"Glenn...what are you doing here?" the man asked in confusion. Seeing the marshal, he said, "Marshal Perkins. I don't understand. Has there been trouble?" He started across the room toward where the three men were standing.
"M-Mr. Sh-Shields," Glenn stammered.
"Marshal...?" Shields repeated as he walked closer. As he took in the open vault door and the carpetbags held by the marshal and the stranger dressed in black, he slowly seemed to realize what was going on. Suddenly he blurted, "My God!" and turned to run, fumbling in his pocket for the key.
Before the man made it to the door, Perkins had his gun out and shouted, "Hold it, or you're a dead man."
Shields glanced over his shoulder and saw the marshal's gun trained on his back. For a moment it looked as if he was considering making a break for it anyway, but then he reconsidered and reluctantly dropped the key in his pocket.
"That's better," Perkins said as the man turned and raised his hands. "Get away from that door—over here," Perkins ordered, and the man walked slowly toward them.
"What'll we do now?" Glenn asked, his voice trembling with fear.
"Shut that vault," Perkins told him. When it was done, he added, "Now get out of here, Glenn, and let us handle it."
"But—"
"Do as I say," Perkins ordered. "We'll take care of Shields and make sure everything is locked up when we go."
"Yes, but—"
"Get out of here! Now!"
Glenn stared nervously between the marshal and Cully, carefully averting his eyes from the man named Shields. Then hesitantly he backed down the hallway and slipped outside.
"Now what?" Cully asked, putting down the carpetbag and drawing his own gun as Perkins motioned Shields into a corner where they couldn’t be seen from the windows.
"We've no choice," Perkins said flatly. "John Shields, here, is vice president of this bank. He's got to go."
"You mean kill him?" Cully asked, wincing slightly. He saw that the man named Shields was biting his lip but attempting to look as unafraid as possible, as if biding his time until he could think of some way out of this.
"What else can we do?"
"But that'll ruin our whole story," Cully argued, attempting to buy time as he frantically tried to think of a better solution to their quandary. "Everyone will know Campbell didn't embezzle the money."
Perkins began to smile. Looking over at Cully, he said, "Not necessarily. All we've got to do is make it look as if Campbell did the shooting." He nodded as the plan took form in his mind. "Yes, that's it. We kill Shields, dump his body somewhere, and leave the gun at Campbell's house along with some of the money. Then we get Glenn to say that Shields found out about the embezzling and had gone to confront Campbell about it. It'll look as if Campbell killed him to shut him up." Perkins turned to Shields, grinning broadly. "Yes, that's what we've got to do."
"Look, Marshal," Shields said. "You don't have to do this. I don't care about the money. I'll get out of town. You don't have to—"
"We got to." Perkins shook his head and looked at him almost sympathetically. "Sorry, but we just got to."
"But not here," Cully put in quickly. "It's got to be done somewhere else."
"Right," Perkins agreed. Suddenly he began to look quite nervous, as if the reality of his decision were just hitting home. A few beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, and he wiped them with the back of his gun hand as he muttered, "Somewhere else."
Cully had been about to offer to do the deed, figuring that he could let Shields go once they left the bank. But looking at Perkins now, Cully detected some hidden meaning in the man's changed demeanor, and he decided to press him. "I'll bring the money to Donnelly," he suggested, "while you take care of this fellow. All right?" When no reply was forthcoming, he added, "You can handle it, can't you?"
Perkins glanced at Cully, his left eyelid quivering slightly. "Uh, sure. But maybe..."
"It's your idea. You should have the pleasure of executing it. That is, unless you don't think you can—"
"It's not that. It's just..."
Cully looked him squarely in the eye and said in a somewhat derogatory tone, "You've never killed anyone before, have you?"
"Yes, I have," Perkins insisted. "Uh, once, that is."
"It gets easier."
"Maybe if they're shooting back at you. But the first fellow wasn't armed—just like Shields here."
Cully felt a coldness shudder through him. Struggling to steady his emotions, he said tonelessly, "You're the one who shot Judge Lloyd Markham, aren't you?"
"Donnelly forced me to. He found out the judge had tried to telegraph the governor. The message wasn't sent, but Donnelly knew it was only a matter of time before Markham arranged a full investigation. I didn't want to kill the old man, but Donnelly said that if I didn't, he'd make sure I was the first one to go to prison."
Cully felt every muscle in his body straining as he struggled against turning his gun on Hiram Perkins and pulling the trigger right then and there. Clenching his left hand into a fist so as not to squeeze the trigger with his right, he said abruptly, "I better handle this Shields fellow, then. You take the money."
Looking clearly relieved, the marshal holstered his gun and went to retrieve the two carpetbags. Meanwhile, Cully stepped up to the bank officer and grabbed his collar, yanking him down the hallway a bit more forcefully than necessary. When they reached the rear door, Cully glanced back at Perkins, who was approaching with the carpetbags, and said, "You'll have to walk. We're taking the horses."
Perkins nodded. "I'll see you at the Black Dog," he said, adding, "And thanks, Cully."
Cully's response was to shove the bank officer through the rear door and down the alleyway.
"Where are you taking me?" John Shields asked as he rode down Second Street alongside the gunman dressed in black. The reins of the marshal's gray gelding were tied to Cully's saddle, and Shields had to grip the saddle horn to keep his seat. His eyes kept darting to the gunman's holstered revolver, as if he was debating whether or not he could leap from the horse and get away before Cully would be able to draw and shoot him in the back.
"I'm not going to kill you," Cully said flatly. He looked over at Shields, who seemed quite confused by the comment. "Perkins and Donnelly know me as Matthew Cully. My real name is Cully Markham. My father was Lloyd Markham."
"The judge?" Shields asked in surprise, and Cully nodded. "That's ridiculous. The judge's son is the minister of—"
"You'll see in a minute," Cully cut in, turning his horse right onto Elm Street and kicking it into a gallop toward the railroad tracks.
Shields gripped the saddle horn tighter, deciding that it was better to remain with this possible madman for now than to risk getting shot in the back or breaking his neck by leaping from a galloping horse.
It took but a minute to ride up Elm, past Mud Creek, and onto the drive that led to the Calvary Methodist Church. The horses pulled to a halt in front of the church, and Shields watched in amazement as Cully leaped from his pinto and shouted, "Joshua! It's Cully!" A moment later the minister emerged from the church.
Shields stared at the two men in a near state of shock, then muttered to Joshua, "This is your brother?"
"Yes," Joshua replied. "What happened?" He turned to his younger brother.
"A little hitch in the plan. Mr. Shields walked in on the robbery, and I had to pretend I was going to kill him."
Joshua looked up at Shields and grinned. "He didn't, I hope." Shields just nodded numbly.
"Is Flint still here?" Cully asked.
"He and Angus left for Donnelly's a few minutes ago."
"Damn! They expect me to be inside the saloon when they make their play. I better get going." Cully untied the reins of the marshal's horse and handed them to Joshua, then turned to Shields. "You have to wait here until it's over."
"What's going on?" the bank officer asked as Cully climbed into the saddle of his pinto.
"Joshua will explain. Just remember—if
anyone asks you, you're dead!" He smiled at the man and turned his horse to ride away. Then he pulled on the reins and looked back at his brother. "One other thing, Joshua," he said, his voice breaking with emotion, "it was Marshal Perkins who pulled the trigger on Father."
Joshua's jaw dropped. "Are you sure?"
"He's right," Shields put in. "I heard it myself."
"What will you do?" Joshua asked, stepping closer.
"If he's not dead when this thing is finished, I'm going to kill him."
"Don't. Let the law handle it."
Cully laughed humorlessly. "I thought Perkins was the law in this town." He patted the revolver in his holster. "Well, he's gonna discover another law right here."
"Don't do it. Flint can arrest him, and he can be held until a new marshal is appointed."
"Not good enough," Cully said bluntly. "And if you weren't hiding behind that collar, you'd agree."
"It's not the collar—"
"Before that it was the bottle," Cully continued. "It's the same thing. You talk a good line, but when it comes down to it, you're just afraid. That's why you're staying here while I finish what should have been done days ago."
Joshua shook his head and looked down at the ground.
"Don't worry," Cully said, starting his horse forward at a walk. "Father would have understood. It's just your little brother who doesn't." He slapped the reins and took off at a gallop down the drive.
Joshua watched him disappear down the road in a cloud of dust. Then he sighed and walked back to the horse. Holding the animal steady while Shields dismounted, he said, "Come over to the parsonage, and I'll tell you what's going on." He tied the horse to the railing beside the front steps, and then the two men headed to the minister's residence.
Joshua was still explaining how his younger brother and Lucas Flint had joined forces against Willis Donnelly when the front door burst open and a teenaged boy came racing into the front parlor.
"You're Christopher, aren't you?" Joshua said, jumping up from his chair.
"It's Sister Lorraine!" the boy blurted. "And Patrick. They've been taken prisoner!"
"What are you talking about?" Joshua asked, approaching the boy. "Sister Lorraine went shopping this morning, and—"
"No—she came to where we were hiding. They found out who she is and took her to see somebody named Donnelly."
"But that's impossible," Joshua insisted. He was about to say something more but stopped when he saw the oldest of the orphans—the red-haired young woman named Alice—step into the doorway behind Christopher.
"No, it isn't," Alice pronounced, her expression a mixture of concern and guilt.
"What's going on?" Joshua asked, looking back and forth between Christopher and Alice.
Coming forward into the room, Alice said, "I think I'd better start at the beginning."
14
"Just what the hell are you up to?" Willis Donnelly bellowed, standing up from his chair and smashing his fists against the desktop.
Sister Lorraine glanced around the office and out into the main room of the Black Dog Saloon, as if looking for help. But it was still before ten in the morning, and the saloon was closed to patrons. The only people on hand out there were half a dozen of Donnelly's hired men. Facing the saloon owner, she held her head high and said nothing.
"Do you really want me to have one of my men beat the answer out of you?" he asked, his fists clenched white as he leaned over the desk. When she merely narrowed her eyes at him but didn’t reply, he looked at the boy beside her and said, "Or would you rather we beat it out of him?"
"No! Don't do that," she quickly said, stepping closer to Patrick and putting an arm around his shoulder.
"Then talk." Donnelly's hands relaxed somewhat, and he placed them palms down on the desktop and sat down.
"It's exactly as your bartender said. I'm a Dominican nun bringing a group of orphans to Wichita. Two of my boys ran off and joined that gang, and I wanted to get them back. I thought if I could find them and talk to them, I could convince them to return with me."
"So you dressed up as a whore?" he said dubiously, clearly unconvinced.
"A madam," she corrected.
"And who was that young trollop you brought along?"
"One of the orphan girls."
"You really expect me to believe this fairy tale?"
"It's the truth."
"And a nun wouldn't lie, I suppose." He gave a mocking laugh. "Then what about last night?"
"I'd do anything to protect my children," she said firmly.
"Even strap a gun to your thigh." Shaking his head in disbelief, he picked up the Smith & Wesson revolver that the bartender had taken from Sister Lorraine. He spun the cylinder a few times, then casually pointed the gun at her. "You'll have to come up with a more convincing story," he said, swinging the gun toward Patrick. "Or this boy dies."
"It's the truth," she insisted. "Send someone to the Methodist church and check it out."
Donnelly tapped the fingers of his left hand on the desk, as if in thought. Then with a contemptuous sneer he said, "I think I'd rather beat the truth out of you."
"Don't hurt Sister Lorraine!" Patrick shouted, wrapping his arms around the older woman's waist.
"You just better hope I don't hurt you," Donnelly shot back. As he put down the gun and stood, one of his men appeared in the open doorway. "What is it?" Donnelly asked.
"Perkins is here."
"Good," he declared, his expression brightening as he came around the desk. "You stay here with these two," he told the man, who drew his revolver and stepped into the office. Then Donnelly headed out into the main room and shut the office door behind him.
Hiram Perkins was standing beside the saloon owner's usual poker table, having placed the two carpetbags on top. He grinned as the big man approached. Opening the top of one of the bags to reveal that it was stuffed with money, he announced, "We got it all, boss."
Without bothering to respond to the marshal, Donnelly opened the second bag and pulled out a bundle of federal notes. While examining the money, he said, "How did it go?"
"Uh, all right," Perkins replied cautiously.
Donnelly looked over at him, reading the man's eyes. "What do you mean? Where's Cully?"
"Everything went perfect—until we were getting ready to leave and Mr. Shields walked in on us."
"The vice-president?" Donnelly asked, and Perkins nodded. "Go on," Donnelly demanded.
"Well, he saw what we were about, and we couldn't just leave him." Perkins paused, as if considering whether or not to take full credit for what came next. Apparently deciding to risk it, he plunged ahead. "I told Cully to take him somewhere and kill him. We can plant the gun with the bank president and make it look as if he killed Shields when Shields caught him embezzling the money." Seeing the way Donnelly's eyes narrowed as he weighed the plan in his head, Perkins quickly added, "Glenn can back us up on it. He can say Shields told him he was going to confront Campbell."
Slowly Donnelly began to nod his head. Then he smiled broadly and pronounced, "A good plan, Hiram. Couldn't have come up with a better one myself."
Perkins grinned with relief. "Cully'll be here as soon as the job's done," he said, and then to cover his own position further, he added, "I had him take care of Shields 'cause I didn't want to leave all this money with a new man."
"You did right," Donnelly assured him, turning his attention to the money. "Let's see how much you boys got."
Just around the corner from the Black Dog, Cully Markham stood with Lucas Flint and Angus MacQuarrie, the three men checking their weapons as they debated altering their original plan. Cully had caught up to the two men just as they were preparing to burst into the saloon, expecting Cully to be inside with Perkins and Donnelly. Now they had just about decided to scrap that plan and simply burst in as a threesome, when suddenly a voice called out, "Flint! Cully! Wait up!" They turned to the left to see Joshua Markham running down Railroad Street from the direction
of the church, practically in sight of the saloon, which was in the next block to the right.
Flint frantically waved Joshua closer to the buildings, motioning him to be quiet. The minister seemed to understand and hugged the buildings as he came the last fifty feet and rounded the corner of Cedar Street.
"What's wrong?" Cully asked as his brother rushed over.
"Ev-everything!" Joshua stammered, struggling to catch his breath. "It's S-Sister Lorraine and P-Patrick." He doubled over slightly and gagged a few times. It was evident that he had run the entire way from the church.
"What about them?" Cully pressed, grasping his older brother's forearm.
Straightening and looking up at Cully, his eyes spoke his fear as he said, "They're in the saloon with Donnelly."
"Are ye daft?" Angus interjected.
"It's true. Apparently Sister Lorraine got it into her head to find Christopher and Patrick on her own, and she used Donnelly to get to them. She pretended to be a madam looking to open a brothel, with Alice acting as one of her girls. She asked to hire some boys to help her set up shop, and Donnelly had one of his men take her right to them. The plan worked—until Christopher blurted out who she really is. She and the boys were dragged to the saloon a little while ago, but Christopher escaped and came back to the church."
"Damn!" Cully cursed. "I saw them last night—but I had no idea. I should've recognized that young redhead."
"Forget that now," Flint told him. "We've got to get them out of there. We can't just barge in until we're sure they're out of the line of fire. We've got to get them out of the saloon or at least into the back office."
"I could go in first," Cully pointed out. "They're expecting me, anyway. It'll look as if I'm just coming from killing Shields."
As Flint was nodding in agreement, Joshua suddenly called, "What are you doing here?" and the other three men turned to see Alice come racing around the corner.
"I want to help," the young woman declared, panting but apparently in better shape than Joshua.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 19