Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  He holstered the gun again and stood there for a long moment.

  Even though he knew he was imagining it, the smell of gunsmoke seemed to hang in the air of the room.

  As Flint made his way downstairs and stepped into the fading sunlight, he saw that the four men who had accosted Sister Lorraine's wagon train were waiting for him. Directly across the street from the hotel, Bert Knowles, no longer wearing a sling, sat on the boardwalk railing, smoking a thin cigar, a Winchester cradled in his lap. Jax and the other two men, each wearing a low-slung holster, stood farther to Flint's right, spaced six to ten feet apart.

  Knowles took the cigar from his mouth and dropped it to the ground. "I see you're wearin' an iron," he drawled. His mouth quirked into a smile. "You should've taken Mr. Donnelly's advice."

  "Never was much good at taking advice...especially from a couple of outlaws like you and your boss," Flint said evenly as he positioned himself so that he could draw and fire from left to right, starting with Knowles and moving down the line.

  Knowles's smile faded, and though his rifle was still pointed away from Flint, his finger closed around the trigger. "I'm givin' you one last chance to ride out of here," he declared, his voice betraying an edge of fear. When Flint stood his ground, he added, "No one's gonna help you. The marshal's been called out of town on business."

  By Willis Donnelly, no doubt, Flint thought, though he was uncertain whether the marshal had been duped or had gone along willingly. In any case, Flint never expected assistance from that quarter, and he replied, "I'll leave when I'm ready. Make your move."

  Flint, knowing Jax and the others wouldn’t fire before their leader, watched as Knowles smiled again and then slipped down off the railing. Seeing Knowles's eyes narrow slightly, he knew the play was beginning, and he was ready. Even before the muzzle of the Winchester came up all the way, Flint's Peacemaker cleared leather and roared for the first time, the bullet thudding into Knowles's chest and throwing him backward over the railing.

  Moving his arm in a smooth arc, Flint swung his gun to the right and took out the first of Knowles's cohorts as the man was drawing his gun. Realizing that the other two would be palming theirs by now, he dove to the ground and rolled just as their guns fired. One of the bullets creased his left arm, but he paid it no mind as he came up in a crouch, carefully but quickly aiming at the next man in line—the one named Jax. He fired, and Jax dropped his gun and threw his hands to his neck, blood welling between his fingers. He tried to scream but made only a choking, gurgling sound. Then his legs gave way and he fell to the dirt.

  Still crouching, Flint whirled and tried to make out the final gunman through the thick cloud of gunsmoke. The man had retreated across the street, and when Flint finally caught sight of him, he was already squeezing off a shot. Before Flint could bring his own gun into play, there was a loud report from somewhere off to the left, followed by the sound of the gunman's revolver firing harmlessly into the air as he went down with a bullet in the head.

  Flint spun to his left, expecting to see Angus MacQuarrie with rifle in hand. Instead a young, dark-haired man dressed in black stood holding the reins of a skittish pinto in one hand and a smoking revolver in the other.

  As the man slipped the gun into his black holster and approached, Flint holstered his own gun, then checked the bodies and confirmed that all were dead. Turning to greet the stranger, Flint noted the tied-down holster and took him for a gunfighter, the image reinforced by a faint, jagged scar that ran diagonally along his right cheek, the result of either a bullet or a knife. But just now the man's background didn’t concern him, and he held out his hand in thanks. As the two men shook hands, people ventured onto the street and gathered around.

  "I didn't approve of the odds," the man said after Flint thanked him. "Though it looks like you might've handled that last hombre on your own."

  "Not if he was a good shot. Thanks again, Mr...?"

  "The name's Cully."

  "And I'm Lucas Flint."

  Cully nodded, the name apparently not registering as anyone special. If he was aware of Flint’s reputation, he didn’t show it. He glanced at the bodies in the street. "Who were they?"

  "Hired guns. Their boss was trying to encourage me to leave town."

  "I reckon he'll have to hire some more boys."

  "How about letting me buy you a drink?" Flint asked.

  "Some other time, maybe." Cully took hold of the saddle horn and lifted himself onto the back of the pinto. "I've got business of my own to attend to." He kneed the horse forward up the street.

  Flint watched as the stranger turned right at the corner of Elm Street and disappeared across the railroad tracks. He realized that a substantial crowd was on hand now, with people pointing at the bodies and talking excitedly among themselves. He heard the names Knowles and Donnelly mentioned quite a few times but paid no attention.

  "That was some pretty fancy shootin', mister," declared a young man standing nearby.

  "They've gone for the undertaker," another commented.

  "Hey, you're bleeding," a third man said. "You'd better get that arm seen to."

  Flint merely nodded. Glancing down at his left arm, he saw the blood seeping through his shirt and remembered taking the slug. He took a last look at Bert Knowles lying on the boardwalk, one foot draped over the railing. Then he turned and walked away.

  11

  Lucas Flint stepped up onto the porch of Dr. Rose Keller's office, gripping his left upper arm where the bullet had creased the skin. Though the bleeding had all but stopped and barely showed under his hand, Flint knew the importance of getting the wound properly cleaned and dressed. In his years as a lawman, he had seen more men die from infection than from the actual gunshot wounds.

  Still holding his arm, Flint rapped against the door with the toe of his boot. Knocking a second time, he heard shuffling footsteps and assumed it was the housekeeper, Mrs. Flannery, coming to open the door. But as the door swung inward, a weak but steady voice declared, "What's all the ruckus out here?" and Flint recognized the elderly Dr. Lewis Gilmore leaning on a cane in the shadowed entryway, dressed in slippers and a sleeping robe. He had a bandage around his forehead and looked as if he hadn’t shaved since before his accident. Frowning, though not really looking angry, the doctor continued, "How's an old man to get his rest with all that commotion out in the street? And now someone banging on the door like there's no tomorrow."

  "Dr. Gilmore—" Flint said in surprise. "I thought you were out at the Lillingstons'."

  The doctor waved his hand and replied gruffly, "That's just what Dr. Keller would like. Lock me up with a passel of boys and a brand-new screaming baby girl, getting an even worse headache"—he touched the bandage—"while she's in town stealing my practice right out from under me!" He rubbed his grizzled chin and smiled. "The only thing worse than a take-charge woman is an in-charge woman doctor."

  "Well, it's good to see you up and about."

  The doctor stepped forward into the open doorway and peered more closely at Flint. "Say, I recognize you now. You're the fellow who brought me to the Lillingstons'."

  "Lucas Flint, sir."

  "Yes, I remember now. We were introduced yesterday, but I confess it was a bit of a blur at the time."

  "How's young Wesley doing?"

  "He'll be in bed for a few weeks, of course, but his mother is already having a hard time keeping him there. If there's no infection, I'd say the lad is going to pull through just fine."

  "Thanks to Dr. Keller," Flint said with a touch of devilment in his voice. "She's quite a surgeon."

  "Of course, she is!" the doctor blurted, again waving off the comment with his hand. "I trained her, didn't I? Hell, she'd better be good with a teacher like me."

  From down the hall a woman said, "What's that you were saying?" and then Rose stepped up behind the elderly man.

  Flustered, the doctor glanced over his shoulder and shook his head defiantly. "Just saying you're lucky to have a teacher
like me."

  "Not that," Rose went on. "I mean the part about my being a good surgeon."

  Dr. Gilmore squinted one eye at her. "Don't be getting no highfalutin ideas, young lady. I'm the surgeon in Abilene and will be till the day I die."

  "And with a head as hard as yours, I'll be an old lady before there's any risk of that!" Grinning, she put a hand on his shoulder. "But I'm still your doctor, and I've prescribed a few more hours in bed."

  Dr. Gilmore allowed himself to be led away from the door. He started to shuffle down the hall on his own, then turned, waved his cane slightly, and said, "Remember, young man, what I said about take-charge women!" He grunted and continued down the hall.

  "It's good to see you, Lucas," Rose said when they were alone.

  "I wish it were under better circumstances." He turned slightly and lifted his hand from his arm, revealing the blood-soaked sleeve.

  Rose gasped, then took his arm and led him inside.

  "Just a scratch," he assured her as they passed through the waiting room and into one of the examining rooms.

  "How did this happen?" she asked as she helped him lie down on the table. "Bertram Knowles?"

  "He's dead, along with Jax and two more of his men."

  "Good Lord! No one told us." Taking a pair of scissors from the side table, she began to cut away his sleeve.

  "It just happened down the block a ways. There was no need for a doctor—just an undertaker."

  Rose shook her head in dismay. "I can't believe such a thing could happen—right in the middle of the street. Didn't the marshal—?"

  "He's out of town."

  "That figures." Using a wet cloth, she dabbed at the bloody wound. "So you had to face them alone?"

  "I had some help. A young fellow by the name of Cully happened by and took care of the last man. Saved my neck."

  Rose straightened and dropped the cloth into a pan of water on the side table. Taking a fresh cloth to dry the wound, she paused a moment. "Cully, you say?" she asked, and Flint nodded. "That's strange."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Joshua Markham has a young brother named Cully. I've never met him, but I've heard he's a gunfighter. Sort of the black sheep of the family." Shaking her head slightly, she resumed her work. "I suppose it could be somebody else, though it is an unusual name."

  Flint watched as she gently dabbed at the wound with the dry cloth. He recalled that last image of the gunman named Cully turning his horse up Elm Street in the very direction of Joshua Markham's church. It made sense that Cully Markham would return to Abilene following his father's murder—perhaps to seek revenge. Flint would have to speak with Joshua and find out exactly why his brother was in town—--just as soon as he changed his torn, bloody shirt.

  "This will sting a bit," Rose said as she opened a bottle of carbolic lotion and began to smear it on the wound. It did, though Flint gave no sign that he was in pain. "You know," she went on as she returned the bottle to the side table, "it's curious that I didn't hear any shooting. It must have happened while I was down in the cellar checking the medicinal supplies."

  "I think the gunfire woke up Dr. Gilmore," Flint replied. "How's he doing?"

  "Very well, but I just couldn't keep him out at the Lillingstons'. A bit more rest and he'll be his old self again."

  Flint grinned. "Are you sure that's a good thing?"

  "Oh, Dr. Gilmore is as soft as marshmallow. He just likes to talk tough." She finished cleaning the wound and began to unroll some gauze. "You're lucky—you don't even need stitches. But you'll have to keep the bandage clean."

  "He said that Wesley's doing well, also," Flint commented as she wrapped the gauze around his arm.

  "I saw him this afternoon when I brought Dr. Gilmore back, and he's doing wonderfully. So is his baby sister."

  Flint nodded. "They sure were pleased to get a daughter after all those sons. You must be proud to have a little girl named after you."

  She paused a moment and stared into the distance. "Rose Lillingston..." she intoned. "Yes, it sounds nice." Then she resumed wrapping and tying off the bandage. Suddenly she stopped and looked at Flint. "I just remembered something that might interest you."

  "Yes?"

  "A couple of the older Lillingston boys spend quite a bit of time in town, so when I was there this afternoon I told them about Christopher running off and asked if they had any idea where he might have gone. At first, they said nothing, but when I was packing to leave, one of the boys came up to me alone. He admitted knowing a rough group of kids who hang out down near the stockyards at an abandoned place called The Line Shack—used to be a saloon of sorts." She touched his arm with concern. "The boy said that if he's mixed up with that crowd, he could be in real trouble."

  "Do you know what he meant?"

  Rose shrugged. "My guess is the Lillingston boy hung out with them once but decided the company was too rough."

  "I'll look into it. Thanks, Rose."

  She smiled, then continued tying off the bandage. "Well, that's about it," she said as she finished.

  Flint rolled off the table and stood. "How much do I owe you?" he asked, reaching into his pocket.

  She placed a hand on his wrist. "Put away your money."

  "But I want to pay you for—"

  "Don't worry—you'll pay. How about dinner tomorrow?"

  Flint grinned. "Seven o'clock?"

  "I'll wait for you here," she replied, then led him through the waiting room and out onto the porch. "Good night, Lucas," she said.

  "Good night," he replied with a self-conscious smile, then headed down the walk.

  Something about Rose Keller eased the tightness inside him, made him drop the hard façade he’d been forced to erect as a lawman. He wasn’t sure if he liked that or not.

  Cully Markham turned his pinto up the drive and headed to the front door of the Calvary Methodist Church. It was Thursday, and the sign out front indicated there would be a prayer meeting at eight o'clock that evening. It was almost seven, so he guessed that he would find his brother in the church making preparations.

  Dismounting, Cully tied the reins to the iron railing leading up to the front door, then patted the horse and took the four steps in two strides. He reached for the doorknob but suddenly pulled back and stood staring at the door. After taking a few deep breaths, he removed his black hat, turned the knob, and entered. There was a narrow vestibule that ran the full width of the building, then another set of windowless doors leading into the main chapel. He pushed on the right-hand door and it swung open, revealing a simple yet elegant white room with heavy wooden ceiling beams and a central aisle separating two rows of pews.

  Cully entered the chapel and let the door swing shut behind him. He looked around for the minister but saw only a group of children of various ages. A couple of the younger ones were occupied with an impromptu game of tag, while the older ones were placing bunches of wildflowers along the aisle in small holders attached to the pews. An attractive, red-haired girl in her late teens had just finished arranging a bouquet atop the altar, and as she turned, she saw Cully standing in the doorway.

  The room grew quiet—even the younger children stopped scurrying around—as Cully started down the aisle, his boots reverberating against the plank floor. All eyes were on the dark-haired man, though the older boys were focusing on the low-slung, pearl-handled revolver in his holster, while the older girls were admiring his ruggedly handsome features, made all the more dashing by the faint white scar along his cheek. Cully suddenly felt quite uncomfortable, and he began turning the hat in his hand.

  "Are you here for the prayer meeting?" the young woman at the altar asked as she came forward. Her fair skin showed the trace of a blush. "It isn't for another hour yet."

  "Uh, no," Cully replied. "I came to see the minister."

  "He just went over to the parsonage for a moment. My name is Alice Hammond." She gave the slightest of curtsies. "I'm helping Sister Lorraine bring these orphans to Wichita, and we're
staying at the church for a few days. Are you a member of the congregation?"

  Cully shook his head and smiled. "No. I'm just visiting, too. My name is—"

  "Cully..." a voice called from across the room, and Cully turned to see his brother carrying an armload of books through a doorway to the right of the altar. Joshua seemed neither surprised nor overly pleased to see his younger brother, and his tone was cautious as he approached around the front row of benches and asked, "What brings you here?"

  With a polite nod to Alice, Cully headed past her to where his brother was standing. Coming up in front of him, he smiled nervously and held out his hand, and there was an uncomfortable moment as Joshua shifted the books in his arms, seemingly to avoid shaking hands. Pulling back his hand, Cully said, "I heard about Father, so I came."

  Glancing beyond Cully, Joshua called, "Would you take the children to the house, Alice?" As she began to round them up and lead them from the chapel, Joshua turned to Cully and said, "I'd have written, but I didn't know where."

  Cully nodded, his smile gone as he looked down at the floor. "It was in Tuesday's paper in Hays City. I got

  here as quick as I could."

  "I didn't know if you'd come, so we went ahead with the funeral." There was an awkward silence, then Joshua asked, "Any idea how long you'll stay?"

  As Cully looked up at his older brother, a fierce light seemed to ignite in his eyes, and he replied, "As long as it takes."

  Joshua's jaw tensed. "What do you mean?"

  "He was murdered, and you and I know damn well the devil responsible."

  Joshua flinched at his brother's language. "This is a church—"

  "I'm not here for a lecture on profanity. I've come to do something about our father's death."