Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter Read Online Free Page A

me to Saint Bernardine of Siena, the patron saint of gamblers.’”
    Sedley let a silence stretch and Shawn said, “So? And then what?”
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œOdd kind of patron saint, huh?” Shawn said.
    â€œSeems 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.”
    â€œI’ll see what I can do.”
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œShowdown time, I reckon,” Sedley said. His mouth sounded as though it was full of dust.
    â€œSeems like,” Shawn O’Brien said.

C HAPTER F IVE
    The sun burned like a red-hot coin and there was no breeze in the canyon. Heat shimmered from its rock walls and cast a pall over everything.
    Sweat beaded on Shawn O’Brien’s forehead and trickled down his back. The sorrel was restless and tossed its head, the bit chiming.
    Minutes ticked past . . . the riflemen made no moves, still as equestrian statues in a museum, but Shawn felt their eyes on him.
    â€œMaybe we should just ease on out of here,” Sedley said. “Kinda like we were just visiting.”
    â€œThey see us break, they’ll come after us,” Shawn said.
    â€œWhy are they just standing there, doing nothing?”
    â€œFiguring the odds, I guess. Wondering how many of them we can drop before they get to us.”
    â€œHell, I can’t drop any.”
    â€œThey don’t know that.”
    â€œYet,” Sedley said.
    A moment later the drums started again, a steady tom-tom-tom , primitive, incessant, and ominous.
    â€œHell, it’s all around us,” Sedley said.
    â€œGet ready, Hamp,” Shawn said. “Now those boys are on the prod.”
    The horsemen milled around and yelled back and forth to one another, as though working up the courage to charge.
    Since he did most of the shouting, their leader appeared to be a black-bearded man astride a tall, rawboned bay. He carried two Colts in shoulder holsters and a Winchester booted under his knee. His lips were pulled back from his teeth in a savage grimace.
    â€œThey’re going to come in on us,” Shawn said. He tossed his Winchester to Sedley. “Do what you can with that.”
    He drew his Colt and a second from the waistband.
    Shawn fought down a sudden spike of fear and forced himself to steady for what was to come. A defiant rebel yell surged in his throat, but he let it choke into a whispered question: “Now what the hell are they doing?”
    Sedley’s lips were pale and dry. A man who can’t shoot has no business being in a gunfight against odds, and he knew it well.
    â€œHaving second thoughts?” he asked. His voice creaked.
    Shawn followed the eyes of the horsemen. Their heads were tilted back and they seemed to stare beyond him, but high up, to the top of the canyon wall to his right.
    Sedley had also read the signs. He turned in the saddle and his eyes widened. “What the hell?” he said.
    A man with long, white hair to his waist sat a huge dappled gray, a powerful animal with the muscular confirmation of a medieval warhorse.
    Despite his ivory hair the rider did not seem aged.
    The way he sat the saddle, poker-backed as