Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter Read Online Free Page B

an armored knight at the lists, suggested enormous vitality without a hint of weakness. Adding to his gothic mystique, a black cloak fell elegantly from the man’s shoulders and draped across the hindquarters of his horse. His right hand rested on top of a battle-ax with a massive steel blade, a vicious skull-cleaver Shawn had seen only in history books.
    The mysterious rider removed a foot-long, S-shaped pipe from between his teeth and used it to motion to the horsemen in the valley.
    A moment later Sedley said, “They’re quitting, turning round, and pulling out.”
    â€œThat’s what it looks like,” Shawn said. “But I’m not counting on it.”
    He reached behind him into the saddlebags, found his field glasses, and trained them on the white-haired man.
    Shawn was stunned. Shaken. Disturbed as a condemned getting his first glimpse through the portal of hell.
    The white-haired rider’s face was turned to him, shadowed slightly under a black, floppy-brimmed hat. He had a wide, cruel mouth, eyes as cold as gun sights, and his every feature twisted into a demonic mask of hate. This was a man who knew nothing of love or kindness, only avarice, greed, pride, anger, lust . . . the scars left by deadly sins etched deep in every line and wrinkle of his face.
    It was the face of a savage.
    Shawn remembered his father, Colonel Shamus O’Brien, telling him once that the deadliest desires spawn the deepest hatreds.
    The rider on the great horse seemed to possess both desire and hate in equal measure.
    Now the man’s gaze was fixed on Shawn’s face, and he felt as though the skin was being flayed from his skull.
    The rider raised the battle-ax above his head, and a thunderous voice that echoed around the canyon roared, “Get out!”
    The pounding drums had been silent since the other riders left, but now they reached full crescendo as the man on the ridge turned his horse, slowly rode over the crest of the hill, and disappeared.
    The drumming abruptly stopped, replaced by a brooding, echoing silence.
    â€œWhat the hell was that?” Sedley said. Under a recent sunburn, his pale, gambler’s face was a shade paler.
    â€œA gent who obviously doesn’t want us here,” Shawn said.
    â€œHe’ll cut his finger on that damned tomahawk, and it will serve him right,” Sedley said.
    Shawn smiled. “One time my brother Patrick brought an ax like that home. He was hunting butterflies and found it in a cave.”
    â€œAn O’Brien hunting butterflies?”
    â€œYeah. Patrick’s head is always full of strange notions. Anyway, he said the ax had been left there by the old Spanish men who explored the New Mexico Territory hundreds of years ago. Patrick said they called it a hacha de guerra , or war hatchet.”
    â€œDamn, that thing could put a hurt on a man,” Sedley said.
    â€œYes, it could split his skull wide open. And that’s why we’re getting out of here while we still can.”
    Sedley shook his head. “A crucified miner, a man with a meat cleaver, there’s something mighty strange going on here, Shawn, and I don’t like it.”
    â€œMe neither. Let’s go talk to Sheriff Purdy and ask him what he makes of it.”
    Sedley made a face. “Him? All he’ll do is piss his pants and run to mama.”

C HAPTER S IX
    â€œYeah, when a man is tied to a cross and nails driven through his hands, I’d say he was crucified all right,” Shawn O’Brien said.
    He wondered if Sheriff Jeremiah Purdy was stubborn or just plain stupid.
    Beside him Hamp Sedley’s disdainful face revealed that he harbored no such doubt. He obviously believed the latter.
    â€œSavages?” Purdy suggested. His voice was weak.
    â€œIndians don’t crucify their enemies. Only white men do that,” Shawn said.
    â€œWe saw them,” Sedley said. “Who is the ranny with the long hair, a battle-ax, and a