Better Off Dead Read online

  Acting together, the Lute twins had killed twenty-eight men and were the most sought-after paid assassins in the West. Their weapon of choice was the Remington Rolling Block rifle in .45-70 caliber and both were acknowledged marksmen with that arm. Forehead shots at a hundred yards were their specialty, though they would draw a bead on the heart or lungs if they deemed it necessary.

  The driving force behind the twins was Mommy. Unfortunately for Edmund and Marcellus, they possessed only her embalmed head. She had been hanged for poisoning seven of her eight husbands and when the twins, then teenagers, arrived to claim her body, only her decapitated head had remained. Why this happened was never explained to the twins’ satisfaction. In the end, they had to accept the governor of New York’s explanation that a misunderstanding had occurred and that they could have the head with his compliments.

  The Lute twins did nothing without opening the reliquary—her head was kept in a jar of embalming fluid—and asking her advice.

  Since Edmund was a full ten minutes older than his brother, the honor of talking to their deceased parent fell to him. In fading daylight under a few sentinel stars, he reverently removed the reliquary from a pannier hanging over the flank of the gambler’s ghost packmule. He untied the neck of the soft leather bag that held the relic and removed the jar with all the reverence of a medieval monk handling the head of John the Baptist.

  Marcellus stood apart at a respectful distance as Edmund spoke to Mommy. The woman’s head was well preserved since the hangman, before the governor frustrated him, had intended the relic for P.T. Barnum’s Greatest Show On Earth. Barnum had intended to showcase the head as Nelly Lute, the Deadliest Female Poisoner Since Locusta of Ancient Rome Or The Black Widow of Bandit’s Roost, but all that came to naught.

  Despite her notoriety, Mommy Lute had been an ordinary-looking woman with gray hair, slightly protuberant blue eyes, and a receding chin. The mark of the hangman’s rope still scarred her throat.

  Edmund’s lips moved as he whispered to his mother and then after a few minutes he fell silent and began to nod as though absorbing her every word. Finally, he rose to his feet from his kneeling position, lifted the reliquary, and kissed her through the glass. He replaced it in the leather bag and tied the back tightly again. “Marcellus, shall we camp here tonight?”

  “What does Mommy say?”

  “She says we should.”

  “Then we will. What else did the dear say?”

  “That we pick up tracks come morning and then move in for the kill.”

  “Excellent advice. You make up the fire, brother, and I will prepare dinner. We have plum cake, don’t forget.”

  “Yummy. I never forget plum cake.”

  * * *

  “Now I remember,” Marcellus Lute said, snapping his fingers. “That Shawn O’Brien person Mr. Perry wishes discarded has a reputation as . . . oh, what do you call it? Ah yes, a draw fighter. Apparently that’s a Texas term for a thug who’s quick to bring a belted revolver into play.”

  Edmund removed a crumb of plum cake from the corner of his mouth. “Really? Is that how he gets his work in? With a pistol?”

  “Apparently so, brother. I remember reading about him. He’s called the Town Tamer and he had an equally murderous family of brothers. At one time, this Mr. O’Brien was married to an English lady, but she died or he murdered her. I can’t recall which.”

  “I hate cold-blooded killers with a passion,” Edmund said. “We eliminate undesirables, brother, and that’s a vocation, like a call to the priesthood or politics. That last one—”

  “Ah yes, Porry Blunt. The penniless pastor who wanted to wed the rancher’s daughter.”

  “Yes. Now he was a classic case of an undesirable who had to be removed from this world. The impertinence of the man, daring to ask for the hand of the daughter of one of the richest men in Texas.”

  “He was easy to eliminate, riding out on a mule all the time with his Bible in his hand, the knave.”

  “And now poor Mr. Perry also has such a thorn in his side,” Edmund said.

  “O’Brien will be easy to dispose of. Honest riflemen have little to fear from . . . I spit on him . . . a draw fighter.”

  “Yes indeed. Mommy said that very same thing.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Still with healing to do, Shawn O’Brien chose a secluded campsite three miles east of Big Buck at a lonely spot in rough and broken country away from the trails and the well-traveled wagon road into town. The place was called Anderson’s Draw, named after prospector Herb Anderson, who had settled nearby. The ruin of his adobe cabin still stood. Some said Comanches had done for him, others that he’d just walked away from the place when the gold panned out. Whatever the reason, the draw offered shelter and good water. A narrow creek fed by an underground spring lay just half a mile away.

  As darkness fell and the coyote chorus began, Shawn, Maria, and Sedley shared a meal of broiled jackrabbit, pan bread, and coffee. The subject of the whereabouts of Manuel was mentioned again.

  Maria brought up Manuel’s whereabouts from a different an angle. “Shawn, if you weren’t here eating tough rabbit and drinking weak coffee, where would you be?”

  He smiled. “Well, if I wasn’t back east somewhere, I reckon I’d be at the Windsor Hotel in Denver accepting Baby Doe Tabor’s hospitality.”

  “Who is she?” Sedley asked.

  “The wife of Horace Tabor the silver millionaire. They own the place. Last time I was there Baby Doe refused Calamity Jane service at the Bonanza Bar because she got drunk and refused to act like a lady.”

  Sedley said, “And then what happened?”

  “Well, Calamity drew her hogleg and shot six holes in the ceiling. She played so much hob it took four Irish bartenders and Baby Doe herself to throw Calamity out into the street. But neither she nor Baby Doe held a grudge. When Calamity came back the following night, she wore a dress and was a perfect lady. She even checked her six-guns at the front desk.”

  Maria looked as though she didn’t want to smile, but she did. “Shawn, how much does a room at the Windsor cost?”

  “With its own bath, I guess about five dollars a night.”

  “It’s a rich man’s lodging, then?” Maria asked.

  “I never thought about it in those terms, but yes, I suppose it is.”

  “Shawn, you should be there, at the Windsor in a room with its own bath, not here in this godforsaken wilderness sleeping on rocks,” Maria insisted.

  Shawn was genuinely puzzled. “What brought on this change of heart?”

  “Because you’ve done enough and you’ve been hurt enough. Because my brother is dead and it’s time for me to admit that fact and call a halt.” Maria wiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s over, Shawn.”

  “If I can get inside Abaddon—”

  “No, Shawn. If you try that, they’ll kill you. Your face is too well-known to them. You wouldn’t last an hour. And you wouldn’t either, Hamp.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve no intention of doing that,” Sedley said. “I plan to stay as far away from the place as I can. Hiding out in the draw suits me just fine.”

  Shawn frowned. “Maria, are you sure this is how you want to play it?”

  “Yes. I’m going back to Mexico.”

  “Back to what?”

  “I still have relatives there I can live with until I find something to occupy my time.”

  “I won’t let you do that,” Shawn said.

  “And I won’t let you stand in my way, Shawn.” Maria lifted her nightdress and scratched a red blotch on her shapely thigh. “Mosquito bite. That’s all I do—scratch mosquito bites and wait around for a dead brother to show.”

  “Maria, I’ll find Manuel,” Shawn said. “I just need time.”

  “Shawn, there is no more time. The longer we remain around Big Buck, the greater the chances all three of us will be killed.” She was silent for a few moments then said, “Shawn, I’m just not as brave as you are.”

 
; “Or as pigheaded,” Sedley added.

  Maria rose gracefully to her feet and stepped into the ruined cabin where she’d spread her blankets. “Get out, Shawn”—she turned back—“while you still can.”

  * * *

  At first light, Shawn shook Sedley awake. He held up the coffeepot. “I’m going for water, Hamp. Walk with me.”

  “Damn it, Shawn. I only just got to sleep.”

  “I don’t want to wake Maria. Walk with me.”

  Grumbling, Sedley rolled out of his blanket and buckled on his gun. “Lead the way. I’ll hold your hand.”

  After they’d walked half the distance to the spring, Shawn stopped. “I’m not going to cut and run, Hamp. I took on this job and I aim to finish it. I’m telling you this because you’ve no call to stay. It was me Jake asked to find Manuel Cantrell, not you.”

  Sedley’s answer was to dive at Shawn and force him to the ground. Immediately, two racketing rifle shots shattered the quiet morning. Sedley grunted as both bullets thudded into his back and he fell limp on top of Shawn.

  Shawn pushed Sedley off him, rolled, and came up shooting, aiming at two drifts of smoke that rose from a brush-covered rise about a hundred yards away. The distance was too great for effective Colt work, but it sent the message that the bushwhacker’s target was still alive and dangerous.

  Making himself almost invisible among the twisted roots of a mesquite, Shawn lay on his belly and waited for the ambushers to force the next move. It never came. Sedley groaned behind him and the back of his shirt was covered in blood, but Shawn fought the impulse to go to the man. He scanned the ridge, searching for the slightest sign of movement, but there was none. Wary, he waited for a full fifteen minutes as the morning sun slowly warmed the land around him.

  He kneeled beside Sedley, removed his bloody shirt, and examined the gambler’s wounds. The two heavy rifle rounds had punched great holes in Sedley’s back. Both bullets had exited through his chest, not a hand’s breadth apart, and had done massive damage.

  Sedley’s eyes fluttered open and he smiled. “Saw the shine of a rifle barrel, Shawn. I mean me, who’s as blind as a snubbin’ post. Ain’t that funny?”

  “You saved my life, Hamp,” Shawn said. “I won’t ever forget it.”

  “I’m finally cashing in my chips. This is where my losing streak ends.” Sedley was silent for a moment then spoke, his voice very weak. “Shawn, this is where you step in and tell me I’m going to be just fine.”

  “I can’t say that, old fellow. You’re hit hard and I think it’s time to make peace with God.”

  “We ain’t exactly been on speaking terms, Him and me. Doesn’t seem right to try and patch things up when I’m at death’s door.”

  “I’m sure He won’t mind, Hamp.”

  Sedley was quiet for a long time and then the death shadows gathered in his cheeks and eye sockets. “Shawn, bury me with my gambler’s ring.” Slow and soft, he said, “Good luck, Shawn O’Brien. It’s been a fun trip . . .” and all the life that had been in Hamp Sedley left him.

  Shawn, filled with grief for a friend lost, reached into his pocket and found his rosary. His lips were moving, the beads still clicking through his fingers when Maria found him an hour later.

  * * *

  Shawn and Maria buried Hamp Sedley with a pair of dice in his pocket and his silver ring on his finger. They were his only mourners, two more than most gambling men could ever count on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  “He took both our bullets, the rogue.” Edmund Lute shook his head. “I saw it plain as day. He died for his friend.”

  “When O’Brien went to ground, our cause was hopeless, for that day at least,” Marcellus said. “As Mommy often says, one can’t shoot what one can’t see.”

  Edmund stepped to the hotel window and looked into the street. “Humble as this dark, grimy town may be, it looks quite festive at night.”

  Gas lamps lighted Big Buck’s saloons and reflector lanterns lined the boardwalks. Arm in arm, couples promenaded with eyes for only each other and a few cowboys from outlying ranches were in town to spend their wages.

  “Perhaps, but I’m not in the mood for festivity,” Marcellus said. “Mommy says we must confess our failure to our employer.”

  “Temporary failure, brother. We will kill O’Brien tomorrow or the next day. But Mommy is correct. We must talk with Mr. Perry. A two-thousand-dollar contract is enough money to make this morning’s miss a serious matter indeed.”

  “Who was the scoundrel?” Marcellus questioned. “An acquaintance of O’Brien’s I presume.”

  “A close friend I’d say. Casual acquaintances don’t take the bullet.”

  “Oh dear, what will Mr. Perry say? I do dislike trying to explain away a miss.”

  “We don’t have many, brother. In fact I think today was only the second failure of our career.”

  “Yes it was. The first was that awful Mary Jane Wedge person. Remember her? We put two bullets into a dappled gray brewery horse that day.”

  Edmund turned from the window. “She was lucky the brewery wagon happened to be passing. As I recall, it was a five-hundred-dollar contract, not much, but then how much value is a pregnant harlot?”

  “That was dear Mr. Mulladay, the banker’s contract. A streetwalker like Mary Jane Wedge shouldn’t threaten to expose a happily married man and church deacon.” Marcellus rose from his chair, did a little jig and sang a tune.

  He knocked her up,

  We knocked her down,

  And the dirty deacon

  Lost his frown.

  Edmund giggled, his round belly jiggling, and also launched into song.

  We shot a gray horse

  And then a plump whore.

  The horse is dead

  And the whore is no more.

  This last occasioned so much jollity that the Lute twins laughed themselves into tears and only when Edmund gave his brother a sobering reminder that on the morn they had to beg Mr. Perry for a second chance did the merriment finally end.

  * * *

  “I had hoped for better news, gentlemen,” Caleb Perry said. “One out of two is only half the job done. You came so highly recommended that your performance is quite frankly something of a disappointment.”

  “Pray you, sir, let us try again,” Marcellus Lute said. “We will kill the O’Brien person later today or tomorrow. That, sir, is a guarantee.”

  Lizzie Skates lounged on a sofa in a revealing lace skirt, boned scarlet corset that pushed up her large breasts, and red leather boots. She wore a top hat with jeweled goggles on the crown and a bored expression. “Perhaps the brothers Lute have lost their marksmanship skills. I’m told that Shawn O’Brien is a big man and hard to miss.”

  Perry grinned. “There’s a thought. Have you boys been spending your time with harlots and not at the rifle range?”

  Marcellus glared at Lizzie with obvious distaste. “Mr. Perry, Edmund and I do not take pleasure in fallen women. On our mommy’s advice, we spend our leisure time reading Father Butler’s Lives of the Saints and from time to time we also peruse the various works of Mr. Charles Dickens.”

  “Really?” Lizzie said, one plucked eyebrow arched. “I bet I could change your mind. I’ll take on both of you little toby jugs for ten dollars. How’s that? No? Well, let’s test your marksmanship before Mr. Perry renews your contract.”

  “That’s so silly,” Edmund said. “Apart from Mommy, you women are so silly, silly, silly.”

  Perry, sensing a good lark, said, “Miss Skates makes a good point. I have only the word from your past clients that you boys can shoot. I’ll pick the target and we’ll see if you can hit it.”

  Lizzie pouted. “Caleb, let me pick the target.”

  Perry nodded. “All right, you can pick it. That’s only because at the moment I’m pleased with you.”

  “We didn’t bring our rifles,” Marcellus said.

  “That’s all right, I’ll loan you one.” Perry rose from his desk ch
air and lifted a .44-40 from the gun rack. “It’s loaded . . . so which of you boys wants to try?”

  “If we must go through with this charade, Edmund is the older and I will defer to him.”

  * * *

  The gantry outside Caleb Perry’s office had an unobstructed view of the foundry floor, but as always, the men below worked in infernal darkness.

  Lizzie Skate’s chosen target was a black man. “There, the one shoveling coke into the furnace.”

  “Why him? He seems healthy enough,” Perry said. “Choose one of the skinnier trolls. They’re harder to hit.”

  “The black man looked at me in a certain way,” Lizzie said. “In Texas, his kind doesn’t look at a white woman like that.”

  Perry turned to Edmund. “Can you kill him from here?”

  “Yes, it’s an easy shot.”

  “There, Lizzie, Mr. Lute says he can kill him real easy. We’ll let it go at that. I’m short of workers as it is.”

  Lizzie frowned. “Caleb . . . he . . . looked . . . at . . . me.”

  Perry sighed and shook his head. “Lizzie, sometimes you’re a trial and a tribulation to me.” Then to Edmund, “All right, the black man it is. Make it a head shot.”

  Edmund threw the rifle to his shoulder, barely taking time to sight, and fired. The black man dropped like a stone, the bang of the Winchester barely heard above the foundry din. A foreman ran to the fallen man, his whip raised. He looked at the fatal head wound, raised his eyes to the gantry outside Perry’s office, and walked away.

  “A good shot!” Lizzie Skates yelled, clapping her hands. “Very well done.”

  “It was no great feat of marksmanship,” Edmund said.