Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter (24 page)

“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.

“That was something I could not abide and I decided it was time to quit,” he said.

That sparse statement earned him the approval of the good citizens of Broken Bridle, and a few offered to buy him a drink. But when in his cups Loop Eakins was a talking man. And Pete Caradas sat at his usual table and listened to his every word.

“I tell you,” Loop said to a respectable-looking man in gray, “that whole damn hillside is gonna come down and bury them Chinamen. I told Clouston that back at the hills but he wouldn't listen to me.”

“He's digging for gold, I understand?” the respectable man said.

“Yeah, and he's got a whole cliff face undercut, maybe for a half mile. Part of the overhang showed a crack this morning.” Eakins shook his head. “Damn it all, when it comes down it will bury a thousand Chinese miners under a mountain of rock, or I'm not standing here drinking this whiskey.”

Eakins looked around the saloon to sample the reaction to his dire prophecy. When his eyes fell on Caradas they lingered a moment, long enough for the graceful draw fighter to crook a finger in his direction.

“Come here,” he said.

Loop Eakins had seen Texas draw fighters before, and this one with his strange, dead eyes bore the stamp. He crossed the floor as the men behind them talked among themselves, then he said, “That's the honest truth, mister. Them Chinese are doomed, every man, woman, and child of them.”

“Did you take part on the attack on this town last night?” Caradas said.

“No, sir, I sure didn't,” Eakins said. “I was guarding them Chinese I told you about.”

“Is your glass empty?” Caradas said.

Eakins drained his whiskey and grinned. “It is now.”

“Good,” Caradas said. “Then get on your horse and leave town.”

“Now see here,” Eakins said. “I've got friends in this saloon.”

“Can you tell time?” Caradas said.

Eakins glanced at the clock above the bar. “Sure, it's ten minutes till midnight.”

“If you're not gone by the time the hands meet, I'll kill you,” Caradas said. “And think yourself lucky. If you'd been with the trash who rode through Broken Bridle you'd be dead by now.”

Eakins was ashen. He spread his arms and appealed to the men at the bar. “Gentlemen, this won't do,” he said. But every back was turned to him and he read the signs.

Caradas, an exclamation point of danger, rose to his feet.

Eakins's eyes got big and he turned, slipped on the floor, picked himself up, then ran for his life. When Western men are asked about the Eakins Streetcar scamper, a few say Loop dropped out of sight and was never heard from again, others that he died of yellow fever in 1889 while working for the French as a laborer on the construction of the Panama Canal. But most say, “Who gives a damn?” And that's where the matter must end.

“You came here at this hour of the night, pounding on my door, to return my gun?” Shawn O'Brien said. He examined the Colt. “After you fished it out of the mud you cleaned it real well and I'm much obliged.” Then, apologetically, “I'm sorry I didn't clean yours.”

“No matter,” Pete Caradas said. I very much doubt if you'd have cleaned it to my satisfaction anyway.”

Shawn let that slide and said, “Drink?”

Caradas nodded. “Make it a large one, O'Brien. I ran a bluff with an empty gun tonight and that wears on a man.”

Shawn handed Caradas a brimming glass, ushered him into the hotel room's only chair, then said, “Tell me about this Eakins ranny.”

“About him, there's not much to tell,” Caradas said. “He says he quit Thomas Clouston, then he told me about the Chinese.”

“Let me hear it,” Shawn said.

Caradas repeated what Eakins had said, then he added, “The bottom line is that if half a mile of overhanging rock decides to come down, it will kill a lot of Chinese.”

Shawn was silent for a while considering the implications of what he'd just heard, then he said, “What do you expect me to do about it?”

“I don't expect anything,” Caradas said. “I'm just telling you.”

“What if I rode along the bottom of the overhang and tossed dynamite into the undercut?” Shawn said. “The whole thing might come down.”

“Yeah, on top of you, O'Brien,” Caradas said. “And there's half a mile of cliff. You'd need to carry a heap of dynamite.”

“I came here to help this town, and that includes the Chinese,” Shawn said. “Hell, I can't turn my back on them.”

Caradas took a long sip of his whiskey. “They're only heathen Chinamen, not Christian white folks.”

Shawn smiled. “You don't believe a word of that.”

“No, I guess I don't,” Caradas said. “What about Saturday Brown? He's the Deputy United States Marshal, maybe we can let him work it out.”

“Brown is a loose cannon,” Shawn said. “He'd deputize what's left of the men in this town and go charging into the hills to save little yellow people. He'd only get himself and everybody else killed.”

Caradas sighed. “Well, if we don't get the Chinese out of Clouston's grasp they'll all die. But if there's nothing we can do, then there's nothing we can do.”

“Not with a gun or dynamite . . . but just maybe . . . just maybe . . .” Shawn said, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

“Don't keep it to yourself, O'Brien. Let's hear it.”

“Pete, where do you get those fancy shirts of yours washed and ironed?”

“Right here in town. The Chinese lau—” Stunned, Caradas shook his head. “No, O'Brien, no! You can't send an old man, his wife, and three daughters into those hills to rescue their countrymen.”

Shawn smiled. “Of course not, but the old man speaks Chinese and we don't. Suppose he infiltrates the camp and tells his people what's about to happen to them, explains the danger of a rock fall.”

“Don't you think the Chinese already know that?” Caradas said. “They're being forced against their will into the undercut by Clouston's gun hands.”

“Well, it won't hurt to talk to the laundry man,” Shawn said. “What's his name?”

“I call him Sammy Chang,” Caradas said. “And I guess everybody else does.”

“I'll get dressed,” Shawn said. “Let's go talk with him.”

“Now?” Caradas said, surprised. “It's after midnight.”

“You're right, Pete. The clock has already struck midnight for Broken Bridle and I'm willing to try anything.”

“Hell of a job for a Town Tamer,” Caradas said.

“Hell of a job for anybody,” Shawn said.

 

 

It seemed that the Chang family were light sleepers because the patriarch himself answered the door at the first knock. He looked to be about fifty and was fully dressed in indigo-dyed pants tucked into knee-high boots and a matching loose-fitting shirt. He recognized Pete Caradas immediately.

“Your laundry not ready, Mr. Caradas. You come back afternoon,” the man said.

He made to shut the door but Caradas stopped him. “We need to talk with you, Sammy,” he said. “It's urgent.”

“What about? Shirts?”

“No. About Thomas Clouston.”

Recognition dawned on Chang's face. “Then you'd better come in,” he said. He led the way into his dark home, situated just behind his laundry business. A hallway that smelled of incense and vaguely of boiled rice ended in a locked door. Chang produced the key, opened the door wide, and he walked inside, telling his two visitors to follow.

The room was in pitch darkness, but Chang felt around and lighted a lamp that spread an orange glow into every corner. Shawn's eyes were immediately attracted to the two huge Tranter revolvers on the table in the middle of the floor. Beside them lay a double shoulder holster rig and a supply of .577 ammunition. The cartridges looked like miniature artillery shells, and Shawn had seen their like before. When he lived in England an army officer returning from India had a pair of such Tranters, though his were highly engraved and plated with gold. The powerful revolvers were strange weapons to find in the home of a man who washed shirts for a living.

Chang's shrewd black eyes noticed Shawn's interest in the guns and said, “In China I had the honor to number among the imperial bodyguard of the noble emperor Xianfeng. These were my weapons.” He smiled at Shawn's slight look of puzzlement. “Yes, we also carried swords, but the British and Germans soon taught us that firearms kill much more efficiently.”

Chairs were placed around the table like a conference room, and Chang asked Shawn and Caradas to sit. The door opened and his wife, pretty but now graying, entered with a tray bearing a teapot and tiny china cups. Chang registered no surprise at the entrance of his spouse, as though he'd expected it. The woman poured pale green tea into the cups and handed them first to the guests and then her husband.

When she left, Shawn introduced himself, then asked Chang if he was familiar with the mining going on in the Rattlesnake Hills.

Chang said he was and added, “I am aware that the man called Clouston forces the Chinese to work like slaves and has hanged many as examples to those who would refuse. There were leaders among the Han, but they have all been killed. But I, who was bodyguard to an emperor, can lead them.”

“That's why you have the revolvers on the table?” Shawn said.

“Yes. For the first time in twenty years I will buckle on my weapons and help my people. In the service of my emperor I killed eighteen men. Soon I will kill more.”

Chang was a small, intense man, well-muscled as a bodyguard should be, but he had the eyes of a poet, deep as black pools in moonlight, and when he spoke his voice was as soft as a nun's Act of Contrition in church.

“Sammy, do you know about the greenstone undercut?” Shawn said.

“Yes, and about the fault in the overhang,” Chang said. He smiled. “The Han are a small, dark people; we come and go in the night and no one notices us. There is nothing about the man called Thomas Clouston that I haven't learned. Why do you think that the ore cars have not arrived? North of us many Chinese work for the Fremont, Elkhorn and Missouri Valley Railroad. It was a simple matter to disable the ore cars.”

“Mr. Chang, you have devious ways,” Shawn said, grinning.

“Ah yes, the Chinese are a wily people,” Chang said. “Now, you have finished your tea? Good. You gentlemen have been an enlightening distraction, but I must be on my way.”

He picked up an old Union Army knapsack, laid it on the table, and loaded his holstered revolvers into it. The ammunition followed and then a greasy paper sack of corn cakes.

“You need a horse, Mr. Chang?” Shawn said.

“No, I will walk so the dark will better conceal me. If I leave now I can reach the Rattlesnake Hills before dawn.” He placed a conical, bamboo straw hat on his head, then said, “I must go.”

Realizing he had little time, Shawn said, “Tell us your plan.”

“It's simple. I will lead the Han in rebellion against their slave masters.”

“But when? We can help.”

“I don't know when. As soon as possible. Within a few days. It depends how quickly I can organize my people. They are not gunmen, Mr. O'Brien, and I don't want to lose any of them.”

Chang stepped to the door but Pete Caradas stepped in his way. “Sam, just have them get up and leave, say about this time tomorrow under the cover of darkness. They did it here.”

“They were not guarded by riflemen here,” Chang said. “But it is a thought and perhaps I will find a way.” He nodded. “Farewell, gentlemen.”