"Certainly not, young lady," the nun cut her off. "It's scandal enough that we had to drag a drunken pastor off to his bedroom and tuck him under the covers. No one mentioned such goings-on to me at the convent."
Alice gave a barely audible sigh. "I suppose he will sleep well enough now."
"And if he doesn't, the saints be praised. There's nothing like a little morning nausea to put a man back on the straight and sober."
Staring compassionately at the sleeping man, Alice said, "But his father..."
"All our fathers die one day. But liquor is never enough to fill the emptiness."
"It helps us forget."
"We must never forget. It is for the living to remember."
Alice shivered slightly, as if suddenly chilled. "You make it sound so...severe."
Sister Lorraine wrapped her arm around Alice's shoulder. "You're right," she whispered as she pulled the young woman away from the doorway. "I'm a heartless old goat. Even a minister has a right to put on a drunk once in a while."
Alice looked up and smiled at her. "As long as it isn't every day."
"Exactly. But that remains to be seen."
"I'm certain Dr. Keller wouldn't have sent us here if the minister were a drunkard," Alice pointed out.
"Of course not. But the devil that lives in a bottle is a wily beast. He can knock a man low one night, then turn around the very next day and put a cherubic smile on his face and a glib word on his tongue. Believe me, I've known men of the cloth who could charm the last dollar out of a congregation, and it was never them, but the bottle preaching." She pulled the minister's door closed and led Alice through the kitchen to the back stairs. "You run along and get some sleep. I'll close things up down here."
"But where will you sleep?" Alice asked, suddenly realizing that no arrangements had been made for the nun.
"I'll be perfectly fine in the parlor."
"But there isn't a bed—"
"After weeks on the hard seat of that buckboard, any of the chairs in that room look like heaven itself."
Alice was about to offer her own bed but seeing the look of determination on the older woman's face, she realized it would be a futile gesture. Leaning forward, she surprised Sister Lorraine with a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for letting me help you. I won't tell anyone."
"I know you won't, my dear. Why, you're almost a full-grown woman, aren't you?"
Blushing, Alice turned and hurried up to her room, while at the foot of the stairs Sister Lorraine stood shaking her head and smiling.
6
Patrick Hammond was facing a snarling, blond-haired man wearing a low-slung holster. The man's hand hovered over the butt of his revolver, his trigger finger twitching with anticipation. Smith and Wesson, the boy thought disdainfully. Nothing, he knew, could stand up to the fury of his pearl-handled Colt Peacemaker.
Suddenly the man went for his gun. As if by magic, the Peacemaker leaped into Patrick's hand, and in a smooth, effortless motion he brought it up and fired. Once. Twice. Again and again until the cylinders were empty and only smoke came from the barrel.
The man's gun never fully cleared his holster, and as his hand lost all feeling, the weapon clattered to the ground. The man staggered forward a step, then tottered back as he stared down at the blood spurting from his chest. He looked up at Patrick, his arm reaching in supplication. Then his legs buckled, and he fell to the ground. A sudden wind poured down the street, and dust began to swirl around the lifeless body.
Patrick raised the Peacemaker and blew away the smoke, a smile touching his lips. Bert Knowles was dead; it had been a good day. Suddenly a board creaked behind him, and he remembered the dark-haired man with the sombrero who had accosted his sister. In one fluid motion he whirled around and swung the gun toward this new threat. But the swirling dust was so thick that he could not make out his adversary.
"It's only me," a voice called through the darkness. "Go back to sleep."
Patrick rubbed his eyes and struggled to see. Somehow, he had been transported to a strange, unfamiliar room, empty save for the bodies lying around him.
"I'm just going to the outhouse," the voice said.
Lifting his head, Patrick saw someone standing in the doorway, and as his eyes adjusted to the thin moonlight spilling through the window, he recognized the older boy named Christopher. Patrick suddenly realized he was lying on the single bed in the upstairs room of the parsonage, and the bodies scattered around him were the bedrolls where the other boys were sleeping. The creaking boardwalk was merely Christopher crossing the room on his way to relieve himself.
Patrick nodded and lay back against the jacket he was using as a pillow, watching as the older boy pulled the door shut and disappeared down the stairs. For a long while he just lay there, thinking of his dream and wondering if he would ever face someone in such a showdown. After a few minutes, he decided that as long as he was up, he might as well visit the outhouse once Christopher returned. Standing, he pulled on his pants and shoes and walked over to the window.
The yard was bathed in blue moonlight. At first, all seemed still, but then from the corner of his eye he caught a flicker of movement near the carriage house. Pressing his face against the glass and shielding his eyes to block his own faint reflection, he peered down at the open bays where the wagons were parked. Someone was moving near one of the wagons, but it wasn’t until the person emerged into the yard that Patrick recognized Christopher.
Patrick immediately backed away from the window so that he wouldn’t be seen. The older boy was examining something in his hands—transferring items from one hand to another as if counting or sorting. Then he looked around him, pulled his coat tighter, and started down the walk toward the street.
Without hesitating, Patrick grabbed his jacket off the bed and headed into the hall. Moving as swiftly and quietly as possible, he made his way down the back stairs and out the kitchen door. Donning his coat, he circled the parsonage, cautiously stepping out into the parking area after determining that the older boy was gone. Then Patrick started running, pausing every now and then behind a tree and searching for a glimpse of Christopher.
Patrick was well down Elm Street when he saw Christopher walking briskly over the train tracks. Following at a distance, he soon crossed the tracks and turned left onto Texas Street. Though it was certainly late—probably after midnight—the streetlamps remained lit and many buildings were aglow with evening revelers. It seemed as if half the buildings were saloons, and none were at a loss for patrons.
A block and a half down, Christopher stopped in front of a building—the saloon beside Dr. Keller's office—and as Patrick watched from down the street, he pushed through the batwings and entered. Patrick waited until the batwings stopped swinging, and then he cautiously approached and took up a position in a shadowed doorway directly opposite the saloon.
The sign above the door read Angus's Tavern, and Patrick guessed that Christopher had looked it over while they were at the doctor's office. But why had he returned in the middle of the night?
"To drink, of course," he whispered to himself. He recalled several occasions when Christopher had bragged about buying a shot of whiskey in one of the trail towns while the other children were off buying candy. He had even prodded the other boys to join him, though Patrick didn’t think any had taken up the challenge.
Patrick knew that Sister Lorraine would be furious to learn that one of the children had sneaked off to a saloon. He also knew that most of the children would hate him if he turned Christopher in. Yet he was genuinely concerned about the older boy. After all, Abilene was considered a rough town, and somewhere out there Bert Knowles and his cronies were lurking about, licking their wounds and probably eager to get back at someone for having been run off. In fact, Knowles had been at the doctor's office earlier and could well be in Angus's Tavern this very minute, nursing his injured arm over a bottle of whiskey.
Patrick knew he couldn’t turn in the older boy. Yet he also couldn’t
leave and simply crawl back to bed. The least he could do was to check out the tavern and make sure Christopher wasn’t in any trouble. Leaving the shadowed doorway, he slowly crossed the street and stepped up onto the opposite boardwalk. He was slipping past the batwings to look in one of the windows when suddenly the doors swung open and a tall man nearly barreled into him.
"What are you doing here?" the man said in surprise, and Patrick looked up to see Lucas Flint.
"I...er..."
"Does Sister Lorraine know where you are?"
"Not exactly, but..."
"Oh, of course," Flint said as if all at once he understood what Patrick was up to. "You were on your way to see Dr. Keller."
"No," he replied, then quickly regretted having said it.
Flint placed his hand on Patrick's shoulder and led him away from the door. Stepping off the boardwalk so that they would be at closer heights, he looked at the boy and said, "Why not tell me what's going on? Are you in some kind of trouble that I can help with?"
"It's not me," Patrick began, wondering if telling Flint was the same as tattling to Sister Lorraine. But this was the man who had helped them before; surely, he would know what to do. "It's one of the other boys," Patrick finally admitted. "I followed him here without him knowing."
"He's in the saloon?"
"Just went in a few minutes ago."
"I didn't see him at the bar, but it's pretty crowded in there. But if he's only a boy, the bartender won't—"
"He's sixteen."
"Then he's almost a man, and if Angus refuses to serve him, there's probably plenty inside who'll buy him a drink. Or is it gambling he's come for?"
"I don't know. I'm just worried, and I wasn't sure what to do."
"You've done the right thing," Flint reassured him. Mounting the boardwalk, he moved to the window. "Come over here and see if you can find him."
It took a moment, but then Patrick pointed toward the back of the room and said, "That's Christopher talking to those two men. He's got black hair and is wearing a blue jacket."
Flint looked where Patrick was pointing and saw the teenage boy engaged in conversation with two ragged-looking young men. He was nearly as tall as they were and could easily pass for eighteen or so.
"I see him," he said, turning away from the window. "Now here's what I want you to do. No one knows you're here, right?" When Patrick nodded, Flint continued, "Then head to the church and go to bed. I'll take care of Christopher."
"You will?" the boy asked in surprise.
"I said so, didn't I? I'll send him on his way, and I won't even let on that you spoke to me, so no one needs to know."
"What about Sister Lorraine?" Patrick asked hesitantly.
"You don't have to tell her, if you don't want to. This is something we men should take care of, don't you think?"
Patrick nodded eagerly and began to smile.
"Now run along." Flint clapped him on the back.
Patrick looked up at him a moment, his eyes betraying his gratitude. "Thanks, Mr. Flint," he finally mumbled. Then he turned and raced off down the street.
Flint waited until Patrick rounded the corner of Elm Street and disappeared. Then with a bemused grin, he pushed through the swinging doors. He headed straight to where the youth named Christopher was seated at a square table in the corner with the two young men, who themselves couldn’t have been much older than eighteen. The three of them were laughing and smirking as they played a game of stud poker. Christopher was dealing what seemed a friendly game, since there was no money on the table.
Coming up from behind, Flint said in a casual tone, "Christopher, what are you doing here?"
The boy nearly jumped out of his seat in surprise. Twisting around in the chair, he dropped the cards and nearly toppled a shot glass of whiskey. Recognizing the tall man standing over him as the one who had come to the aid of the wagon train earlier that day, he abruptly stood and stammered, "H-how did you know my n-name?"
"Sister Lorraine mentioned it when you were driving the wagon. You remember me, don't you?"
"Uh, Mr. Flint, right?"
Nodding, Flint placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Relax, son. I didn't mean to spoil your game."
Nervously, the teenager turned and gathered up the cards, including the ones he had begun to deal. As he fumbled with them, one of the cards flipped over, and he quickly swept it up and shoved it back among the others. Its face was visible for only a moment, but long enough for Flint to see a highly realistic and detailed full-color sketch of a voluptuous woman wearing garters, a pair of dark stockings—and nothing else. The only other markings were a diamond and the numeral four, indicating the card's value.
Trying to suppress a smile, Flint pulled out the single empty chair to Christopher's right. "You fellows mind if I join your game?"
The two older ones looked unperturbed and merely shrugged. Christopher, on the other hand, began to sweat noticeably. Clutching the cards in his fist, he said, "We were just finishing, Mr. Flint. I...I have to be heading back now."
"Don't be silly. It's barely one o'clock. Surely you can stay another game. How old are you anyway, Christopher?"
"Almost eighteen," he lied.
"Then it's settled. Here, let me deal."
Before Christopher realized what was happening, Flint snatched the deck from his hands and expertly began shuffling them.
"Five-card draw, all the ladies are wild," Flint declared tonelessly, upon which Christopher's jaw dropped open. "The queens...they're wild," Flint explained, smiling at the uncomfortable youth as the other young men snickered. Flint picked up his cards and sorted them, and Christopher reluctantly followed suit. As Flint examined his hand, he saw that every card featured a different woman, each exotic, each completely naked, and some in the most daring of poses.
"Your move," Flint said, turning to Christopher. At first, the boy seemed too nervous to play, but under Flint's prodding he finally discarded three cards and was dealt three new ones. Each player made his exchange, ending with Flint, who chose to stand pat.
"Since no one seems to be betting, let's see what everyone's got," Flint declared, turning first to Christopher.
"Nothing. I fold," he blurted, placing the cards face-down on the table and covering them with his hand.
"Nonsense," Flint told him. "You needn't fold when there's no money on the table. Even an empty hand could be a winner." He reached to his left, grasped Christopher's wrist, and lifted the boy's hand off the cards. Sliding them out and flipping them over on the table, he announced, "Two pair, aces and eights. Why, that's a great hand for draw poker. Never fold with two pair." Turning to the other players, he asked, "What have you boys got?"
The first young man had a pair of jacks, the second had missed a straight by one card despite having one wild queen.
"See, Christopher?" Flint told the boy. "You've bested both of them, and if not for the wild cards, you would've got me." He spread his cards faceup on the table. "Four kings—two naturals and two wild ladies." He pushed the cards into the center of the table and leaned his chair back on two legs. "So what do I win?" he asked innocently.
In an exceedingly faint voice, Christopher said, "We were just playing for fun."
For the first time, one of the young men spoke. "Fun? Hell, you charged us a shot glass each to see those cards."
"Let's not bicker, boys," Flint urged as he leaned forward and swept up the cards. "After all, the fellow holding the deck gets to name the stakes." Tapping the cards into a neat pile, he placed them in front of Christopher.
"It was just for fun," the boy repeated even more softly, his eyes downcast and a frown on his face.
"And that's exactly what we had," Flint assured him. "But I guess it is getting time to head home." Pushing back his chair, he stood and turned to the two young men. "A bit of advice, boys. Don't pocket any of the cards while you're playing. Someone less friendly than Christopher or I might think you were cheating."
Reaching ov
er, he plucked a card out of the shirt pocket of the nearest man and dropped it faceup on the table, revealing the queen of spades, depicted by an exotic-looking woman with dusky skin and the most ample bosom Flint had ever encountered. "I'll be damned—a queen. It would have completed your straight," he exclaimed. He turned to the second man, who reluctantly emptied his own pocket of the two cards he had stolen.
"That's better," Flint declared. "After all, you wouldn't want our friend Christopher to be playing without a full deck."
Christopher glowered at the two young men who had been buying him drinks in order to view his cards. Snatching up the missing cards, he added them to the deck and then stood and stuffed them in his pants pocket.
Tipping his hat, Flint said, "It's been a pleasure, gentlemen." He stood without moving, waiting to see what Christopher would do. The boy merely nodded, his eyes filled with a blend of anger and embarrassment, then turned and stalked out of the saloon.
"C'mon," one of the young men said to his friend. "Let's go home."
The other fellow gave a dejected shrug, and the two of them stood and filed out, each carefully avoiding Flint's eyes. As soon as they were gone, Flint shook his head and headed for the bar. Grinning, he called out, "Angus, set me up one final whiskey."
"Call it Scotch, man!" the rambunctious barman insisted as he produced a bottle from under the counter and uncorked it. "Whiskey kin be anything from rye t'corn. If it be good malted barley ye want, it's got t'be Scotch!"
Christopher walked quickly down Texas Street, ashamed of having been confronted by Lucas Flint and enraged at the young men for having taken advantage of him. The two feelings began to merge, with his anger shifting to Flint. Obviously, the man had been trying to humiliate him in public, treating him like a child and even suggesting that he couldn’t handle those other fellows without assistance. Hell, I'm almost as old and just as big, he thought. And so what if they steal a few cards? I've got plenty more.
After turning onto Elm Street, Christopher slowed his pace considerably and pulled the deck of cards from his pocket. As he crossed the tracks and headed up the street, he began to count them to confirm that the only one missing was the jack of diamonds, depicted as a young girl in the first flush of puberty looking over her shoulder to examine her naked body in a mirror, thus revealing her buttocks as well as her newly emerging breasts. He had sold that one in Junction City for a dollar to the very grocer from whom the other children had purchased their candy. The little man had pasty skin and the sweatiest hands Christopher had ever seen, and from the way he had fawned over the orphan girls and patted their hands as he handed them candy, Christopher had known he would find that particular card of special delight.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 7