Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Putting his finger under Patrick's chin, Flint gently forced him to look back up. "Unless what, Patrick?"

  "Well...I found something in the street, and I think one of them may have dropped it." His hand slipped into his pocket as if he were about to reveal the object in question—or perhaps was trying to protect it.

  "Can I see it?" Flint held out his hand and waited as Patrick looked at his feet again, frowned, then hesitantly pulled out a playing card. Flint didn’t have to see the face to know it had a nude woman painted on it. Trying not to grin, he said, "They must have stolen the rest of the deck. And you think Christopher's gone to get it back, right?"

  Still looking down, Patrick nodded.

  "Any idea where he's gone?"

  Patrick shook his head, then said, "Except for something the other two fellows said when I came running over." He looked up now. "I heard one of them say, 'Let's get back to the shack.'"

  "The shack?"

  Patrick shrugged. "Maybe it's where they live."

  "Do you think Christopher heard them?"

  "He must've. He was lying right there, and he wasn't unconscious or anything like that."

  Flint nodded slowly. "That's a very good lead, Patrick. If I can find that shack, perhaps I'll discover what happened to your friend."

  Patrick suddenly looked very worried. "You don't think they—"

  "Let's not presume the worst. The thing right now is for me to find that shack."

  "Maybe I could help," the boy suggested.

  "You've helped already. I think I'd better take over from here. Sister Lorraine is worried enough about Christopher."

  "I might be able to—"

  "Don't worry about Christopher—I'll find him. And if I need any help, I'll let you know." He patted the boy on the shoulder and turned to leave.

  "Uh, what about this?" Patrick asked, his tone dripping with guilt.

  Flint looked back and saw the boy holding out the playing card. "You said you found it in the street," he replied. "It could be anyone's, so you might as well keep it. What good's one card without the rest of the deck?"

  "It's not a normal card. Maybe you should look at it."

  "I don't need to, Patrick. I've seen a naked lady before." Grinning, Flint headed down the boardwalk, whistling as he walked away.

  Patrick stood looking at the queen of hearts. He felt his own heart quicken as he stared at the alluring woman, who was clad only in a gauzy red scarf that had fallen away from her ample breasts and only barely covered her lower abdomen. How he yearned for a magic eraser that could remove the offending garb and unveil the mysteries beneath!

  It was late afternoon, and traffic was picking up at the Black Dog Saloon as other businesses began to close and the first cowboys arrived from the range. Willis Donnelly was playing poker at his usual table against the far wall, near the door that led to his private office. He was already dressed for the evening in a dark-gray suit with a matching vest and a ruffled white shirt. It had been a warm day, and despite the faint breeze that drifted in around the batwings, his forehead was beaded with sweat. He would wait a little longer before closing the top button of his shirt or knotting the string tie that hung undone from his collar.

  "Two pair, jacks high," he announced, placing his cards faceup on the table. One by one the other three players folded their hands, and he grinned broadly and raked in the pot. "Don't look so gloomy," he declared, shuffling the deck. "The night's young, and there's plenty of money to be won. So why not raise the limit to, say, five dollars?" He stared from one player to the next. "This just might be your hand..." He tapped the cards, then began to deal.

  The other players grumbled their assent, and the hand was played. As Donnelly had predicted, one of the other men won this hand, and the saloon owner congratulated him and again suggested they raise the betting limit.

  "Too rich for me," mumbled a young cowboy whose expectations far exceeded his wallet. He pushed back his chair, picked up his sweat-stained hat, and left the game.

  "Anyone want in?" Donnelly asked as a small crowd began to gather around the table. "Or is a ten-dollar limit too rich for the rest of you?"

  A man in a brown suit took up the challenge and dropped into the seat. Producing a wallet from his inside coat pocket, he removed a small bundle of bills. "I'm ready," he said, nodding toward the cards. "Deal."

  "Gentlemen?" Donnelly asked the other two players. They indicated that they were ready, and the deal began.

  Donnelly was just picking up his cards and fanning out his hand when he was startled by a loud banging as the batwings flew open and cracked against the walls on either side of the doorway. Looking up to see a stocky, muscular man step inside, he muttered, "MacQuarrie."

  "Willis Donnelly!" the man in the doorway called out, gaining the attention of the room. "I want a word wi' ye!"

  Donnelly's eyes narrowed as Angus MacQuarrie started across the room toward his table. Though it was easy to see that the Scotsman was angry, Donnelly couldn’t tell whether he was threatening violence. Out of the corner of his eye, the saloon owner saw one of Bert Knowles's men moving toward the table, and he waved the man back, then turned to Angus. "You've found me. Now what do you want?"

  "Wha' I want is t'break ye neck. But I'll be satisfied wi' a hundred dollars."

  "What are you talking about?" Donnelly asked, genuinely confused. "A hundred dollars?"

  "Aye. For repairs t'me tavern."

  "I don't know what you're—"

  "Ye know damn well wha' I'm talking about!" Angus stepped up beside the businessman in the brown suit and slammed his fist against the table, upsetting a couple of shot glasses and totally petrifying the businessman. "It did'na take much brains t'figure out tha' the order comes from ye own mouth when the likes o' Knowles 'n' his lackeys smash up me tavern 'n' try t'kill me Old Bailey!"

  "You're crazy."

  "Aye, 'n' I'll be crazier still if ye dinna give me the money I ask."

  "I'm not paying anything I don't owe. If you've got a complaint, take it up with the marshal."

  "We both know wha' good tha' will do. No, I want no part o' the law in this. Wha' I want is one hundred dollars t'fix the mess ye boys made o' me tavern."

  "I said I'm not paying anything, and if you don't get out of here, I'll have you thrown out." Donnelly sat back and nodded at one of the men standing to the side. The man drew and cocked his revolver.

  Angus looked at the man with the gun, and a broad grin spread across his face. Turning to Donnelly, he commented, "'Tis said ye are a betting man. No?"

  Donnelly narrowed his eyes but didn’t reply.

  "An' a cautious man." Angus waved a hand toward the gunman. "Aye, there's no doubt o' tha'." He placed both palms on the table and leaned toward Donnelly. "A cautious, betting man. So wha' say ye to a sure bet?"

  Donnelly cocked his head slightly. "What kind of bet?"

  "Ye are a big man—bigger than me, t'be sure. Let's put away the guns 'n' resolve this a'tween just we two."

  "If you think I'm going to engage in some common brawl with the likes of you—"

  "Not a brawl, Willis Donnelly. Wha' we'll do is clasp hands o'er tha' bar there 'n' see who kin put down the other's hand."

  "Are you serious?" Donnelly asked incredulously, and Angus grinned and nodded. "For one hundred dollars?"

  "Aye. The cost o' repairing me tavern."

  "But I had nothing to do—"

  "Call it wha' ye will, but if I win, I get me hundred."

  "And if I win?"

  Angus reached into his pocket and slapped five gold coins onto the table.

  Seeing the twenty-dollar gold pieces, Donnelly smiled. "You've got your bet, Scotsman." He rose and removed his jacket, then rolled up his sleeves, revealing muscular arms. He was several inches taller than Angus and a good thirty pounds heavier, but Angus didn’t seem at all concerned as he rolled his own sleeves and headed toward the bar.

  The patrons crowded around, exchanging money and placing b
ets as the two men took up positions across from each other at the bar. The immediate area was cleared of bottles and glasses, and then Donnelly placed his elbow at the center of the bar and unclenched his fist, ready to clasp Angus's hand.

  The Scotsman started to place his elbow beside Donnelly's, but then he pulled back and grinned at the bigger man. "Wha' say ye t'raising the stakes?"

  "More than a hundred dollars?" Donnelly asked, removing his arm from the bar.

  "Not the wager," Angus replied, shaking his head. "But the contest." He reached into his pants pocket and produced two stubby, inch-high candles, which he placed about three feet apart on the bar—at the precise spot that either hand would come down. He took out a match, struck it across the surface of the bar, and lit each candle, saying, "The loser is the man whose hand goes down or who blows out the flame."

  The crowd began to whisper in excitement, and the betting dramatically increased. Donnelly looked at the crowd, then at Angus, whose face became an expressionless mask as he placed his elbow between the candles. Donnelly's own features hardened, and he took a few deep breaths. "I'll see your bet," he declared as he positioned his elbow beside Angus's and firmly grasped his opponent's hand.

  As if on a signal, the two men started to push. Their knuckles whitened, their hands vibrated, but there was no movement to the right or left. As the seconds passed, their biceps swelled and the veins on their forearms began to protrude. A few beads of sweat rolled down Donnelly's forehead and into his eye, forcing him to blink, while Angus's lips quivered and parted, revealing clenched teeth through his bushy red beard. The crowd cheered them on, softly at first but then with increasing intensity, with the majority favoring the owner of the Black Dog. The clamor must have had an effect because, imperceptibly at first, Donnelly's hand began to come down over Angus's, slowly driving the Scotsman's arm toward the candle.

  All of Angus's concentration was focused on his hand, as if willing it to change direction and head back over the top. But the descent continued, the back of his hand drawing ever closer to the candle. As if mocking him, the flame rose higher, until the yellow tip was but inches from his flesh. His eyes widened as the hair on the back of his hand began to singe. The acrid smell touched his nostrils, and he could see a circle of black soot forming on the flesh. He turned away and stared directly at Donnelly, whose attention was still focused on the flame. A faint smile formed on Angus's lips, and then he closed his eyes, his expression inexplicably calm, as though he were no longer aware of the pain. It was as if the heat were filling his arm with renewed strength, for his hand slowly began to move away from the flame.

  Donnelly could see his advantage slipping, and his eyes widened with surprise and fear as his hand approached the apex. With a grunt he tightened his grip and put all his strength into driving Angus's arm down. Their hands shook uncontrollably, the corded muscles of their arms bulging and quivering. And then Donnelly's wrist weakened, and Angus's hand came over the top, relentlessly driving the other hand toward the opposite flame.

  Donnelly blurted a curse in an attempt to summon the strength to regain the advantage. He looked up at Angus, hoping to see something that would give him an edge, but Angus's eyes remained closed, his expression a serene, unreadable mask. He muttered the word again as the first lash of heat touched his skin.

  Donnelly watched, transfixed with horror as the flame lengthened and leaned toward his approaching hand as if seeking some new source of nourishment, unaware that it was merely following the currents of air that were being disturbed by their hands. He forced himself not to curse again as hair and then skin began to singe. He knew he could hold out for only a few seconds more, just as he knew he no longer had the strength to reverse the tide and defeat the accursed Scotsman. But he wouldn’t give Angus the satisfaction of seeing him blow out the flame, nor would he give in prematurely to the heat. He would endure to the last of his strength, until the flame itself was licking his flesh. And then he would see Angus MacQuarrie in hell!

  "Give it up!" a voice shouted, and Donnelly saw the tall, former marshal of Wichita push through the crowd and step up beside Angus. "Let it go!" Lucas Flint demanded.

  Donnelly merely gritted his teeth and pushed all the harder, and for a moment his hand began to rise away from the flame, but then it started to come down again, until it was but an inch away.

  "Damn you both!" Flint cursed, and he reached out and swiped away the candle, dousing the flame as wax splattered across the surface of the bar.

  Despite the obvious relief to his hand, Donnelly's eyes communicated a burning anger at having been denied the chance to prove that, though he might lose the wager, he could endure the pain. And lose he did, for suddenly his arm gave out and his hand smashed against the top of the bar. He repeated the curse one more time, this time directing the word at Lucas Flint as he rubbed his wrist and hand. He glanced over at the bartender and said, "Pay the man." Then he turned to Angus. "Don't think this is finished."

  Angus glared at him but held his tongue. He walked over to Donnelly's table and retrieved his own gold coins. Returning to the bar, he received an equal amount from the bartender and stuffed the coins in his pocket.

  "Let's get out of here," Flint said, placing a hand on Angus's shoulder.

  "Aye," the Scotsman muttered, turning to go.

  "Yes, you'd better get out of here," Donnelly said, pointing the forefinger of his burned hand at Lucas Flint. "And I don't mean my saloon. I want you out of Abilene." He swung his finger toward Angus. "And you...just remember that this isn't finished."

  "Dinna be threatening me," Angus said, holding his ground. "An' dinna be sending the likes o' Bert Knowles t'be doing ye work." He turned to address the crowd. "I say it in front o' ye all. I will'na pay a single cent to any man for protection I dinna need nor want. An' any man who tries t'lay a hand on me or mine will have this Scotsman to answer to!" Turning to the bar and glowering at Donnelly, he reached toward the candle that was still flickering and pressed the wick between his thumb and forefinger, smothering the flame. Then he stalked off through the parting crowd and pushed through the batwings.

  As Flint turned to follow, Donnelly called after him, "Your reputation doesn’t scare me, Flint. You've got exactly two hours to get out of town."

  Flint paused, and as his hands settled against his hips, he was painfully aware that he wasn’t wearing a gun. Without looking back, he replied, "I hear you." Then he continued through the crowd and followed Angus through the still-swinging doors.

  Precisely two hours later, Lucas Flint stood alone in the middle of his cramped, second-floor hotel room, looking down at the small valise that lay open on the iron bed. He started to reach inside, then pulled back his hand.

  What would Mary think? he wondered. What would she tell me to do?

  "She would stand beside me," he said aloud. "She'd tell me to do what I thought was best."

  And he knew that leaving Abilene wasn’t what was

  best—for himself, for Sister Lorraine and her children, for the people of Abilene. Though his search that day hadn’t turned up the missing orphan boy, Flint had asked enough questions to confirm that Willis Donnelly was at the head of a growing crime network that wouldn’t hesitate to murder anyone who stood in its way. And if the local citizens sought assistance from Marshal Hiram Perkins, they quickly found him either too incompetent or too scared to do much about the situation—or else he was receiving a more lucrative offer from Donnelly to look the other way.

  The story, as Flint had been able to piece it together, was that when Donnelly returned to Abilene after being released from prison, he discovered that some of the men who had taken over his operation were not willing to give it back. A bloody struggle for control had broken out, but that hadn’t concerned the local populace so long as it was confined to the town's lawless elements.

  But when Bert Knowles arrived on the scene, the situation escalated. Soon Donnelly had firm control over Abilene's underworld, and he began expan
ding his operations. Local businesses were forced to pay protection money so that they wouldn’t be the target of so-called random violence, which in actuality was carried out by some of the town's tougher youth, hired by Donnelly himself. Those who wouldn’t pay, such as Angus MacQuarrie, soon learned that the cost for refusing was high.

  During the previous week, the remaining opposition to Donnelly had begun to collapse. The catalyst was the murder of Judge Lloyd Markham, who had been working actively to bring Willis Donnelly to justice. Few in town doubted that the crime leader had ordered the murder, but Donnelly had been attending a dance-hall revue at the time of the shooting and had been seen by a large number of citizens. While he easily could have hired someone to do the job, Marshal Perkins was unable to turn up any evidence. Even Bert Knowles had an ironclad alibi, since he had been playing cards all night—in Angus's Tavern, no less.

  Lucas Flint walked to the window and looked down at Texas Street. It was early evening, yet the street was strangely empty, as if people sensed what was about to take place. Gazing toward the saloon district, he saw a group of four men approaching down the middle of the road. Though none of them appeared to be wearing a sling, Flint was certain Bert Knowles was among them.

  Returning to the bed, Flint stared into the valise a final time. Then he whispered, "Help me, Mary," and reached inside, pulling out a well-worn leather gun belt. Grasping the walnut butt of the holstered Colt Peacemaker, he slid the gun out and hefted it, remembering the familiar feel. Dropping the belt onto the bed, he opened the chamber of the gun and spun the cylinder, making sure it was empty. Then he picked up the gun belt again, strapped it low around his waist, and tied the thongs around his thigh. Sliding the gun into the well-oiled holster, he eased it in and out a few times, then took a stance facing the bureau mirror.

  As quick as lightning, Flint drew the gun, cocking the hammer as he brought it up and then squeezing the trigger, all in one fluid motion. Satisfied that his continued practice during the past three years had kept him from losing too much speed, he removed six bullets from the belt and loaded the gun. Tonight, he wouldn’t take the precaution of leaving empty the chamber under the hammer; he knew that it would be empty soon enough.