Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  Duncan Campbell smiled. “My daughter is always right, Shawn. Rest and get your strength back.”

  “Scoot, Pa,” Judy said, as though she was shooing a chicken. “Scoot, scoot.”

  “I’ll see you later, Shawn,” Campbell said.

  After her father left, Judy’s face turned grave. “Shawn, my father fought Cheyenne and Sioux, then Yankees and then Cheyenne and Sioux all over again. He’s a brave man and by times foolhardy; that’s why I don’t want him involved in Broken Bridle’s troubles, or yours.”

  “I fight my own battles, Judy,” Shawn said.

  “You think me cold and unfeeling.”

  “Not in the least. You’re looking out for your father. In your shoes I’d do the same.”

  “Then we understand each other?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “You’ll be well enough to ride in a few more days, Shawn. Leave this place. I mean leave the Wyoming Territory and never return. The only thing for you here is a pine box.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Old Ephraim was hurting and he’d holed up somewhere in the hills.

  Nathan Hansberry was pretty dang sure of that. He needed that grizz for him and his Shoshone woman because come the winter snows a bearskin rug would be mighty cozy.

  Hansberry drew rein on his mule, and his wife, who’d been walking behind, looked up at him and said, “Do you see him?”

  “Nope. But I got a ball into him so he’s there all right.”

  “Nathan, a wounded grizzly is dangerous and has great power.”

  Only half listening, Hansberry said, “Hell, even an unwounded grizz is dangerous.”

  He kneed his mule forward and the Shoshone woman grabbed the animal’s tail and followed.

  Nathan Hansberry was seventy-seven years old that summer, a skinny old mountain man in buckskins and fur hat. He carried an old Hawken rifle, and, a sign of his great prosperity, his shirt was decorated with silver pesos and fine beadwork. His white beard was long, his shoulder-length hair braided with black and red ribbons.

  Ahead of him the barren Rattlesnake Hills looked like the carcass of some terrible beast picked clean by buzzards. In all that vast wilderness of earth and sky nothing moved, and there was no sound.

  The hills seemed empty and Hansberry listened into the silences.

  “Ephraim!” he yelled. “I’m coming fer you, ol’ Ephraim.”

  The old mountain man climbed out of the saddle. Leading the mule, he scouted the ground and found what he was looking for, a blood trail that pointed directly to a niche in the rock.

  “Take the mule, woman,” Hansberry said. “I’ll go the rest of the way on foot.”

  “Nathan, be careful,” the Shoshone said. “I feel danger all around us.”

  “Don’t fuss, woman,” the old man said.

  An instant later his wife fell dead at his feet.

  The flat echo of the rifle shot rang around the hills, and Hansberry saw a drift of powder smoke on a ridge to his left.

  He triggered a shot into the smoke, but heard the bullet spaaang! harmlessly off rock. The old man quickly recharged the Hawken with powder and ball and looked around for a target. He saw nothing.

  A glance at the red rose that blossomed between his plump wife’s large breasts told him that she’d been dead when she hit the ground.

  Hansberry had no time for grief, but took a moment to allow to himself that the Shoshone had been a good woman, fat enough to keep him warm in winter and shade him in summer, well worth the paint pony and Blackfoot scalp he’d paid for her.

  And now someone had murdered her.

  The old man rose to his feet, killing on his mind. He turned and looked toward the hills, the Hawken ready across his chest. Somewhere in those badlands was the man who’d killed his wife, and Hansberry aimed to find him.

  Old Ephraim forgotten, his hand strayed to the Green River knife in his belt. His face grim he took a solemn vow: It would take the murderer a long time to die.

  Nathan Hansberry was halfway to the niche in the rock where he would begin his hunt, when he stopped in his tracks. Horsemen poured from the cleft, then spread out in a skirmish line.

  The old man counted a dozen, then thirteen when another man joined them. He rode a massive horse and his hand rested on some kind of tomahawk.

  The riders stayed in line, unmoving, and Hansberry felt their eyes on him. He felt a sudden surge of fear, then fought it off. One of those thirteen could be the killer of his wife. This was not the time to be afraid.

  About thirty yards separated Hansberry from the horsemen.

  “Did one of you rannies shoot my wife?” he called out. “If he did, let him step forward, confess his crime, and take his medicine.”

  Silence. None of the riders moved.

  The sun was hot and sweat trickled from under the old man’s fur hat. Above him a buzzard quartered the sky, then another. The air was still, as though the winds had all died in their caves, and he heard his labored breath rattle in his chest.

  “Speak up now,” Hansberry yelled. “If the murderer is among you let him identify himself, for I aim to kill him straight off.”

  Again no sound. No movement. But the atmosphere was as menacing as the cocked hammer of a .45.

  “All right then, if that’s the way you boys want it, I’m comin’ over there,” the old man said. He was no longer afraid. “And I intend to play hob.”

  But Hansberry had taken only a few steps when the man on the big horse left the others and advanced toward him at a walk.

  When he was within talking distance of Hansberry he reined up his mount.

  “Are you insane?” the man said, resting the ax on his shoulder. “Come now, answer the question.”

  “No more’n other folks,” the old mountain man said.

  “All right, let me put it this way, my good man: Do you believe you’re sane?”

  “Yeah, I reckon I do. As sane as you, mister. Now, unless you’re the one as killed my Shoshone woman, give me the road.”

  “You’re not sane!” the horseman shrieked. “You’re insane. Only a mentally ill man would trespass here where none are allowed. Ergo, my diagnosis is that you’re criminally insane. In other words, my dear fellow, you’re stark, raving mad.”

  “Who shot my woman?” the old man said.

  The horseman’s eyes were odd, full of strange blue fire, and they made Hansberry uneasy.

  “Why, I don’t really know. One of my followers I suspect. They’re ordered to shoot interlopers on sight.”

  “Well, mister, if it was one of your’n, then you’re the ranny who takes the blame,” Hansberry said. He raised the Hawken. “He’s comin’ right at ya.”

  But he never got the chance to bring the rifle to bear.

  The horseman’s battle-ax, thrown with terrifying, malevolent force, spun through the clean air and embedded itself in Hansberry’s forehead, crashing into bone and brain.

  Death took the old mountain man so quickly he had no time to cry out. He dropped to the ground, his crossed eyes staring at the blade, and lay still.

  Dr. Thomas Clouston waved his men forward, then said, “One of you retrieve my war ax.” He looked distressed. “I do hope that fool hasn’t damaged the edge.”

  A rider swung out of the saddle and levered the ax out of the old man’s skull. “Looks fine, boss,” he said.

  “Clean it on his person. I don’t want an insane man’s diseased brains all over it.” Clouston raised his voice, now talking to the men around him.

  “Observe, gentlemen, that sometimes the only way to deal with the criminally insane is to destroy them before they become a danger to others.” He patted the neck of his restive horse. “Do we agree on that?”

  Clouston was rewarded by confused mutters, the violent thugs who rode for him having little interest in the niceties of mental health.

  “Ah,” he said, “and here is my ax as good as new.”

  Before he swung his horse away, he said, “Bury th
at trash and then one of you kill and skin the wounded bear in the arroyo. Its pelt will make me a warm cloak come the winter snows.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “I thought there was a handsome face under all that bruising and swelling,” Judy Campbell said. “And I was right.”

  She and Shawn O’Brien sat on a bench under the huge oak that stood close to the ranch house. Sunshine filtered through the leaves and dappled the grass around them. Dim in the distance the steady thunk, thunk of Hamp Sedley’s ax was the only sound.

  “At least I can shave again,” Shawn said. “Well, barely. I’ve cut myself a dozen times.”

  He idly watched Hamp Sedley chop wood near the barn, swinging the broad-bladed ax with more enthusiasm than skill.

  “There’s a sight you don’t see every day, a riverboat gambler at honest labor,” Shawn said.

  “Father convinced him that he would go to seed without exercise,” Judy said. Sunlight tangled in her hair and added turquoise to her eyes. “Hamp seems to have taken him at his word.”

  “Hamp worries about his health,” Shawn said. “He read a medical book one time and convinced himself that he was on a path to getting every ailment known to man, including his favorite, Pelizaeus-Merzbacher disease.”

  “What’s that?” Judy said.

  “Hamp has no idea, nor does anyone else, myself included. But he says a misery with a fancy name like that has to be lying in wait for him somewhere.”

  The girl laughed, a charming sound that pleased Shawn greatly.

  After a while she said, “Tell me about her, Shawn.”

  Shawn smiled. “Now, that’s a woman’s question.”

  “Hamp told me you still grieve for her.”

  “Hamp talks too much.”

  Shawn took his time to light up one of Duncan Campbell’s cigars. When it was drawing well, he said, “I had Judith for only a little while and then I lost her.”

  “You loved her?”

  “With all my heart and soul.”

  “She died young.”

  “Judith was murdered. It happened in England, at a place called Dartmoor. She was kidnapped by escaped convicts and they killed her.”

  Judy touched the back of Shawn’s hand with her slender fingers. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “You would have liked her,” Shawn said. “Judith was a wonderful woman. She loved life and the living of it.” Then, “Hamp swings that ax like a maiden aunt. He’s going to do himself an injury.”

  Judy accepted Shawn’s cue and smiled. “It’s almost time for lunch, so we can save Hamp from himself.”

  But the gambler had already decided that enough was enough. He drove the ax into the stump, picked up his coat, and strode toward them, his gunbelt slung over his shoulder.

  “How much wood is a cord?” he said.

  “A lot,” Shawn said.

  “Well, I must have chopped ten cords into kindling,” Hamp said. He held up his hands. “Look at the blisters. An ax handle does terrible things to a man’s hands, especially a gambling man’s.”

  “Hard work isn’t easy,” Shawn said. “Or so they tell me.”

  “Yeah, well I’m done with that. From now on I’m saving my mitts for Antony, Cleopatra, and one-eyed Jack.”

  “A wise decision, Hamp,” Shawn said. “And I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  Sedley was suspicious. “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” Shawn said, his face empty. “I was just saying to Judy that you swing an ax like a professional.”

  “Damn right,” the gambler said. “But now I’m done with it.”

  “A great loss to the entire wood-cutting industry,” Shawn said.

  For a second time suspicion clouded Sedley’s face, but Judy, suppressing a grin, said, “I think it’s time for lunch.”

  “The offer is tempting, Duncan, but I have to be moving on,” Shawn O’Brien said.

  “But Shawn, if you take Pa’s offer you can put down roots here,” Judy said. “Maybe even start your own ranch.”

  “I already have roots, Judy,” Shawn said. “They’re back at Dromore in the New Mexico Territory.”

  “I do need a foreman,” Duncan Campbell said.

  “I know that, and I appreciate the thought, but I’m just not your man. I have other things to do.”

  “You mean like go up against Burt Becker?” Judy said.

  “That, and to stand by a promise I made to help a certain young lawman.”

  Judy was suddenly alarmed. “You mean Jeremiah Purdy? No! That’s the very worst thing you could do.”

  A silence fell over the table and Campbell stared sternly at his daughter. “Judy, do you know something you’re not telling us?” he said.

  “Pa, I—”

  The girl’s beautiful eyes were wild, as though she felt trapped. “Pa, there’s someone’s life at stake. I . . . I can’t tell you.”

  “Judy, has this something to do with Sheriff Purdy?” Shawn said.

  “It has everything to do with Sheriff Purdy,” Judy said. “Don’t ask me to tell you any more because I can’t.”

  Shawn’s and Duncan Campbell’s eyes met. The old man seemed both puzzled and worried.

  Judy rose from the table, a small handkerchief to her eyes, and then Shawn heard her bedroom door close.

  “It’s not like my daughter to keep a secret from me,” Campbell said.

  “She’s frightened,” Sedley said. He pulled his napkin out of his collar and tossed it on the table. “Not for herself but for somebody else.”

  “But who?” the old man said.

  “I think Jeremiah Purdy knows the answer to that question,” Shawn said. “And I plan to ask him today.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Go looking for trouble, Pete,” Burt Becker said. “I want you, Little Face, and June to do some serious killing.”

  “How many are up there in the hills, boss?” June Lacour said.

  “Last I heard a dozen and the crazy doc makes thirteen, an unlucky number.”

  “For them or for us?” Pete Caradas said, admiring his morning bourbon in the glass.

  “You three are the fastest guns that ever came out of Texas,” Becker said. “So I say unlucky for Tom Clouston.”

  He stood and stared out the window of his hotel room, and his back still turned, he said, “Kill as many as you can and the rest we’ll leave. But Clouston himself will be your main target.”

  “You ever seen him, boss?” Little Face Denton said.

  Now Becker turned, the black cigar in his hand wreathing smoke. “No one’s seen him since he was drummed out of the medical profession,” he said. “But he’ll be the ranny in charge so you’ll recognize him.”

  Becker stepped to the table and splashed more whiskey into his glass.

  “Gentlemen, I want this done quickly and I want it done well. There’s millions, maybe tens of millions, of dollars at stake here. Don’t get into a prolonged gunfight, just get among them, kill as many as you can, and then get the hell out of there. Don’t be heroes. We’ll mop up later.”

  “What about the Chinese?” Caradas said.

  “They’ll play ball. I can hire as many as I need for fifty cents a day per man. Leave the business side of our enterprise to me.”

  June Lacour looked at the others, then said, “We got the whole day ahead of us, let’s go get it done.”

  “I’ll give a three-hundred-dollar bonus to each of you when the job is done. Kill them all and I’ll double it.”

  “We’ll do our best, boss,” Caradas said. “I’ll kill the crazy doc for you personally.”

  Pete Caradas and the others rode out of Broken Bridle under a blue morning sky that was still lightly tinged with pink. The morning promised heat to come, and a breeze blowing from the south would do little to cool the day.

  Unseen by the three riders, Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy watched from the shadows. His face was deeply troubled.

  After an hour, the three gunmen
were within earshot of throbbing drums that warned them their coming had been noticed and any chance of a surprise attack was gone.

  Little Face Denton drew rein. He seemed concerned.

  “Hold up, boys,” he said. “This just don’t feel right.”

  “You mean it doesn’t sound right,” June Lacour said. “Drums in the morning never bode well. Well, as far as I know they don’t.”

  Pete Caradas stood in the stirrups and his eyes reached into distance. He saw no sign of movement. Ahead of them lay a narrow draw, and something heavy crashed around on its brushy floor.

  A bear probably, Caradas decided. The men they hunted were unlikely to make a racket like that.

  “What do we do now, Pete?” Denton said. He was unsure of himself and his mouth was dry. “We can’t ride in, shoot ’em up, and then ride out again. They know we’re here for God’s sake.”

  “Drums scaring you, Little Face?” Caradas said. But his unease showed in his eyes and his right hand never strayed far from his gun.

  Before Denton could answer, Lacour said, “He’s got a right to be scared, Pete. Those damned drums can get into a man’s head, and right now they’re saying, ‘Come right on in, fellers. We’re waiting for you.’”

  “Maybe that’s the idea,” Pete Caradas said. “The crazy doc trying to keep us off balance.”

  “He’s succeeding,” Lacour said.

  Little Face, neither as smart nor as brave as his companions, said, “I say we go back.”

  “And I say we go ahead and do what we came here to do,” Caradas said. “Clouston and his boys are running scared. That’s why they’re banging on drums to drive us away.”

  Lacour said, “Pete, they know we’re coming so they’ll be laying for us.”

  “I reckon I know that. We’ll scout a little ways ahead, and if it even smells like we’re riding into an ambush we get the hell out of there and try it again some other day.”

  “Or night,” Lacour said.

  Caradas nodded. “You got an idea there, June. All right, we move slowly and see to your guns.”

  “I don’t like this,” Denton said. “I don’t like this one bit. It just don’t set right with me.”