Rattler's Law Series, Volume One
James Reasoner
Rattler's Law Series, Volume One
Kindle Edition
© Copyright 2021 (as revised) James Reasoner
Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Avenue
Las Vegas, NV 89122
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64734-986-8
Contents
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The Town Tamer
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Deadeye
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
The Train Robber’s
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Rancher’s Revenge
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Out For Blood
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Shadow of the Gallows
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
A Solid Right Cross
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Whiskey Trail
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
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Rattler's Law Series, Volume One
The Town Tamer
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
1
The old man's hand trembled a little as he firmly pressed the stubby pencil against the paper in an effort to make his writing bold and legible. After printing the first few words, he paused and rubbed his right hand. The tremors had grown more noticeable of late. He wondered if Dr. Keller's concerns about his health might indeed have some basis in fact.
A few shuffling footsteps sounded, and an exceedingly youthful voice sang out, "If you'd like, Judge Markham, you can dictate your message and I'll copy it down."
Lloyd Markham looked up to see that a man—little more than a boy, actually—had come from the back room of the telegraph office and was facing him across the counter. He didn’t recognize the clerk, but since being appointed circuit judge for the Abilene district, Markham was used to strangers knowing his name, and he gave it little thought.
The judge glanced down at the slip of paper on which he was writing, then shook his head and muttered, "I'll have it for you in a moment." Though he realized that the clerk would have to read the message in order to send the telegraph, Markham didn’t want to say the words aloud, as if voicing what so far had only been in his thoughts would be akin to shouting it in the middle of Texas Street.
Markham began to write faster, and the tremors subsided. "There," he pronounced at last, putting down the pencil and hastily folding the paper in half. "It is essential that this be sent at once—while I wait."
The clerk looked at him curiously, then gave a slight nod and took the slip of paper. Opening it, he scanned the words and said, "It's quite long. It will cost at least—"
"I'll pay, whatever the cost." Markham plunked down a pair of gold coins on the counter.
"All right," the clerk replied, shrugging his shoulders and starting to turn away. But when his gaze fell on the recipient's name and address at the top of the form, he spun around and exclaimed, "The governor?"
"I'd appreciate your keeping this in confidence." The judge produced another coin from his coat pocket, this one a twenty-dollar gold piece, and slid it across the counter toward the young man. "This is for your time...and for your discretion."
The clerk stared down at the gold coin, then up at the old man, his eyes filling with an eager light.
"You needn't do that," he proclaimed in a hushed tone, his gaze dropping and locking on the coin as he placed a tentative hand on the counter only inches away. "We are trained to treat all correspondence with the utmost confidence."
"And so you do. And such conscientious service deserves its reward." So saying, Markham placed a forefinger on the coin and slid it under the clerk's hand.
The young man closed his hand around the co
in. "I'll see to your message at once," he declared. Slipping the money into his jacket pocket, he hurried into the back room.
A few moments later, the telegraph key began to sound. Markham listened, not comprehending the meaning of the single and double clicks yet knowing they would create quite a stir in the halls of the state capitol. He only prayed that Governor Osborn would understand the seriousness of the message and would do what must be done. For if the state militia were not dispatched at once—if Willis Donnelly and his henchmen were not stopped—there could be serious and ultimately deadly consequences not only for Judge Markham but for every law-abiding citizen of Abilene.
As the telegraph key went silent, Markham lifted his derby hat from the counter and placed it over his curling, silver-gray hair. Though it was warm this mid-June evening, he pulled his suit coat tight against some inner chill and headed toward the front door, not waiting for the clerk to return. He pulled open the door, cautiously stared out into the darkening street, and stepped outside.
Just as Judge Markham was closing the door, the clerk returned to the main room. The light of the kerosene lamp glimmered on the pair of gold coins that the old man had left on the counter to pay for the telegram. He hadn’t even waited for his change, the clerk mused, his face breaking into a smile as he pocketed those two coins as well. The company wouldn’t miss the funds, he realized, since he had taken care to leave the transmitter turned off while pretending to tap out the message.
With his left hand the young man raised the paper on which the judge had written his message and stared at it. His other hand began to tap the outside of the pocket containing the money, and as he envisioned the additional coins he would get for not sending the message, his smile broadened and he breathed the name, "Donnelly."
Quickly he stuffed the slip of paper into his pocket along with the coins. Lowering the lantern wick to a dim glow, he snatched a set of keys from under the counter and hurried to the door. He opened it and stood looking up and down the street until he was certain Judge Markham was gone. Then he stepped outside, pulled the door shut, and locked it. Dropping the keys into his jacket pocket, he hopped off the wooden boardwalk and went running down the dirt road.
Lloyd Markham unlocked his office door in the wood-frame building on Texas Street across from the brick courthouse and stepped into its darkened interior. Closing the door and crossing to the large oak desk in the middle of the room, he opened a small metal box and fumbled with the wooden matchsticks inside. His fingers were shaking again, and he made an effort to still them as he withdrew one of the matches and closed the box. He jerked the match head across the rough metal cover, and it sparked once but failed to ignite. He struck it a little harder, and the stick snapped in half. Taking a few deep breaths, he took out a second match and repeated the process. On the third try, the match flared to life, the flame flickering as much from the shaking of his hand as from any movement of air.
Turning up the wick on the desk lamp, Markham raised the glass chimney and touched the match to the kerosene-soaked wick. He lowered the chimney, blew out the match, and adjusted the flame until the room was filled with a soft, even light. Sighing, he circled the desk and sat in the stuffed leather desk chair, facing the front door.
It was an unassuming office—there was no secretary's desk or outer reception area—but it perfectly suited his needs. A pair of chairs faced the desk on the far side, with a floor-stand ashtray between them, and the only other items in the room were the law books that lined the high shelves along all but the front wall. Markham had used this office for the private practice he had started upon his arrival in Abilene four years earlier, and he had continued to use it after being appointed district attorney less than a year later. Now that he was circuit judge, holding sessions both in Abilene and in neighboring towns, he was provided with chambers in the courthouse, yet he kept this office for his personal effects and as a private retreat.
Markham reached out and touched the picture that faced him on the desk. "Clara," he whispered, still feeling the pain that had led him to seek a new life in Abilene following his wife's death. His finger traced the curve of her face, then moved down to the two inset photographs.
Markham's gaze fell on the image of his eldest son, Joshua—the Reverend Joshua Markham as he was known to Abilene's citizens. The judge was well pleased with his firstborn. At twenty-eight, Joshua was a well-respected member of the Abilene community. It was Joshua who had convinced his father to come to Abilene following Clara's death, offering him a place to stay at the parsonage of the Calvary Methodist Church. Though Lloyd Markham had initially accepted the offer, a few weeks after arriving in Abilene he had rented this office space and had taken a room at a nearby boardinghouse, where he still lived.
Yes, Joshua has made something of himself, he thought. Now, if only he'd find a good woman and raise a family.
As Markham's gaze fell on the image of his younger son, twenty-four-year-old Cully, his smile grew more melancholy. The eyes that stared back at him were bright, intelligent, and full of life. Yet they betrayed the soul of a vagabond. Markham knew that his second son had made a sincere effort to succeed in several trades, from farming to blacksmithing to stagecoach driving. When he had graduated from secondary school, he had even considered studying for the law, but one summer working for his father had put him off the idea. It wasn’t just that he hated sitting indoors reading books; it was also that he and his father could barely last a minute without locking horns over even the most trivial issue.
"Just like your mother," the judge whispered, his smile returning, but only fleetingly. He had lost his fiery, passionate wife, and now he worried that he might be losing the boy who reminded him so much of her. He had no idea where Cully was. At last report he had been in Dodge City going by the name Matthew Cully, where a run-in with the notorious Josh Weaver had resulted in a gunfight, leaving Cully wounded and Weaver dead. Now Cully was on the run—not from the law, since his killing Weaver clearly had been a case of self-defense, but from those who would avenge the death or who sought to best the man who outdrew Josh Weaver.
With a gentle sigh, Markham opened the center drawer of the desk and took out a piece of paper, which he placed in front of him. Removing the pen from a stand atop the desk, he opened the top of the inkwell and dipped the pen inside. In the upper right-hand corner, he wrote Saturday, June 17, 1876, then in bold letters centered just under the date, he printed the words LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT.
As Markham wrote, he tried to empty his thoughts of worry about his sons and the growing lawlessness in Abilene. The will was a simple document, leaving his few possessions and the balance of his bank account to his sons in equal shares, and he found himself pleasantly lost in the formal legal language—so much so that he didn’t hear the office door open and someone step inside. It wasn’t until he had signed his name at the bottom that he glanced up and saw a shadowed figure standing just inside the doorway.
Markham gave a slight start, his hand moving toward the desk drawer in which he kept a loaded revolver. But then he seemed to recognize the visitor, because his features relaxed and he rose to his feet, saying, "I didn't hear you enter. Is there something—?"
"I've brought a message from Willis Donnelly," the visitor said as he raised his right arm.
It was then that Markham saw the dull glimmer of gunmetal. He started to raise his hand, his lips fashioning the word No! as a shot rang out and a flare of light burst from the barrel of the revolver. His hand shattered from the impact of the bullet, spraying his face with blood. As his arm dropped loosely at his side, a second shot thundered in the small room, and he felt his chest explode and his knees buckle.
He didn’t hear the third shot. It came only as a sharp thud in the center of his forehead and a blinding flash of white. He could feel himself falling. He never felt himself hit the ground.
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