Free Shawn O'Brien Manslaughter by William W. Johnstone Page B

earshot of throbbing drums that warned them their coming had been noticed and any chance of a surprise attack was gone.
    Little Face Denton drew rein. He seemed concerned.
    â€œHold up, boys,” he said. “This just don’t feel right.”
    â€œYou mean it doesn’t sound right,” June Lacour said. “Drums in the morning never bode well. Well, as far as I know they don’t.”
    Pete Caradas stood in the stirrups and his eyes reached into distance. He saw no sign of movement. Ahead of them lay a narrow draw, and something heavy crashed around on its brushy floor.
    A bear probably, Caradas decided. The men they hunted were unlikely to make a racket like that.
    â€œWhat do we do now, Pete?” Denton said. He was unsure of himself and his mouth was dry. “We can’t ride in, shoot ’em up, and then ride out again. They know we’re here for God’s sake.”
    â€œDrums scaring you, Little Face?” Caradas said. But his unease showed in his eyes and his right hand never strayed far from his gun.
    Before Denton could answer, Lacour said, “He’s got a right to be scared, Pete. Those damned drums can get into a man’s head, and right now they’re saying, ‘Come right on in, fellers. We’re waiting for you.’”
    â€œMaybe that’s the idea,” Pete Caradas said. “The crazy doc trying to keep us off balance.”
    â€œHe’s succeeding,” Lacour said.
    Little Face, neither as smart nor as brave as his companions, said, “I say we go back.”
    â€œAnd I say we go ahead and do what we came here to do,” Caradas said. “Clouston and his boys are running scared. That’s why they’re banging on drums to drive us away.”
    Lacour said, “Pete, they know we’re coming so they’ll be laying for us.”
    â€œI reckon I know that. We’ll scout a little ways ahead, and if it even smells like we’re riding into an ambush we get the hell out of there and try it again some other day.”
    â€œOr night,” Lacour said.
    Caradas nodded. “You got an idea there, June. All right, we move slowly and see to your guns.”
    â€œI don’t like this,” Denton said. “I don’t like this one bit. It just don’t set right with me.”
    Lacour looked at him but said nothing, his mouth tight under his mustache.
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    A ribbon of game trail led through the draw, then wound through some thick brush and timber country toward a V-shaped gap in the hills. A long-ago lightning fire had blackened about ten acres of ground to the south, and the charred trunk of a wild oak still stood, a single skeletal branch pointing the way to the break.
    The rangeland on both sides of the trail was dominated by sagebrush, but here and there sego lily, prickly pear, larkspur, and bitterroot added flowering splashes of red, yellow, pink, and orange.
    The straw man was fixed to a stand of cactus.
    Pete Caradas drew rein next to the prickly pear and took down the effigy. It was crudely made but was unmistakably a male figure.
    â€œWhat the hell is that?” June Lacour said.
    â€œA child’s toy maybe?” Little Face Denton said. “But what’s it doing all the way out here?”
    â€œIt’s not a toy,” Caradas said. “It’s a warning.”
    â€œStrange kind of warning,” Lacour said.
    â€œIt must mean something to somebody,” Caradas said. “But I’m damned if I know what it is.”
    â€œIt’s one of us,” Denton said. “It’s a straw man, made to look like me or one of you.”
    â€œIt doesn’t look like anybody,” Caradas said.
    The straw man was about a foot tall and hurriedly made. It had small black hairpins for eyes.
    â€œHow do we play this, Pete?” Lacour said. “I say we get the hell out of here.”
    Caradas stared at the straw man for a few moments, then said, “I