Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter (4 page)

“Hey waiter, I've got a fly in my coffee,” Hamp Sedley said.

“I'll bring you another cup,” the man said. He sighed. “There's a herd in town and cows bring flies.” The waiter, a sleek-headed man wearing a white apron, leaned close to Sedley and Shawn O'Brien. “See the young redhead acting tough over there?”

“Uh-huh, with the two-gun rig. Looks like he's on the prod, don't he?” Sedley said.

“He is on the prod. He's one of the drovers brought in the Rafter-L herd this afternoon and he fancies himself a shootist.”

“He's got no quarrel with us,” Shawn said.

“You're right, he don't. But later you might care to wander down to the Streetcar Saloon. The kid says he'll brace Pete Caradas there tonight. Says by midnight Caradas will be dead and he'll be cock of the walk in Broken Bridle.”

“Or he'll be dead himself more likely,” Shawn said.

The waiter left and returned with a clean cup. He winked at Shawn, smiled, and said, “Remember, don't miss the fun.”

Speaking around a mouthful of pork chop, Sedley said, “Think the kid can shade Pete Caradas?”

“I don't know either of them, so I can't say,” Shawn said. “But I reckon the redhead's on the brag and he'll make a play just like he figures.”

Shawn gave up on his tough steak and fried potatoes and let his knife and fork clatter onto the plate.

As he expected, the red-haired kid jerked in his direction, scowling.

Shawn smiled at Sedley. “Red's on the prod all right,” he said.

Maybe it was Shawn's smile that did it. Or the ivory-handled Colt in his holster. Or the way he wore his hat. Or maybe it was nothing at all. Often a man on the prod doesn't need an excuse to brace somebody.

“You seein' enough, mister?” the kid asked, loud, so it would carry across the crowded restaurant.

“I reckon I've seen all I want,” Shawn said.

“What's that supposed to mean?” the redhead said. He had a round, pugnacious face, and it looked like his nose had been broken a time or two.

“It's supposed to mean nothing at all,” Shawn said, smiling.

“Suppose I come over there and wipe that smile off your face with my fist?” the kid said, getting to his feet.

“Suppose you bring a couple of your friends to carry you back,” Shawn said.

“Here, that won't do,” the restaurant owner said, a stout man with hairy forearms the size of hams. “I run a respectable place here.”

“Aw, leave him be, Frank,” one of the redhead's companions said. “Look at him. He's a pretty boy and he's scared.”

Another laughed. “And he's too damned pretty to fight.”

The redhead named Frank swaggered a little, but he sat again.

All three punchers continued to glance over at Shawn's table and talk among themselves, laughing.

Sedley smiled. “Now your brother Jake would have drawn down and killed all three of them,” he said.

“Maybe. It would depend on his mood,” Shawn said.

“Jake's mood is always bad,” Sedley said.

“Some days badder than others,” Shawn said. Then, “This is none of my business, is it?”

“What? The redhead?”

“Yeah. I can't let him throw his life away and die a senseless death. In the past I've seen enough of those, my wife among them.”

“Like you said, Shawn, it's none of your business. Hell, maybe he can shade Pete Caradas.”

“He can't. The kid has never shaded anybody. He may be the big man with the iron around the Rafter-L because he can draw and hit an empty bean can. I guarantee you that he's never met a professional revolver fighter.”

The question on his face was Sedley's only answer.

“I was raised by shootists,” Shawn said. “Rightly or wrongly, my pa and his
segundo
Luther Ironside are man-killers and so is my brother Jacob.”

He dabbed his great cavalry mustache with his napkin and tossed it onto the table. “Hamp, the cowboy hasn't killed a man in his life. Pete Caradas has gunned plenty.”

Shawn rose to his feet and, his spurs ringing, stepped slowly toward the man called Frank's table. A sudden hush fell on the restaurant, but a woman made a little frightened sound in her throat.

Frank was elbowed by one of his friends who whispered, “Well, lookee here.”

The redhead turned, saw Shawn, and grinned as though he welcomed this development. Rising to his feet he said, “Mister, you just don't get the message, do you?”

Shawn ignored that. He and Frank were just three feet apart.

“Shuck the iron, boy,” Shawn said.

The young puncher was taken aback, his face surprised. “Are you calling me out?” he said.

“I sure am. Don't talk, boy. Skin the iron and get your work in,” Shawn said.

The man called Frank tried to give himself more room and stepped back, but Shawn crowded him again.

“Do I have to shame you into drawing on me?” he asked.

The cowboy grinned like a wolf and said, “Well, all right then, rube. You just dug your own grave.”

His hand streaked for his gun.

He didn't even clear leather.

Shawn drew with blinding speed, and in one violent, effortless motion slammed his Colt into the side of the young drover's head.

The buffalo was perfect and Frank dropped like a felled ox.

Shawn would not have been an O'Brien had he missed an opportunity to make a grandstand play.

The flashing, nickel-plated Colt spun on his trigger finger a couple of times, then slapped into his palm.

“Can I accommodate either of you young gentlemen ?” he said to the stunned drovers staring at their downed hero.

“No. Not us,” one of the young men managed. “Hell, mister, we're just leaving for the ranch. I mean, right now. This very minute.”

“Take Frank with you,” Shawn said. “When he comes to, tell him he's not in Pete Caradas's class. Or mine. Tell him to stick to cow punching.”

“We thought he was fast,” the young cowboy said. “Everybody said Frank was chain lightning with a gun.”

“He wasn't fast. He wasn't even close to fast. It's getting dark outside, so take him home and let him sleep it off in his bunk.”

“I guess we all made a mistake,” the young man said, his face ashen.

“Yup, and poor ol' Frank almost made another,” Shawn said.

Shawn O'Brien sat at his table again, shifted his chair a little, and let the cowboys drag their unconscious friend past.

“Think that young feller has learned his lesson?” Hamp Sedley said.

“Well, now he knows what being fast with the iron means,” Shawn said. “That's a valuable lesson.”

“Will it sink in?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“You sure played hob, mister.” The plump proprietor stood by Shawn's chair table, his huge fists on his hips. But he was smiling.

Sedley said, “Kid had to learn.”

“He learned all right,” the big man said.

He stared at Shawn for a moment, then said, “His name is Frank Lester. His pa owns the Rafter-L, but young Frank gives him no end of trouble. You could have killed him.”

Shawn nodded as he reached for the coffeepot. “I reckon.”

“But you did not.”

“No. I guess it just didn't occur to me.”

“You're Shawn O'Brien, ain't you? The one they call the Town Tamer.”

“The word gets around,” Shawn said.

“Folks in Broken Bridle read the daily newspapers that come up from Rawlings on a deadheading cannonball. Your likeness was on all the front pages, but it didn't do you justice.”

“I'm flattered,” Shawn said.

“What needs tamed in this town, Mr. O'Brien? By the way my name is Dave Grambling. I own this place.” The man stuck out his hand. “I was a range cook for good ol' Texas John Slaughter back in the day. You ever meet him?”

“Can't say as I have,” Shawn said. He shook Grambling's hand, then said, “We're only passing through.”

Grambling looked around him, reached into his back pocket, and removed a bill from the thin roll he carried. He held the bill up for Shawn's inspection. “Know what that is?” he said.

Sedley spoke. “It's a fifty-dollar bill. I haven't seen one of them in ages.”

“Right first time, mister. Me, I pay one of these to Burt Becker every week for his protection. If you want to tame this town, tame Burt Becker first.”

“What does Sheriff Purdy say about all this?” Shawn said.

“Nothing. He's in Becker's pocket, like a few others I could name.”

“I'll talk to the sheriff,” Shawn said.

“Yeah, talk, talk, talk. In the meantime while you're jawing I aim to form a vigilante committee to run Becker and his rabble out of town.”

A loose arc of diners had formed behind Grambling, some of the men with napkins tucked into their collars, and there were a few mutters of agreement.

“A hemp noose cures all ills,” a comely matron said. “My dear, late papa always told me that.”

“A wise man,” her companion said. He had a gravy stain on his chin.

“Are you willing to pay the butcher's bill, Grambling?” Shawn said.

“If I have to, yes.”

“It will be high,” Shawn said. He rose to his feet. “I'll talk with Burt Becker.”

“When?”

“Now. Tonight.”

“When your talking is done, come back and see me, O'Brien,” Grambling said.

“I'll have no part of a vigilante action,” Shawn said. “It always leaves too many widows, and towns die because of it.”

“We'll take that chance,” Grambling said.

But his face showed uncertainty, as though the reality of what he proposed had just dawned on him.

Shawn nodded. “You do what you have to. In the meantime I'll see Becker.”

“You'll brace him?” Grambling said, a light in his eyes.

“No. We'll sit down to tea and cake and discuss matters like gentlemen,” Shawn said.

The Streetcar was the grandest saloon in a not very grand town.

When Shawn O'Brien and Hamp Sedley stepped inside they were greeted by a vast amount of polished brass and red velvet and a huge mahogany bar. A large, elevated stage stood at the far end of the building where a nautical backdrop was still in place. At one end of the stage a placard on an easel proclaimed:

The remainder of the saloon consisted of tables and chairs and a dozen discreet booths set into dimly lit corners.

There were few patrons. Four miners played low stakes poker and a couple of broke cowboys nursed nickel beers. A female giggle chimed from one of the booths and a little calico bar cat paused to listen.

But Shawn's eye moved to the big man who sat, or rather sprawled, at a table to his right. He was huge, blond, and handsome with strong features and piercing blue eyes that looked as though they could reach across distance and pin a man in place. He wore a brace of ivory-handled revolvers and in front of him, stuck into the table by its point, was a huge bowie knife.

To his left sat a bored photographer in a checked wool suit and flat cap. A large wood and brass camera on a tripod leaned against the wall.

With wary eyes, Burt Becker had watched Shawn and Hamp Sedley step through the glass doors, assessing them.

He perceived no threat, grinned and boomed, “Come in, come in, gentlemen. Have your picture made with Burt Becker, the baddest, meanest outlaw on our Western frontier.”

He pulled the bowie out of the table and waved it around his head in an alarming fashion.

“I can out-punch Jem Mace, and out-shoot Wild Bill Hickok. My pa can lick any man in Texas and I can lick my pa. I've been shot, hung, and branded by the law, but I'm still here because I'm as tough as a ring-tailed bobcat and ten times as mean as a wounded grizzly.”

Becker waved to a glass jar on the table.

“Two dollars in the jar, boys, and then set beside me and get your likeness made with fightin' Burt Becker, the most feared man in the West. Hell, it's something you'll show your grandkids and they'll show their own kids.”

“Becker, I want to talk to you about—” Shawn began.

But Sedley brushed past him and said, “Where do I sit, Mr. Becker?”

“Right down there, young feller. Now put your two dollars in the jar.”

The bored photographer busily set up his tripod and camera, and Sedley (Shawn thought he was grinning like a jackass) said, “I've never had my likeness made before, especially with a famous outlaw.”

Becker beamed. “Well, you've come to the right place, gambling man.”

He saw the question on Sedley's face and said, “It takes one to know one, son, and we both wear the silver ring. What's your name?”

“Hamp Sedley, Mr. Becker. Hamp Sedley by name and Hamp Sedley by nature, my ma always said.”

The photographer, who hitherto had been glum and silent, smiled with store-bought teeth and said, “You'll find that Mr. Becker is a remarkable man, Mr. Sedley. He is bright, intelligent, fearless, desperate, and there is nothing he can't do when it comes to the gambler's profession by way of shell games, dice, cards, and sure thing propositions.”

The man glanced at Shawn as he added, “And he can play hob with a pistol.”

Shawn O'Brien was irritated beyond measure. Caught flatfooted by Sedley's move he could only stand and fume as Hamp sat beside Becker and grinned as wide as a wave in a slop bucket.

“Where do you want the knife, Phil?” Becker said.

“Hold it across your chest, Mr. Becker, and look fierce.”

“What about me?” Sedley said.

“Look scared. Right, here we go. Hold that pose for the count of three.”

The photographer ducked under the black cloth hood and removed the lens cap with his outstretched hand.

“One . . . two . . . three.”

Phil's head reappeared like a turtle poking out of its shell. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

Hamp Sedley stuck out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Becker. This was a great honor.”

But the big man waved the hand away and stuck the bowie knife in the table again. He'd already hooked and landed this sucker and now it was time to find another. His gaze fell on Shawn and he grinned.

“Now, there's a handsome young buck if ever I saw one. Put your two dollars in the jar and step right up.”

Shawn smiled and walked to the camera. The man called Phil tried to stop him, but Shawn brushed him aside. He yanked out the plate holder and as he suspected, it was empty.

“My word,” Becker said. “How did that happen?”

“My brother Patrick is a keen photographer,” Shawn said. “Your man Phil here should have inserted a new plate before he made the picture.”

Becker was shocked, or pretended to be. “Phil, how remiss of you,” he said. “That just won't do.”

“Cut the claptrap, Becker,” Shawn said.

He took two dollars from the jar on the table and handed the money to Sedley. “Hamp, you should have known better than to get taken by a snake oil salesman,” he said.

Sedley's anger flared. “Damn it, Shawn, who do I shoot first? Becker or the photographer?”

“Neither. Mr. Becker is a con artist and he and I are going to have a little talk.”

The big man rose to his feet, splotches of red on his cheekbones. His hands were close to his guns. “Stranger, are you calling me a tinhorn?” he asked.

“I sure am,” Shawn said.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Name's Shawn O'Brien.”

“Any kin of big Jake O'Brien?”

“Yeah. He's my brother.”

That last gave Becker pause. The handsome young man could be lying, but if he wasn't, Jake O'Brien made a bad enemy, especially if his kinfolk were involved. He decided to err on the side of caution.

“What do you want to talk to me about?” he said.

Shawn pulled a chair to him with his foot and sat. He indicated that Becker should do the same. When the big man was seated, he glared at Shawn for a moment, then said, “Drink?”

“Beer if it's cold,” Shawn said.

“It isn't.”

“Then I'll have a rye.”

After a waiter brought the drinks Becker said, “All right, get it off your chest, O'Brien.”

“It's simple, Becker,” Shawn said, smiling. “I want you the hell out of Broken Bridle.”