"Dinna be daft!" came the reply, and both men laughed.
"Well, maybe not everything," Angus admitted, returning Old Bailey to his perch. Choosing a glass from the back shelf, he slapped it down on the bar and then reached below and produced a bottle. "Well, ye have'na come here just t'ruffle the feathers of me pet parrot. A drink, perhaps?"
"Straight up," Flint declared, taking hold of the glass as Angus poured. Lifting the glass to his lips, Flint took a sip and savored the warmth.
"An' one f'me, if ye not be averse t'drinking wi' a Scotsman."
"An' one f'me!" a small voice echoed as Angus turned to get himself a glass.
Angus lowered one eye and glowered at the parrot, then turned to the bar and poured a shot glass for himself. As he downed the contents, the small glass seemed to disappear momentarily within his abundant red beard. He banged the empty glass atop the counter, filled it again, and downed it just as quickly. "C'mon, man," he prodded Flint, who was still nursing his first drink. "Ye kinna get there from here less'n ye kiss the barleycorn wi' a bit more passion." He tipped the bottle and filled Flint's glass to the rim.
Keeping a serious expression, Flint lifted his glass and swallowed the Scotch in one gulp. He felt a delayed kick in his stomach, then allowed himself a smile. When Angus raised the bottle to pour another, Flint covered the glass with his hand.
"Dinna tell me ye drink like an Englisher, too!"
"A bloody Englisher!" the parrot exclaimed in as mocking a tone.
"I'm having dinner with Dr. Keller," Flint explained.
"Now there's a looker," Angus pronounced with a wink. "But a strange one. Keeps t'herself, though ne'er at a loss for suitors." He took another drink, then added, "Ye be a lucky man, Lucas."
"It's just a friendly dinner," Flint protested.
Angus winked knowingly. "I'll pray tha' it is."
"Who goes there?" the parrot piped in, and the two men turned to see the batwings swing open. In strutted Bertram Knowles, his tan pants and shirt looking freshly laundered, his boots polished to a high shine. Even his broad white sling, which covered his right arm from above the elbow to over his hand, looked newly pressed and starched. Entering the tavern, he pulled off his hat and casually tossed it onto the nearest table, then ran his fingers through his trim blond hair. As he approached the bar, a pair of men shouldered their way through the batwings—the same two who had tried to interfere in the fight at the Black Dog Saloon. The man named Jax was nowhere in sight.
"Good evenin', Angus," Knowles said with a smirk. He leaned against the bar several feet away from Lucas Flint.
"What d'ye want?"
Looking the former marshal up and down with disdain, he replied, "We've come to ask Mr. Flint, here, why he ain't taken our suggestion that he move on to Wichita." He glanced across the bar and squinted one eye at Angus. "And there's the question of that money you owe Mr. Donnelly."
As he spoke, the other two men walked over to where the card players were seated and began to remove cards from the stunned dealer's hands, placing them faceup on the table. The dealer started to object, but he was quickly silenced by the menacing expressions he received from the two gunmen.
"I'd say this game is about over," was all one of Knowles's men had to say for the players to get the hint and fold their hands. They quickly pocketed their winnings and a moment later were gone from the tavern.
"Now about that money..." Knowles said as soon as the poker players were gone.
"I'll be damned a'fore I pay one red cent for wha' I dinna need."
"Dinna be damned," the bird chirped, but no one paid it any attention.
"I'm sorry you see things like that," Bertram replied. "But don't be so sure you don't need our services." He glanced around the tavern, taking in the tables, chandeliers, and long rows of bottles and glasses. "It looks like you've put a lot into this place, Angus. I'd hate to see you lose it all in some drunken brawl by a bunch of rowdy cowboys." He gave Angus a smug grin.
Angus's face began to redden as he glowered at the man. "Get out, I say!" he suddenly blurted, and in a high screech the parrot echoed, "Get out! Get out!"
"Mr. Donnelly only wants to keep the peace in his—"
"His city? Ye tell him tha' I'll be damned a'fore I pay protection money t'the likes o' him!"
"Dinna be damned!" came Old Bailey's plea.
"Have it your way," Knowles said, waving his good hand as if to show his lack of concern over Angus's decision. "But there's still the question of Mr. Flint." He turned to the former lawman and smiled. "I see you ain't left town. I also see you ain't wearin' your gun." In a smug drawl, he added, “Seems like the Rattler don’t have any fangs anymore.”
Flint glanced at the gun strapped around Knowles's waist, then looked the man in the eyes and said, "I'll be staying in Abilene just as long as I choose." As he spoke, he was aware of the other two men circling the room to come up behind him. Still looking at Knowles, he leaned away from the bar and gave himself some room, though he made no effort to protect his back.
"That's your choice, I suppose," Knowles drawled, "but not a healthy one. Mr. Donnelly may be patient, but I ain't." His grin widened as he looked over Flint's shoulder at his approaching men.
One of the men was moving up alongside the bar, behind and just to Flint's right. Without warning, Flint lifted his right arm, clasped hands, and drove back his elbow, catching the man full force in the belly and doubling him over. As Flint spun around, he brought up his left knee under the man's chin, snapping his head back and dropping him to the floor.
The other man moved in with a wild haymaker, but Flint raised his arm and deflected the blow, throwing the man off balance. Flint followed with a left jab and a solid right that connected with the man's nose. There was the crunch of bone. The man's knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, blood spurting from his nostrils.
"Sorry," Flint said, "but you boys shouldn't have crowded me." He heard the double click of a hammer being cocked and spun back around, surprised to see that Knowles's sidearm was still holstered.
"And you shouldn't have crowded me," Knowles said flatly, his smile gone as he pulled back the sling to reveal a hidden revolver, its muzzle pointed at Flint's chest.
Flint could hear shuffling noises behind him and knew that Knowles's men were pulling themselves up off the floor. "I'm unarmed," he said, lifting his hands away from his hips and showing his palms.
"But I'm not," Knowles pointed out, his finger tightening on the trigger.
There was the rasp of metal and another set of clicks. "An' neither am I!" Angus declared as he brought up a sawed-off, double-barreled shotgun from behind the bar.
Keeping his revolver trained on Flint, Knowles eyed the barkeep uneasily.
"The first barrel's for ye, the second for ye friends," Angus announced, glancing over at the two men, who were finally on their feet but not looking at all steady.
Knowles grinned again and raised the barrel of his revolver toward the ceiling, uncocking it at the same time. With his left hand he took it from inside the sling and jammed it behind his gun belt. "Another day, perhaps," he said amiably. He walked over to the table near the door and retrieved his hat, while the two men picked up theirs from the floor and followed him to the swinging doors.
Knowles ushered his men outside. But as he started through the batwings himself, he turned at the last moment and said, "You ain't too smart, Angus. Donnelly don't like folks like you sidin' with an outsider. And he sure as hell hates when a man don't pay what's due."
"Ye tell Mr. Donnelly tha' there will be no gunplay in Angus's Tavern—especially agin an unarmed man. An' ye kin tell'm as well tha' I've no need for his protection." He waggled the shotgun at Knowles. "I kin protect me own self 'n' mine without help from the likes o' him!"
"Have it your way," Knowles replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Good day, gentlemen." He pushed his way through the doors and was gone.
"Good damn day!" Old Bailey squawked as the batwings
swung back and forth and slowly settled into place.
Angus was breathing heavily, his face still mottled with rage as he uncocked the shotgun and placed it behind the bar. Without speaking, he slapped a fresh pair of shot glasses on the bar and unstoppered the bottle of Scotch. Filling the glasses to the brim, he slid one to Flint, and both men downed their drinks in a single gulp.
"Ahh!" Angus sighed as the liquor went down. "Here's t'seeing the last o' tha' man!"
"Agreed!" Flint declared. He held out the glass for a refill, and again the two men drank.
"Easy now!" Old Bailey piped in. "Steady as she goes!"
Both men laughed heartily, and they were still laughing when the doors swung open and a few of the regular evening patrons filed in and took a table in the middle of the room. One of the men signaled Angus, who called, "Be right up!" then began to line up several large mugs on the bar.
"I'd better head to my hotel room to freshen up," Flint said as Angus filled the mugs with foamy beer from the tap.
"Aye, ye will want t'be as fresh as the little lady will allow." Angus gave a wink.
"Enough," Flint declared with a mock frown.
"Just remember t'tell ye good friend Angus all about it in the morning."
"Don't count on it."
"Aye, tha' I do. Now get out o' here. Ye should'na keep a lady waiting."
Flint smiled and started to turn from the bar. He stopped, looked at Angus, and said, "I hope tonight's little entertainment won't cause you any problems."
"Knowles? He's nothing I kinna handle."
"Don't underestimate him."
"I dinna get t'be fifty years o’ age by turning me back on the likes o' him. But dinna worry. I'll be careful."
Flint nodded and headed across the room. As he pushed through the swinging doors, he heard a voice call out, "Be sure t'give her a kiss, Englisher!" Though the voice was a fairly high-pitched Scottish brogue, he couldn’t be sure if it was Angus or his parrot squawking at him.
Just after two in the morning, Angus MacQuarrie ushered the last of his patrons through the batwings, then circled the room, turning down the kerosene chandeliers. "Think I'll be leaving mop 'n' broom till tomorrow," he told himself as he lowered all but one lamp behind the bar. "An' this is for me old friend Bailey," he added, opening a tin of crackers and holding one out for the parrot.
"Thank ye! Thank ye!" the bird chirped as he always did when offered a treat. With his beak he snatched the cracker from Angus's fingers and proceeded to chip away at it, steadying it with one foot.
"Aye, 'twill be good t'hit the sheets." Angus placed the last couple of used glasses in the small sink behind the bar. Grabbing the key ring from the metal cashbox, he headed around the end of the bar to lock up the tavern.
The heavy double doors, which closed behind the swinging batwings, were held open by wooden wedges on the floor. Angus moved a chair that had been left in front of the right door, kicked the wedge free, and swung it closed. Just as it was closing on the jamb, it was abruptly forced back against him, making him stagger backward. The shadows of a pair of men filled the doorway as both batwings were thrown open, and before Angus could fully regain his balance, Bertram Knowles's two henchmen came storming in, one carrying a shotgun, the other wielding a club.
Angus made a break for the shotgun behind the bar, but before he had taken the first step, something smacked against the side of his head, throwing the room into blackness and knocking him to his hands and knees. He heard wood cracking, and his vision cleared enough to see the man with the club bringing it down on a nearby tabletop, then swinging it against the overhanging chandelier.
Through the ringing in Angus's ears he heard Old Bailey screeching and cursing. It must have annoyed the intruders, because as Angus's vision continued to clear he looked up to see the man with the shotgun raising the weapon toward the parrot's perch behind the bar. The man was only a few feet in front of Angus, while the other man was busy circling the room, smashing everything in sight. Forcing his feet up under him, Angus leaped at the back of the shotgunner's legs. He caught the man around the ankles and knocked him forward just as the weapon blasted. The squawking of the bird abruptly ceased, and Angus feared the worst.
The shotgunner was lying on his stomach. Angus tried to stand up away from him, but he had only struggled to his knees when the other man came racing over and brought the club down on his back, knocking him face-down on the floor. The man then began to kick him brutally in the sides.
Angus tried to curl up and protect his face as he turned toward Old Bailey's perch. His vision was obstructed by the shotgunner scrambling to his feet, but as the man came around the other side, Angus caught a glimpse of the perch. It was empty, and he thought he saw a few feathers settling around it. Then the shotgunner grabbed the barrel of his weapon and swung it in a wide arc, bringing the butt crashing against the side of Angus's head.
The hardwood floor seemed to hurtle away from Angus as he was propelled into the darkest of space. He felt things striking his head and sides, but the sensation was muffled and not overly painful. Then it stopped, and he was left to float away alone. He thought he heard faint, distant explosions, as if worlds were colliding somewhere beyond his consciousness, and he fleetingly envisioned the curious image of furniture collapsing and rows of bottles bursting on a shelf. But then the spraying shards of glass became the twinkling of a million stars, and Angus eagerly flew through them, following a shimmering green bird that soared ahead, its luminescent body a meteor lighting the night.
Several blocks away, Christopher pulled up the collar of his blue coat against the stiff night breeze and continued east along the tracks that divided Railroad and North Second streets. The tall, lanky youth had no idea how long he had been walking the streets, but he guessed that by now it must be a couple of hours after midnight. He knew he should head back to the church, but the idea of returning empty-handed gnawed at him. It was bad enough being treated like a child by Sister Lorraine. It was worse to have his youth and inexperience confirmed by a couple of hooligans who thought themselves better because they were a year or two older and who hid behind each other, afraid to face him one on one.
"We'll see who has guts," Christopher muttered as he touched the long kitchen knife under his belt and envisioned himself disemboweling each of the young men, spilling their intestines onto the dirt. Then reality struck home: He had been walking the streets for several hours and had come no closer to finding the shack one of his attackers had mentioned to the other last night after beating him up. It could be any shack, anywhere in Abilene—and so many of the buildings looked like shacks.
Christopher was well beyond the main business district, near the stockyards of the Great Western Cattle Company. Buildings were going up all around the stockyards, and he guessed that within a few years the loading docks would be moved farther east, and this part of town would become indistinguishable from the rest of the downtown area. He was about to head back when he noticed a dilapidated wooden structure perched in an overgrown field just beyond the stockyard fence. As he approached, he saw a sign hanging on one hinge over the porch, but it wasn’t until he was within twenty feet or so that he made out the fading letters in the thin moonlight: The Line Shack. Smaller signs in the windows announced that the establishment was a purveyor of fine whiskey for drovers who had been long on the trail.
The building was obviously an abandoned saloon of sorts—an exceedingly tiny one made to look like a typical line shack found on the perimeter of a large ranch. It probably had served the influx of cowboys during Abilene's early boom days as a cattle shipping center but had quickly succumbed to the more substantial establishments that had sprung up with the coming of the railroad.
Christopher stepped up onto the rickety porch that fronted the shack. The creak of the planks was magnified by the stillness of the night, and he paused a moment to listen for any sounds from inside. All remained quiet, so he approached the front door, turned the rusty knob, and t
hrust it open. There was an abrupt cry of surprise, accompanied by the sounds of people stirring and bedsprings squeaking.
"Whaa?" a muffled voice cried. "Who is it?"
Christopher heard several people getting up, as well as what sounded like a gun being cocked. He quickly backed away from the open doorway and stepped off the porch, his hand clutching the knife handle and drawing the blade from his belt. A moment later a dark silhouette appeared in the doorway, then a lantern came on inside the shack, lighting the back of the figure and obscuring his features.
"Who's out there?" the person called.
Trying to steady his nerves and voice, Christopher replied, "I'm looking for two guys I played cards with last night."
"Who are you?"
"My name's Christopher. If they're in there, those fellows will remember me. They stole my cards."
Someone handed the lantern to the young man at the door, who held it out over the porch, bathing his face in light. Christopher saw that this fellow wasn’t one of the ones he was seeking, though he was about the same age—eighteen or so. Christopher realized that he also was being illuminated by the lantern, so he lowered the knife from sight.
"Are you crazy coming here like this?" the young man said as a half-dozen others began to pile out of the shack behind him, all wearing long johns. "For a deck of cards?"
"Then this is the right shack? The bastards are here?"
Suddenly one of the others pushed to the front and blurted, "Just who're you calling a bastard?"
Recognizing him as one of the cardplayers, Christopher squeezed the knife handle and replied, "You. Bastard!"
Suddenly the young man jumped off the porch and charged Christopher, who brought up the knife and thrust it forward. Seeing the flash of metal, the young man twisted aside at the last moment. The blade grazed along his side, tearing his long johns and making a long gash along his skin. As much from surprise as pain, he went down on one knee, clutching his bleeding side. "Damn!" he muttered, looking up and realizing for the first time that Christopher was armed with more than his fists. The others on the porch seemed just as shocked, and it took them a moment to react. Then they started to advance, cautiously at first, wary of the long blade in Christopher's hand.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 11