The mayor had just glared at him. "You can if you expect to keep on getting paid, Thornbury. Sister Lorraine is a good friend of our new marshal, and besides, she's got a point. Those youngsters have just as much right to attend school here as any of the other children."
Thornbury had stiffened his spine. "Perhaps you'd prefer to find a new teacher," he had said, confident that such wouldn’t be the case. There had been several teachers in Abilene before him, but he had been the only one strong enough not to be intimidated by the more obstinate pupils.
The mayor had nodded. "It will be a chore, all right, but we'll do it if we have to."
With that, Thornbury's last bit of leverage had been gone. He was comfortable in Abilene, and he didn’t want to have to find a new job at this stage of his life. If the town leaders were willing to fire him, there was nothing he could do but accept the newcomers into the school—albeit reluctantly.
Since that time, his resentment had grown to mammoth proportions. They were taking advantage of him, and he despised it. His workload had increased drastically, and Sister Lorraine tried to undermine everything he did. Every time he took the switch to one of the orphans, that infernal woman would show up at lunch recess the next day with cookies and punch for the entire class. Then she would lead them in songs and games. Those youngsters would race all over the school yard, laughing and yelling—and turning his well-ordered world into mayhem. It was impossible to make them settle down for the rest of the afternoon. It was obvious that woman had never spent time in a classroom and knew nothing about what was required to keep order.
As promised, Thornbury continued the lesson on through the lunch hour. Several of the children who hadn’t brought food with them were starting to fidget from hunger, but Thornbury snapped at them and told them to keep still. He smiled as he slapped the top of his desk with the switch.
There was something about a schoolroom, he thought, something in the smell of chalk and sawdust that represented the things he valued most—control and power. In this room his word was law.
As if to undermine that thought, the door at the side of the room opened then, and Sister Lorraine appeared. "Good afternoon, Mr. Thornbury," she said with a smile.
Thornbury suppressed a groan of dismay and glared at the Dominican nun in her black habit. "Yes?" he said in an icy voice.
Sister Lorraine moved into the room, the smile still on her face. Thornbury knew from experience how deceptive that pleasant expression was. The nun asked, "Have you heard about the circus, Mr. Thornbury?"
"Indeed, I have. I saw one of those garish posters on a wall. It's a lot of foolishness if you ask me."
The children knew about the circus, too, as Thornbury was all too aware. Now, as Sister Lorraine brought up the subject again, a wave of excited chatter swept the schoolroom.
Sister Lorraine paused at the harshness of Thornbury's tone, then drew a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I'm told that the arrival of the circus in the morning will be marked by a parade down Texas Street. Such a parade would be a wonderful educational experience for the children!"
One of the orphans, a boy with tousled red hair, let out a whoop of approval at the idea. Thornbury spun to face the class and lashed the switch down on the desk with a sharp crack. "Hammond!" he exclaimed. "Control yourself, boy! That outburst will cost you some extra work."
Sister Lorraine shot a warning glance at Patrick Hammond. She knew quite well how rambunctious the young man could be, and he might wind up in even worse trouble if he responded to Thornbury's threat. Patrick slumped in his chair and contented himself with an angry stare at the teacher.
Thornbury turned his attention back to Sister Lorraine. "Your idea is impossible," he said shortly.
"But the children would enjoy it so. And it would give them the opportunity to see some exotic animals the likes of which they might never see again," Sister Lorraine pointed out.
Thornbury sniffed. "If they want to waste their time and money on such things, then let them finagle their parents into taking them to one of the performances. I simply won’t dismiss school for such foolishness."
The nun looked at him for a long moment. "That's your final decision?" she said at last.
"Yes," Thornbury said flatly. "My final decision."
Sister Lorraine sighed deeply, shook her head, and left the schoolhouse without saying anything else.
Thornbury faced his students once more and saw with dismay the anger and resentment on their young faces. He was staring at open rebellion, and he knew it. There was only one way to deal with such a problem, and that was to meet it head on.
Thornbury's lips drew back from his teeth in a grimace, and he said in a voice dripping with scorn, "If any of you think for one minute that you're not coming to class tomorrow, you can banish that notion from your heads. You will be here, even if I have to go to every one of your parents and explain the situation to them." He crossed his arms over his narrow chest. "You know your parents will agree with me."
That was his ace in the hole, he thought, to use an expression he considered crude but apt. Many of Abilene's parents approved of the way he taught and the methods he used to maintain discipline. This was a God-fearing, Bible-believing community, Thornbury knew. There was little sparing of the rod around here.
A sullen silence settled over the room. For the moment, things were under control again, and Thornbury intended to see that they stayed that way. "Now," he said, "we shall return to our work."
As the afternoon wore on, however, the atmosphere of revolt grew. More and more of the students talked out of turn, and none of them seemed to know the correct answers when Thornbury called on them, even the ones who could usually be depended upon. Even the best-behaved students, the ones who never gave him any trouble, wanted very badly to see the circus parade.
For the briefest of moments, Thornbury considered changing his mind, but he quickly rejected that alternative. He was in charge here, and the children would simply have to accept his decision and get on with their work.
Thornbury stood stiffly behind his desk and asked, "What do we know about the Louisiana Purchase?"
A rude sound came from the other side of the room, and Thornbury looked quickly in that direction. He was met with blank looks, as if none of the students had heard the horrible noise, though several of them were trying very hard not to grin.
Redheaded Patrick Hammond was the first one to break. A laugh welled out of him, and he had to look away from Thornbury's furious face.
"Patrick Hammond!" Thornbury shouted. "Was that you who made that noise?"
Patrick tried to control his laughter as he replied, "Noise? I thought that was you talking about the Louisiana Purchase, Mr. Thornbury."
Thornbury's fist clenched on the switch as more laughter swept across the room. They were making sport of him, and he wouldn’t stand for that.
He tried to forge on with the history lesson, but it was no use. Patrick had created an opening, and the boy exploited it for all it was worth. For a change, he volunteered to answer questions, but none of his answers were correct. More noises came from other parts of the room as the courage of the other students grew.
And it was all the fault of that damned orphan, Thornbury thought feverishly. Patrick Hammond was the instigator of this revolt.
Thornbury had learned his own history lessons well, and he knew the best way to crush a revolt was to crush its leader. When he asked for volunteers to explain the purpose of the Lewis and Clark expedition, Patrick's hand shot into the air. "I know!" the boy said without waiting to be called upon. "They were going to see the circus!"
A howl of approval went up from the children.
That was the last straw. Thornbury's control snapped, and he lunged around the desk, his face contorted with rage. "Shut up!" he screamed, slashing at Patrick with the switch.
Patrick reacted quickly, dropping out of his seat in a dive to the side. A shocked silence fell over the classroom as Thornbury continued to s
trike at him with the switch. Terror on his face, Patrick darted away, heading for the door as the switch cut the air inches behind his head. Fumbling for the knob, he yanked the door open and lunged through. Thornbury was after him in an instant.
Patrick was fast and could outrun Thornbury, but fate conspired against him. His foot caught on one of the roots of the tree that shaded the school yard, and he sprawled hard on his stomach in the dirt. Thornbury was on him in a flash, lost in his fury. The teacher grabbed Patrick's arm and jerked him painfully to his feet. The other hand lifted the switch, ready to administer a brutal hiding. The switch started to lash downward.
Fingers like iron came out of nowhere and clamped around Thornbury's wrist, stopping his arm before it had moved six inches.
Thornbury gasped in pain and jerked his head around to see who had grabbed him. He found himself staring into the dark, angry eyes of Deputy Cully Markham.
Coolly, Cully said, "Why don't you take that switch after me if you're of a mind to hit somebody?"
"I—I—" Thornbury stammered.
"'Course, I expect I'd hit you back," Cully continued. A humorless grin stretched across his face. "Now, let that kid go."
Thornbury released Patrick's arm as if it were a hot coal. "You—you've got no right to interfere, Deputy," he said, trying to keep his voice from quivering.
"Maybe not, but I'm glad I was passing by anyway." Cully glanced down at the redheaded orphan. "What's this all about, Patrick?"
The boy brushed some of the dirt from his twill pants. "Aw, we just wanted to go see the circus parade tomorrow, and Mr. Thornbury says we've got to go to school instead."
Cully's grin was genuine now. "So, you young hellions tried to make him see the error of his ways."
Patrick smiled sheepishly. "Something like that, yeah."
Cully turned back to the angry teacher and released Thornbury's wrist. Thornbury started to massage the aching limb, but then pride made him stop.
Cully said, "Sounds reasonable enough to me that the kids want to go to the parade, Mr. Thornbury. They could learn a lot about animals and things like that."
Thornbury glared at the deputy. "I've been over all this with that...that nun," he sputtered. "The decision is mine to make, and I say that I won’t dismiss school for such frivolity."
Thornbury glanced past the young man and saw the students crowding around the windows in the schoolhouse, taking in everything that was happening. It would strengthen his position greatly, Thornbury thought, if he demonstrated that he wouldn’t back down from Cully.
Suddenly, Cully smiled again. "I've got it," he said proudly. "Sister Lorraine and I will go see the mayor and ask him if he'll declare tomorrow a school holiday. He is your boss, right, Mr. Thornbury?"
Thornbury knew how the mayor could be browbeaten into accepting anything that nun and this gunslinging lawman might ask. There was a sick taste of defeat in his mouth as he admitted, "I am employed by the town. And I suppose you're right, Deputy. The parade...could prove educational. I suppose the children could attend—as a school trip of sorts."
Realizing that he and the other children had won, Patrick let out a whoop of triumph. As the celebration spread rapidly, the uproar inside the schoolhouse threatened to raise the roof.
Cully slapped Thornbury on the shoulder. "Glad you saw it my way, Mr. Thornbury," he said.
The teacher glared at him. "I intend to report this interference to the marshal, Markham. I still say you've got no right to meddle in school affairs."
"You go right ahead," Cully told him. The deputy reached out and ruffled Patrick's hair. "Back inside, kid. You've still got some studying to do."
Patrick nodded. "All right, Cully." The hero worship was plain in his eyes.
Thornbury started to turn toward the school and follow Patrick inside, but Cully stopped him. Cully plucked the switch from the hands of the surprised teacher, and before Thornbury could stop him, he had snapped the weapon in two.
"You can tell the marshal about that, too," Cully said as he tossed the broken switch on the ground. He walked away, leaving the dumbfounded Thornbury staring after him.
4
Ned Cooper, Gage Stauck, and Heck Dawson rode back into Abilene an hour after sunset. Although none of them would have admitted it, they had waited this long to return so that their chances of running into Marshal Lucas Flint would be lessened.
There was a bruise on Cooper's wrist where Flint had knocked the gun from his hand, and a swelling on his jaw where the marshal's hard fist had landed. Cooper's brow was knitted in a frown as he pulled his horse to a stop in front of Angus's Tavern.
Slender, rabbit-faced Gage Stauck nervously ran a hand over his jaw. "You don't reckon Flint will be in there, do you, Ned?" he asked.
Cooper snorted derisively. "I don't care if he is. He took me by surprise this mornin’, but if that damned star-packer tries anythin’ with me again, I'll be ready for him."
Heck Dawson, who was blond and stocky and appeared more suited for clerking in a hardware store than running with a group of hardcases, gave a gusty sigh. "That's easy to say, Cooper," he pointed out. "But that fella Flint has got himself quite a reputation. Folks around Wichita didn’t call him the Rattler for nothin’. They say he can draw and shoot quick as a snake strikin’. Cold-blooded as a snake, too, sometimes. He ain't gonna to be easy to take down."
Cooper jerked around to face his companion. "You shut up, Dawson!" he snapped. "I didn't notice you pitchin' in this mornin’."
"I wasn't looking to get shot, you mean."
Cooper made no reply to that. He swung down from the saddle and grabbed at the hitch rail to steady himself as he swayed a little. The three young men had been sitting under a tree all day, waiting for night to fall, and had polished off two bottles of whiskey from their saddlebags. Ned Cooper had consumed more than his share of the liquor, but he believed he could handle it.
Now, their whiskey gone, they had returned to Abilene to have a few more drinks and buy a bottle to take with them. As he stepped onto the boardwalk in front of the tavern, Cooper thrust a hand in the pocket of his pants and tried to determine by feel how much money remained there. He handled the money for all three of them, not because he was better with finances than Stauck or Dawson, but because the other two were afraid of him and he knew it. That was the way it should be, he had often thought. He was the leader because he was the strongest, the most dangerous.
The three of them had been together for several years, working as cowhands on the trail drives coming up from Texas. It was hard, dirty, low-paying work, but it was all they knew how to do. Every summer they helped push a couple of herds up to Kansas, blew what little pay they earned in Abilene, and then drifted back to Texas to scrounge through another winter.
The previous summer, Ned Cooper had talked them into changing that pattern. He had persuaded his two companions to remain in Kansas with him, convinced that their opportunities would be better here.
At first, that hadn’t been the case. The winter had been just as hard, money just as scarce as ever. They had been broke when they rode up to a small farmhouse west of Abilene hoping to cadge a hot meal.
That was the day they had crossed the line into lawlessness.
When Cooper saw that the young, attractive woman was there alone, he had known what was going to happen. New to the frontier, she made the mistake of admitting that her husband had gone into Abilene and wouldn’t be back for hours.
It had been a long, pleasurable afternoon once she stopped screaming and fighting and accepted the inevitable. And while Stauck and Dawson were taking their turns with her, Cooper had found a cache of bills in the sugar jar. It was enough money to tide them over for several weeks.
He had been thinking of killing the woman before they left so that she couldn’t set the law on them, but Dawson and Stauck had talked him out of it. Later he had discovered that the woman had dug out the pistol her husband had left with her—the gun that she should have had l
oaded and ready—and had blown her own brains out with it. That was good luck, Cooper had thought. Good luck followed a man who wasn’t afraid to take chances.
From that moment on, he had decided that when he wanted something, he was going to take it.
So far, they had been lucky. They had looted several other farmhouses and had even pulled off a daylight robbery in Hayes City. They had been masked, and no one had gotten a good look at them. In fact, there were no wanted posters out on them at all, so they were free to come and go as they pleased.
Of course, they had never again come across a situation like that first one, and Cooper regretted that. That young wife had been mighty sweet...
The sight of one of the circus posters on the wall of the tavern drove that pleasant memory out of Cooper's head. Twisting his lips in a snarl, he strode to the poster, ripped the handbill from the wall, and crumpled it.
"Damn circus!" he said as he flung the wadded-up poster into the street. "It was that cripple's fault!"
"Yeah," Stauck agreed. "We was just funnin' him. The marshal had no right to butt in like that."
"Come on," Dawson said. "I want another drink."
With Cooper in the lead, the three of them pushed through the swinging batwing doors.
Angus's establishment was doing a good business this evening. Poker games were going on at a couple of the tables, and most of the others were filled with men drinking and talking. Several more men stood at the long mahogany bar that ran down one side of the room. The candles in the chandeliers cast a warm yellow glow over the place.
The burly red-bearded proprietor was serving as his own bartender. Placing his palms flat on the bar, he regarded the three newcomers with suspicious eyes. "What'll ye boys be having?" Angus asked.
Cooper slouched against the bar. "Whiskey, for all of us," he ordered.
Angus nodded, took three glasses from a shelf on the back bar, and picked up a bottle.
Cooper stopped him by saying, "Is that the good stuff, MacQuarrie?"
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 25