“You always sleep like a cat, Milos, or so I’ve heard,” Brown said.
“I heard you were dead,” Milos said.
“And I was told that you and Petsha there, pretending to be asleep, got hung over to San Francisco way,” Brown said.
“You heard wrong,” Milos said.
“And I ain’t dead, either,” Brown said. “At least not yet.”
“You got a warrant on us, Saturday?” Petsha said, now standing gun in hand. His face was stiff, as hard as iron, and the pup sniffed around the lawman’s boots.
“Nope. Shot a feller by mistake and brung him in is all. What are you two sewer rats doing in a burg like this?” Brown said.
“One day that kind of talk will get you shot, Saturday,” Milos said.
The marshal smiled. “Not by you, Milos. You know I can outlast you.”
“Nobody can outlast a shot between the eyes,” Milos said.
“A truer word was never spoke,” Brown said. He got ready to climb out of the saddle, but Milos said, “Saturday, you wouldn’t be planning a fancy move, would you?”
“Me gettin’ off this pony is never fancy,” Brown said. He dismounted, then reached into his saddlebag. Milos said, “Easy does it, Marshal.”
“Damn it all, you boys put away them irons,” Brown said. “It’s highly likely that I’ll shoot you at a later date, but this isn’t the time.”
“We don’t like you, Saturday,” Petsha said. “Never did and never will.”
“Well, that makes feelings kinda mutual all round, don’t it?”
Brown produced a bottle of whiskey from his saddlebag. He took a swig and passed the bottle to Milos. “Here, wet your whistle, then tell me why you’re here. Who will have the honor of getting his ticket punched by the D’eth brothers?”
Milos took a drink, passed the bottle to his brother, and said, “Somebody you don’t know.”
“I know everybody so try me,” Brown said. Then to Petsha, “Hell, don’t sip that whiskey. Drink it like a man.”
“I’ll kill you one day, Saturday,” Petsha said, his black eyes mean.
“Yeah? Well, until then quit drinking like my maiden aunt Agatha. It surely irritates a man.”
“Clouston. His name is Dr. Thomas Clouston,” Milos said.
Brown decided not to show his hand. “What did he do? Saw off a wrong leg?”
“He killed our client’s brother,” Milos said. “He said he was incurably insane and starved him to death at his clinic in Philadelphia. Truth was, our client hadn’t yet made his fortune and couldn’t pay for his brother’s treatment, so Clouston murdered him. Our client wants us to bring him Clouston’s heart to see if it’s made of stone like he believes.”
“You boys are the best assassins in the business,” Brown said. “How come you haven’t done for him?”
“So far we can’t get close enough,” Petsha said. “But we will.”
“You’ll be close enough when Clouston digs out enough gold from the Rattlesnake Hills and attacks this town,” Brown said. He took the bottle from Petsha.
“Clouston won’t do that,” Milos said. “He has no need. He’s already killed half the men in Broken Bridle.”
“I’ll tell you what I told Sheriff Purdy—”
Petsha snorted. “Him? He’s only half a man. Why tell him anything?”
“I can’t argue with you there, but Clouston will attack to whittle down his numbers.”
“Less shares,” Milos said. “More money for him.”
“When it comes to the killing for profit business you catch on quick,” Brown said. He took a drink from the bottle and offered it to Milos, who refused, as did his brother.
“Saturday, we will take care of your horse in payment for the drink,” Milos said. “We will kill you one day, and when that time comes I don’t wish to owe you anything.”
“Spoken like a white man,” Brown said. His eyes flicked over the man’s black hair and dark skin. “Well, a kinda white man. What will you do when Clouston attacks?”
“My brother and I will talk about it,” Milos said. “It may be that Clouston will return east and we will follow him there. Or we will kill him here. Petsha and I will discuss what is best.”
“Let me know, boys, huh?” Brown said. “By the way, your dog is biting my ankle.”
“When we kill Clouston, you will know.” Milos picked up the pup.
“Well, it’s been real nice talkin’ with you boys again after . . . what? . . . six, seven years,” Brown said. “Do you mind that? The time you gunned the Yankee railroad millionaire as he kneeled by his bed a-sayin’ of his prayers. I was sent after you, rode a hundred mile and more, but never seen hide nor hair.”
“But we saw you,” Milos said. “You were lucky on account of how there’s no profit in killing marshals.”
“Well,” Brown said, “as my old ma used to say, let bygones be bygones. Now make sure my hoss gets a rubdown and a scoop of oats, all right?”
“We have no quarrel with your horse, Saturday,” Milos said. “We will take care of him.”
Whiskey bottle in hand, Saturday Brown slogged through ankle-deep mud to the hotel. Across the street the Streetcar Saloon was lit up but the silence behind its doors suggested a lack of customers. The marshal didn’t mind, his business was with Shawn O’Brien. Besides he’d promised his wife that his lips would ne’er taste strong drink or linger on those of loose women. He’d been able to more or less keep the latter, but the former had so far eluded him.
When he reached the hotel porch Brown stomped the mud off his boots, an action that brought the night clerk hurrying outside with a warning that he would “wake the whole damned town.”
“It’s too early for Christian folks to be in bed,” Brown said. “I’m here to see a feller named O’Brien.”
“Mr. O’Brien is abed and cannot be disturbed,” the clerk said. He was as fussy as a mother chicken and looked like one, too.
Brown was a straight-talking man, but he decided to let Sam Colt do his speechifying for him. The desk clerk suddenly looked cross-eyed at a gun muzzle shoved into the hairy bridge of his nose.
“Can I expect trouble from you?” Brown said.
“No, sir,” the clerk said. “No trouble.”
“Room number,” Brown said. Heat lightning flashed in the sky and his face shimmered like a bronze bust in a furnace.
“Room twelve, upstairs, first door on the right,” the clerk said. His knees shook.
“Good man,” Brown said. “You’re a credit to the innkeeper profession.”
The marshal took to the stairs, making no effort to be quiet, and slammed his fist repeatedly into the door of Shawn O’Brien’s room.
He waited a few moments and was about to pound again when a voice from inside said, “Mister, you better have a good reason for disturbing my sleep.”
“I have good reason. This is Deputy United States Marshal Saturday Brown. Open up in the name of the law.”
The door opened and Brown stared into the cold black eye of Shawn’s Colt. The marshal ignored it. “Get dressed. We’ve got things to do.”
“Do what?” Shawn said. He lowered the hammer of his revolver.
“What your town sheriff should have done weeks ago,” Brown said. “We’re going to take the saloon apart and save a lady in distress.”
“You’re talking about Jane Collins,” Shawn said.
“The same. She’s your sheriff’s intended, or so he says.”
“Then he told you about Burt Becker,” Shawn said. “He says he’ll kill the girl if any attempt is made to rescue her.”
“I know. But we won’t give him a chance to kill anybody. Now get dressed, O’Brien. I need that fast gun of yours.”
“What’s going on?” Hamp Sedley stood at the door in his underwear, a revolver in his hand.
“Get dressed,” Brown said. “We’re going to rescue a gal from a fate worse than death.”
Sedley echoed Shawn’s question. “You mean
Purdy’s intended?”
Brown nodded and Sedley said, “I reckon Pete Caradas will have something to say about that.”
“I know. That’s why O’Brien is going with us.”
“I didn’t say I was going anywhere,” Shawn said. “And Hamp is right about Caradas. He’s drawing gun wages from Becker and he rides for the brand.”
“I’ll handle Caradas,” Brown said. “But if he looks like he’s about to draw down on me, kill him.” The marshal seemed irritated. “I’m now the law in this town, and for a hundred miles around, so I’m ordering you two to get into your duds and follow me.”
Suddenly Brown looked appalled. “Don’t tell me there ain’t a wire in this town.”
“There’s a telegraph at the railroad depot, bound to be,” Sedley said.
“Good. We’ll stop there first. No, second. Now quit standing there staring at me like a couple of sheep. Get ready.”
“Shawn?” Sedley said.
“We’ll do as the man says,” Shawn said. “Maybe I can stop him getting killed.”
“Been there afore, O’Brien, and I ain’t been killed yet,” Saturday Brown said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
“Where’s the hardware store?” Marshal Saturday Brown said.
“Across the street,” Shawn O’Brien said.
“Then follow me.”
Shawn and Sedley exchanged puzzled glances, then stepped off the boardwalk. When they reached the other side, their boots dripping mud, Brown’s face lit up. “Ah, I see the store,” he said.
“It’s closed,” Sedley said.
Shawn tried the handle. “And it’s locked.”
Brown raised his boot, kicked the door in, smashing glass and splintering wood. His feet crunching on debris he looked around, then said, “Ah-ha! Just what we need.”
The marshal selected a couple of axes for him and Sedley. To Shawn he said, “Nothing for you. I want your gun hand free. Now one more stop before the saloon, boys. Oh, wait a second.” Ajar of pink and white candy cane sticks sat on the counter. “Anybody want one?” he said. “No? Well I do.” The candy stick jutting out of his mouth like a cigar, Brown said, “Let’s go.”
Marshal Brown had not been gentle with the hardware store’s door, nor was he with the train depot agent. He loudly woke the man from sleep, frogmarched him to his office after telling Shawn and Sedley to stay outside on guard.
“Now set and send the wire I’m about to tell you,” Brown said to the agent, whose sleeping cap was askew on his head. “Is the line between here and Medicine Bow standing?”
“How the hell should I know?” the agent said. “I have a medical condition. I can’t be treated this way.”
“You better hope the line hasn’t been cut,” Brown said. “If it has I’ll put a bullet in you.”
The agent, a small man with the furtive look of someone who momentarily expects a slap up the head, said, “What kind of lawman are you?”
“The worst kind,” the marshal said. “I’m all horns, rattles, and bad attitude, son.” He crunched on the candy stick and it shattered between his teeth, spraying pink and white shrapnel. “And I bite like a female cougar in heat. Now start telegraphin’ . . .”
Saturday Brown stepped out of the depot office and said, “Right, let’s get it done, boys.”
“Marshal, you’re taking Becker and Pete Caradas too lightly,” Hamp Sedley said. “They’re both killers.”
“I’m not taking them lightly, son. I already told you, that’s why O’Brien’s here.”
“Your confidence in me is touching, Marshal,” Shawn said.
“Is that right?” Brown said. “Well, just see you don’t mess things up, huh?”
The marshal led the way to the Streetcar and halted outside the door. The saloon was in darkness and a brooding silence lay over the entire town. Moonlight glistened on the muddy street and cast mysterious shadows in dark places.
“Ready, boys?” Brown said. He stared hard at Sedley. “Son, you don’t look too good.”
“He always looks like that,” Shawn said. “Got a gambler’s skin.”
“Well let’s hope lady luck is on our side tonight,” the marshal said. Then, a hint that he wasn’t as cocksure as he seemed. “I got a feeling we’re going to need her.”
Brown kicked the door open and rushed inside.
“Where?” Saturday Brown yelled at Shawn.
“Up the stairs! Becker’s room is straight ahead!”
With a spryness that belied the hard years on his back trail, the marshal ran up the stairs and stood on the landing, the ax clutched in both hands. Sedley stepped beside him, wondering why the hell he also had an ax in his grasp.
“Burt Becker!” Brown roared. “Show yourself in the name of the law.”
A bed creaked inside the room and Becker’s strained, tight voice said, “What do you want?”
“This is Deputy United States Marshal Saturday Brown and you know what I want, by God.”
“Go to hell,” Becker said, trying and failing to shout.
“Been there!” Brown yelled. He slammed the sole of his boot into the door that collapsed inward. The brass hinges burst apart and sharp shards of timber shredded into the room like shrapnel.
Becker roared and rolled out of bed in his underwear, his hand grabbing for the Colt on the table beside him.
Brown slammed the flat of the ax onto the big man’s hand and Becker yelped in pain and fright.
“Where is she?” the marshal hollered.
In answer, Becker swung a right at Brown’s chin and missed as the lawman dodged to his right. Brown shrieked like a banshee and raised the ax above his head, the honed blade ready to crash into Becker’s skull.
“Nooo!” the big man yelled. His face contorted in fear, he pointed to the blank wall to the right of the ruined door. “In there, both of them!”
Brown kept the ax poised like the blade of a guillotine. “Both of them?” he asked.
Becker said nothing. He hung his head and the rabbit ears of his bandage drooped.
Sedley was already at the wall, his hand moving over the garish wallpaper. “There’s a seam here, Marshal,” he said. “Looks like it could be a hidden door.”
“Then open it or chop it down,” Brown said. He turned his attention back to Becker. “You made the right decision, son,” he said, smiling. “I would have sure chopped you into kindling.”
Becker’s bloodshot eyes lifted to the lawman. “I’ll kill you for this,” he said.
“It’s a door, all right,” Sedley cried out suddenly.
Now a woman’s muffled voice called out, “Help us! Oh, please help us.”
“Damn you, boy, get it open,” Brown said. “Use the ax.”
Sedley nodded and his ax swung.
Pete Caradas emerged from the darkness of the balcony. He wore his robe, but his feet were bare and he held a Colt in his right hand. Behind him Sunny Swanson looked as though she’d just wakened from sleep. Her eyes were free of makeup and her unruly hair was bound up with a pink ribbon.
Caradas could be almighty sudden and he had the drop, and Shawn O’Brien knew the danger he represented. “Sorry to wake you, Pete,” he said.
For a moment Caradas was silent, listening to the crash of Sedley’s ax, then he said, “What’s going on in there?”
“Just a Deputy United States Marshal doing a little remodeling,” Shawn said.
“Has he done anything to Burt?” Sunny said. “Let me past.”
“No, stay where you are,” Caradas said. “I’ll go look.” Then to Shawn, “If Becker is hurt, I’ll take it hard.”
“I’ll take it hard if anyone else gets hurt, Pete,” Shawn said. He would not be pushed and was prepared to draw on Caradas, even though the man would get off the first shot.
Caradas knew that, too, and it gave him pause. O’Brien was fast and he’d go down with a gun in his hand. Caradas estimated the odds at slightly more than even in his favor, but the margin was way too slim for
comfort.
The appearance of Burt Becker in his room doorway ended it for now.
The big man saw Sunny and said painfully, “He broke my hand, Sunny.”
Shawn felt a spike of concern. “Your gun hand, Becker?”
“Yes, it’s his right hand, O’Brien. Can’t you see?” the girl said. She rushed to her lover and took his huge, bruised paw in hers.
“Is it broken?” Shawn said. “Can he move his fingers?”
“Burt, can you move your fingers?” Sunny said. She studied Becker’s hand, then said, “Yes, he can move them.”
“Good, it’s not broken,” Shawn said, relieved. He needed Becker’s gun, probably real soon.
“Thank you for your concern, O’Brien,” Sunny said, stabbing him with her glare.
Shawn smiled and said, “Keep well, Burt,” to which Becker replied, “You go to hell.”
From somewhere inside, Sedley’s voice rose to a pitch of horror. “Oh my God,” he said. “Marshal, git over here.”
Then a moment later from Brown, “Don’t just stand there, help them!”
Sedley and the marshal helped two women onto the balcony.
Shawn recognized Judy Campbell immediately. The girl shivered, whether from cold or fear he didn’t know, but she seemed to be unhurt and the nightgown she wore was clean.
The same could not be said for Jane Collins. A torn, ragged cotton dress, much stained, hung on her emaciated body and her blond hair had been raggedly cut and was stiff with dirt. Her hazel eyes were huge in her pale, thin face and the stench from the hidden room where she’d been held spoke volumes about the horrible conditions of her captivity.
Jane tried to talk, say something, anything, but her tongue refused to work in her mouth. She clung like a leech to the fastidious Sedley, her dirty fingers clawed into his coat, an experience the gambler obviously was not enjoying.
“Becker!” Shawn said, his rage at boiling point. “Give me an excuse to put a bullet in you.”
“Damn you, O’Brien, she was well treated,” Becker said. “If she wanted to live like a pig, that was of her own choosing.”
Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter Page 21
