Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter (27 page)

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.

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 himself 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!”

“Here they come, boys!” Saturday Brown roared. “Let 'em have it!”

The men among the greenstone fired a ragged volley. Watching from the window of the depot office, Shawn O'Brien saw no hits.

Thomas Clouston's men came on at the gallop, firing their revolvers.

The window where Shawn stood shattered as a bullet hit the glass high up, and behind him he heard Hamp Sedley curse as the ricocheting bullet nicked him.

“Damn! Look at that!” Pete Caradas said. Three men left the firing line, tossed away their rifles, and headed for town at a run. “We better get down there.”

“No, not yet,” Shawn said. “When the greenstone slows them we'll play our hand.”

Below them Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy stood, his crutch under his left arm. Unable to work his rifle, he fired his .32 steadily but to no apparent success.

Clouston's men, yipping like savages, were less than a hundred yards away . . . ninety . . . eighty . . . seventy . . .

The Medicine Bow militia gallantly tried to service their howitzer and get off another shot. But Colonel Jeb Calhoun took a bullet in the head and fell, sprawling across the barrel. Clouston's men targeted the cannon. Major Sheehan and Captain Delaney fell in quick succession and then a man who rushed to their help went down, screaming, his right leg shattered by a bullet.

“O'Brien!” Caradas called out. “For God's sake!”

“Get ready,” Shawn said.

“You boys stay right where you're at,” Burt Becker said. “You, O'Brien, let go of the iron or I'll drill you square.”

For a moment Shawn thought about going for it and Becker read it in his eyes. He reached out, grabbed Jane Collins, then threw her violently on the floor. “She gets it first. Now drop the gun.”

“Do as he says, O'Brien,” Caradas said. “He means it.”

As contract killers, the D'eth brothers mentally took a step back. This was no part of why they were in Broken Bridle. It was a time to wait and see. Outside guns banged and men roared their battle anger.

“What happened with the jaw, Becker?” Shawn said.

The big man removed the bandage. “It would take a better man than you to bust my jaw, O'Brien. As long as I made as though it was broke, I didn't have to answer any fool questions about missing women and the like.”

“What's your game, Becker?” Shawn said.

“Game? No game. I surrender you to Thomas Clouston and then me and him cut a deal. My gun protection for a share of the gold.”

“He doesn't need you, Becker,” Shawn said. “He'll kill you.”

“No, he'll need me after today,” the big outlaw said. “He's losing men down there.”

But the sound of the gunfire suddenly changed. It slowed down, ended, and was replaced by shrieks of terror and primitive screams of rage from many throats.

Alarmed, Burt Becker took a quick glance out the window. It was a reaction that came and went in a split second. But it was all the time Shawn O'Brien needed. He drew in one fluid, graceful motion and fired.

Becker was fast. He took the shoulder hit and shot back. His bullet ripped a gouge across the top of Shawn's shoulder and burned like a red-hot iron. But Shawn's second bullet hit true and slammed into the center of Becker's chest. The big man staggered back, his eyes wide and in shock. Shawn fired again, a second hit, this time to the base of Becker's throat. Some stubborn, inner strength kept Becker on his feet, but he was gone and Shawn could see it. His gun fell from his hand and he went to his knees. He stared at Shawn and managed to say just one word:
“Fast.”

Then Becker's eyes clouded and he fell flat on his face.

His anger up, the roar of gunshots ringing in his ears, Shawn swung on Pete Caradas. “Damn you, make your play,” he said.

Caradas lifted his hands. “Your friends need help, O'Brien.”

“Shawn!” Hamp Sedley's voice seemed to travel from far off. “Your enemy is outside.”

Shawn forced himself to come back, out of the tunnel that stretched between him and Pete Caradas. After a few moments his Colt dropped by his side and he walked past Caradas to the door and then stepped outside . . . into carnage.

 

 

In the moment of victory, Thomas Clouston lost.

A thousand Chinese men swarmed over his mounted men and dragged them from the saddle. Clouston, his massive horse rearing, roared and laid about him with his battle-ax splitting heads and cleaving off hands, but the Chinese swarmed over him and hauled him to the ground. Clouston's battle cries turned to screams of terror as he was carried above the heads of the crowd in the direction of the Rattlesnake Hills.

Shawn, followed by Sedley and Caradas, waded into the brawl, their guns drawing. But they found no targets. Despite huge losses, the Chinese had overpowered all of Clouston's men and hacked them to pieces with whatever weapons they'd carried from their camp, knives, picks, shovels . . . and their bare hands. There was no longer anything human about the Clouston gunmen; here and there bloody remains spread across the ground like cherry pies dropped to the stone floor by a careless baker.

Shawn watched the D'eth brothers run in hot pursuit of the Chinese who'd taken Clouston. They still had their contract to honor.

“O'Brien!”

Shawn looked around the battlefield at the hurting dead and dying. The air was thick with gun smoke and the hot iodine smell of blood.

“Over here! You ain't very bright, son, or you're deef!”

Saturday Brown lay under a pile of bodies, white and brown tangled together, united only by blood. The old lawman's face was ashen.

“Are you hurt?” Shawn said.

“All shot to pieces, son. Now git me to my feet.”

Shawn and Hamp Sedley helped the marshal stand. Sedley looked Brown over and said, “You're shot through and through.”

“Yup. Noticed that my ownself,” Brown said.

“We need to get you to the doctor,” Shawn said.

Brown said, “There are others here who need a doctor. See to them first. Then bring me the butcher's bill.”

The bill was steep. Six dead, including the militiamen, and all the rest wounded, one of them, Brown, seriously. Clouston had lost three men during the charge and one more at the barricade. The Chinese had done for the rest.

Dr. John Walsh did the best he could, but Deputy United States Marshal Saturday Brown, shot four times, died within an hour of the battle's end.

Shawn O'Brien took his death hard.

“What the hell happened?” Hamp Sedley said. He stared at the body of Dr. Thomas Clouston hanging by its neck from the gallows noose. “His whole damned chest is open. Man, look at the damned flies. Hundreds of them.”

“I'd say the D'eth brothers took his heart,” Shawn said. “I guess it was a clause in their contract.” He turned to Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy who had his wounded left arm in a sling. “You sure you know how to work that thing?”

“I watched Colonel Calhoun do it,” Purdy said. “She's all set and ready to go.”

“What do you think Pete?” Shawn said. “Will it shoot?”

“Yeah, it will shoot. If it doesn't blow up first,” Caradas said.

A townsman with a fat bandage around his head nodded, his face wise.

“Seen a cannon blow up once, but it was double-shotted. Killed the gun crew though.”

“Is that thing double-shotted?” Sedley said, stepping away from the howitzer.

“No,” Purdy said. “One ball ought to be enough to bring down the overhang.”

“Aim for the crack, Pete,” Shawn said.

“Easy,” Caradas said. “Like looking down the barrel of a Colt.”

Shawn eyed the overhang, the great fissure like a terrible scar.

“Let her rip!” he yelled.

The howitzer roared and its wheels bounced a foot in the air. Rancid smoke enveloped Shawn, but he heard a loud explosion and the crash of the collapsing rock face. When the smoke cleared there was no longer an overhang, just a pile of rubble at the bottom of the cliff.

“Didn't take much, did it?” Caradas said. Temporary deafness from the blast made him shout.

Shawn waved away smoke and dust from the front of his face and said to Purdy, “How much shot do we have left?”

“Enough to bring down the whole cliff face,” Purdy said.

“Then that's what we'll do,” Shawn said. “The greenstone has caused enough death and disaster. Let's bury it forever.”

He felt worn-out, used up, and depression hung on him like a wet cloak.