Better Off Dead

by William W. Johnstone

  Maria levered a round into the chamber of the Winchester as Shawn said, “I can drop half of you. You want to give hanging me a try?”

  “There’s no need for violence,” Deakins said. “In the absence of a sheriff, I am conducting an investigation here. O’Brien, if you’re not the guilty party, just say so and we’ll be on our way.”

  “The hell with that,” the towhead declared. “There must be a hanging.”

  In a soft, almost conversational tone, Shawn said, “What’s your name, mister?”

  “What’s it to you, back-shooter?” The towhead’s eyes were ugly and he grinned as they slimed like slugs over Maria’s voluptuous body.

  Shawn didn’t back down. “You’re wearing my gun. I want it back.”

  “The hell with you,” the man said, but he looked worried.

  “Mister, I reckon you’re all paw and beller without any real sand,” Shawn said. “Unbuckle the gun belt and let it drop.”

  “Here, this won’t do,” Mayor Deakins said, urging his horse forward.

  Despite his wounds, Shawn O’Brien moved with amazing speed and grace for a big man. He stepped around Deakins’s mount, reached up, grabbed the towhead by the buckle of the gun belt, and yanked him out of the saddle. He tried to draw but couldn’t clear leather and then tried to fall and grab for his gun, but Shawn held him upright and backhanded him hard across the face. Blood and saliva flew from the man’s mouth as his head snapped violently to one side. He tried again for the Colt, but Shawn grabbed his wrist in an iron grip and forced him to drop it.

  Then it was payback time.

  Every punch Shawn landed felled the towhead and a tremendous right hook rolled him between the legs of the posse’s horses. Shying and rearing, the mounts tried to scramble out of the way. Ignoring hooves and a few kicks from the riders, Shawn dragged the towhead into the open and systematically gave him a terrible beating, pulping his face into a scarlet mask of blood.

  Mayor Deakins sought to end the slaughter. He drew his gun then squealed as Maria’s rifle bullet blew the top hat clean off his head. Badly discouraged, Deakins swung his restive horse away from the mayhem and yelled for calm.

  By then, Shawn was done, the rage leaving him like an ebb tide. He leaned over the groaning towhead, stripped him of his gun belt and Colt, and left him lying there. The other riders, cowed by Maria’s Winchester and Sedley’s leveled Colt, had seen enough. None of them were Abaddon men. They were townsmen who’d agreed to do the mayor a favor. Some favor. After what had happened to Deakins’s hat and the towhead’s face, their sense of adventure had faded fast. They wore belted guns but kept plenty of space between them and their hands.

  Shawn turned to them, the knuckles of the hand that held his gun belt skinned and red. “What name does that piece of trash go by?”

  Deakins, some of his pomposity returning, directed one of his men to pick up his perforated top hat before answering, “His name is Zedock Stubbings. He’s a foreman at the Abaddon factory and now there will be hell to pay.”

  “Take him back to Abaddon with my compliments,” Shawn said.

  An older rider with gray sideburns said, “Hell, mister, there ain’t hardly enough left of him to take anywhere.”

  “Well scrape him up the best you can and tell him the next time I see him, I’ll shoot him on sight.”

  “I don’t think he’ll want to see you again, mister,” Sideburns offered.

  “Get Stubbings on his horse,” Mayor Deakins said, studying the front and aft bullet holes in his hat. He jammed the topper onto his bald head and turned to Shawn. “You haven’t heard the last of this, O’Brien. As of this moment, you’re facing a double murder charge over the deaths of Jed Rose and Hank Locket. I assure you that you will be brought to justice.”

  Shawn glared. “Deakins, go back to the Abaddon foundry and tell your boss what happened here. Tell him if he wants the job done right to come himself.”

  “You’re damned impertinent, O’Brien,” the mayor said. “If I was a younger man, I’d take a horsewhip and thrash you to within an inch of your life.”

  “If you were a younger man, I’d let you try,” Shawn said. “One more thing, Deakins. Tell your lord and master that I want him to release one of his workers, a man named Manuel Cantrell.”

  “Who?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Mr. Perry would never—”

  “Perry is it?” Shawn interrupted. “So he’s the mysterious owner of Abaddon? Not such a mystery by the way—everyone in town knows his name.”

  “Yes, damn you. Caleb Perry. And as I was about to say, he would never hold a man against his will.”

  “Notify him, Deakins. Tell Perry that if he doesn’t let Cantrell go, I’m coming after him.”

  Suddenly Deakins’s face blackened with rage. He pointed at Shawn, turned to a rider beside him who had the brown face of an outdoor worker, and yelled, “Arrest that man!”

  “You want him, arrest him your ownself.” The man turned his horse and drifted away with the other riders, a groaning Zedock Stubbings slumped in the saddle.

  Deakins attempted to save face. “I’ll be back, O’Brien. Depend on it.”

  Maria Cantrell smiled. “Tell us when you’re coming, Mayor, and we’ll have cake and ice cream.”

  “Go to hell.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Mayor John Deakins always felt uncomfortable in Caleb Perry’s office and he felt no different at the moment. The man’s cold blue eyes and steady stare had him off balance.

  “You sure it was O’Brien?” Perry said. “My boys say they roughed him up and put the crawl on him.”

  “It was him all right,” Deakins said. “He was on the prod and beat Zedock Stubbings into a pulp.”

  “And that’s why Stubbings doesn’t work for me anymore. I have no regard for weaklings.” Then Perry asked, “Who the hell is Manuel Cantrell?”

  “O’Brien seems to think the man works here,” the mayor said.

  Perry turned to his head foreman. “Mr. Kilcoyn, do you know this Cantrell person?”

  “I don’t know their names, boss, but I’m sure I can find him.”

  “Yes, do that. See what his connection is to O’Brien.”

  “Want me to pay a social call on O’Brien, boss?” Kilcoyn smirked.

  “No. Just ask around about this Cantrell person and we’ll go from there. As I told you already, we can even scores once the first frigate is built. Until then, I need you and all the other foremen right here. How’s the new man working out?”

  “Ross? Fine. I have no complaints.”

  “Good. I want to come down to the construction bay later and check on the progress of the frigate.”

  “The keel’s laid, sir, and—”

  “Wait,” Perry said. “Mayor, you can go now.”

  “I was hoping I could spend a little time with Lizzie Skates,” Deakins said, his flabby face eager. He smiled. “Even a happily married man has his needs.”

  “No. Your failure at O’Brien’s camp hardly merits a reward.” Perry added a small punishment. “Besides, Lizzie says you’re too fat to be lying on top of her and you smell.” He smiled. “You can leave now, Mayor.”

  Deakins’s eyes met Kilcoyn’s amused stare and he rose from his chair and stomped out of the office. He felt two feet tall.

  * * *

  There were so many men working in the building bay that the steam-powered retractable roof was wide open to the sky to let in fresh air. Swarms of carpenters and their mates, aided by skinny, half-naked laborers, were adding the ribs to the keel of the new frigate. From where Jacob O’Brien stood on the gantry above the floor, the gondola was already taking the shape of a Viking longship. He reckoned that when she was armed with her cannon and steam engine, she’d be a formidable weapon.

  Valentine Kilcoyn stepped beside him and he too stared at the skeleton of the frigate. Above the constant noise of hammers and saws, he spoke into Jacob’s ear. “Hey, Buck, you know the n
ames of any of the trolls?”

  Playing for time to collect his thoughts, Jacob said, “Huh?”

  Kilcoyn spoke louder. “I’m looking for a troll goes by the name of Manuel Cantrell. You know anybody by that handle?”

  Jacob shook his head.

  “Well, if you hear the name let me know. Mr. Perry wants to talk with him.”

  In fact, Manuel was already working in the bay, laboring for a carpenter. It was none of Jacob’s doing, just a routine change of job for a worker who looked reasonably healthy enough to do hard labor. Manuel kept his head down, did his work, and nobody noticed him. He was just one half-starved Mexican troll out of hundreds and for now Jacob wanted it to remain that way. Volunteering as a cannoneer would come later when the new frigate was ready to float through the open roof and take to the skies.

  * * *

  For the first time since his arrival at Abaddon, Jacob sat at the upright piano that Caleb Perry had provided for the canteen, though nobody ever played it. He carefully settled a roast beef sandwich on the top board and began to play.

  Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major told its tale of love and loss and to Jacob’s surprise the hundred or so foremen, carpenters, mechanics, and steam engineers present stopped their talk to listen. Over to one side where four females sat at a table, he saw Lizzie Skates dash tears from her eyes as the piece rose to its passionate climax before ending in relative calm and reflection.

  When he stood and regained his sandwich, he got an enthusiastic round of applause and Lizzie Skates crossed the room—her high heels thudding—hugged him close, and whispered in his ear that he played like an angel, to come see her sometime soon, and she’d do something nice for him.

  Jacob smiled, said he’d be sure to do that, then sat at a table and began to eat. As men passed him on their way out, several patted him on the shoulder and told him he’d played real good.

  Then Valentine Kilcoyn sat beside him . . . and the news he brought was mighty bad.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “I got a job for you, Buck,” Valentine Kilcoyn said. “I didn’t know you could play like that. Heard it all over the foundry floor. I hear that Shawn O’Brien feller has a gunfighting brother who plays the piano.” Suspicion shined in his eyes. “You ain’t kin by any chance?”

  Jacob shook his head. “Heard about him, but we’ve never met. He plays better than I do. Or so I was told.”

  “Well, you play pretty damn good,” Kilcoyn said. “Hey, do you know ‘Saggy Maggie from San Antone’? It ain’t as hifalutin as what you just played, but it’s real pretty.”

  “Can’t say as I do.” Jacob grinned. “But I might have met Saggy Maggie a few times.”

  “Well, as it so happens I’m right partial to that song so I’ll teach it to you some time.”

  “What’s the job you have for me, Val?”

  “That Shawn O’Brien feller I was talking about? Well he crawled the hump of one of our foremen, took his gun away, then beat the crap out of him, damn near bedded him down permanent.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “Because the foreman, his name is Zedock Stubbings, kicked O’Brien’s ribs in about a week ago. Well, him along with three others.”

  Jacob frowned. “So where do I come in?”

  “Mr. Perry won’t have a yellow belly like Stubbings work for him. He wants you to take him outside and put a bullet in his brain. I reckon the boss is testing your loyalty, Buck. This is a good chance to prove you’ve got what it takes to be an Abaddon foreman and earn those goggles and pocket watch.” Kilcoyn’s voice became matter of fact. “You don’t need to take Stubbings far. A mile or so out in the scrub will do before you scatter his brains. Hell, you don’t even have to ride a horse.”

  “Why not do it right here?” Jacob asked.

  “Because Mr. Perry doesn’t want it done here. Don’t question the boss, Buck. Just do as you’re told.” A searching look came from Kilcoyn. “Don’t tell me you ain’t game.”

  “I’ll earn my wages,” Jacob said. “When do you want it done?”

  “Wait until sundown and then pick Stubbings up at the infirmary. Tell him you’re taking him to a doctor. Tell him anything the hell you want. Just make sure Mr. Perry won’t see his shadow come morning.”

  Jacob nodded. “I’ll get it done.”

  Kilcoyn rose to his feet. “If Stubbings doesn’t die real fast, that will be all right with Mr. Perry.”

  “You mean gut shoot him?”

  Kilcoyn shrugged. “Whatever you want. Use your imagination, Buck. Earn your goddamn salary.”

  * * *

  The Abaddon infirmary treated only minor injuries, usually burns.

  The person in charge was a tall, pleasantly plump woman who identified herself as Nurse Clementina Rooksbee. She looked Jacob O’Brien up and down and made it clear that she wasn’t impressed by what she saw. “You’ve come to take Stubbings?”

  Jacob nodded. “That’s the plan.”

  “Stay there. I’ll get him.”

  When Jacob saw the man’s battered face he was horrified. Shawn was not a forgiving man and he obviously hadn’t pardoned Stubbings. He shook his head. Shawn, why the hell didn’t you just shoot the man and be done?

  “This man is taking you to a doctor.” Nurse Rooksbee had obviously been primed by Kilcoyn. “I can do nothing more for you here.”

  “I know where he’s taking me,” Stubbings said. His broken mouth had trouble forming words.

  She glared at Stubbings with wintry eyes the color of ocean shallows. “Good, then what happens won’t come as an unpleasant surprise to you, will it?” She held out a paper sack to Jacob. “Would you care for a butterscotch humbug?”

  * * *

  Jacob pushed Stubbings through a door to the left of the construction bay that led to the rear of the building and into seemingly endless heaps of black slag stretching into the distance like rows of black pyramids. Iron production generated vast amounts of slag and Abaddon simply dumped it where it was close and convenient . . . at its own back door.

  “Is this where you’re going to kill me?” Stubbings mumbled.

  The slag heaps cast arrowheads of shadow in the fading light and the air smelled of coal dust and of the constant rank stench of chimney smoke.

  “No, not here,” Jacob said. “Somewhere else.”

  “Get it over with, damn you. Shoot me in the head. It’s quick.”

  “I’ll consider that. Now get going.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “The loading dock. And that’s your last question.”

  Stubbings took a step. “Should I care? I’m already a dead man.”

  A massive locomotive, sooty and weatherworn, stood at the dock and hissed and steamed like an angry dragon. The engine’s headlight was lit and illuminated the track a ways, gleaming on the bright V of the narrowing rails. The drab engine’s elegant cowcatcher, painted bright yellow, added a splash of color, as did the golden hue of the bronze cannons stacked and chained on the flatcars.

  At the end of the train was a single boxcar just before the caboose. The car’s doors were open and Jacob O’Brien looked around him before he pushed Stubbings in that direction.

  The towhead read the writing on the wall. He was to be taken into the boxcar and gut-shot. His body would be found in Mexico hours or maybe days later. A bullet tearing up his belly might take him that long to die.

  Jacob grabbed Stubbings’s arm and shoved him into the boxcar. A short length of canvas strap from a packing case lay in a corner and he used it to tie his prisoner’s wrist to a steel staple hammered into the car wall. Stepping to the door, he looked toward the locomotive, seeing that the engineer had already climbed into the cabin. His fireman followed. A few moments later, the train lurched and then slowly clanked and hissed into motion.

  Jacob turned to Stubbings.

  The man’s eyes were wide with fear in his battered face. “Make it quick.”

  “Have a good time in ol�
�� Monterrey, Zedock,” Jacob said. “If I ever see you around here again, I’ll do my job and kill you.”

  He jumped onto the platform and from the boxcar he heard Stubbings shout, “You go to hell!”

  Jacob laughed. Damn, but that towhead had sand.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “This was their camp all right,” Edmund Lute said. “Do you concur, brother?”

  “Indeed I do,” Marcellus Lute said. “And now it looks as though it’s been deserted for some time. I fear it will make the task dear Mr. Perry set us that much more difficult.”

  Edmund removed his bowler and rubbed his hairless scalp. “No matter. We’ll find them. Happy day that Mr. Perry sent for us. I was becoming quite bored without a contract. I’m ready to kill a man for the merest slight or the wrong look in my direction.”

  Marcellus concurred. “Well, no matter, brother, we have killings at hand and a chance to again practice our craft. Mother dearest is most insistent that we kill them. Nothing less will do.”

  “I was led to believe that our new client said dead or alive,” Edmund remarked. “Or did I mishear ?”

  “You heard correctly, brother. But Mommy says dead is simpler, that Bang! Bang! is more direct than jaw-jaw-jaw, you understand.”

  “Sensible Mommy, Edmund, is she not?” Marcellus’s cherubic face broke into a grin and he did a little jig and sang.

  My mommy is so smart,

  That’s why she stole my heart.

  She taught me how to kill,

  And that was such a thrill.

  Edmund Lute laughed and then he too sang.

  Fiddlesticks and candlesticks,

  And voices o’er the lea,

  Aren’t we a happy pair

  That Mum loves thee and me.

  When the singing concluded the twins indulged in an outbreak of mirth. It was so heartfelt that their horses jumped in surprise when the brothers clutched their little potbellies and rolled around on the grass. Mr. Lewis Carroll when he wrote Through the Looking-Glass could have used the Lute twins as models for his Tweedledee and Twedledum characters. Both stood an inch under five feet with small round faces that in repose looked like ripe Georgia peaches. Stout little men, they each had a round protruding belly and were as bald as crystal balls. Their voices were high and shrill like the squeals of teenaged girls and when they laughed, they had a habit of covering their mouths with their pudgy hands.