Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter

by William W. Johnstone

  “Ahead of us,” Shawn said.

  “I see them,” Sedley said.

  Shawn slid the Winchester from the boot under his knee. His eyes searched into distance. “Two of them, leading a horse.”

  “Clouston’s men?” Sedley said.

  “Could be, but I don’t think so. One of them looks like a half-grown boy.”

  The drums were silent and the brushy slopes of the Rattlesnake Hills seemed deserted. Apart from a few white clouds, the sky above the peaks was still a flawless blue, like an upturned Wedgewood bowl. But thunder to the south growled threats and the wind picked up.

  Shawn drew rein and Sedley put a couple of yards of separation between them, then did the same. They waited.

  When the man leading the horse drew closer, Sedley said, “Hell, it’s the college boy and he’s got some kid protecting him.”

  Shawn said nothing. By the slump of Purdy’s shoulders and his lame horse, Shawn figured Purdy had met with little success. But where had the boy come from?

  When the young sheriff was within talking distance, Sedley said, “Howdy, Sheriff, out for a morning stroll?”

  Purdy ignored that. His gray features were hollow and shadowed, like the face of a dead man, and his eyes behind his glasses peered, blinking, at Shawn O’Brien without really seeing him.

  “We took you for the mad doctor’s men,” the boy said. “I thought we were done for.”

  Shawn swung out of the saddle, fetched his canteen, and handed it to the boy. “Take a drink,” he said. He waited until the kid drank about a pint of water, then said, “What’s your name, son?”

  “Bobby Miller. I—”

  “They’re all dead, O’Brien,” Purdy said. He looked like a sleepwalker.

  “Did you see them, Sheriff ?” Shawn said.

  Purdy didn’t hear. “Thirteen men of the town, a banker, lawyer, brewer, merchants . . . husbands, fathers, sons . . . all dead.”

  “I escaped,” Bobby Miller said. “That’s how come I’m here.”

  “Tell me how it happened,” Shawn said.

  The boy told the same story as Purdy had heard. He used words sparingly, but his expressive brown eyes revealed by turns horror, disbelief, wonder, and primitive terror.

  When Bobby stopped talking there were tears on his sallow cheeks. Shawn patted the boy on his shoulder and told him he’d done good.

  “I don’t feel so good,” Bobby said.

  Suddenly Jeremiah Purdy woke from his lethargy.

  “O’Brien, I’m commandeering your horse,” he said. “I have arrests to make. I have people to bring to justice. I have murderers to hang. I have . . .” The young sheriff stopped, blinked a few times, then buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

  Hamp Sedley, much embarrassed by this emotional display, turned away and suddenly saw something of great interest on the far horizon. For his part, Shawn, born to the volatile Irish temperament and its heart-scalding moments of grief, understood what Purdy was going through. The sheriff wasn’t much more than a boy himself and ill-suited to handle the monumental tragedy that had befallen him.

  “Bobby, escort Sheriff Purdy home,” he said. “Let the horse set the pace. He’s real sore-footed.”

  “What will you do, mister?” Bobby said.

  “I don’t rightly know. See if there’s anybody left alive, I guess, and hope I run into Thomas Clouston.”

  “I hope you don’t,” the boy said. He turned away and took Purdy by the arm. “You ready to go, Sheriff ?” he said.

  The young lawman nodded, never lifting his eyes from the ground. Every man has a limit on what he can endure and still function, and Purdy had reached his.

  Shawn thought it sad. Sedley thought it weak. And Jeremiah Purdy didn’t think about it at all.

  The evidence of the massacre remained, though the bloody-beaked crows had been busy and elegant buzzards glided against an iron-gray sky. Thunder rolled and lightning flickered over the landscape like limelight illuminating a darkened stage.

  The horse team was gone and the sprawled, ashen dead had been stripped of their weapons. Two of the men, Oskar Janacek and one other whom Shawn didn’t know, had massive head wounds.

  Like a nervous tic, Hamp Sedley’s gun hand kept dropping to the butt of his holstered Colt. “I don’t see anything, do you?” he said.

  “Not a damn thing,” Shawn said.

  “Rain’s coming,” Sedley said.

  “Seems like,” Shawn said. Then, “We’ll ride into the hills, see if there’s any sign of Clouston and his men.”

  “And if there is?” Sedley said. “What do we do then?”

  “Hightail it,” Shawn said. “Maybe we’ll get a chance to count numbers before they spot us.” He shrugged into his slicker. “I’m not too confident about what I just said.”

  “I’m not too confident about what you just said, either,” Sedley said.

  He proceeded to button into a gigantic black oilskin with SS SPINDRIFT painted on the back. Answering Shawn’s unanswered question, Sedley said, “Won it from a sailorman and I’ve been lugging it around ever since.”

  “It becomes you,” Shawn said.

  “No it doesn’t, but it keeps me dry, well, mostly dry.”

  Shawn smiled. “Let’s ride, thou apparition.”

  “Nothing,” Hamp Sedley said, rain dripping off the brim of his hat. “Miles and miles of nothing.”

  Shawn O’Brien scanned barren hills misted by the downpour and low cloud. “They must have a camp nearby,” he said. A flash of lightning illuminated the clean-cut planes of his face and added electric blue to his eyes. “Damn it all, Hamp, they must be close.”

  “We could search if we had a regiment of cavalry,” Sedley said. “But since we don’t have one of them, I say we head back to town and arrange for the bodies to be collected.”

  “Yes, I guess so,” Shawn said. “But who would want to be in Broken Bridle tonight?”

  “Nobody. But we got it to do,” Sedley said.

  Shawn nodded. “All right, then let’s get it done.”

  Rain drummed on Sedley’s oilskin. His face was drawn, dark, without humor. “How long do you give the town?” he asked.

  “Who knows?” Then, “Not long.”

  “And us?”

  Shawn reached into his slicker and brought out a black and silver rosary. He removed his hat and slid the beads over his head and let the cross hang on his chest.

  “Bury me with it, Hamp,” he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Dr. Thomas Clouston was going a-courtin’.

  The thunderstorm that caught up with him shortly after he left camp had cramped his style somewhat, but under his cloak he wore a suit of gray broadcloth, a celluloid collar, and a red-and-white-striped tie. Deeming it unsuitable for a gentleman caller, he’d left his battle-ax at home, but a pearl-handled Colt rode in a shoulder holster under his coat. He held a bouquet of wildflowers tied with a black ribbon.

  That Judy Campbell might reject his advances didn’t enter Clouston’s thinking. He was sophisticated and charming, a man of the world, and what young woman in her right mind could resist him? The icing on the cake was that soon he’d be obscenely rich.

  Clouston smiled to himself. Why, pretty Judy would leap headfirst into his bed.

  The hilly scrub country gave way to grassy flats, and here and there stood stands of timber and hardwoods. Fat cattle sheltered from the storm under the trees, and once Clouston watched a grizzly drag something dead and bloody into the brush.

  He followed the course of Dry Creek south, then swung west in the direction of the Four Ace ranch. There was no letup from the rain, and lightning scrawled across the ashen sky like the signature of a demented god. But Clouston rode on, confident that a man of his stature would come to no harm.

  In that he was correct.

  A racketing rain falling around him, he drew rein outside the Campbell house. The day was dark; lamps glowed inside with orange light, and a ribbon of smoke
rose from the chimney.

  A tall puncher wearing a slicker stepped from the barn and saw Clouston. He stepped to the man and said, “They’re probably in the kitchen. Better knock on the door.”

  Clouston nodded and swung out of the saddle. He turned and peered closely at the puncher, a middle-aged man with a lot of gray in his hair.

  “Take my horse to the barn,” he said.

  “Take it your ownself,” the puncher said.

  “Listen, when I tell a man to do a thing he does it,” Clouston said.

  “And when you see me do this”—the puncher shook his head—“it means I ain’t doing it.”

  “Then you’re insane,” Clouston said.

  “And you’re the one standing out in the rain,” the puncher said.

  He turned on his heel and walked toward the bunkhouse.

  Clouston watched the man go and was wishful for his Spanish ax. But now was not the time and place. Perhaps he’d get a chance to kill the lout later.

  His train of thought was interrupted when the house door opened and a tall, lean man said, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, my good man,” Clouston said. “And who might you be?”

  “I might be anybody. But my name is Duncan Campbell and this is my house.”

  “Ah, then you must be Miss Judy’s father.”

  “I am. And who are you?”

  “My name is Dr. Thomas Clouston.”

  “Then you’re the man who saved my daughter from an attack. She told me about you.”

  “I am honored,” Clouston said. “That she would remember me so.”

  “Come in, man,” Campbell said. “I’ll have one of the hands tend to your horse.”

  With a last glance at the lowering, thunder-torn sky, Campbell closed the door behind Clouston and himself and said, “Come into the parlor. I have a good fire going to keep away the dampness. Let me take your cloak and hat.” Then, “You brought flowers I see.”

  “Yes. They’re wilted, I’m afraid. Is Miss Judy to home?”

  “She’s in her room. Once I see you settled with a whiskey in your hand I’ll fetch her.”

  Bound by his Scottish heritage and the code of the West, Duncan Campbell was duty bound to offer hospitality to a stranger. But there was an arrogance and coldness about Dr. Clouston that put him on edge. He just didn’t like the man and he resented his calling on his daughter, about thirty years his junior.

  Now that Clouston was freed of his cloak and hat, Campbell saw him as a tall, stately man with gray hair falling to his slight, narrow shoulders. But the doctor did not have a good face. The man’s mouth was small and mean and hinted at cruelty, and his blue eyes were without warmth, as icy as his demeanor. Standing aloof and distant in the parlor, he looked more undertaker than suitor.

  Campbell ushered Clouston into a chair by the fire, then said, “A dram of scotch?”

  “Please,” the doctor said. He sat stiffly, not a muscle in his body relaxed.

  Campbell handed Clouston a filled glass, waited, and when he saw his guest had not tasted his drink, he said, “The whiskey is not to your liking?”

  Clouston raised the glass to his lips. “It’s adequate,” he said. “My intention was to visit with Miss Judy.”

  “I’ll get her,” Campbell said. He was irritated that the man had damned his scotch with such faint praise. A fine single malt adequate indeed!

  Thomas Clouston was stunned. Judy Campbell was even more beautiful than he remembered.

  Her unbound hair fell in amber waves over her shoulders, and her peach morning dress revealed every voluptuous curve of her firm young body.

  Clouston wanted her. He had to have her. Like an art connoisseur hoards a stolen great master, he’d lock her away for only him to enjoy. Such loveliness was for his eyes and his eyes only.

  Clouston rose to his feet and bowed. “I hope I haven’t come at an inopportune time, Miss Campbell.”

  “Not at all,” Judy said. “The storm is doing an excellent job of keeping us all indoors.” Her smile, though dazzling, was tentative, unsure. She hardly knew this man, yet she owed him her life.

  Clouston picked up the bouquet that he’d dropped on the parlor table. “I brought you flowers,” he said. “But I fear they are sadly wilted.”

  Judy took the bouquet and smiled again. “It’s the thought that counts, and I love wildflowers. Please be seated.”

  Clouston waited until the girl sat and then he took his chair again.

  Judy resettled the burning logs with an iron poker, then said, “A fire in the middle of summer. You must think us strange, Mr. Clouston, but this old house does get damp.”

  “My dear girl it’s Doctor Clouston, and I don’t think anything you do is strange. Au contraire, you are very sane. I observed signs of madness in one of your father’s hired hands, but none in you.”

  Judy smiled. “Well, thank you, I think. What kind of doctor are you?”

  “I am a psychiatrist. I make a study of the human mind.”

  “I rather fancy that there are few chances to practice your profession in the Rattlesnake Hills, Doctor.”

  Clouston’s smile had all the warmth of a grinning alligator. “You are correct about that, dear lady. But as of now I am resting from practice. All at once the manifold tensions of treating the mentally ill became too much of a burden, and I fled west to get away from it all for a while.”

  “But you will return soon, I trust,” Judy said, trying to keep the hope from her voice. Clouston’s eyes had already stripped her to her underwear, and he was working on the rest.

  “One day, perhaps, with a beautiful bride at my side,” the man said. “And, of course, that is the reason I’m paying court to you, my child.”

  The girl was thoroughly alarmed. “I don’t think I’m ready for marriage,” she said. “Not for a few years at least.”

  Clouston took a large S-shaped pipe from an inside pocket, stuck it in his teeth, and stepped to the window. Judy could only see the back of his head, which was a mercy because his face bore a furious expression that bordered on the demonic.

  But his voice was level when he said, “The storm shows no sign of abating. I fear I will have a most unpleasant return journey, especially since my quest has apparently failed.”

  Trapped by the manners of her time and place, Judy said, “Then you must stay the night, Dr. Clouston. We have plenty of room.”

  Clouston let a triumphant smile flicker and die on his lips before he turned and said, “My dear young lady, that would be a most singular kindness. I’m a rather timid creature by nature, and the thought of a trail beset by thunder and lightning makes me most anxious. But pray you, will not your father mind a stranger under his roof ?”

  “No, he will make you most welcome,” Judy said. “That is his way.”

  The girl’s dress rustled as she rose to her feet. “I’m afraid I must leave you for a while, Doctor. I have some duties in the kitchen. But I’m sure you’d like to smoke your pipe, and my father will be in directly.”

  “I put you at a great inconvenience,” Clouston said, bowing.

  “Not at all,” Judy said. She stepped out of the parlor feeling stark naked.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Dinner at the Four Ace ranch passed quite well, despite the baleful presence of Dr. Thomas Clouston and Duncan Campbell’s growing dislike for the man. He saw how the white-haired man’s eyes lingered on his daughter’s breasts every time he spoke to her and his less-than-subtle innuendoes about returning east with a young bride.

  The meal was saved by the presence of the new ranch foreman, a large, jolly man named Johnny “Big Boy” Harrison who was a former seaman, peace officer, army scout, and sometime stage actor. He had a fund of stories about his adventures and people he’d met, including the diva Lillie Langtry who’d once given him a kiss backstage in a New Jersey theater.

  “On the lips?” Judy asked, drawing a rebuke from her puritanical father.

  Big Boy grinned. “Nah.�
� He pointed to his left cheek. “She laid one on me right here. I didn’t shave for a month, well, at least until her lip rouge wore off.”

  Clouston didn’t join in the laughter that followed, but when it ended he said, “Was she insane, this Lillie Langtry? All actors are, you know.”

  Big Boy was baffled. “No . . . I don’t reckon so.”

  “What did she say? After she kissed you, what were her exact words?” Clouston said.

  “She gave me some advice,” Big Boy said.

  “Ah ha! Now we reach the crux of the matter.” Clouston, who had eaten very little, laid his fork on the plate. “Were they the words of a madwoman?”

  The big foreman looked uncomfortable. “Good roast beef, boss,” he said to Campbell.

  “Come now, my man, Lillie Langtry’s exact words,” Clouston said. “I must hear them.” His eyes were on fire.

  “Well, near as I can recollect, she said, ‘John, anyone’s life truly lived consists of work, sunshine, exercise, soap, plenty of fresh air, and a happy, contented spirit.’ Yup, I guess that’s about it.”

  “Sounds like sane advice to me,” Duncan Campbell said, chewing.

  “Perhaps,” Clouston said. “But the sanity of the female of the species is very suspect, especially when it comes to deciding what is good for them.”

  He stared hard at Judy when he said it, and her father said, “Big Boy, tell us about the starving feller down to the Texas Glass Mountains country who ate his mother-in-law that time.”

  “Do we have to?” Judy said, making a face.

  “Sure you do,” Big Boy said. “The cannibal’s name was Hope Hooper and he was a rascal. His mother-in-law was the only Democrat in Brewster County and that’s how come he ate her.”

  “Did you know him, Mr. Harrison,” Judy said.

  “Well, we weren’t kissin’ kin or anything like that, but since I was the feller who shot him, I guess we had a bond.”

  The talk continued and Judy laughed a great deal, but Clouston had dropped out of the conversation, sitting upright and morose in his chair. He didn’t like Big Boy. The man was obviously mentally ill, and the doctor badly wanted to split the man’s skull open with his battle-ax.