Remembering the earlier sound of a gun being cocked, Christopher figured that at least one of them might be armed with something more effective than a knife. Trying to keep the advantage, he turned to the young man who was still down on one knee. Taking a quick step forward, Christopher lifted his right leg and kicked the wounded man full force under the chin, knocking him onto his back.
The others started to rush him, but Christopher leaped forward and straddled the unconscious young man, gripping his hair and pulling back his head with one hand while pressing the tip of the knife blade against his neck with the other. "Get away!" he shouted.
"Take it easy," the fellow with the lantern urged as he signaled the others to hold back. "Let Marc go."
"Not till I get my cards."
"Hell, is that all?" The young man spun around, seeking one person among the group, and called, "Get 'em and give 'em back, Jimmy." When Jimmy stood his ground, he shouted, "Now!"
Jimmy glowered, but he seemed unwilling to buck the apparent leader of the group. Finally he cursed under his breath and stalked into the shack. A moment later he returned with the cards.
"Give 'em here," the leader said when it looked as if Jimmy was about to throw them at Christopher, and reluctantly Jimmy complied. Then the leader, still holding the lantern, walked forward alone, and held out the cards.
Christopher let go of Marc's hair and cautiously reached up, snatching away the deck and stuffing it into his pants pocket, all the while keeping the blade at Marc's throat.
"Now what're you gonna do?" the leader asked.
Christopher looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"
The young man nodded toward the others standing in a half-circle behind him. "How are you gonna get out of here? Drag Marc all the way with you?"
For the first time, Christopher looked noticeably nervous. He glanced around and seemed to realize the awkwardness of his position. His best hope was to make a break for it and disappear in the darkness. But he needed a head start. Grabbing Marc's hair again and pressing down slightly on the knife, he said, "I want all of you to get back in that shack. And close the door. If you come out before I give the word, your friend's as good as dead."
The leader started to grin. "You don't really think that's gonna work, now do you? We've got rifles in there. We could plug you before you got two feet away."
"I...I'll take my chances. Just do what I say!"
"Easy now. Maybe there's another way." The young man paused, as if giving Christopher time to get more nervous and confused, then said, "My name's Ray, and these are some of my friends. It's good to have friends, don't you think?"
Christopher stared at him, not knowing what to think. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but—"
"Hold on," Ray cut in. "I'm just saying it's good to have friends who'll stand by you in a fight. Is that why you came alone? You ain't got friends who'll back you up?"
"I don't need friends."
"What about your family?"
"Never had one—and I don't need one, either."
"An orphan, eh?" When Christopher made no reply, Ray added, "Marc said he heard something about a Sister. Ain't you a little old to be traveling with a nun and a bunch of orphans?"
"I can leave whenever I want," he replied defensively.
"So why don't you?" Ray pressed, and Christopher shrugged his shoulders. "'Cause you ain't got nowhere to go. And you ain't got any friends."
Christopher could feel Marc stirring beneath him. "You better get back in that shack like I said," he demanded, his voice betraying his fear.
"Forget Marc," Ray said. "He deserved what you did. And it showed you got real guts." He noted the way Christopher seemed to swell with pride, so he added, "Yes, real guts. I could use a friend like you. We all could—even Marc."
Christopher eyed him closely. "I don't understand..."
"Look, forget what happened tonight. You got your cards back, and you can go. No one's gonna hurt you. I promise. But maybe you should consider staying."
"Staying? Here?"
"Exactly. Me and my friends have been making a pretty good living for ourselves. There's plenty of easy work to be had—if you know the right people and ain't afraid of a little excitement now and then. What do you say?"
"I...I don't know."
"You said you ain't got any friends. Here you'll have friends and money, instead of a bunch of little orphans and a nun telling you when to put on your socks." Ray reached over and laid a palm on Christopher's knife hand. "C'mon, what do you say? Let him up. No one's gonna hurt you."
Christopher glanced down and saw that Marc's eyes were open wide now, staring up at him in fright. He felt the muscles of his hand relax, and he allowed Ray to pull the knife away from Marc's throat.
"That's better. Like I promised, no one's gonna hurt you." Ray stood and pulled Christopher up by the forearm. Looking down at Marc, Ray said, "Get back inside."
Marc crawled away slightly, then clambered to his feet and hobbled over to the others, clutching his bleeding side, his fear slowly being replaced by a look of anger.
"Forget him," Ray said, wrapping an arm around Christopher's shoulder. "He'll get over it." He looked Christopher directly in the eye. "So how about it? You want in?"
Christopher stared at the group of young men in front of the shack, then glanced at the railroad tracks behind him. He thought of Sister Lorraine and the orphans and remembered how childish he felt around them. Turning back, he realized that he was almost as big as Ray, even though he was only sixteen. And Ray didn’t treat him like a child but like one of the group. Jamming the knife behind his belt, he smiled sheepishly and then found himself nodding.
"Good!" Ray clapped him on the back. "And the first thing we're gonna do is introduce you to Marc and Jimmy, so there'll be no hard feelings." With his arm around Christopher's shoulder, he started toward the waiting group, then suddenly paused, and put his hand to his chin. "Oh, yes, there's one other thing."
Christopher looked at him questioningly and asked, "What?"
Smiling, Ray removed his hand from around Christopher's shoulder. "This," he said in a steely tone as he abruptly drew back his right arm and swung his fist full force into Christopher's unprotected stomach, doubling the youth over and knocking the breath out of him.
Gasping and clutching his belly, Christopher looked up, his eyes widening with wild rage. Straightening, he cursed, and clawed at the knife in his belt.
"Take it easy!" Ray shouted as he grabbed Christopher's wrist and held it locked in place. "I just wanted to see if you really got guts...and you do." He stared at Christopher a long moment until he was certain the youth wouldn’t do anything foolish, then released his wrist. Backing up a few steps, he raised his hands palm forward. "Sorry, but I had to see what you're made of." He grinned. "And you needed to know the same about me."
Christopher was still clutching the handle of his knife. Slowly he relaxed his grip and let the blade settle in place behind his belt. A thin smile touched his lips, and he muttered, "You really are a bastard, aren't you?"
"You're damn right," Ray declared as he stepped closer and again clapped Christopher on the back. "But coming from someone who don't know his ma or his pa, I'd call that a compliment." Laughing, he led Christopher through the circle of young men and into the shack.
10
The cool morning fog was burning off as the sun rose in the sky; the only remaining evidence of yesterday's storm was an occasional patch of mud along Texas Street. There was a great deal of commotion in front of Dr. Lewis Gilmore's office this Thursday morning as his associate stood in the doorway and ushered sixteen youngsters into the waiting room so that each could be given an examination.
"Is that everyone?" Rose Keller asked as the last of the children crossed the threshold.
"I wish it were," Sister Lorraine replied, her tone betraying her concern. "Christopher, our oldest boy, has not been seen all morning. I'm afraid he's run off."
"Perhap
s he went for a walk."
Sister Lorraine shook her head slowly. "He left in the middle of the night. Soon after going to bed, one of the boys saw him leave, and he hasn't been back."
"I'm sure he'll turn up. We're a small community, and he couldn't have gone far."
"I hope you're right," the nun responded.
"And when he returns, you just bring him over, and I'll be glad to examine him, as well."
"Thank you. And thank you also for sending us to Reverend Markham's. He's been so accommodating. In fact, he's out looking for Christopher right now."
"Then everything will be fine," Rose pronounced confidently. "Shall we go in and get started?" She held the door wide for Sister Lorraine to enter.
"Can I leave the children here for a while? The older ones will take care of the younger."
"Of course."
"I'd like to find Mr. Flint, if I can."
Rose smiled fleetingly as she recalled the pleasant dinner they had the night before, but then her smile faded. "I think you'll find him next door at Angus's Tavern."
Seeing Rose's look of displeasure, Sister Lorraine assumed she disapproved of Flint frequenting the saloon at such an early hour. But she also wondered how Rose knew he was there, and she asked, "You've seen him this morning?"
"I'm afraid so. There was a bit of a brawl last night. Lucas—uh, Mr. Flint wasn't involved, but his friend Angus MacQuarrie was beaten senseless and his tavern ransacked. Mr. Flint found him early this morning and brought him over. I patched his head, but I couldn't convince him to rest. The two of them are in there trying to clean things up."
"Oh, dear," Sister Lorraine muttered. Then she thanked Rose again and headed down the walkway.
Approaching the tavern, she realized it had been quite some time since she had entered such an establishment. Suddenly she felt very self-conscious in her nun's habit, but she took a deep breath, made a silent prayer, and pushed through the swinging doors. She must have looked like the shade of death standing in front of the batwings in her black outfit, for there was no response from the two men for a full ten seconds after they turned to look at her. Then the stocky tavernkeeper declared, "The Devil be damned!" His words were instantly echoed in a weird, high-pitched squawk.
"And that he will...if Sister Lorraine has anything to say about it," Lucas Flint said as he recognized the visitor. "Angus, I want you to meet the nun I told you about. Sister Lorraine, this is Angus MacQuarrie. And that's Old Bailey." He pointed to the green parrot sitting on a splintered, lopsided perch in front of the shattered mirror. "He's lost a few tail feathers, but he's no worse off than his master, who's lost a few red hairs."
Sister Lorraine noticed that a narrow bandage circled Angus's head. As she approached the bar, she quickly took in the destruction all around her. Tables were overturned, chairs and chandeliers shattered, and virtually every bottle on the back shelf knocked down and smashed. The entire room reeked with the pungent fumes of whiskey and kerosene.
"Thank God no one lit a match," she commented as she stepped up beside the two men at the bar.
"Aye," Angus agreed, nodding. "An' just let 'em try. Then they'll know a Scotsman's wrath!"
Sister Lorraine guessed from Angus's tone that this had been no usual tavern brawl. Not wanting to pry, she said, "So you're from Scotland?"
"Born 'n' bred. 'Tis a pleasure t'meet ye." He held out his hand and was surprised at the woman's firm grip.
"I'm Irish," she said matter-of-factly.
"An Irisher?" Angus's eyebrows rose. "Ye dinna speak wi' the tongue o' the blarney."
"I was born in America. My parents came from Ireland."
"'Tis sorry I am," he said with genuine feeling, and Sister Lorraine didn’t know whether he was referring to her birthplace or heritage. He smiled again and went on, "Lucas tells me ye are bringing t'Wichita a dozen or more bairns." Seeing her confused look, he said, "Bairns...wee ones."
She smiled and nodded. "Yes. Seventeen orphans."
"How is Patrick doing?" Flint asked.
"Fine. Dr. Keller is examining him now," she replied, though her eyes betrayed a concern of sorts. "It's..."
"One of the others?" Flint asked.
"Yes. Our oldest boy, Christopher. He seems to have run off, and I have no idea where or why."
Remembering the incident at the tavern the night before last, Flint nodded sympathetically. He assumed that Sister Lorraine was unaware of what had occurred, and he was about to tell her when she asked, "Do you think you could help look for him before we leave for Wichita, Mr. Flint?"
Deciding to wait before betraying the boy's trust, he said, "Have you spoken to the marshal yet?"
"No, not yet. After all, he may have just taken off for a few hours. But if you think I should report this—"
"No, you're probably wise in waiting," Flint cut in. "I'll be glad to look for him, and if I don't turn up anything, then we'll bring in Marshal Perkins."
"Thank you so much," she replied with evident relief.
"How long has he been gone?"
"Since shortly after going to bed last night."
"Then I'd better get started at once."
"I know you're eager to be on your way to Wichita," she said, "but I'm afraid I can't leave until I find Christopher. So if you need to be going..."
He waved off her concern. "It doesn’t makes any difference when I get there. Right now, the important thing is to find out what's become of Christopher."
"Bless you," she whispered with such genuine feeling that Flint found himself blushing.
"The Devil be damned!" Old Bailey piped in, and Sister Lorraine spun toward the parrot and replied, "My sentiments precisely!"
Patrick Hammond was the first to be examined by Dr. Keller, who pronounced the gash on his skull all but healed. She removed the bandage and cautioned him to keep the area clean, then ushered him out of the examining room so that she could see the rest of the children.
For a while Patrick sat with the others in the waiting room while his sister, Alice, accompanied the younger ones in to see the doctor. Growing bored, he headed into the front entryway and then slipped out through the front door. Standing on the porch, he saw Sister Lorraine and Lucas Flint come out of the tavern next door. Then a voice called the nun's name, and the minister from the Methodist church waved at them and started across the street.
Patrick casually stepped off the porch and wandered across the yard, his toe kicking a pebble as he tried to make out their conversation. At first, it was apparent that Flint was being introduced to the minister, but then their voices deepened and grew more serious, and Patrick had to risk getting closer to hear.
"...And I've asked everywhere, but no one's seen the boy," Joshua Markham was saying as he shook his head sadly.
"I don't understand it at all," Sister Lorraine put in.
"Has he ever done this before?" Flint asked.
"Christopher's always been on the wild side, but he's never run off. I've caught him playing poker and drinking a couple of times, but that's been the extent of it."
Remembering how he had betrayed Christopher to Flint the other night, Patrick suddenly felt very guilty. He backed away slightly and stooped down to play with a stick, though he was still close enough to hear what was being said.
"I'll check the other saloons," Flint offered. He looked at the nun's black habit and Joshua's clerical collar, then glanced down at his own jeans and dusty boots and smiled. "It looks like I'm better dressed for the part."
"I'm certainly willing to go into a saloon, if that's what's needed," Joshua said.
"So am I," Sister Lorraine insisted.
Flint raised a hand. "I think I'd be less conspicuous and might find out something you couldn't. You must admit you'd create quite a stir—especially you, Sister Lorraine."
"Which is exactly what I intend to do the moment I find out where that fool boy has run off to!" She turned to head toward the doctor's office. "If you gentlemen will excuse me, I must check o
n the children."
Still stooping nearby, Patrick realized there wasn’t enough time to leave, so he turned away and continued to play with the stick. When Sister Lorraine approached and saw him idly poking the stick into the ground, she asked, "Patrick, how is your head?"
"Uh, my head?" he asked with some confusion as he spun around and looked up at her. Then he realized what she was talking about, and he touched the sore spot and said, "It's better. The doctor says I don't need a bandage no more."
"Anymore," she corrected him, then smiled and continued up the walkway to the front door.
As soon as she disappeared inside, Patrick looked over at the two men. They were shaking hands, and then the minister headed down the street toward his church. Lucas Flint turned to Patrick and smiled. With a nod, he started down Texas Street in the opposite direction.
Before Patrick realized what he was doing, he jumped up and called, "Mr. Flint!" and started after the tall man.
The former marshal had just stepped onto the boardwalk in front of the Grand Palace Hotel. He turned and waited for the boy. "What is it?" he asked as Patrick came over.
Looking a bit guilty, Patrick scraped his boot against the boardwalk planks and said, "I, uh, didn't mean to listen in, but I heard you talking about Christopher."
Placing a hand on Patrick's shoulder, Flint asked directly, "Do you know where he's gone?"
"No. But something happened the other night."
"What?"
"It was after you went into the saloon to get him. I went back to the church but hadn't gone inside yet when I heard something—people fighting." He looked up into Flint's clear green eyes and seemed to decide that he could trust the man, because he went on, "It was Christopher—in a fight with two older boys. I think they were the ones in the saloon with him."
"They beat him up?"
Patrick nodded. "Not too bad, though. They ran off when they saw me coming. Christopher was real mad and swore they'd pay for it. He said they didn't steal anything, but later he called them a couple of thieves. I don't know why...unless..." He looked down at his feet.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 12