Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter (25 page)

Dr. Thomas Clouston decided the trembling depot agent was criminally insane and a danger to civilized society.

“What do you mean, the ore cars are broken?” he said.

“Broken. That's what I heard. I telegraphed back up the line for a hundred miles and the word I got back from the other agents is that the cars can't be moved until they get a repair crew down from Casper.”

His face black with anger, Clouston stared out at the tumbled heaps of greenstone dumped beside the track. Another wagon had just pulled in and a couple of Chinese women sullenly added to the pile. Millions of dollars' worth of ore lay next to the rails as far as the eye could see, a useless pile of rock unless it could be loaded and sent to the crusher.

The Rocky Mountains normally protect Wyoming from severe weather by blocking air masses from the Gulf of Mexico, North America, and the Pacific Ocean. But around the Rattlesnake Hills summer thunderstorms are frequent and now another threatened, adding to Clouston's angry state of mind. To the north the sky was deep purple, almost black, and behind that smoky white clouds rose in massive ramparts, as though somewhere a great swath of the world was burning.

Fat drops of rain ticked around Clouston as he ordered Lark Rawlings to bring the depot agent closer. Rawlings, grinning, pushed the little man nearer. “You gonna hang him, boss?” he asked.

“No. I want this gentleman to do something for me,” Clouston said.

Thoroughly frightened the agent wrung his hands and said, “I'll do anything. Please don't hurt me.”

“I have no intention of hurting you,” Clouston said. “Do you see the rails stretching away in the distance? I can tell you do, smart fellow. Now, you walk those rails north until you find my ore cars and then you expedite their repair. Understand?”

“But . . . but I could walk for a hundred miles,” the little man said.

“Then you'd better get started, hadn't you?” Clouston smiled. “Make tracks as they say.”

“Please, mister, I'll work the telegraph . . . I'll . . . I'll find the cars. I could die out there.”

“No doubt, but if you don't start walking I'll”—Clouston's tone changed from almost bantering amusement to the harsh whisper of a man possessed—“chop off your head.”

The agent backed away from Clouston, his hands in front of him as though he warded off evil, his face stricken with horror.

“Mr. Rawlings, see our envoy on his way if you please,” Clouston said.

Rawlings grinned and mounted his horse. He rode between the rails and hoorawed the little agent like a puncher cutting a steer out of brush. The railroad man turned and ran, tripped and fell, and then ran again.

Finally Rawlings drew rein and watched the agent go as fast as his short legs could carry him. He rode back to Clouston and said, “How long do you think he'll last out there, boss?”

Clouston shrugged. “Who knows?” Then, with a straight face, “May God go with him.”

 

 

Thunder crashed and beyond the shelter of the rock overhang rain drummed on the hat and slicker of the mounted rifleman who stood guard on this section of the diggings.

Sammy Chang swung his pick into the greenstone seam and levered free a large chunk. Here and there the stone was rotted and crumbled easily to the touch, and the hillside was dangerously undercut, the terrifying weight of the creaking cliff ready to crash to ground. All along the half-mile length of the undercut, hundreds of men picked away at the rock and women and children lifted up the ore and carried it to the waiting wagons. Once every two hours the diggers were allowed a fifteen-minute break when they bolted down a few rice cakes before returning to the menacing undercut. Their guards looked bored and uncomfortable in the teeming rain but held the butts of rifles upright on their thighs, and their cold, uncaring eyes were restless.

Talking on the job was an offense that called for a vicious beating, but the man working next to Chang whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “It must be soon. Six dead men in the tents this morning.”

Chang nodded. The Han were being systematically worked to death in the cut and as the work and danger increased so would the death toll.

“It will be soon,” Chang said. “The suffering will end.”

A rifle roared and a bullet chipped rock inches above Chang's head. “Quit that blabbering,” the guard yelled. “Or the next one goes through your head.”

“It will be soon,” Chang whispered without turning.

Deputy United States Marshal Saturday Brown wanted to send another wire to Medicine Bow demanding confirmation that his first message had been received. But there was no sign of the depot agent and that irritated him considerably. But perhaps he was already in the telegraph office.

“Damn rain,” Brown muttered as he slogged through muddy ground to the flat-roofed cabin that passed for the train station. A tin sign on the wall nearest him advertised the benefits of Mrs. Fannie Tyler's Elixir for the Ague and All Female Ailments. The marshal thought he saw a shadow pass across the darkened window to the right of the sign and pegged it as the missing agent's. He took a couple of steps, then stopped again as the heaps of greenstone beside the track caught his eye. Brown walked closer to the rails and saw that the rock piles continued for a considerable distance along the track. At that time there were no freight wagons in sight.

Saturday Brown pondered the greenstone. Apparently it had been dumped here for a later pickup by ore cars. But why not unload the stone directly from wagons into the cars and save many hours of backbreaking work? Then Brown knew what had happened: The freight train hadn't shown up and Thomas Clouston had no way to transport his ore.

The marshal looked in the direction of the Rattlesnake Hills, then studied the terrain around the depot. In the distance rolling hill country but closer brush flats, wide open, made for rifle sights. Brown did a joyous little jig. Hot damn! This is where he would fight Clouston, right here, on ground of his own choosing.

“Hey you!” A tall, bearded man with a life-hardened face stood at the door to the office and glared at Brown. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The marshal played the doddering old codger. “I was looking for the agent. I want to send a wire to a dear cousin who's been keeping poorly.”

“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.”

“‘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.”