Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Flint frowned but said nothing. When she recovered from her surprise and regained her voice, Rose said, "I'm Dr. Rose Keller. The man who came to fetch me said you'd been injured, and I can see that he was right."

  Count Lothar von Berndt gestured casually at his bloodstained sleeve. "This scratch?" he said scornfully. "It is nothing! The professor, he simply likes to be careful."

  Flint spoke up. "Where is the professor?" he asked.

  "He went to see to other matters," von Berndt replied. "There is a great deal to getting a circus ready for its first performance in a new town, Marshal. Although you would know nothing of that." The count turned his attention back to Rose, his tanned face splitting in a smile. "I'm sorry you had to make the journey from town in this heat and dust over such a trifling matter, Doctor."

  Rose took a deep breath. The count was obviously used to overwhelming women with his easy charm. She didn’t intend for that to happen with her. "I'd better be the judge of how trifling it is, Count. Could I see your arm, please?" She kept her voice flat and matter-of-fact.

  "Of course, dear lady." Von Berndt pushed back the sleeve of his shirt to reveal a rough, bloody bandage around his arm. The smile on his face never budged as Rose unwound the dressing to expose a long, jagged tear in the flesh of his inner forearm. The gash was a deep one, she could tell immediately.

  "One of the lions did this?" she asked.

  "My own fault, I assure you, not Fritz's. I was careless, and that is something one should never be when working with the big cats."

  "Only big cats I ever ran up against were mountain lions and panthers," Flint said. "Always figured a good Winchester was the best way to handle them."

  The count looked horrified. "Ah, Marshal, you do not understand. These animals are my babies! It is perfectly safe to be around them as long as everyone concerned never forgets who is in charge."

  Rose took hold of the count's arm, and his smile widened at the touch. "This is going to have to be cleaned and stitched up," she said. "I'm afraid it's going to hurt."

  "Such pain is nothing," von Berndt assured her. "It is but the price I pay for your delightful company, Doctor."

  Flint turned away, muttering something under his breath.

  Rose opened her bag and placed it on the top step leading into the wagon. After removing a bottle of disinfectant, a needle, and a roll of surgical thread, she carefully poured a thin stream of the disinfectant over the wound. The count's eyes narrowed slightly, but other than that he showed no sign of the burning pain he had to be experiencing.

  This cut was much like the one on the farmer's leg that Rose had treated earlier, but the jagged edges of this wound made it more difficult to close. Rose sat on the top step and had von Berndt sit on the next one.

  She cradled his arm in her lap to work on it. The proximity made her very aware of the warmth of his body and a strange musky smell emanating from him. That came from being around the big cats so much, she supposed. But whatever the source, it was compelling.

  She tried to concentrate on her work and ignore what she was feeling. The count was undeniably attractive, but that was no reason she should react like some silly schoolgirl.

  As she worked, von Berndt kept up the conversation, telling her several anecdotes about his work with the lions and tigers. He was probably trying to keep his mind off the pain, she reasoned, as well as attempting to charm her.

  Rose lifted a hand to brush back a strand of brunette hair that had fallen across her forehead, but before she could do it, the count reached across his body with his other hand and ever so gently tucked back the hair. Rose felt warmth suffusing her face.

  Dammit, she was blushing! She glanced up to see Flint watching—glaring—from several yards away. Obviously, he was disturbed by what he was seeing.

  Was he bothered because he didn’t trust the count, Rose wondered, or could it be that he was . . . jealous?

  Rose smiled to herself, pleased, although Flint had no right to be jealous. There was nothing more between them than friendship and respect. Maybe someday, when the shadow of Flint's late wife had completely faded away...

  And there was certainly nothing between her and this smooth-talking European. They had just met, and his sort of charm didn’t appeal to an intelligent, educated woman such as herself.

  She finished stitching the wound, nodding in satisfaction as she studied the results of her work. There would be a scar—there was no avoiding that with such a deep cut—but it shouldn’t be too bad, she thought. Replacing the needle and thread in the bag, Rose took out a roll of cloth, wrapped it around the wound, and tied it in place.

  "There," she said. "That should just about do it."

  The count flexed his arm, nodding in approval. "A superb job, just as I expected," he pronounced. "You have my sincerest appreciation, Doctor. How much do I owe you, my dear?"

  Cringing inwardly, Rose wished he wouldn’t call her his dear. "Two dollars ought to cover it," she said.

  Von Berndt nodded. "I shall have the professor pay you before we leave Abilene."

  Flint, who was standing close enough to hear the conversation, frowned and said, "Folks usually pay the doctor after she helps them." He ignored the shake of Rose's head that she gave him.

  "I assure you, Marshal, the good doctor shall be paid. It is just that I seldom carry money on my person. Besides, the professor customarily takes care of such circus-related expenses."

  "It's all right," Rose said quickly. "I'm not worried about getting paid. Money was never the reason I went into medicine."

  "Ah, of course not," the count agreed. "You simply wished to help people, correct?"

  "Something like that." Rose felt vaguely embarrassed by his words.

  "Perhaps in addition to the fee, you would care to join me for a late supper tonight after the performance," von Berndt said smoothly. "I feel that it is the least I can do to repay your kindness."

  Rose smiled and shook her head, aware that Flint was watching her reaction. "I'm sorry, Count," she said. "That sounds lovely, but I'm afraid I'm accustomed to retiring early. A doctor never gets enough sleep, you know."

  "But of course." The count took the refusal in stride. Again, he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. "As I said, you have my deepest thanks."

  Rose smiled, undeniably flattered by his advances. She knew quite well, though, that in a few days Count Lothar von Berndt would be moving on with the rest of the circus, and she had no desire to get involved in a temporary relationship. She was the type of woman whose goals had always been more permanent, romantically and otherwise.

  Flint fell in beside her as she started back to the buggy, carrying her medical bag. Without looking at her, the marshal commented, "A man like that count can really set a woman's heart a-flutter."

  Rose glanced over her shoulder and saw von Berndt lift his arm in a farewell salute. "I suppose," she said as she returned the wave. "He is rather handsome, if you like that type."

  Flint said nothing, not wanting to give her further opportunity to talk about how attractive the count was.

  They had just reached Rose's buggy when Professor Horace Houser and another man came hurrying up. "Hold on there, Marshal!" Houser called. "There's been a spot of trouble."

  "If you're talking about that Count von Berndt," Flint said, "Dr. Keller here has already tended to him."

  Houser shook his head. He looked agitated, and the man with him appeared ready to burst into tears. Before Houser could say anything else, the young man exclaimed, "He's dead!"

  "Dead?" Flint snapped, a frown on his face. "Who's dead?" The young man's voice was familiar, but Flint could not place him.

  "My horse," the man said raggedly. "I went into the tent to get him ready for the show, and I found him then. He'd been shot!"

  "Eliot fetched me immediately," Houser added. "I thought you might have met the doctor and stayed, so we came to look for you."

  Flint studied the young man called Eliot, then said as he rec
ognized him, "You're that clown who was in the parade this morning, the one with the horse that nearly stomped Emery Thornbury."

  "Thornbury!" Eliot spat. "He's the one who did it, Marshal. He said my horse ought to be shot, so he came out here and did it!"

  Flint took a deep breath. "Let's not accuse anyone just yet, son. I know you're upset, but why do you think Thornbury might have killed your horse?"

  Eliot reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a small pistol. Flint recognized it as an Allen and Thurber .34 Pepperbox. Eliot thrust it at him, butt first, and said, "I found this in the straw just inside the tent."

  Flint took the pistol and sniffed its fat barrel. "Been fired recently, all right," he said.

  "Look at the butt," Houser told him.

  Flint turned the weapon in his hands, his frown deepening as he saw the name engraved on one of the wooden grips: E. Thornbury.

  Standing close beside him, Rose saw the name, too, and said, "Why, I can't believe that Mr. Thornbury would kill anything. He's a schoolteacher."

  "That doesn't mean he can't pull a trigger," Flint replied grimly. He broke open the cylinder of the Allen and Thurber and saw that one bullet had been fired from it. "We'd better take a look at the horse."

  An examination of the slain animal revealed a small-caliber bullet wound in its head, and Flint had to agree that the little pocket pistol was probably the weapon that had been used. "You heard him this morning," Eliot said, grief and anger mingled in his voice. "He said the horse ought to be shot. Well, he did it, and he must have dropped that gun while he was running out of here."

  Moved by the young man's emotional state, Rose reached out and took his hand to comfort him. Flint nodded thoughtfully. "How long had it been since you saw the horse alive?" he asked.

  "A couple of hours at least, maybe a little longer," Eliot answered.

  "Whoever did the shooting could have done it while that female sharpshooter was practicing," Flint suggested. "My deputy burned quite a bit of powder during that session, too, and most of the people in camp were watching." Flint rubbed his jaw. "More than likely, that's when it happened."

  "What are you going to do about this, Marshal?" Houser demanded.

  Flint glanced through the tent's entrance at the lowering sun. "You have a performance to put on in a little bit. How about if we wait until after it's over to question Thornbury?"

  "You're going to arrest him, aren't you?" Eliot asked.

  "I'm going to talk to him," Flint said. "Don't worry, son, I want to get to the bottom of this just as much as you do."

  "Very well," Houser agreed after a moment's thought. "After the performance, then. And I want to be there to represent the interests of Eliot here."

  Flint nodded. "That's fine. I'll see you at the office later tonight."

  "I'll be there."

  Flint and Rose walked slowly back to her buggy. "Do you really think Emery Thornbury would shoot a horse like that?" Rose asked.

  "I don't know what he's capable of, to tell you the truth," Flint admitted. "But I'm going to find out. I don't want this blowing up into an even bigger problem."

  Rose nodded, hearing the grim note in his voice. He was worried about his town. Maybe with good reason.

  8

  The first performance of the circus that night was a dazzling spectacle that Cully would never forget. Standing on the sawdust-covered ground inside the big tent, he and Flint had positioned themselves just behind a waist-high wooden fence that encircled the large central ring. Around the inside of the tent, tiers of benches providing seating for the audience had been erected during the afternoon. Tonight, nearly every space was full. What seemed like half the town and the surrounding countryside had come to witness Professor Horace Houser's Traveling Circus and Extravaganza.

  A trumpet volley announced the beginning of the performance. Accompanied by stirring marching music played by the band, the members of the troupe paraded into the big top through a large side opening.

  They marched into the huge central ring and circled it, waving, and smiling at the audience. Their colorful costumes glittered in the bright torchlight that illuminated the interior of the tent. Horses and elephants wore spangled headdresses topped with fluttering ostrich plumes, and the animals pranced and trumpeted in response to the cheers and gasps from the crowd.

  An excited thrill ran up Cully's spine, and a tap on his shoulder startled him. He turned to Flint. "You head that way," Flint told his deputy, gesturing. "I'll go the other, and we'll meet on the far side. Keep your eyes open for Ned Cooper."

  "You think he'll try to make trouble tonight, Marshal?" Cully asked.

  "I don't know," Flint answered honestly. "He hasn't been seen in town since Angus threw him out of his saloon last night, but there's no telling what a young hothead like Cooper will do. He bragged so much about causing trouble for the circus that he may feel he has to go through with it."

  Cully nodded. "If I spot him, I'll see that he doesn't bother anybody."

  Flint reached out and caught Cully's arm as the deputy started to turn away. "Be careful," he cautioned. "Cooper's not as good as he thinks he is, but he could still be dangerous."

  Cully grinned cockily. "Hell, Marshal, you know he can't hold a candle to either one of us."

  "Just watch yourself anyway."

  Cully was probably right, Flint mused as he strolled away, but the only way to prove it was to trade shots. Flint wanted to avoid that if possible.

  Professor Horace Houser strode to the center of the big ring, wearing his scarlet coat and shiny top hat. He carried a canvas megaphone in one hand and waved it, acknowledging the thundering applause from the audience. When he reached the center of the ring, he lifted the instrument to his lips.

  "Laaadies and gentlemen!" he bellowed. "Preeesenting the most amazing, most astounding, biggest show this side of the great Atlantic Ocean...Professor Horace Houser's Traveling Circus and Extravaganza!"

  The tent erupted in another thunderous avalanche of applause and cheers.

  Flint paused, resting his hands on the fence around the ring. He had to admire Houser's showmanship. Alone in the center of the ring, he cut a dramatic figure.

  Looking across the ring, Flint noted that Cully had stopped to watch as well, unable to resist the lure of the ringmaster's voice. Flint grinned. He could not very well say anything to the young man about it when he was doing the same thing.

  As the clapping and whistling died down, Houser continued. "Ladies and gentlemen, I direct your attention to those paragons of equestrian agility, those magicians on horseback—the incredible Carstairs family!"

  As the eyes of the audience followed Houser's out-flung hand, the three trick riders galloped into the arena through the big main entrance. They rode three magnificent white stallions, the two men flanking the woman, and as the enthusiastic spectators watched, each of them in turn dropped from the tiny saddles, seemed to bounce off the ground, and then reappeared on horseback.

  The act continued for several minutes. One of the men rode two horses Roman-style, standing up with one foot on each horse. The woman balanced on her head in the saddle, then somersaulted off the animal into the saddle of another horse in mid-gallop. Flint admired the horsemanship of the performers as they attempted things that even a Plains Indian might not dare.

  When the trick riders had dazzled the audience, they rode out of the tent the same way they had entered, and on the way out they nearly trampled one of the clowns. The man in baggy pants was wandering into the ring, seemingly paying no attention to where he was going. Flint caught his breath as the clown had to leap frantically out of the way of one of the horses, but then as the man rolled over and came up scratching his head quizzically, the marshal realized that the close call was all part of the act. Laughter erupted from the audience as they saw the puzzled look on the clown's painted face.

  Flint continued his journey around the big top as several more clowns joined the first one for some controlled ch
aos. There was no sign of Ned Cooper among the crowd, at least as far as Flint could see. In this crowd, however, it would be easy to overlook the would-be troublemaker.

  "Now, ladies and gentlemen," Houser announced when the clowns had tumbled out of the ring, "I have the great pleasure to introduce to you one of the bravest men I have ever known. Only this afternoon, he suffered a grievous injury in the course of his preparations to thrill you tonight. However, he insisted that he carry on with his performance as planned. Good people of Abilene, I give you Count Lothar von Berndt ...and his pets!"

  Through the entrance came the three barred wagons bearing the big cats. They were being driven by roustabouts armed with rifles for the protection of the audience should the big cats become unruly. The count himself stood atop the lead wagon, splendid in his costume with a bandage on his arm, a coiled whip in his hand, and a revolver strapped to his side. As the wagons came to a stop, von Berndt hopped lithely to the sawdust and bowed to the crowd. The roustabouts climbed on top of the wagons and got ready to lift the doors on the rear of the vehicles. Several clowns came running into the ring carrying chairs and small platforms, which they placed in a seemingly haphazard arrangement near the count.

  When von Berndt gestured to the roustabouts, they opened the wagons, and the lions and tigers came bounding out to the gasps of the crowd. A big smile on his face, the count turned to face the animals and barked commands to them in a language Flint didn’t understand. Von Berndt cracked his whip, although the marshal noticed that he kept the tip away from the cats themselves. Evidently, they were trained to respond to just the sound of the whip.

  Flint watched as von Berndt put the big cats through their paces under the watchful eyes of the armed roustabouts. The sleek animals leaped from one pedestal to another at the count's commands, performing tricks almost as a dog would have. As fascinating as it was, Flint instinctively disliked the count, so he turned to scan the crowd.