Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter (2 page)

Broken Bridle was a hot, dusty little settlement built on the ragged edge of nowhere, clinging for its existence to a slender thread of rail, a spur of the Fremont, Elkhorn & Missouri Valley Railroad.

A teeming Chinese tent city sprawled close to the track, the men anticipating more rail-laying work if the Irish didn't come in and take it all. Their womenfolk, children, and old people were content to follow along and add their voices to the constant cacophony that was characteristic of every hell on wheels town in the west.

But Broken Bridle itself was a cow town. It looked and smelled like a cow town, and its extensive cattle pens provided its bona fides, backing up its claim to be the “Dodge City of the Northwest.”

Whether that was true or not, when Shawn O'Brien and Hamp Sedley rode into the town it was obvious the burg had snap.

The wide boardwalks of Main Street were crowded with people, and in the town's four saloons dusty cowboys rubbed shoulders with bearded miners, pale card sharks, painted girls, prosperous businessmen in broadcloth, pickpockets, and the usual assortment of hangers-on, dance hall loungers, shell game artists, and young men on the make.

“Yup, Broken Bridle has snap all right,” the old man at the livery said. “She's a-hootin' an' a-hollerin' an' a-bustin' at the seams. She's ready to blow night or day, and we got the oldest whiskey and youngest whores north of the Picketwire.”

The old man winked a faded blue eye. “What we ain't got is parsons or school ma'ams, and now Burt Becker an' them are in town, them two things is even less likely.”

“Burt Becker?” Sedley said. “I heard he'd been hung down Texas way.”

“Maybe you should listen with two ears to what folks say, sonny,” the liver yman said. He was a dry, stringy old coot with a voice like a creaky gate. “How it came up,” he said, “Burt was gonna get hung for a bank robber, but he turned things around an' hung the hangman. One time I made the acquaintance of that hangman, a traveling feller by the name of Hemp Rope Harry Perry. Nice enough cove when he was sober, but a demon in drink, an' because of the whiskey he bungled many a hanging an' spoiled them fer folks.”

“How did Becker manage to get the drop on his executioner?” O'Brien said.

“Easy. His gang was in the crowd. They stormed the gallows, like, and cut down ol' Burt. Then Burt hung Perry, the town sheriff, and the parson. The preacher was still holding on to his Good Book when he swung. After that Burt and his gang shot up the town, killed a poor Swede boy an' a hundred-dollar hoss at the Gallant Custer Saloon hitching rail. One time I made the acquaintance of that hoss—”

“What's a big gun like Burt Becker doing in a burg like this?” Sedley said. “Hell, it would normally take a dozen strong men with crowbars to pry him out of East Texas.”

Suddenly the old man's face was guarded. “You'd better ask him that your ownself, sonny,” he said. “But around these parts it's best not to be a questioning man.”

“Pity that because I have one more to ask,” O'Brien said.

“Then ask it. Just don't ask me about Burt Becker.”

“Is Jeremiah Purdy still sheriff here?”

The liveryman's expression blanked, then he said in an odd flat voice, “Yes, he is.”

Those three words put an end to the old man's talk, and his attention moved from conversation to the horses.

“Let's go talk with Purdy and find out what ails him,” O'Brien said. He felt uneasy. That ancestral sixth sense born to the Irish whispered a warning, and Shawn knew it would give him no peace.

 

 

“My father is mistaken,” Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy said. “I need no help from you, Mr. O'Brien, or from any other.”

“Then I wasted a trip,” Shawn said.

“It would seem so.”

Purdy was an earnest-looking young man somewhere in his midtwenties. He sported a thick shock of yellow hair that he constantly and somewhat nervously shoved back as it tumbled over his forehead.

Of medium height and slender build, he wore a pair of round spectacles behind which owlish eyes peered out at the world with a permanently startled expression, as though he couldn't quite believe what was going on around him.

On Purdy's desk lay a Smith & Wesson .32-caliber army revolver in a soft leather pouch designed for discreet carry in the pocket.

The belly gun and its mode of carry told O'Brien that the young man was either very confident of his revolver skills or he placed little emphasis on arms and their use. He suspected the latter was the case.

Hamp Sedley, who looked like somebody held a dead fish to his nose, said, “College boy, ain't you?”

“Yes. I'm a Yale graduate,” Purdy said.

“Well, that's sure going to impress Burt Becker,” Sedley said.

“I think you gentlemen should leave now,” Purdy said.

He looked strained, like a man does when he hides a secret illness from a loved one.

But, to Shawn O'Brien's considerable irritation, for some reason Sedley had taken a dislike to the young sheriff and was on the prod.

“What is Burt Becker doing in Broken Bridle?” he said.

“He hasn't broken any laws,” Purdy said.

“Not yet.”

“A man can go where he wants. It's a free country.”

“Your pa told us you needed help, young feller, and I think Becker is the reason,” Sedley said.

“My father told you wrong. I've already said that.”

“Becker wants something this town has,” Sedley said. “What is it?”

Purdy rose to his feet. “Nothing. There's nothing in this town Becker wants. Now go, both of you.”

“You've pushed it enough, Hamp,” O'Brien said.

“He's hiding something, Shawn.”

“You heard the man. He doesn't want our help.”

“But—”

“We're leaving, Hamp. Now.”

Sedley nodded, then stared hard into Jeremiah Purdy's face. “Take my advice, college boy,” he said. “Buy yourself a bigger gun.”

“So how's the steak?” Hamp Sedley said.

“Fair to middling,” Shawn O'Brien said. “Yours?”

“Can't do much to mess up bacon and eggs. You eyeball those two by the door?”

“Yeah. As soon as we walked into the restaurant.”

“Texas?”

“You bet.”

“Guns?”

“Damn right they are. The older one is June Lacour; the one next to him with the mean eyes is Little Face Denton.” Shawn smiled. “They're both acquaintances of my brother Jacob, so that ought to tell you something.”

Lacour, a tall, loose-geared man in fine broadcloth and white linen, heard his name and rose from the table. He crossed the floor, his spurs chiming. He wore two Colts but countered any possible threat he might pose with a smile.

“Howdy, Shawn,” he said. “It's been a while.”

“Two years, maybe three. Last time was when you and Little Face brought Jacob home to Dromore. He was shot through and through and cussin' up a storm.”

“How is Jake?”

“Good, last I heard.”

“He still play on the piano?”

“I reckon. He likes Chopin too much to quit.”

“He's a rum one is Jake. He should be back East playing in one of them big orchestras. He's not here with you, is he?”

“No.”

“Me and him, we had times.”

“I know. He told me.” Shawn laid down his fork. “This here is Hamp Sedley. He's a friend of mine.”

“Any friend of Shawn's . . . you know the rest.”

“Right pleased to meet you, June,” Sedley said, smiling.

He rose to his feet, extended his hand, and Lacour took it.

“Little Face isn't feeling sociable, huh?” Shawn said.

“Yeah. Some days he just don't talk to people, says it's too much of a chore to think up conversation.”

But Little Face, a snake-eyed man with a double shoulder holster rig, saw Shawn look at him, smiled, and touched his hat. He made no move to get up.

Shawn returned the compliment.

“Little Face is right partial to Chopin's Nocturne in C Minor,” Lacour said. “Says it makes him feel sad.”

“And Jake played it for him?” Shawn said.

“Sure did. That is until it made Little Face so sad he killed a man. After that Jake refused to play it. I don't reckon he's played it since.” Lacour gave Shawn a long look, then said, “What brings you to Broken Bridle?”

“Just passing through, June, seeing the sights.”

“This isn't a passing-through town. It's a long ways from nowhere and there's no sights.”

“Well, it doesn't matter. Hamp and me are drifting, blown here and there by the wind.”

“Blow back to the New Mexico Territory where you belong, Shawn. There's nothing for you in this town.”

“June, if I didn't know you better I'd consider that a threat,” Shawn said.

“No threat. Just advice.”

“To whom are you and Little Face selling your guns?”

Lacour grinned. His teeth were very white, the canines large, like wolf fangs. “Damn it all, Shawn, you always said things real nice. I mean, ‘To whom . . .' That's grandstand talk.”

“Is it Burt Becker?”

“Yeah, it's Becker. He pays top dollar.”

“Why is he here?”

“Protecting Broken Bridle from bandits,” Lacour said, his face empty.

“What bandits?”

“I don't know. There could be some around.”

“June, if prostitution is the oldest profession, then the protection business is the second.”

Sedley said, “What in God's name does this one-hoss burg have that's valuable enough to protect?”

“Why don't you ask Becker?” Lacour said, his voice without tone or inflection. “Now I have to go.” The lanky gunman made to walk away, then stopped. “Shawn, you ever hear tell of a gun by the name of Pete Caradas?”

“Can't say as I have.”

“Step wide around him. He's poison,” Lacour said.

“What is that?” Hamp Sedley said.

“I don't know,” Shawn O'Brien said. “But it's enough to spook a man.”

“Drums. It sounds like drums.”

“Well, there are no Indians around.”

Sedley shot out a hand and grabbed the arm of a plump, fussy-looking man before he passed him on the boardwalk.

“Hey, what is that noise?” Sedley said.

“What noise?” the plump man said.

“A sound like drums.”

“I don't hear a thing.”

“You don't hear that?”

“No. Now give me the road, if you please.”

Sedley let go of the man's arm. The noise was still loud above the quiet of the noonday street, the dim throb of distant drums.

“Watch how it's done in polite society,” Shawn said.

He stepped in front of a prim matron with a shopping basket over her arm. She carried a plucked and dressed chicken partially wrapped in bloodstained white paper and a small sack of Arbuckle coffee.

Shawn smiled and touched his hat, but the woman looked alarmed.

“Sorry to trouble you, ma'am,” he said. “But my friend and I are trying to identify the drumming sound.”

“There is no drumming sound. Now let me pass, young man,” the woman said.

She seemed so frightened that Shawn didn't push it. “Sorry to have troubled you, ma'am,” he said.

The matron sniffed, said, “Why, I never!” and brushed past, her starched underskirts rustling as her high-heeled ankle boots thudded on the boardwalk.

“Seems like everybody in this damn town is deaf,” Sedley said.

“Or scared,” Shawn said.

He and the gambler stood tall on the boardwalk, two men dressed in fine broadcloth, both sporting the large dragoon mustaches then in fashion. They looked confident, prosperous, and in command, though at that moment, both were very much lost.

“The young sheriff was scared; I could see it in his eyes,” Sedley said.

“Something to do with Becker?” Shawn said.

“Could be. That would be my guess. A man like Becker doesn't ride into a town without causing trouble for the local law.”

“And what about the drums that nobody in this town hears except us?”

“Becker again? I don't know.”

Shawn's blue eyes reached into distance. “According to the map I got from Connall Purdy those are the Rattlesnake Hills to the east,” he said. “The drumming noise seems to be coming from there.”

Sedley was silent for a few moments, then met Shawn's questioning eyes. “Ah hell, all right, I got nothing else to do,” he said.

 

 

Shawn O'Brien and Hamp Sedley were a mile from the Rattlesnake Hills when the drumming abruptly stopped.

“Somebody saw us coming, huh?” Sedley said, drawing rein.

“Seems like,” Shawn said. “Makes a man think he's not exactly welcome to these parts.”

Ahead of him rose ramparts of volcanic rock, their windswept slopes lightly covered in bunchgrass, sage, and scattered stands of stunted fir and aspen. It was grim, unwelcoming country with nothing to offer but isolation and, now that the drums had stopped, brooding silence.

In all that vast landscape only the sky was not still, small white clouds gliding across its blue surface like lilies on a pond. Insects made their small sounds in the grass, and the air smelled of dust and decaying rock.

Shawn slid the Winchester from the boot under his knee and led the way into a narrow canyon where the lava walls rose sheer on both sides. The trees that rimmed the canyon were stunted and twisted into grotesque shapes that leaned in the direction of the prevailing winds, like a bunch of very old, bent men who'd wandered off and lost their way. The day was as hot as an oven and there was no breeze.

Both he and Sedley had removed their frockcoats and placed them behind the saddles. Sweat stained their shirts, and the air was thick and hard to breathe.

After a thousand yards the canyon narrowed and the walls became close enough to touch. Some of the rock was heavily crusted with black and gray lichen, like ancient tombstones in an abandoned graveyard.

Despite the tranquility about the hills, they were part of a wild, terrible landscape that made Shawn uneasy in his mind, and when he realized he was riding stiff and tense in the saddle he had to force himself to relax.

“Damn it, Shawn, these hills are no place for honest men,” Sedley said. He, too, felt the remoteness of the hills and a strange sense of impending danger.

“How about dishonest men?” Shawn said.

Sedley didn't answer because he wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on the trail ahead of him. “Oh my God,” he said finally.

Shawn then saw what Sedley had seen. A man, or what was left of him, blocked the way. He'd been hung with ropes onto a T-shaped cross, his entire naked body crusted with dried, black blood. His beard and long hair, both gray, were also matted with gore and saliva, and heavy iron nails had been driven into the palms of his hands.

Sedley turned to Shawn, a question on his horrified face.

Shawn swallowed hard, then said, “Looks to me like he was worked over with a bullwhip, then nailed up there to die.”

“His eyes are gone,” Sedley said.

“Crows probably. Or ravens.”

Sedley looked behind him and then, as though he couldn't help it, back to the crucified man. “Who the hell was he? What was he?”

Shawn said, “Judging by his hands and arms I'd guess he was a miner of some kind. He sure doesn't look like a puncher or an outlaw. At times in his life, that man did work and lifted loads that were way too heavy for him.”

“Hell, what's that?” Sedley said.

He swung out of the saddle and stepped to the cross. “Damn, he stinks,” he said.

“What did you see?” Shawn said.

“Only this.” Sedley gingerly held a cardboard sign by a corner.

He carried the sign back and laid it on the ground. “There's a lot of blood on it and I can only see some of the letters,” he said.

Shawn dismounted and pushed the sign with the toe of his boot and read: ST AW OR IS WIL PEN O OU.

He studied the letters for a while, then looked at Sedley. “What the hell does it say you reckon?” he said.

Sedley studied the letters for a moment, then said, “
STHAW . . . STRAW FOR . . .
hell, I don't know what it says.”

“It reads,
STAY AWAY OR THIS WILL HAPPEN TO YOU,”
Shawn said. He scouted the ground around the base of the cross. “No tracks.”

“Summer rains, I guess,” Sedley said.

“Becker?” Shawn said.

Sedley thought about that. “It could be him, but I doubt it.”

“Me too. This killing is evil. It has no style,” Shawn said. “Becker has style of a sort and he's a shooter, not a”—he waved a hand in the direction of the dead man—“whatever it is you call a man who kills like that.”

“A lunatic? Madman?”

“Seems like,” Shawn said. Then, “There's plenty of loose rock and shale around. We could take him down and bury him.”

“No, we couldn't,” Sedley said, horrified. “Hell, the body is rotten. Once we got him free of the nails we'd have to bury him a finger and toe at a time, and I'm not ready for that.”

Shawn remounted, measured the distance between him and the cross, and grabbed his rope. He shook out a loop, tossed it over the T-beam, and jerked it tight.

He took a couple of turns around the saddle horn, then backed the buckskin. The rope shivered straight as the big horse took the strain, and after what seemed an eternity the cross finally pulled free and toppled over. The dead man landed facedown on the grass.

“Now we can bury him,” Shawn said.

“There?” Sedley said.

“Yes, there. Right where he lies.”

“Shawn, there ain't enough damned rock in the territory to bury that,” Sedley said. The skin covering his cheekbones, bronzed from unaccustomed sun, was taut, like a man ready to set spurs to his horse and make a run for it.

“There's plenty of rock,” Shawn said. “It's just a matter of finding it.”

“Hell, my hands.”

“Don't worry about your hands, Hamp. I have a feeling you won't be shuffling cards again anytime soon.”

Sedley glanced at the dead man, then said, “Two feet of rock ought to do it.”

 

 

“I don't know who he was, but a pile of rocks isn't much to show for a life,” Hamp Sedley said.

Shawn O'Brien crossed himself, then said, “Well, whoever he was may he rest in peace.”

“Then that's it,” Sedley said. Then, as though a thought had just struck him, “Are you in good with God, Shawn?”

“Maybe. I don't really know.”

“Had an old gambler die in my arms one time. Feller by the name of Patrick Murphy. He got shot across a card table in Fort Smith by Long Fingers Dawson. You heard of him?”

“No, I haven't,” Shawn said. “And I'm not catching your drift, either.”

“I'm circling up on it. Just be patient. Well, Pat Murphy was a mick, just like you, an' before he croaked he said, ‘Humphrey—'”

“Humphrey?” Shawn said.

“Yeah, that's why I call myself Hamp. Anyways, he says, ‘I'm a goner so mind an' say a prayer for me to Saint Bernardine of Siena, the patron saint of gamblers.'”

Sedley let a silence stretch and Shawn said, “So? And then what?”

“And then he died.”

Sedley swung into the saddle and looked down at Shawn who was not yet mounted. “The strange thing is, from what I read later, ol' Bernardine was down on gambling. He said playing cards and dice were tools of the devil and gamblers should be burned at the stake.”

“Odd kind of patron saint, huh?” Shawn said.

“Seems like. But in any case, all gold miners are gamblers, so say a prayer to Bernardine for the poor feller we just buried, him being a tinpan an' all. But use my name, like. So Bernie thinks it's coming from me.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

“And say one for me when you're at it,” Sedley said, his face stiff. Then, “Behind us.”

His eyes flickered in that direction and Shawn followed them.

About a hundred yards away six mounted riflemen were strung out across the valley floor. Silent. Alert. Watching.

Slowly, moving carefully, Shawn mounted. He slid the Winchester from under his knee and propped it on his thigh.

“Showdown time, I reckon,” Sedley said. His mouth sounded as though it was full of dust.

“Seems like,” Shawn O'Brien said.