Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter (29 page)

Both barrels of the Wm. Moore & Grey twelve-gauge belched fire and buckshot, filling Lynn's Variety Saloon with thick white smoke while the explosion and reverberations drowned out the brief cries of the man Danny Waco gunned down, shooting from his hip.

Ducking beneath the smoke, he shifted the shotgun to his left hand, his right quickly reaching across his body to pull the short-barreled Colt from a cross-draw holster. His thumb eared back the hammer, but he did not fire. He didn't have to. Even through the drifting smoke, he knew that the man he had just shot no longer posed any threat.

He could see where buckshot had punctured a calendar and splintered some siding. A table had been overturned. The dead man had fallen into a chair, the momentum sending it sliding across the floor and slamming against the wall. He had tumbled onto the floor next to the side door through which he had entered the saloon. The chair, however, remained upright, next to another table where a pitcher of beer stood undisturbed. The drummer sitting next to the pitcher looked so pale, Waco figured that the dude would soon drop dead from an apoplexy.

That struck Waco as uproariously funny. Laughing, he lowered the hammer on the Colt and used the barrel to push up the brim of his hat. “That beer ain't gonna help you none,” he told the drummer, who still did not move. “You need rye.” Waco turned toward the bartender, who likewise stood like a statue, and snapped a finger.

Crossing the floor to the batwing doors, empty shotgun in left hand, loaded Colt in right, Waco leaned against the doors and swung halfway onto the boardwalk.

The lady across the dusty street at Mrs. Wong's Millinery Company quickly looked away and busied herself, digging in her purse to fetch the key to her business. An old black man stood, broom in hand, in front of the mercantile, and a cowboy had reined in his strawberry roan a few rods from the saloon. Quickly, the waddie turned his horse around and trotted to the Mexican saloon at the edge of town.

Waco's gaze landed on the marshal's office. The door remained shut.

Picturing the town law hearing the shotgun blast and freezing in fear, Waco laughed again.

With a fresh shave and haircut and new blue shirt, Danny Waco figured he looked his best. If the lawman lying on the Variety's floor had been lucky, and things had turned out differently, at least Danny Waco would have made a fine corpse. Better than the lawdog, anyway, who had been hit with both loads of the double-barrel twelve gauge. The deputy still gripped a Smith & Wesson No. 2 in his right hand. Unlike two barrels of double-ought buckshot, a little .32 rimfire would not have ripped a body apart.

A slim man, Waco wore a pinstriped vest of black wool and gray pants stuck into his new boots showing off the cathedral arch stitching. A black porkpie hat set atop his neatly coiffed hair. His blue eyes missed nothing. Nor did his ears.

The chiming of spurs turned his attention back to the smoky saloon. Gil Millican had risen from the table where he and Waco had been sitting, sharing a bottle of Old Overholt with Tonkawa Tom and Mr. Percy Frick. Millican and The Tonk rode with Waco. Mr. Percy Frick had a job two stops down from Denison working for the Katy, which was what everyone called the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad.

The Tonk glanced at Frick, whose mouth hung open, drawing flies, and whose face seemed frozen in shock. Shaking his head in contempt, The Tonk joined Millican by the wall, staring at the corpse. At least The Tonk had sense enough to look outside first, before closing the door and nodding at Waco.

“This boy's a deputy marshal,” Millican drawled.

“I hoped so.” Waco listened to the batwing doors pounding back and forth, back and forth, as he walked back to his table. “That's how he identified himself, ain't it? I mean, I'd hate to send a man to meet his maker with a lie on his lips.” He slid into his seat, and grinned at Mr. Frick, who did not notice.

The Tonk whistled, then mumbled, “That's one tight pattern of buckshot.”

“Yeah!” Triggering the top lever, Waco snapped open the barrels and ejected the shells, tossing them toward the spittoon but missing. Smoke wafted from the barrels. “It's the lightest shotgun I ever held.” He leaned forward, kissed the barrels, still warm to his lips. “Don't weigh more 'n five pounds, I guess. Hardly even kicks. And I had double-ought in both barrels.” He held the barrel closer to Mr. Frick, but Mr. Frick saw nothing.

It was a beautiful weapon, and Waco knew all about weapons. His father had been a gunsmith, lauded as one of the best in Fort Worth. His father had taught young Danny all he ever needed to know about guns, about shooting, and hunting. Sometimes, Waco regretted killing his old man.

The Damascus barrels were twenty-eight inches. Waco had considered sawing them down, which would have certainly widened the pattern, but it would have ruined the gun. His late father had preached that one didn't ruin a piece of art by taking a hacksaw to its barrels, and Waco's English-made shotgun was indeed a thing of beauty. Prettier than the watch he had taken off his poor old dad. Or even that soiled dove he had known in Caldwell.

The barrels chambered twelve gauge, but the frame seemed to have been originally a twenty gauge, which would explain just how light the shotgun felt in Waco's hands. He brought the gun closer, admiring the engraved scrollwork, the smoothness of the deep brown barrels, the walnut stock and grip, the swivel eyes for a sling at the bottom of the barrel and stock.

Yes, sir,
Danny Waco thought,
Wm. Moore & Grey of 43 Old Bond Street sure know how to make a shotgun.
It killed mighty fine. If he ever made his way to London, he would look the boys up and compliment them on their artwork.

The shotgun disappeared onto Waco's lap as he fished a fresh pair of two-and-a-half-inch shells from his vest pocket.

Fingering the twelve-gauge in his lap, Waco turned toward the wall. “You boys gonna just stand there gawking. We're talking business over here.” He looked back toward the beer-jerker. “And you. Yeah, you. I told you to take that drummer a shot of rye. Have one yourself. It'll get your blood flowing again.”

When The Tonk and Millican were seated, Waco put the shotgun on the table, reached over, and pried the shot glass from Mr. Frick's hand. “Mr. Frick,” he said, casually. “Mr. Frick,” he repeated in a placating tone. “Frick!” He tossed the whiskey into the man's face.

Percy Frick blinked rapidly, caught his breath and turned to face Waco. Rather hesitantly, he looked back at the dead body near the wall. “Y-y-you . . . killed . . . him.”

“That's right,” Waco said casually, refilling the shot glass. “He came in here, interrupting our conversation.”

Waco slid the glass in front of Frick's shaking right hand.

“But . . .” Frick seemed to discover the whiskey. He lifted the tumbler, shot down the rye, and coughed.

The Tonk refilled the glass, shooting a grin that Waco ignored.

For a moment, Waco and his men thought Mr. Frick might throw up, but the railroad clerk shot down another two ounces of rye.

“Now . . .” Waco grinned. “Let's get back to business.”

“You killed him,” Mr. Frick repeated.

“We've covered that already, Mr. Frick. Yes. He's dead. Can't get any deader.”

“But he was a lawman.”

“Correct. A deputy United States marshal riding for Isaac Parker's court. Or so he said. But the key word there, Mr. Frick, is
was
. He
was
a lawman.” Waco sipped his own rye, careful to not shoot it down. Good rye was hard to come by in a place like Denison. “Now he's a corpse.”

Frick shuddered. “I didn't think anybody would get killed.”

“Then you don't know Danny Waco,” Millican said, and immediately regretted it as Waco's eyes burned into him. Millican cleared his throat, topped off Frick's glass, and decided to check the dead lawman for any papers, coin, watches, anything that might come in handy. He had already lifted the Smith & Wesson, which stuck out of the right mule-ear pocket on his checkered trousers.

While Mr. Frick tried to come to grips with what had just happened before his eyes, Waco sighed and looked at the bartender. “Did you recognize the lawman, Charles?” The man hadn't taken rye to the drummer, but the drummer still hadn't moved.

The bartender blinked. “No, Danny. I sure didn't.”

“Are we friends, Charles?” Waco scratched the back of his neck. It always itched after a haircut. Those tonsorial artists used talcum powder like it was whiskey, not wasting any.

“Well . . .” The beer jerker understood. “He just rode into town yesterday evening, Mr. Waco.”

“Looking for me?”

“He didn't say, Mr. Waco. When he dropped in yesterday, he said he was on his way to Bonham to pick up a prisoner.”

Waco smiled. “Guess the prisoner will have to wait.” He sipped the rye again. “But you didn't mention him, Charles, when Mr. Frick and the boys and me set down to discuss our business. Didn't mention that a federal lawdog was hanging around these parts.”

The barkeep frowned and used the bar towel to wipe the sweat beading on his forehead. “Honest, Mr. Waco, I didn't think he was still in town. I figured he'd lit a shuck for Bonham by this time of day. That's the truth, Mr. Waco.”

“Mister?” Waco laughed again. “It's Danny, Charles. We're friends, aren't we?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now take that drummer a shot of rye. Pour the beer over his head if he doesn't respond.”

The barkeep's head bobbed. The towel dropped to the floor.

“Only an extradition paper, Danny,” Gil Millican said, holding up some bloodstained papers, which he tossed beside the dead man's hat. “No warrants that I see.”

“Charles is likely right. He probably slept in this fine hot morning. Spotted us as we come to meet Mr. Frick. Decided to make himself famous by becoming the lucky law who got Danny Waco.” He held up his glass in a mocking toast to the dead man. “Sorry it didn't turn out that way.”

He killed the rye, and swung around in his chair to face the railroad clerk. “Are you feeling better, Mr. Frick?”

He did not respond immediately, then said, “You killed a federal lawman.”

Waco sighed, put his elbows on the table, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. This might take all day, and even in Denison, that town marshal couldn't spend much longer locked in his office. He would have to visit the privy before long, and despite the little arrangement he had with Danny Waco, a man had just been shotgunned to death in the city limits. The marshal had likely figured out that man rode for the hanging judge up north in Arkansas. Even as far south as Texas, Isaac Parker threw a lot of weight.

“Mr. Frick.” Waco rubbed his nose another few seconds, then lowered his hand. “Would it make you feel better if I told you he wasn't the first?”

“But . . .”

Waco's shook his head and that silenced the clerk. Waco's left hand moved toward his vest. From the lower left pocket, he withdrew his father's watch. He laid it on the table next to the shotgun.

It was thirty, maybe even forty years old, probably older than Danny Waco himself. Swiss made, in a fourteen-karat gold case, a key-wind with Roman numerals and gold Breguet hands. The big hand struck twelve, and the repeater began chiming.

Waco said, “My daddy always used to comment how this watch sings like a bird. It's real pretty, don't you think?”

Frick seemed to nod. Whether voluntarily or not, Waco wasn't sure.

“Time's running out, Mr. Frick. I agreed to meet you here in Denison.” He hooked his thumb toward the dead man. “Risked my own life, and the lives of Tonkawa Tom and Gil there. We met you here, because you didn't want anybody to see you with the likes of us. But now we need to come to an understanding. An agreement.”

“I . . . I . . . I j-just—”

“Yes.” The song had ended, and the watch returned to Waco's vest. “You didn't think anyone would get killed. But someone did. And someone else could die, too.”

Waco picked up the shotgun, and planted both barrels on Mr. Frick's nose.

“You came to Gil, Mr. Frick. Remember? You said you could provide us with some useful information. Train schedules. Payrolls. Things like that. Isn't that right, to the best of your recollection?”

“But I d-d-didn't . . . he's . . . d-d-dead.”

With a heavy sigh, Danny Waco pulled the trigger.

The spurs jingled, but only then did James Mann hear the snorting and pawing of a horse—no, two horses—outside by the hitching rail. He turned swiftly, trying to shove the Montgomery Ward & Co. catalog toward Kris, and felt the chair tilting back too far. He sang out and crashed onto the floor of the boxcar.

His uncle, Jimmy Mann, stepped up into the home, laughing, extending his right arm toward him. Jimmy's left hand gripped that battered old '73 Winchester carbine.

Reluctantly, James Mann let his uncle pull him to his fee. He dusted himself off and felt his face flush with more embarrassment as his father stepped into their home.

Millard Mann had always been the no-nonsense type, big, bronzed, and broad-shouldered, with hard hands and thick fingers, usually calloused, scarred, scraped, bruised, or bleeding—sometimes all of those. He wore a burgundy shirt of thin cotton, duck trousers held up with suspenders, a straw hat, and lace-up boots. Sandy hair, and hazel eyes, with a well-chewed cigar clenched in his teeth, shredded and soggy but never lighted. He towered over his brother, but something always struck James and many others, that Jimmy Mann was the dangerous one. Jimmy Mann was the killer. Millard was just a big cuss, hardworking, but fairly gentle.

“What are y'all doing?” Millard asked.

“Playing My Page!” Jacob pointed to the catalog, still open to the page with all the rifles.

“Y'all still playing that game?” Jimmy chuckled, righting the chair with one hand. He sat down, slid the Winchester carbine onto the table, and pulled the catalog closer. “Montgomery Ward's selling Winchesters, eh?” He shook his head and winked at Jacob. “Which one did you want? One like mine?” He patted the scratched stock of his rifle.

“I wasn't fast enough,” Jacob said. “It wasn't my page.”

“Kris?” Jimmy pushed up the brim of his hat.

Kris shook her head. Jacob pointed at James.

“I was just . . .” James didn't know what to say. Sixteen years old, playing a game children played.

“You want some coffee, Jimmy?” Millard asked.

“Sure. That'll cut the dust.”

James felt his uncle's eyes boring through him while his father headed to the stove.

“So,” Jimmy said, “you want a '73 Winchester? I can always pass down mine. Get me a new one from our piles of contraband firearms.” He rubbed Jacob's hair. “You'd be surprised how many guns can be bought real cheap just outside the jail at Fort Smith.”

“He wants that one.” Kris pointed to the illustration.

Deputy Marshal Jimmy Mann bent his head over the page. “Winchester Repeating Rifles—Model 1886,” he read aloud. “All have case-hardened lock-plates and mountings. Prices on longer or shorter barrels on application. Let's see. What else? Carbines can be furnished twenty-two inches, round barrels, eight pounds, in any of these calibers.”

He looked back at James. “Which caliber, son?”

Shrugging, James tried to explain. “I was just trying to keep Kris and Jacob busy. Out of trouble. I mean . . .” The excuse died in his throat as his father came back with two cups of coffee and set one beside the Winchester '73's lever.

Jimmy Mann turned his attention to the coffee, sipping it, but read silently. He laughed. “You see these calibers, Millard?”

His head shook.

“Well, .40-82, .45-70, .45-90. Smallest one is a .38-56.”

After a sip of coffee, Millard said, “Soldiers fire a .45-70 in their Springfields, I believe.”

“Uh-huh. So did buffalo hunters. Rifle like that might come in handy, Millard, out here in the Panhandle. In case you run across any buffalo. Are there any buffalo left in these parts?”

With a grin, Millard hooked a thumb behind him. “Not unless you count those shaggies Charlie Goodnight has taken to saving.”

“Uh-huh.” Jimmy turned back toward his nephew. “I would not advise shooting anything that Charlie Goodnight owns, James.” Back to Millard, “How about elephants?”

He laughed.

“Rhinoceroses? Man, that's hard to say. Hippopotamuses? That's not any easier. Y'all been overrun by dragons lately?”

Kris and Jacob were giggling, and James's face turned beet red.

“You really want this rifle, James?”

All he could do was shrug.

“Boy your age should have a rifle, I guess.”

“What about me?” Jacob cried out.

“Not this Winchester,” Jimmy said, tapping the catalog page. “It'd be like shooting a cannon.”

“I'd like a cannon, too,” Jacob said.

Laughing, Deputy Marshal Jimmy Mann ran his fingers through Jacob's hair again, and looked up at his older brother.

“We had rifles when we were younger than James, Millard.”

“Those were different times, Jim.” Sterner now, the humor was gone from his voice.

“Not that different, Millard, and not that long ago.” After swallowing down two more gulps of coffee, Jimmy pushed himself away from the table, dragging the carbine with him. “Come on, James. Let's see what you can do with my Winchester.” It was a carbine with a twenty-inch barrel, held twelve shots and fired a .44-40 center-fire cartridge.

The 1873 Model Winchester brought glory and wealth to Oliver Winchester and the company he had established. The company had developed the .44-40 cartridge, which would become so popular, Colt—and other manufacturers of revolvers—would soon come out with short guns that fired the same caliber. Needing only one cartridge for either revolver or rifle would come in handy. For lawmen. And outlaws.

Oliver Winchester, of course, hoped for an Army contract, but Army purchasers were stingy sorts. Those repeating rifles shot fast. Too fast. What's more, a rifle could hold fifteen rounds and a carbine twelve. The U.S. Army felt a lot better keeping their soldiers with single-shot Springfields. It would save ammunition, and, therefore, save money.

Maybe not lives, though. George Custer and his 7th Cavalry boys proved that at the Little Big Horn when they found themselves overmatched by Indian warriors, many of who carried Winchester repeaters.

The original '73s came in various models—Sporting Rifle, carbine, and even musket. Round or octagonal barrels were available, and specialties could be ordered from the factory—five dollars for nickel plating, extra trimmings in nickel for three dollars, silver for five dollars, or gold for ten dollars. A pair of set triggers would cost four dollars. A fancy walnut stock, or even checking butt stock and forearm was an option. Case-hardening, swivels and sling straps, fancy wood, cases, boxes, even heavier barrels could be ordered. And engraving? That could run the buyer anywhere from five dollars to one hundred dollars.

A typical Winchester ran from twenty-four to twenty-seven dollars.

“They test every sporting rifle,” Jimmy explained as he set an empty airtight atop a corral post. “Barrels considered of ‘extra merit' they turn into special rifles. Called them ‘One of a Thousand' and sold them for a hundred bucks. Other good-shooting barrels considered ‘One of a Hundred' had another twenty bucks tacked on to the price.”

“What one did you get, Uncle Jimmy?” Jacob called out.

Jimmy's long legs carried him from the corral. “Just a run-of-the-mill carbine. Nothing fancy. But it shoots true.” He started to toss the Winchester to James, thought better of it, and kept walking until he handed the weapon to his nephew, while calling out to Jacob.

“Jake. You'd do me a favor if you'd grab the reins to your pa's horse and lead him over this way.”

Kris couldn't help herself. “That's right. James is likely to kill Pa's horse.”

“That ain't it at all,” Uncle Jimmy said.

James just stared at the weapon he had been offered. He took it, feeling his throat turn dry, and brought it close to his chest. He felt his body tremble.

“Should I fetch your horse, Uncle Jimmy?” Kris called out, pointing at that wiry, rangy, but tough brown mustang.

“No. Old Buck, he's used to shots. But Millard's sorrel, she ain't been trained proper.”

Standing in the wide doorway, Millard watched, coffee cup in his hand.

Jimmy Mann was thirty-five years old, tall, lean, his face leathery, his Stetson stained and battered. A lot like that Winchester. He dressed not as a lawman, but as some thirty-a-month cowboy, with worn, scuffed boots and spurs. Leather chaps the color of adobe protected his pants and a pair of deerskin gloves stuck out of one pocket. He wore a shell belt across his waist, a large knife sheathed on his left hip, and a long-barreled Colt holstered on his right. The cuffs on his red and white-checked collarless shirt looked frayed, but not as badly as the ragged bandanna of faded blue calico hanging around his neck. The pockets of his brown vest held the makings for a smoke, a silver watch, and a pencil and small notebook. Most people would probably have dismissed him as a saddle tramp, unless they saw that six-pointed badge pinned to the lapel of his vest.

Or his eyes. A pale, cold blue.

James remembered a conversation he had overheard between his father and a railroad executive.

“Your brother's eyes,” the railroad man had said and then shook his head. “They have the look of a vicious man-killer.”

“That's what Jimmy is,” his father had said.

“All right,” Jimmy said softly. He stood to James's right. “Go ahead. Bring the carbine up.”

The Winchester felt heavier than James had expected, though not as heavy or as cumbersome as his father's shotgun and single-shot carbine.

Near the trigger, the saddle ring affixed on the metal just before the walnut stock began to flip and he almost dropped the weapon. He thought his uncle would laugh or maybe take the carbine from his hands.

But Uncle Jimmy said softly, “Don't worry about a thing, James. Keep your finger off the trigger till you're ready. You'll be fine.”

He started to work the lever, but his uncle's head shook. “All you have to do is bring the hammer back. There's already a round in the chamber.”

James studied his uncle. “Isn't that dangerous?”

“Can be. Can also save a lawman's life.”

James slipped three fingers inside the lever, his trigger finger resting against the guard, his thumb on the hammer. The rear sight could be adjusted, and he thought about asking his uncle about that, but decided against it. The corral stood only thirty yards away, and the sight seemed to be at the lowest level.

His thumb pulled the hammer back slowly, clicking once, again. The trigger moved forward, then back. The stock settled against his shoulder. He looked down the barrel, then at his uncle. “Do I close one eye or leave both open? I've heard . . . well, I've read that . . . well . . .”

“Whatever comes natural.”

That was easy. He couldn't see the front sight with both eyes open, so he closed his left one and sighted down on the old can of peaches. It was harder than he thought it would be. That can was tiny. He almost couldn't find it in the sights. And the Winchester would not keep still. Round and round it circled. The wind began blowing harder.

How do you allow for the wind?
he wondered.
Does it matter at this distance?

The carbine spoke, slamming him back, and smoke burned his eyes. James stepped away, lowering the Winchester, trying to find the airtight of peaches. His ears were ringing, but he could manage to hear his father's sorrel, snorting, dancing around nervously. He could also hear Jacob and Kris . . . sniggering.

Jacob sang out, “He missed!”

His father stepped out of the doorway to take the reins to the sorrel, began rubbing the horse's neck, whispering something to calm down the mare.

Sure enough, James could see the can, sitting undisturbed atop the fencepost. He sighed. His shoulder began to throb from the carbine's kick.

“You did fine, James,” his uncle said. “It takes some getting used to, but you didn't miss by much. Next time, take a deep breath before you shoot, then release all that air, and squeeze the trigger. Gently. Real gently. Cock it again.”

James jerked the lever forward, saw the metal atop the carbine slide backward as a brass bed appeared, skyrocketing a smoking casing that flipped up and over and landed near his feet. He saw the new cartridge, ready to be shoved into the chamber. He drew the lever back, leaning closer to the Winchester, now warm. It didn't weave so much this time. He sucked in his breath, held it, slowly exhaled, and squeezed the trigger.

“Missed!” Kris sang out.

Jacob echoed, “Again. He's lousy! Let me shoot it, Uncle Jimmy.”

“Quiet.” It was his father who spoke. “He hit the post.”

“Just an inch or two below the can,” Uncle Jimmy said. “Surprised it didn't knock the can off its perch.”

“Better than you did when you shot your first rifle,” Millard pointed out.

Laughing, Jimmy took the carbine from James's hands. “That's because that flintlock Pa had was probably twice as tall as you or me both.” He immediately began fishing a cartridge from his belt, feeding it into the loading gate. He put a second .44-40 round into the rifle, then jacked the lever, sending the spent cartridge spinning skyward. Lowering the hammer, he pushed the metal slide up to cover the ejecting mechanism.

He shook his head and walked to his horse, which had barely even noticed the two shots that had been fired. “That old Lancaster was likely as old as George Washington's daddy.”

The shooting exhibition over, all six Manns trooped back to the old boxcar. Jimmy again slid the Winchester onto the table, sat in his chair, took another sip of coffee, and pulled the catalog toward him for closer inspection.