2
"Bessie! Nellie! Saints alive and the Devil be cursed! Move your feet and look alive, dammit! And you, Mabel, stop going off in your own direction all the time!"
With a sharp flick of her wrists, the woman gave the team of four mules a taste of the leather reins across their backs. Their gait didn’t noticeably improve, but the woman seemed temporarily mollified.
"That's better," she pronounced. "Follow Gertrude's example. Straight ahead, no dawdling, no looking back."
"But Gertrude's the slowest of the lot," a young voice piped in from the back of the covered buckboard wagon. A head of tousled red hair atop a sea of soft-brown freckles appeared just over the woman's shoulder.
"A touch slower, perhaps," the woman admitted, "but steady. And that's how we'll make it to Wichita—steady and reliable." She glanced back at the boy. "I thought you were asleep, Patrick."
"I woke up," he replied, not mentioning that it was due in large part to her urgent protestations to the mule team.
"Would you like to ride with the other children?" she asked. "Perhaps with your sister?"
Patrick climbed over the back of the seat and plopped down beside her. Leaning out over the right side of the wagon, he saw the other three wagons strung out behind them on the prairie, following at an equally leisurely pace. While this lead wagon was piled high with crates and carpetbags, he knew that the other wagons contained little more than children, the next in line being driven by his seventeen-year-old sister, Alice, with the rear two under the command of a pair of boys in their mid-teens.
"I'll stay here a bit longer, if it's all right."
"But of course," she assured him with a smile.
The boy began to fidget on the seat. "How long until we get there?"
"To Wichita? Quite a few days. But we might make Abilene by nightfall."
"Not at this pace," he muttered.
"What's that? A note of disapproval?" she said in a mocking tone. "And I suppose you could do better?"
"It's just that you're holding them to Gertrude's pace, and she's so lazy. Mabel is the fastest, and if you'd let up a bit on her reins—"
"Gertrude, Mabel...Mabel, Gertrude," she said in a sing-songy voice. "So now you're a professional judge of mule-flesh?" The woman's blue eyes betrayed the smile that she wouldn’t allow to touch her lips. She reached over and held out the reins. "I suppose you're also a veteran wagon master. Then here you go, young man. Let's see what a thirteen-year-old Jehu can do."
The boy stared up nervously at the woman, uncertain whether or not to take her offer seriously.
"Go on, Patrick," she insisted. "Show how it's done."
With a shrug, he placed his right hand over hers, slipping his fingers through the reins in the same manner in which she held them. When he had a secure grip, he nodded, and she released them. He repeated the process with the left ones, then leaned forward and took a deep breath.
"Better get going," she said. "They're beginning to move like molasses." And indeed, while they were speaking, the mules had slowed to a walk.
Patrick jiggled the reins very slightly as he squinted and stared along the length of the leathers. Picking out the pair that went to the bit of the front-right mule, he worked them looser with his thumb and forefinger.
"Come on, now," the woman prodded. "If we don't get moving, the other wagons will crash into us."
The boy glanced up at her only briefly, but the mischief in his grin warned her to brace herself. As she grabbed the edge of the seat, he shook the reins and yelled, "Hee yah!" Standing up in the driver's box, he slapped the reins harder, shouting, "Get your mule asses moving! You damn, good-f'nothing loafers!"
The animals leaped forward at the fierce tirade, the front-right mule taking the lead and setting a brisk pace.
"Atta girl, Mabel!" Patrick shouted, adding a gleeful, "Damn!" He felt himself being pulled back onto the bench, but not from the force of acceleration as the wagon picked up speed. Instead it was the firm hand of the woman as she grabbed hold of the seat of his pants and yanked him down.
"What kind of talk is that, Patrick Hammond?" she demanded.
Patrick avoided looking at her, concentrating instead on keeping the animals at a steady pace as he said cautiously, "It's just—"
"Never you mind," she declared. "You shouldn't be repeating everything you hear from the older children."
His smile returning, he remarked coyly, "Who said I learned it from the children?"
The woman stared down at him, her right eyebrow raising as she considered his comment. Then her eyes narrowed, and she gave a slight frown. "I thought you were asleep."
"Father Terrence told us God never sleeps and can always hear what we're saying," Patrick pointed out in as innocent a tone as he could muster. "Even what we're thinking."
"You should heed the good father's advice."
"But aren't you worried—?"
"Never you mind about me, young lad. I've a special dispensation for times like this." She gave a haughty toss of her head, then tucked a few stray locks of hair under the white cloth of her wimple.
"From the pope?" Patrick asked incredulously.
"Not exactly. But when I took the vows of obedience, chastity, and poverty, I don't remember having to promise anything about profanity!"
"But the third commandment—"
"I wasn't taking the Lord's name in vain. I was merely offering a demonstration of the type of behavior young boys like you should avoid."
Patrick knew there was no point in arguing with her. He glanced downward and said, "Yes, Sister Lorraine."
She looked at him for a long moment, a broad smile spreading from her lips all the way to her eyes. Patting his shoulder, she added, "Just as you've been demonstrating the proper way to drive a mule team. It seems we can learn from each other. Perhaps I can give it a try?"
His expression brightening, Patrick handed her the reins and showed her how he had adjusted the tension on the lines. After a few minutes, Sister Lorraine had the wagon going at a lively pace—so much so that Patrick had to caution her not to leave the other children in the dust. She settled back on the seat and hummed a lovely French lullaby, the long, black folds of her Dominican habit fluttering in the gentle Kansas breeze.
The curious little wagon train continued to roll west the final few miles to Abilene, where it would turn due south eighty miles to Wichita. The afternoon was dry and dusty, the mules far more agreeable than Sister Lorraine would have dared to hope, given the relentless heat. It was as if they could sense that the trail was nearing an end, and they were pulling hard for the finish.
"Ah, but there's still the run to Wichita," she chided them gently, at which Gertrude shook her head stubbornly as if to say, "We will see about that!"
"Is that Abilene up ahead?" Patrick Hammond asked, pointing at something in the distance.
Shielding her eyes with one hand, Sister Lorraine squinted into the sun. "No, I don't think so. But there's something there, all right. Looks like a dust cloud." Lowering her hand, she jiggled the reins, picking up the pace slightly. After a moment she said, "It's moving closer. From the speed, I'd say it's riders on horseback."
"Want me to get the rifle?" the boy asked eagerly.
"No need for that. You can climb in back if you're frightened."
Patrick squared his shoulders and pouted. "I'm not afraid. I just wanted to help."
"Then how about taking charge of these mules?"
Sister Lorraine handed Patrick the reins. As he took control of the animals, she stared ahead again, trying to make out what was coming through the heat waves and swirling dust. As the objects grew larger, she was able to discern four horsemen, riding two abreast and coming on fast. It could be anyone, she realized, from fellow travelers to soldiers, yet something in her stomach warned her that these men were up to no good.
A minute later, Sister Lorraine could make out the lead riders. The one on the left was bearded and tall, his dark hair worn loose and sha
ggy, a sombrero hanging behind him from a cord around his neck. He seemed a burly, hulking figure dressed in somber black, and despite his being at a distance and on horseback, Sister Lorraine guessed he was over six feet tall and weighed well over two hundred pounds.
In contrast, the man to the right was small and compact, his blond hair trim and his face clean-shaven. He wore a low-slung holster over his tan pants, with a matching beige Stetson and muslin shirt. Everything about his demeanor suggested confidence, and he sat perfectly straight in the saddle, though he was still a full head shorter than his companion. He seemed a natural leader, and Sister Lorraine had no doubt that he was the one from whom the others took their orders.
Sister Lorraine slipped her right hand into a pocket hidden along the seam of her black habit. The bottom had been cut away, and she felt along her hip until her fingers closed around the butt of a short-barreled Smith & Wesson .38, which rested fully loaded in a small holster strapped to her leg. The revolver had a double-action mechanism; a single pull of the trigger both cocked and fired the weapon. To protect against accidental firing, there was a safety latch that locked the trigger. She pushed the lever forward and disengaged the safety. Finally, she unsnapped the leather strap that secured the revolver in the holster.
Though she would never use such a weapon to protect herself, Sister Lorraine was fully capable of pulling the trigger should the lives of the orphans in her charge be threatened.
Easing her hand out of the pocket, the nun placed her arm on Patrick's shoulder and told him to pull up. When the wagon halted, the four riders slowed their horses and came the final hundred yards at a walk. As Sister Lorraine had expected, the short man in front was the one to raise his hand and signal the others to stop.
While the other riders sat their horses in a line three abreast, the leader kneed his mount forward and approached the left side of the wagon. "Whatcha got here, Sister?" he asked, his tone impertinent but not threatening.
"We're on our way to Wichita," she replied tonelessly.
"What about them others?" He nodded toward where the other three wagons were just now pulling to a halt in a line behind Sister Lorraine's wagon.
"They're with me," she said.
The man lifted himself in the saddle and peered at the other wagons, only to see a dozen or more young faces peering back at him. "Just a buncha young pups. Where's their sires and bitches?" He grinned at what he must have thought was an attempt at humor.
"They are orphans, Mr...?"
"Now ain't that a shame," the man drawled without divulging his name.
"As I was saying, we're going to Wichita to start an orphanage. If you and your men would be so good as to—"
"Come on, Knowles," called one of the men. "We're supposed to be in Junction City before—"
"Shut your face, Cooney," the man named Knowles cut him off. "There's plenty of time for us to show a little hospitality to the good sister here and her young'uns."
Kneeing his horse again, Knowles rode partway toward the second wagon in line. Seated behind the reins was an attractive young woman still in her teens, with long red hair that had been pinned up earlier in the day but was a bit tousled now, much of it falling loosely to her shoulders. The girl beside her wore a sunbonnet and couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, and at least three other children huddled behind the wagon seat, looking out through the opening in the wagon cover.
Knowles turned his horse and headed to the lead wagon. "That one back there don't look like no orphan," he remarked. "Hell, she's old enough and pretty enough to be makin' babies herself. What d'ya think, boys?"
Patrick jumped up, his knuckles white with rage as he declared, "You leave my sister alone!" Sister Lorraine took his hand and eased him onto the seat.
"Oh, she's your sister, is she, boy?" Knowles moved his mount up alongside the wagon. "I thought this one here"—he pointed at Sister Lorraine—"was the only sister around. That pretty filly back there sure don't look like no nun." Chuckling, he turned his sharp-featured, angular face toward Sister Lorraine. "No, Sister, that one's too pretty to be a nun. But I hope she's still a virgin like you." As his laughter deepened, it grew more malevolent.
"Mind your tongue!" Sister Lorraine demanded, still holding Patrick in place with her right hand but wondering if perhaps she should be holding her Smith & Wesson instead.
A shadow seemed to pass over Knowles's face, erasing any trace of a smile. "This ain't no church, Sister, and we ain't no choirboys, so don't tell us what to do." Glancing at his men, he said, "Bring that pretty one over here, Jax."
"Sure thing," replied the big, dark-haired man who had ridden beside Knowles. He started his mount forward and headed around the right side of the wagon.
Suddenly Patrick gave such a high-pitched shriek that Jax's horse reared and nearly threw him. Patrick then yanked his arm from Sister Lorraine's grasp and leaped at the man. But he had misjudged the distance and slammed the ground hard on his hands and knees. Staggering to his feet, he charged the big man.
Jax's revolver was in his hand even before his horse came down on all fours, but instead of firing, he slapped the reins and kicked the horse. The spooked animal leaped forward, barreling into the boy and spinning him aside. As the horse continued on past, Jax leaned out and swung the revolver, catching Patrick on the side of the head and knocking him senseless to the ground.
It happened so quickly that Sister Lorraine had no time to react and could only gasp as Patrick fell face-down on the dirt, his left cheek smeared with blood. Just then she remembered the gun holstered to her leg, and she reached for her pocket as she spun around on the seat—only to find herself facing the barrel of Knowles's revolver.
"You just sit steady," Knowles commanded in a surprisingly soft tone, apparently not having seen the checked movement of her hand toward her skirt.
Though Patrick's sister was a good thirty yards away, the girl had seen what happened and leaped down from the wagon seat. She ran toward him, seemingly unaware of the rider in front of her as she shouted Patrick's name.
Jax holstered his gun and intercepted the young woman. Deftly turning his horse in front of her, he leaned down from the saddle and scooped her off her feet. She flailed her arms and legs, as if running in air, then suddenly turned on the burly man, swinging her arms as she tried to scratch his hairy face. Jax nearly lost his grip around her waist, but as he tightened his hold, he kept grinning and leering, as though he thoroughly enjoyed having her put up a fight. Finally, he managed to turn her around to face him, one of his arms pinning her to him, the other clamping her wrists behind her back. All she could do was arch her back and twist her head away as he tried to kiss her lips.
As she struggled weakly against the man, the sound of young children crying could be heard from the other wagons, while a couple of the older boys ventured down from their seats and cautiously approached.
"The boy..." Sister Lorraine nodded toward where Patrick was lying without movement on the ground. "Let me help the boy."
"He's best left lyin' right where he is," Knowles replied. "Won't get himself in any more fool trouble that way." His smile returned. "And he won't see what me'n the boys have planned for his big sister."
"Leave Alice alone," the nun pleaded. "She's only—"
"She's old enough. So just keep quiet, and maybe we'll be real nice and take her along, so the young'uns won't have to see pretty Alice take her vows." He chortled wickedly.
"Please...she's so young. I beg you—take me if you must. But leave her alone."
"You?" Knowles asked incredulously. "A nun?"
"I'm a woman," she declared.
"Hardly. And past your prime." He peered at her more closely, then waved his revolver toward her face. "It's hard to tell behind all that... stuff. But you must be forty, pushin' fifty. Hell, you passed your prime the day you put on that outfit and gave up bein' a woman!"
Still holding his revolver on Sister Lorraine, Knowles backed his horse away from the wagon
and called out, "C'mon, Jax! Throw her over the saddle! We're takin' her with us!"
Sister Lorraine waited until Knowles was looking away and then eased her hand toward her gun. But as she sought the pocket of her habit, the sharp boom of a rifle rocked the air. Knowles and the other two riders fought to control their startled animals, while Jax released Alice's wrists and clawed at his revolver. Alice immediately pushed hard against his chest and broke his grip around her waist. Dropping to the ground, she stumbled, nearly fell, then hiked up her long dress and ran for her brother.
A second rifle shot sounded, and the four men turned in the direction of the gunfire—the rear of the small wagon train—expecting to see one of the teenage boys wielding a rifle. Instead they saw a rider come out from behind the last wagon, the Winchester in his hands pointed upward but ready to be brought into action.
Knowles signaled his men to hold their fire as the rider approached at a walk. Though he was confident their four guns could easily handle the man, he knew a Winchester was capable of considerable damage before the gunman could be brought down. And Knowles wasn’t eager to die. Also, the rifleman hadn’t shot at anyone but had fired into the air as a warning. It would be best to determine what the man wanted before risking further gunplay.
Sister Lorraine had climbed down from the wagon unnoticed and was kneeling beside Patrick and Alice, her right hand never far from the false pocket of her skirt. The boy's eyes fluttered open as Alice held his head cradled in her lap. Sister Lorraine gently touched the gash at his left temple and then dabbed away some of the blood with her sleeve. After determining that he was only dazed, she looked up as the man with the rifle approached. He must have been riding toward Abilene and in the confusion had come upon the wagon train from the rear without being seen.
She watched as the man pulled to a halt not far from where Jax was sitting his horse. The stranger was dressed in a plain blue work shirt and denim pants, which were tucked inside his high-topped boots. His tan, flat-crowned hat partially obscured his face, yet Sister Lorraine could see that he was clean-shaven, save for a drooping brown mustache. The sandy hair that showed under his hat was somewhat lighter and touched with gray at the temples. The man had a strong yet youthful appearance, and she guessed that he was at least forty.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 2