll work the Chinese to death, get all the gold he can in the shortest possible time, and then attack this burg. And do you know why?”

“No, why?”

“For a college boy you ain't too smart, are you, son?” Before Purdy could answer, Brown said, “He'll cut down on the number of shares. If Clouston has a score of men, he knows he'll lose half of them in an attack on Broken Bridle, especially with three big-name draw fighters in town. That's ten less fingers in the pie. Now do you catch my drift?”

“Pete Caradas won't fight for this town and neither will Burt Becker,” Purdy said. “O'Brien might, but then, who knows?”

“What about you, Sheriff ?” Brown said. “Will you fight?”

“I have no choice.”

“You can run.”

“I won't do that. How about you, Marshal?” Purdy said. He looked small and insignificant, blinking behind his round glasses, about as potent and dangerous as the .32 on his desk.

“I'll see this out,” Brown said. “It's my job.” He smiled. “This Clouston feller has never had to deal with the likes of Saturday Brown afore.”

The marshal rose to his feet. “The gambling man with Shawn O'Brien says you ain't much, Sheriff.”

“And what do you say?” Purdy asked.

“I don't think you're much, either,” Brown said. Then, “There's a dead man outside.”

“I'll take care of it,” Purdy said. He sounded tired, defeated.

“I'll want his hoss an' traps,” Brown said.

Purdy nodded. “You'll get them.”

The big marshal stepped to the door, his spurs ringing in the quiet. He turned. “Sheriff Purdy, if my gal was kidnapped I'd tear this town apart board by board to find her, and I'd kill any man who got in my way, including Burt Becker.”

Brown opened the door and delivered a parting barb. “For God's sake be a man, and be a peace officer.”

After the marshal left Jeremiah Purdy buried his face in his hands. He knew he could no longer be either.

 

 

Saturday Brown rode past the hotel on his way to the livery. Shawn O'Brien was no longer there, probably in bed, but the marshal planned to wake him up later anyway.

As was his habit, Brown leaned from the saddle, opened the stable door, and rode inside. A couple of rubes lay asleep on hay to his right, but the Colt in the fist of the man to his left cost more than a farm boy could ever afford. A spotted pup lay curled up between them.

“I can drill you just fine from here,” Milos D'eth said.

“You always sleep like a cat, Milos, or so I've heard,” Brown said.

“I heard you were dead,” Milos said.

“And I was told that you and Petsha there, pretending to be asleep, got hung over to San Francisco way,” Brown said.

“You heard wrong,” Milos said.

“And I ain't dead, either,” Brown said. “At least not yet.”

“You got a warrant on us, Saturday?” Petsha said, now standing gun in hand. His face was stiff, as hard as iron, and the pup sniffed around the lawman's boots.

“Nope. Shot a feller by mistake and brung him in is all. What are you two sewer rats doing in a burg like this?” Brown said.

“One day that kind of talk will get you shot, Saturday,” Milos said.

The marshal smiled. “Not by you, Milos. You know I can outlast you.”

“Nobody can outlast a shot between the eyes,” Milos said.

“A truer word was never spoke,” Brown said. He got ready to climb out of the saddle, but Milos said, “Saturday, you wouldn't be planning a fancy move, would you?”

“Me gettin' off this pony is never fancy,” Brown said. He dismounted, then reached into his saddlebag. Milos said, “Easy does it, Marshal.”

“Damn it all, you boys put away them irons,” Brown said. “It's highly likely that I'll shoot you at a later date, but this isn't the time.”

“We don't like you, Saturday,” Petsha said. “Never did and never will.”

“Well, that makes feelings kinda mutual all round, don't it?”

Brown produced a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebag. He took a swig and passed the bottle to Milos. “Here, wet your whistle, then tell me why you're here. Who will have the honor of getting his ticket punched by the D'eth brothers?”

Milos took a drink, passed the bottle to his brother, and said, “Somebody you don't know.”

“I know everybody so try me,” Brown said. Then to Petsha, “Hell, don't sip that whiskey. Drink it like a man.”

“I'll kill you one day, Saturday,” Petsha said, his black eyes mean.

“Yeah? Well, until then quit drinking like my maiden aunt Agatha. It surely irritates a man.”

“Clouston. His name is Dr. Thomas Clouston,” Milos said.

Brown decided not to show his hand. “What did he do? Saw off a wrong leg?”

“He killed our client's brother,” Milos said. “He said he was incurably insane and starved him to death at his clinic in Philadelphia. Truth was, our client hadn't yet made his fortune and couldn't pay for his brother's treatment, so Clouston murdered him. Our client wants us to bring him Clouston's heart to see if it's made of stone like he believes.”

“You boys are the best assassins in the business,” Brown said. “How come you haven't done for him?”

“So far we can't get close enough,” Petsha said. “But we will.”

“You'll be close enough when Clouston digs out enough gold from the Rattlesnake Hills and attacks this town,” Brown said. He took the bottle from Petsha.

“Clouston won't do that,” Milos said. “He has no need. He's already killed half the men in Broken Bridle.”

“I'll tell you what I told Sheriff Purdy—”

Petsha snorted. “Him? He's only half a man. Why tell him anything?”

“I can't argue with you there, but Clouston will attack to whittle down his numbers.”

“Less shares,” Milos said. “More money for him.”

“When it comes to the killing for profit business you catch on quick,” Brown said. He took a drink from the bottle and offered it to Milos, who refused, as did his brother.

“Saturday, we will take care of your horse in payment for the drink,” Milos said. “We will kill you one day, and when that time comes I don't wish to owe you anything.”

“Spoken like a white man,” Brown said. His eyes flicked over the man's black hair and dark skin. “Well, a kinda white man. What will you do when Clouston attacks?”

“My brother and I will talk about it,” Milos said. “It may be that Clouston will return east and we will follow him there. Or we will kill him here. Petsha and I will discuss what is best.”

“Let me know, boys, huh?” Brown said. “By the way, your dog is biting my ankle.”

“When we kill Clouston, you will know.” Milos picked up the pup.

“Well, it's been real nice talkin' with you boys again after . . . what? . . . six, seven years,” Brown said. “Do you mind that? The time you gunned the Yankee railroad millionaire as he kneeled by his bed a-sayin' of his prayers. I was sent after you, rode a hundred mile and more, but never seen hide nor hair.”

“But we saw you,” Milos said. “You were lucky on account of how there's no profit in killing marshals.”

“Well,” Brown said, “as my old ma used to say, let bygones be bygones. Now make sure my hoss gets a rubdown and a scoop of oats, all right?”

“We have no quarrel with your horse, Saturday,” Milos said. “We will take care of him.”

 

 

Whiskey bottle in hand, Saturday Brown slogged through ankle-deep mud to the hotel. Across the street the Streetcar Saloon was lit up but the silence behind its doors suggested a lack of customers. The marshal didn't mind, his business was with Shawn O'Brien. Besides he'd promised his wife that his lips would ne'er taste strong drink or linger on those of loose women. He'd been able to more or less keep the latter, but the former had so far eluded him.

When he reached the hotel porch Brown stomped the mud off his boots, an action that brought the night clerk hurrying outside with a warning that he would “wake the whole damned town.”

“It's too early for Christian folks to be in bed,” Brown said. “I'm here to see a feller named O'Brien.”

“Mr. O'Brien is abed and cannot be disturbed,” the clerk said. He was as fussy as a mother chicken and looked like one, too.

Brown was a straight-talking man, but he decided to let Sam Colt do his speechifying for him. The desk clerk suddenly looked cross-eyed at a gun muzzle shoved into the hairy bridge of his nose.

“Can I expect trouble from you?” Brown said.

“No, sir,” the clerk said. “No trouble.”

“Room number,” Brown said. Heat lightning flashed in the sky and his face shimmered like a bronze bust in a furnace.

“Room twelve, upstairs, first door on the right,” the clerk said. His knees shook.

“Good man,” Brown said. “You're a credit to the innkeeper profession.”

 

 

The marshal took to the stairs, making no effort to be quiet, and slammed his fist repeatedly into the door of Shawn O'Brien's room.

He waited a few moments and was about to pound again when a voice from inside said, “Mister, you better have a good reason for disturbing my sleep.”

“I have good reason. This is Deputy United States Marshal Saturday Brown. Open up in the name of the law.”

The door opened and Brown stared into the cold black eye of Shawn's Colt. The marshal ignored it. “Get dressed. We've got things to do.”

“Do what?” Shawn said. He lowered the hammer of his revolver.

“What your town sheriff should have done weeks ago,” Brown said. “We're going to take the saloon apart and save a lady in distress.”

“You're talking about Jane Collins,” Shawn said.

“The same. She's your sheriff's intended, or so he says.”

“Then he told you about Burt Becker,” Shawn said. “He says he'll kill the girl if any attempt is made to rescue her.”

“I know. But we won't give him a chance to kill anybody. Now get dressed, O'Brien. I need that fast gun of yours.”

“What's going on?” Hamp Sedley stood at the door in his underwear, a revolver in his hand.

“Get dressed,” Brown said. “We're going to rescue a gal from a fate worse than death.”

Sedley echoed Shawn's question. “You mean Purdy's intended?”