"What about your father?"
"He is a convicted murderer," she said flatly. She folded her arms as if suddenly chilled.
"I'm sorry," he muttered.
"Good night, Lucas." She backed up a few steps into the shadows.
"Good night, Rose." He touched his hat brim and headed down the street.
4
Lucas Flint left his horse and packhorse tied at one of the hitchracks along Texas Street, halfway between Mulberry and Cedar Streets. Leaving his Winchester in its scabbard, he mounted the boardwalk and approached the swinging batwing doors of the Bull's Head Saloon. Looking over the top, he could see that the Bull's Head was slightly more ornate than the typical frontier tavern. A long bar ran along the right, with round and square tables filling the rest of the floor. Gaudy paintings—mostly of plump, stylized nudes—filled nearly every available inch of wall.
Flint pulled a small pocket watch. The hour was just past nine o'clock. Inside, the six kerosene chandeliers were turned up full, and the dancing light played across the faces of nearly two dozen card-playing men and a handful of saloon girls. The crowd was relatively well behaved, and it didn’t appear that the working women were being bothered in any way. From all appearances, this was a respectable establishment, though if the women on hand didn’t perform double service as prostitutes, Flint didn’t doubt that some neighboring business was providing the service in partnership with the Bull's Head management.
After watching the activity for a few minutes, Flint stepped away from the batwings and started toward the jail, which stood across the road and a few buildings down from the Bull's Head. There was no sign of activity within the building, and it wasn’t until he was standing at the door that he noticed a faint light burning inside. Assuming the marshal was on his rounds, Flint almost decided to leave, but then he tried the knob and discovered it was unlocked. As he pushed the door and it creaked open, he saw a man slumped in the chair behind the desk, which faced the door. There was a small lamp on the desk with the wick turned low and the flame only a thin line of blue.
"Marshal?" Flint asked tentatively, but his voice failed to rouse the apparently sleeping man. Deciding on a more direct approach, he stepped across the threshold, taking care not to muffle his boots, then forcefully slammed the door behind him. With the resulting bang, the slouching man bolted upright in the seat, his hand groping for the revolver that rested in its holster on the desk.
"Marshal," Flint said, "can I have a word with you?"
Relaxing slightly, the man moved his hand away from the revolver. Turning up the wick, he squinted at the figure in front of the door and in a faintly slurred voice asked, "Who are you?"
"The name's Flint. I'd like to report a shooting."
"A what?" His tone was suddenly sharp and agitated.
"I was forced to shoot a man several miles east of town. Dr. Keller already treated and released him."
"Then no one's dead?" the marshal asked, and Flint could almost hear a sigh of relief.
"Just a shoulder wound. But Bert Knowles won't be pulling a gun for a while."
"Knowles!" Standing abruptly, the marshal lifted his gun belt and hurriedly strapped it on.
As the marshal came around the desk, Flint saw that he was young—no older than twenty-five—and on the short side, though he looked quite muscular and fit. His hair was disheveled and dark. He didn’t sport a mustache or beard, but he had what appeared to be several days' growth of whiskers. Either he was growing a beard or was badly in need of a bath and a shave. When he came closer, his rumpled clothing, red-rimmed brown eyes, and whiskey-tinged breath betrayed that the latter was the case.
"Bert Knowles, you say?" The marshal rested his hand on the butt of his revolver.
"I had no choice. He and his friends had stopped a group of wagons and were molesting some of the occupants."
"That don't sound like Bert," the marshal replied, and Flint noted that he used Knowles's first name.
"Well, it was, and the folks in the wagon train and the bullet hole in his arm will confirm that."
"Bert hasn't filed a complaint."
"And he won't. As I said, Marshal, he was the one who was causing the trouble. That's what I've come to report."
"Maybe I'd best hold you here and get Bert to explain his side of it."
Losing his patience, Flint ground out, "Listen, Marshal, this Knowles character and three of his compadres waylaid four wagons, beat up a thirteen-year-old boy, and tried to rape his seventeen-year-old sister. Those wagons were carrying a Dominican nun and more than a dozen orphans!"
"A nun? Orphans? That sure don't sound like Bert," the marshal repeated.
"What is he? Some kind of saint?"
"Now don't be making fun of me or I'll have to hold you in back while I investigate these allegations, Mr...?"
"Flint. Lucas Flint."
The young man's jaw dropped slightly, and he began to rub his stubble. "Marshal Lucas Flint, the one known as Rattler?" he finally asked.
Nodding, Flint said, "But no longer a lawman."
Moving his hand away from his gun, the marshal of Abilene stood up straighter and tucked in the tail of his shirt. Making an effort to hold his voice steady and even, he said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Flint. I didn't recognize you."
"I've been away from Kansas for three years now," Flint replied, trying to calm his anger.
"I'm Hiram Perkins." The young man held out his hand, and Flint shook it, noting that it was sweaty and cold.
"Now about this incident with Bert Knowles..." Flint pressed.
"Yes, I'll look into it at once. No doubt you've got the facts straight, but it does surprise me some. Sure, Bert's a tough sort, but since he got out of prison, he's kept his nose clean." Puffing up his chest, he added, "He knows I'll send him right back if he gets out of line."
"This time he did."
"You say it was a nun and some children he bothered?"
"Her name is Sister Lorraine. She and the children will be staying at the Methodist church."
Perkins's eyes narrowed, and he looked thoughtful for a moment. Finally, he said, "I'll go over there in the morning and get the story from this Sister Lorraine. If she wants to press charges, I'll follow through from there."
"Fine." Flint started to reach for the doorknob.
"And about that shooting...I see you're not wearing a revolver."
Turning around, Flint replied, "I used a Winchester."
"Well, I suppose I can just let this one lie. From what you say, you were justified, and it sounds like Bert isn't gonna make a complaint." He paused a moment, then added, "Just be careful. The man's got friends."
Flint again nodded and reached for the door, but this time Perkins stepped closer and laid a hand on his arm. "Mr. Flint," he said, his voice cautious, "you planning on staying in Abilene long?"
Flint looked down at the hand on his arm, then up at Perkins. The marshal removed his hand hurriedly.
"Only a day or two. I'm heading on to Wichita as soon as Sister Lorraine is ready to travel."
Perkins looked relieved and then said, "It's not that you aren't welcome in Abilene. It's just that with your reputation—and with some folks already riled at you—well, I'd hate to have a bunch of greenhorns coming to town to try to brace you."
"Don't worry," Flint reassured him, "I'm not looking for trouble. That's why I don't wear a gun."
"Good. As you know, we lawmen like to keep things quiet in our town."
Glancing over at the desk chair, Flint had the urge to say something about the quietude of whiskey-induced sleep. But he could see that the young man was trying to create a sense of camaraderie, and so he thought better of it. Instead he merely said, "Good night," and headed outside.
Flint walked down the boardwalk and found a place in the shadows where he stood watching the jail, curious whether or not the young lawman would go back to sleep. If he did, it would support the idea that he was inexperienced and out of his element as Abilene's ma
rshal. Surely any responsible lawman would be walking the streets at this time of night—and certainly he wouldn’t be hitting the bottle.
On the other hand, if Perkins headed out—if he made a beeline for the Black Dog Saloon—it would lend credence to Dr. Keller's suggestion that he might be involved with Willis Donnelly and his bunch. Of course, he might simply be investigating the shooting incident by seeking out Bert Knowles, so Flint would have to follow and determine his relationship with both Knowles and Donnelly.
In less than a minute the office lamp dimmed again. Flint waited until he was certain Perkins wasn’t coming out, then he turned and walked away. He felt a curious mix of relief and regret. He was relieved that early evidence didn’t support the notion the young marshal had been bought off, since he apparently wasn’t rushing off to warn Donnelly of Flint's visit.
But that relief was tinged with the regret of knowing that an officer of the law was so inept and unprofessional he would get drunk on the job and do nothing to investigate a reported shooting in his jurisdiction. If things hadn’t already gone downhill in Abilene, as Dr. Keller had indicated, they surely would soon with a man like Hiram Perkins in charge of keeping the peace.
At the corner Flint turned left onto Cedar Street and headed toward Railroad Street, which traversed Cedar at an angle only a short way up the block. There was no boardwalk here, and only two major establishments were situated on the left side of the street: G. B. Seely General Goods and the Northcraft Drug Store just beyond it. The other side of the street was dominated by the Alamo Saloon, the well-known drinking and gambling establishment in front of which Marshal James Butler Hickok accidentally shot and killed his own deputy during a gunfight with gambler Phil Coe. That was on October 5, 1871, during the early boom days when "Wild Bill" Hickok first cleaned up the streets of Abilene. Flint had been doing the same in Wichita then, and he and Hickok had met on several occasions. Though far from being cut from the same cloth, Flint and the flamboyant Wild Bill had developed a bond that was built upon mutual respect.
Flint stood looking at the Alamo, remembering those days when he and Wild Bill had taken on and tamed the streets of their respective cities...days when Flint had thought himself immortal and indestructible. But that was before his beloved Mary had been paralyzed by a bullet meant for him. Before he had spent three years watching her shrink and waste away despite the efforts of the best physicians in the East. Before he had discovered just how fragile and precarious life really was.
Flint visualized Mary's smile, which had kept them optimistic right until the end and which continued to comfort him in the weeks since her passing. He tried not to be bitter, for he knew that Mary had never felt sorry for herself and would want him to be happy now.
That was a mighty big job, but he was working on it.
Turning away from the Alamo, Flint continued to the nearby corner and made a right onto Railroad Street, which fronted the tracks of the Kansas Pacific Railroad. He passed two more saloons, the Elkhorn and the Pearl, and stopped in front of the Black Dog. A quick glance through the window confirmed that the place was busy with what appeared to be a fairly rough crowd, though the management seemed to have things under control. Still, the patrons—a mix of hard-drinking, go-for-broke cowboys and impeccably dressed, unscrupulous high rollers—were the type that could erupt given the slightest provocation.
Fleetingly, Flint wished he was wearing his familiar walnut-handled Colt Peacemaker or had his Winchester at his side, but he knew either could ignite the passions of men like Bert Knowles, and tonight he had no desire to stir up trouble. He wanted only to see what the situation here in Abilene was shaping up to be. Such information had been a key to his success and longevity as a lawman, along with his speed with a gun and the ability to be ruthless when he needed to. Since he was here, he intended to stay ahead of any threat to himself or Sister Lorraine and her charges.
Flint had just decided to enter the Black Dog and was approaching the batwings when they swung open and a dark-haired man stepped out—the man Knowles had called Jax. He was as tall as Flint—about six foot two—and even broader shouldered and more muscular, though with a slight paunch.
"What the hell do you want?" Jax said, recognizing Flint.
"A whiskey. Why? Are you the bartender?"
Jax narrowed one eye. "He don't serve bastards."
"Is that why you're leaving?"
Even as he said the words, Flint knew what was going to happen. He wasn’t surprised when without warning Jax cursed and took a swing at him. The big man wasn’t set for the punch, and Flint had plenty of time to feint to the right and deflect the blow with his left arm. He followed with his own right to the waist, and he felt a keen satisfaction as his fist sank deep in the man's belly, doubling him over.
Flint stepped to the side and let Jax stagger across the boardwalk. He almost stumbled into the street but caught hold of an upright post and held on, catching his breath. Clearly the blow had surprised as well as stunned him, and Flint knew that if the fight continued, he wouldn’t get such an opening again.
Jax stood away from the post and glowered at Flint. Clenching his fists and lowering his head, he shouted an obscenity and charged across the boardwalk.
Flint had only an instant to brace himself before the big man barreled into him, shoulder first. The impact lifted Flint off his feet, and the two men went hurtling through the saloon's plate-glass window and sprawling across a table covered with cards and cash. Shards of glass showered over them as their momentum propelled them over the table and onto the floor.
The cardplayers leaped from their seats and scattered, while other patrons dashed over and formed a circle around the two fighters, who rolled back and forth across the floor, locked in a bear hug. Though no one was quite sure yet who was fighting or what the dispute was about, they started shouting encouragement to both men, with quite a few dollars already being wagered on the outcome.
Flint was on his back, struggling to breathe as the big man managed to lock his hands behind Flint's back and attempted to crush the life out of him. Flint tried to find his own hands, but he couldn’t quite reach around the man's broad back. Instead he slipped them under the man's chin and pushed upward. The crowd began to call Jax's name now, and Flint knew they were surrounded by the man's friends.
Jax gritted his teeth and growled as Flint pushed against his chin. As he forced the big man's head farther and farther back, the strength drained from his hands. All at once his hold was broken, and the two men rolled away from each other and struggled to their knees.
Flint was the first one on his feet, and he had only a moment to gauge the crowd and determine that they showed no signs yet of wanting to interfere. Apparently, they were enjoying the spectacle and the unexpected opportunity to gamble. Flint caught a glimpse of someone pushing through the crowd and recognized the sling on the man's right arm, but before he could confirm that it was Bert Knowles, Jax was back on his feet and ready to charge.
This time Flint was prepared. He darted to his left and took only a glancing blow. As Jax spun around, Flint met him with a hard left to the nose, then a right uppercut to the chin, driving his head back and splattering the spectators with blood. Jax's knees almost buckled, and he stood tottering, his hand trying to stem the blood that was spurting from his nose. He shook his head to clear it, then came at Flint with both fists flailing.
Flint took a left to the jaw, then a crushing blow to the stomach, doubling him over. He came up at once with a pair of uppercuts to the chest and neck, driving Jax backward and momentarily halting the onslaught.
A pair of men appeared from behind and grabbed Flint's arms. He didn’t have to look to know they were the other riders who had encountered the wagon train. He tried to spin away, but he was exhausted, and their grip was too solid. He steadied himself, planning his strategy for the moment that Jax would attack. The hold of the man on his left didn’t seem as strong, and so he decided that he would kick the man's shins as he
spun toward him, trying at the same time to break the hold of the man on his right.
Jax took his time. He wiped his bloody nose with his sleeve and grinned at Flint like a spider anticipating a fly caught in his web. Finally, he raised his fists and took a step forward.
"Eno' o' this!" a voice called out in a thick brogue.
To Flint's left, a squat, powerful-looking man forced his way through the crowd and stepped forward. He was at least fifty, with an abundance of red showing through his graying hair and bushy beard. He seemed to be smiling, but there was no trace of humor in his fiery green eyes.
"This ain't your show, Angus," Bert Knowles said as he, too, stepped forward from the crowd.
"This show is over!" the man named Angus declared. "'Twas an even match till these boys stepped in. Now I say they'll be backing off!"
"This ain't Angus's Tavern," Knowles shot back. "You won't be callin' the shots here."
Angus stepped over to one of the overturned chairs and snatched it up. Everyone watched as if mesmerized as he raised it over his head and brought it down on the glass-strewn table, smashing the chair to pieces. Wielding one of the legs like a club, he turned to Knowles.
"Ye call 'em off, or we'll settle this a'tween we two—ye arm in a sling or no!"
"It's all right," Jax interjected, waving off the two men who were holding Flint. "I don't need no help." Again, waving them away, he said, "Let him go."
The two men glanced over at Knowles, who gave a slight nod and stepped back to the edge of the crowd. As the men released Flint's arms and backed away, Angus stood nearby brandishing the club, making it clear that anyone who interfered in the fight would have to deal with him.
Jax's smile faded somewhat, and he touched his bloody nose. Then he took a cautious step forward. With his left hand down to protect his still-tender belly, he drew back his right and looked for an opening. Flint gave him one—a clear shot at his jaw—and Jax took it. But Flint had been expecting it, and instantly his left hand was up and parried the thrust.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 5