“You treated her like a caged animal,” Shawn said.
He was aware of Caradas who seemed to be struck dumb, his face revealing only stunned horror. Shawn gave him the benefit of the doubt. It seemed that the gunman had been unaware of Judy Campbell’s terrible ordeal.
“Judy!” the cry came from behind Shawn. He turned and saw the girl fling herself, sobbing, into Jeremiah Purdy’s arms.
“I knew you’d come,” Judy cried, clinging to him, not caring that Jane was his true love. “I knew you’d find me.”
“Sedley, take her,” Purdy said. He gently pushed the girl away from him. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
It was only then that Shawn noticed the shotgun in Purdy’s right hand. He wasn’t alarmed, didn’t expect much. The sheriff would bluster, threaten Becker with jail or some such, and Caradas would soon run him off.
But it didn’t happen that way.
The young lawman stepped up to the sneering Becker and swung the shotgun butt. The walnut crashed with a horrifying thud into Becker’s broken jaw, and the big man went down shrieking. With snakelike speed, Purdy swung the scattergun and the muzzles gouged hard into Pete Caradas’s right cheekbone.
“Give me your gun,” the sheriff said. Then, “Now, damn you! Or I’ll paint the wall behind you gray with your brains.”
“Here, that won’t do,” Saturday Brown said. “I’m the law in this town.”
“Shut your trap, old man,” Purdy said. “I’ve already heard enough from you. Caradas, you’ve got two seconds. One . . .”
“Take it,” the gunman said. He deftly turned the Colt in his hand and extended it butt-first to Purdy. “I never argue with a shotgun when it’s stuck in my face.”
The sheriff shoved Caradas’s revolver into his waistband. To Sunny he said, “Were you in on this?”
“She was the one who put me in the hidden room,” Judy Campbell said.
Sunny’s face contorted in fury. “Yes, and I should have scratched your eyes out.”
“Get Becker on his feet, Sunny,” Purdy said. “I’ve got a jail cell for both of you. And you, too, Caradas.” He nodded to Brown. “I thank you kindly for what you did.”
“Should have done it yourself, boy,” Brown said.
“Yes, I should have,” Purdy said. “But I was too much in love with Jane to risk losing her.”
“Well, you played the man’s part tonight,” Brown said. He smiled at Caradas. “Didn’t he, Pete?”
The draw fighter gave an elegant bow. “I can’t deny that.”
“Caradas, help Sunny pick up Becker, or what’s left of him, then come with me,” Purdy said.
“I’d like to change first, Sheriff, if you don’t mind,” Caradas said.
“I do mind,” Purdy said. “You’re just fine the way you are. A jail cell doesn’t give a damn how you’re dressed. Now move!”
Hamp Sedley whispered in Shawn’s ear, “The worm turns.”
Shawn nodded. “I’ve heard of such once before, the consumptive Jim Riley kid who killed all those hardcases over to Newton, Kansas, that time. But I’d never seen it happen until now.”
“There’s a second time for everything, I guess,” Sedley said.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy ushered his three prisoners out of the saloon into the boardwalk—and was greeted by a hail of gunfire.
Sunny Swanson took a bullet between her breasts and went down. Hit hard in the left leg, Purdy collapsed onto the walk. Becker dived to his right out of the way of flying lead, but Pete Caradas got down on a knee beside the fallen lawman and jerked his Colt from the young man’s waistband.
Riders, about a dozen in number, had charged through the mire of the street, churning up mud like a stern wheeler stuck on a sandbank. They’d regrouped at the southern end of the street and now charged again. But this time the raiders met with disaster.
Caradas had his gun up and ready, and Shawn and Sedley flanked him. The riders crowded to the side of the street nearest the saloon, and for close-range draw fighters like Shawn and Caradas this was a perfect opportunity.
Slowed to a slogging canter by the mud, the leading riders met a barrage of rolling thunder from the guns of Shawn and Caradas. Sedley had his hands full with a man who charged his horse along the boardwalk, firing as he came.
Three men and a kicking, screaming horse lay sprawled in the mud of the street. The riders behind them had to swing wide, away from the mayhem, and their whole attention was directed at controlling their terrified mounts.
Sedley fired twice at the raider on the boardwalk, but scored no hits. The man came on at a fast gallop and kicked out at Shawn as he passed, sending him spread-eagled into the street, his face in the mud. The rider drew rein, his horse rearing, and fired a shot at Caradas.
“We got ’em, boys!” he yelled. He grinned, his teeth gleaming.
Such last words would have sounded noble on the lips of a dying Civil War general, but not from one of Thomas Clouston’s thugs who was too stupid to realize that the fight was lost.
Sedley now informed him of that fact.
Standing with his back to the saloon wall, he raised his Colt to eye level, sighted on the rider’s chest, and pulled the trigger. Sedley got lucky. His shot was way too high but his bullet slammed into the man’s temple, just under the hat brim. The rider threw up his arms and crashed onto the boardwalk so hard it shook under Sedley’s feet. The horse galloped on until the drum of its hooves was lost in distance.
Caradas, stung across his right shoulder, stepped to the edge of the walk and, as an act of defiance, thumbed off the last round in his Colt at the departing riders. But a moment later gunfire roared from the direction of the livery stable, not the ragged fusillade of amateurs but the measured cadence of professional gunmen.
Then the riders were gone, swallowed by darkness.
Shawn O’Brien pushed himself out of the mud, his eyes and teeth white.
“You look like a gingerbread man,” Sedley said, stepping to the edge of the boardwalk. It was a lame attempt at a joke and the gambler didn’t put his heart into it.
Caradas had taken a knee beside Sunny, now he rose to his feet and said, “She’s dead.” Then, “How are you, Sheriff ?”
“My leg’s shot through and through,” Purdy said. He stared through the gloom at Burt Becker. “Are you hurt?”
“No. And I didn’t have a gun,” the big man answered. The bandage had fallen from his head and he slipped it under his chin again, pushed it back into place. “Jaw hurts,” he said.
Dripping mud, Shawn stepped onto the boardwalk.
“You’re a sight,” Caradas said.
“I reckon,” Shawn said. “My gun is in the mud somewhere.” He brushed mud from his chest and found that he still had the rosary around his neck. He kissed the crucifix, then let the beads hang again.
“Three dead in the street and a wounded horse,” Caradas said.
“I see that,” Shawn said. Then to Sedley he said, “Let me have your gun, Hamp.”
Sedley handed over his Colt and Shawn checked the loads. “One round left,” he said.
Caradas tensed, an empty gun in his hand, but Shawn stepped into the street to the twitching horse, pushed the Colt muzzle against the animal’s forehead, and pulled the trigger.
When he returned to the boardwalk mud had begun to harden on his face, as though he wore a black mask.
Dr. John Walsh, a coat over his night attire, kneeled on the boardwalk beside Sunny’s body. He got to his feet and said to the grimacing Purdy, “Straight through the heart, Sheriff. She died instantly. Now let me take a look at that leg.”
Burt Becker looked like a man consciously stifling grief. “Is that all there is? She died instantly?”
Dr. Walsh’s austere face was chillingly bleak. “There’s nothing I can do for her, Mr. Becker,” he said. “My business is with the living, not the dead.”
He turned his back on Becker and began to examine Purdy’s le
g.
The young sheriff winced as the doctor probed, then said, “Becker, get back to your room and consider yourself under house arrest. You, too, Caradas. O’Brien, take his gun.”
“May I point out that I helped save your life tonight, Sheriff ?” Caradas said. He handed his Colt to Shawn.
“Yeah, what about that, college boy?” Sedley said in the usual belligerent tone he adopted when talking to Purdy.
Purdy spoke directly to Sedley. “Mr. Caradas is still under the suspicion of aiding and abetting in the kidnap of two young women, a hanging offense.”
He yelped in sudden pain and Dr. Walsh said, “The bullet is still in your thigh. I need to extract it.” Then to the gaping people who’d gathered on the boardwalk, “A couple of you men help the sheriff to my surgery.”
A pair of volunteers stepped forward, got Purdy to his feet; then, his arms over their shoulders, the young lawman limped away.
Dr. Walsh stayed where he was. “Mayor Bromley, the dead men and the horse should be removed from the street as soon as possible,” he said. Then, a slight catch in his voice, “And take care of Sunny. Treat her with . . . kindness.”
Hugo Bromley, a harried, middle-aged man with a magnificent set of gray muttonchop whiskers that hung to the top of his chest, nodded. Then he said, “Deacon Dance says this is the apocalypse, that Broken Bridle is paying for its dalliance with demon drink and loose women. What do you think, Doc? Have the end times truly fallen upon our fair town?”
Walsh said, “The drums have told you all along that this town is in the way of a man’s greed for gold. You have only two choices—fight or flee. Some have fled already but those who are left must pick up the gun. Tonight three professional gunmen did our fighting for us but we must be able to rely on ourselves.”
Weakly, Bromley said, “But, Doc . . . what about strong drink and fancy women?”
Walsh smiled the day the War Between the States ended and now he did it again. “Taken in excess, they’re both bad for the health,” he said. “Now I must go to my patient.”
Hamp Sedley said, “Seems you’re still free to indulge in whiskey and women without the world ending, huh, Mayor?”
Bromley’s wife, a shrew of a woman with a nose as sharp as a pen, glared at her husband, but the mayor gave a politician’s professional “Harrumph,” then ordered the menfolk on the boardwalk into the street.
“We’ve got some dirty work to do,” he said.
Unnoticed, Shawn O’Brien left the others, Pete Caradas’s reloaded Colt in his own holster. He walked to the end of the boardwalk, then crossed twenty yards of open ground that was now a river of mud.
He counted two men dead in the street and a third kneeling on hands and knees coughing up frothing pink blood. Shawn shot the suffering man in the head as he walked past. There was no recovering from a bullet through the lungs.
The D’eth brothers stood at the entrance to the barn, each with a gun in his hand. Shawn, covered in a thick layer of mud from the crown of his hat to the toes of his boot, emerged from the gloom like a phantom.
Milos watched him come, then said, “Speak, thou apparition.”
“Name’s Shawn O’Brien. I want to talk to you.”
“You ever hear of Jake O’Brien?”
“He’s my brother.”
“We like Jake.”
“Everybody likes Jacob. All the ones who didn’t are dead.”
“Step inside, O’Brien,” Milos said. “We’ll talk.”
Shawn walked into the barn and Milos introduced his brother Petsha. “Petsha doesn’t like people but he cottoned to Jake, since they both play the piano.”
“He plays Chopin well,” Petsha said. Then, “You’ve come to talk about the dead men outside.”
“They were Thomas Clouston’s hired guns,” Shawn said.
“We know,” Petsha said.
“Then we have a common enemy,” Shawn said.
“We have an enemy, but not in common,” Milos said. “We told the marshal that we’ll kill Clouston alone and in our own way.”
“The attack tonight was to test our strength, and Clouston got his fingers burned,” Shawn said. “Next time he’ll plan his attack better.”
Milos shook his head. “He wants as many of his men dead as possible. There will be fewer hungry mouths to feed when the gold is shared.”
Petsha said, “But you are right, O’Brien. Next time he’ll wipe this town out to the last man, woman, or child.”
“I don’t want that to happen,” Shawn said.
“Then maybe you can stop it,” Milos said. “But I don’t know how.”
“I can stop it,” Shawn said. “I can stop it by helping you kill Clouston.”
“We don’t want or need your help,” Milos said. “We’ve done more difficult jobs in the past.”
“Even if I kill Clouston you’ll have fulfilled your contract,” Shawn said. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”
“We don’t like to depend on anyone,” Milos said. “At a critical moment you could cut and run.”
“Would my brother Jake cut and run?” Shawn said.
“No. He would not,” Milos said.
“We’re of the same stock,” Shawn said.
Milos thought for a moment or two, then said, “My brother and I will talk of this. Tomorrow we will let you know what we decide.”
Shawn knew the D’eth brothers would not back away from that line, and he was forced to accept their terms.
“Until tomorrow then,” he said.
Milos nodded. Then he said, “Tell the people of Broken Bridle to come collect their hurting dead.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“The ore cars aren’t there, boss,” Lark Rawlings said. “We got wagons backed up along the rails with nowhere to unload.”
“What does the depot agent say?” Dr. Thomas Clouston asked, anxiety spiking at him.
“He says his request for a dozen ore cars was approved by the railroad and that he doesn’t know why they’re not here. He says they should arrive any day now.”
Clouston leaned forward in his chair and took the pipe from his mouth. He’d been happy at the slaughter inflicted on his men by the resident gunmen in Broken Bridle, but this news banished his good mood and left him sullen and angry.
“When the ore is finally moved I’ll hang that damned, incompetent depot agent from his own telegraph pole,” he said.
“There’s something else, boss,” Rawlings said, his brutal, hangman’s face worried.
“More bad news?”
“I reckon so.”
“Then tell me and be damned to you for spoiling my morning pipe.”
“Sometime last night a crack appeared on the overhang and the whole rock face is starting to creak,” Rawlings said. “I reckon if the undercut gets much deeper it will bring down the whole shebang.”
“How much of the greenstone have we removed?” Clouston said.
“I estimate about half,” Rawlings said.
“Then get the Chinese to work faster.”
“Boss, it looks like an ants nest at the undercut, men, women, and young ’uns. If the overhang falls we’d lose a thousand people, maybe all fifteen hundred of them. Do you want to come see for your ownself?”
“Are you insane? No, I won’t come. How many Chinese die digging out greenstone is unimportant to me so long as we get all of it,” Clouston said.
“Sure, boss, sure,” Rawlings said, uncomfortably aware of Clouston’s growing anger. “I do have some good news.”
“Tell it,” Clouston said.
“The railroad did deliver food, sacks of rice, and salt cod.”
“Good. Then distribute it when you can.” Clouston took time to relight his pipe, then said, “Use some Chinese, women and boys preferably, to unload the greenstone along the railroad spur. We need those wagons back here at the diggings. When the ore cars get here the Chinese can reload the stone into them.”
“I’ll get that moving, boss,” Rawlings
said. But the man stood where he was, hesitant, as though he wished to say something but was afraid to talk.
Clouston was irritated. “What is it, man? Speak up.”
“Boss, the boys are pretty down in the mouth about what happened last night in Broken Bridle,” Rawlings said. “Six men missing, probably dead, and Jesse Pender is gut shot and ain’t likely to last until nightfall.”
“I should have led that raid myself,” Clouston said. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
“Maybe if you talked to them—”
“I don’t feel inclined to talk to anyone, Rawlings. Make sure the men get plenty of whiskey and throw a few Chinese women to them. They’ll feel just fine tomorrow.”
Loop Eakins was familiar with the seven deadly sins because he’d committed all of them at one time or another. He was fifty and his résumé was extensive . . . bank robber, shell game artist, lawman, hired gun, lawman again, hotel doorman, and finally a top gun for Thomas Clouston. He’d killed three men and it didn’t bother him none, nor did the drunken roar of men and the shrieks of Chinese women in the tents trouble him.
But the growing remoteness of Clouston and his complete unconcern for the lives of his men convinced Eakins it was time to throw the coffee on the fire and move on. He had two hundred dollars in his pocket, a good horse under him, and he could go anywhere. But he decided the safest place, at least for now, was Broken Bridle.
While everyone was otherwise engaged, he threw together his gear, saddled his bay, and rode out under cover of the falling darkness. He checked his back trail often, but no one followed him.
The night was still young when Eakins rode into Broken Bridle. He had not been part of the raid the night before and little evidence of it remained except that the muddy street seemed more churned up than was usual in a small town.
He left his horse at the livery, stared at by a couple of strange-looking rubes who were dark enough to be breeds, and then made his muddy way to the Streetcar.
Loop Eakins had many faults, but he wasn’t stupid. He told the men standing at the bar that he’d fled Thomas Clouston and his thugs because of their attack on their town.
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