Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Stockbridge sighed. "Gentlemen," he said, struggling to be polite under the trying circumstances. "Allow me to present my daughters, Elizabeth and Hannah."

  The dark-haired woman came down the steps, her green eyes boldly appraising Flint. She smiled at the marshal and extended a gloved hand to him. "I'm Elizabeth," she said, "and you're the local marshal, aren't you?"

  "That's right, ma'am," he said. "I'm Lucas Flint." He wasn’t used to shaking hands with women, but he took Elizabeth's fingers for a moment. The blond woman, Hannah, just nodded to him and said a shy hello.

  Nicholas Stockbridge turned to his daughters and asked, "Where's Pannier?"

  Elizabeth answered, "Dear Elliott is still working, Father. I couldn't tear him away from that desk and his paperwork, even when I said I wanted him to show me around this cow town I've heard so much about."

  "It looks like you'll have plenty of time, Elizabeth," Roland said. "We're going to be stuck here for a week."

  Elizabeth looked at her father. "Is Roland telling the truth? He can't be. We can't stay in a dusty place like this for a whole week, Father. We just can't!"

  "I'm afraid he's right, my dear," Stockbridge said. "There has been some damage to the tracks west of here, and we shall have to wait for it to be repaired." He shot a meaningful glance at the other men, warning them that he didn’t want the two young women alarmed by the full story of the robbery.

  Flint looked at the younger sister, Hannah, and saw that she didn’t seem disappointed in the delay. She was looking with interest and curiosity past the station at the row of saloons that lined the dusty length of Railroad Street. The Elkhorn, the Pearl, and the Black Dog must look quite disreputable to a young girl from the East, he thought.

  Stockbridge turned to Roland. "Get Pannier out here," the railroad executive commanded his son sharply. "He needs to know about this."

  Roland nodded and quickly went back into the private car. He reappeared a moment later with a tall, thin, bespectacled man who was shrugging into his coat. His fingers bore ink stains, Flint noted, and his shoulders were slightly stooped.

  "My assistant, Elliott Pannier." Stockbridge performed the perfunctory introduction.

  "And my fiancé," Elizabeth spoke up, taking Pannier's arm.

  That revelation surprised Flint. Pannier was considerably older than Elizabeth, probably in his mid-thirties. He had rust-colored hair and a bushy mustache, and he was hardly what anyone would call handsome. Not the type of man you would expect to be engaged to a belle like Elizabeth Stockbridge, Flint thought.

  "We've got trouble, Pannier," Stockbridge said brusquely. "I'll tell you about it in a moment." He turned to Oliver Brewer. "Mr. Brewer, would you mind taking my daughters into the station and making them comfortable? This dusty platform is hardly the place for young ladies."

  "Of course," Brewer agreed hurriedly. With quick, nervous movements, he ushered Elizabeth and Hannah Stockbridge toward the entrance of the depot.

  "What's wrong, sir?" Pannier asked softly when the two young women were out of earshot.

  Stockbridge told him all he knew about the robbery, including the report of injuries and deaths among the passengers.

  "My God," Pannier breathed, hard hit by the news. "Those poor people."

  "At least they didn't get the strongbox and the money," Roland put in.

  Flint spoke up. "That's what I want to talk to you about, Mr. Stockbridge. I don't much like the idea of fifty thousand dollars sitting in the safe in that depot."

  "Neither do I," Stockbridge replied. "That's why we're going to move it—as soon as I've checked it."

  Flint frowned. "Where are you intending to put it?"

  "I have the most modern, secure safe in the country on board that train, Marshal," Stockbridge explained. "The money will be just fine in it."

  "All right," Flint agreed, nodding.

  Brewer was coming back out of the station. Stockbridge started toward him, saying over his shoulder to Roland and Pannier, "Come along, both of you."

  They followed closely behind him. Flint trailed along, taking his time. Stockbridge had not asked for his help, but if they were going to move a strongbox with fifty thousand dollars in it, he was going to make certain that nothing went wrong.

  Stockbridge spoke to Brewer, and the two of them went into the station with Roland and Pannier. Flint went through the big double doors a moment later and saw the four men going behind the ticket counter and into the office area, where the station's safe was located. Angus MacQuarrie, whom Flint had instructed to guard the safe, was still there.

  On the other side of the big main room, Elizabeth and Hannah were sitting on one of the long wooden benches that lined the walls of the station. Elizabeth looked distinctly uncomfortable and unhappy. Hannah, on the other hand, was looking around the interior of the depot with cheerful interest. She seemed a little shy with strangers, but from the look in her eyes, Flint could tell that she was curious about them.

  The door on the street side of the station opened, and a middle-aged man in a rumpled coat came in. Flint recognized him as one of the local drunks who spent most of his time across the street in the Elkhorn Saloon. The man liked to wander over to the station from time to time to watch the trains. Now he was staring in openmouthed admiration at the two pretty, young strangers who were sitting on the bench.

  Flint moved quickly across the room and caught the man's arm. "No trains coming in or leaving now, Vern," he said. "You might as well go look for something else to do."

  "But I heard a whistle a while ago, Marshal," the man said, blinking his bleary eyes and trying to look past Flint's shoulder at Elizabeth and Hannah.

  "That train's already in, and it's not going to be leaving anytime soon. Now you just move on, all right? I don't want to have to toss you in a cell."

  "All right, all right, Marshal," Vern muttered. "Who's the gals?"

  "Nobody you need to know," Flint told him firmly. He steered the drunk out of the station.

  "Thank you, Marshal," Elizabeth said when Flint stepped back into the depot. "I was afraid that horrible man was going to come over and try to talk to us."

  "Vern's harmless enough, as long as you're not downwind of him," Flint said as he walked over to the two young women. "I'm sorry you've run into this delay, ladies."

  "It is dreadful," Elizabeth sighed. "But I suppose we shall just have to endure it. Isn't that right, Hannah?"

  "It's not so bad," Hannah replied quietly. "I like the West, Elizabeth. You just won't give it a chance."

  Elizabeth sniffed delicately and then smiled up at Flint. "I'm afraid my sister is a bit of a tomboy, Marshal. She fancies the rugged western way of life, and she's been trying for the longest time to get Father to move to San Francisco."

  "I like San Francisco," Hannah protested.

  "Better than Chicago?"

  "Well, yes, I do. And you would, too, Elizabeth."

  Flint smiled. "It's none of my business, ma'am, but I've heard that San Francisco is quite a nice town. Real civilized."

  "Perhaps." Elizabeth shrugged prettily. "I suppose I'll find out...if we ever get there. It seems as though we've been traveling forever across this wretched frontier." Her eyes suddenly lit up, recapturing the spark Flint had seen in them when she first got off the train. "Waiting here might not be so bad after all. I suppose you have all sorts of outlaws and cowboys and gunmen and Indians in the vicinity, don't you, Marshal?"

  Flint's smile widened. She sounded like an excited child. "Well, ma'am, we do have some outlaws around every now and then, although I try to keep them out of town when I can. You'll see a lot of cowboys, but you won't find them as glamorous as you may have heard. They're just plain, hardworking men. And the only Indians around here are civilized ones. Hasn't been a savage on the streets since I've been here."

  "Now you're making fun of me," Elizabeth said, pouting, though her eyes were still smiling.

  Before Flint could confirm or deny her accusation, the do
or of Brewer's office opened, and the stationmaster called to him, "Would you mind stepping in here, Marshal?"

  Flint nodded warily. He tipped his hat to the Stockbridge sisters. "Nice talking to you, ladies," he said as he turned away.

  Inside the office, Stockbridge and Roland were standing beside a large open strongbox. Elliott Pannier knelt next to it, counting the money that was stacked inside it. To one side, Angus MacQuarrie leaned against the wall, a short-barreled shotgun cradled in his arms. He was a short, burly, middle-aged man with a grayish-red beard and a quick smile. The proprietor of Angus's Tavern, he was also one of Lucas Flint's best friends in Abilene.

  "Everything quiet in here, Angus?" Flint asked.

  "Aye," the brawny Scotsman answered.

  Brewer went to Stockbridge's side and said, "I assure you, all the money is there, Mr. Stockbridge. No one has disturbed the box since we took it off the train yesterday."

  "We're just checking, Mr. Brewer," the railroad president replied crisply. "It's good business to be careful when it comes to money, you know that."

  "Yes, sir."

  Pannier looked up. "Fifty thousand, just as we packed it back in Chicago, sir."

  Stockbridge nodded. "Lock it back up, Pannier."

  The assistant closed the lid of the strongbox and slid a heavy padlock through the hasp. It clicked shut with a solid sound.

  Stockbridge took off his coat and handed it to Roland. As Flint watched in puzzlement, Stockbridge began to roll up the sleeves of his fine white shirt. Stockbridge glanced up, met Flint's eyes, and said, "Would you mind giving me a hand, Marshal? I want to get this box onto my train."

  Flint nodded and moved to the other end of the strongbox and stooped slightly to grasp the handle attached to it.

  Stockbridge took the other end. "All right," he said when his grip on the handle was secure.

  Both men grunted as they lifted the heavy container. The money inside was fairly weighty by itself, and the strongbox was thickly lined with metal. It was quite a burden, but nothing the two men couldn’t manage.

  As they started toward the office door, Angus stepped forward quickly. "Lemme get tha' f'ye, Lucas."

  Flint shook his head. "No, thanks," he said tautly. "I've got it."

  Brewer scurried to open the door, and Flint and Stockbridge carried the strongbox out of the office, through the depot, and across the station platform. Stockbridge backed up the steps to the private car, Flint following with his share of the load.

  The interior of the car was every bit as opulent and luxurious as its exterior, Flint saw. A large sitting area with a long divan and several armchairs took up the rear section. Ornate oil lamps were mounted on the walls, and a thick rug covered the floor. A partition with a door in it separated the sitting area from the rest of the car, and through the open door, Flint saw a narrow corridor that ran the remaining length of the car. More doors opened off the corridor.

  Still bearing their load, the two men crossed the sitting area and went down the hall. At Stockbridge's direction they turned into one of the doors, which brought them into an office. There was a desk at one side of the cubicle, papers stacked neatly on it, and Flint guessed this was where Elliott Pannier had been working when the train arrived. The other side of the office was taken up by a massive iron safe, the intricate gilt lettering on its door declaring it to be a product of the Slesar-Malone Company.

  "Finest safe made," Stockbridge grunted as he lowered his end of the strongbox and Flint did likewise. Then Stockbridge bent to work the combination lock on the safe while Roland stood in the doorway of the office.

  When Stockbridge had the door open, he and Flint once again picked up the strongbox and slid it into the safe. With a sigh of satisfaction, the railroad president closed the door and spun the dial of the lock.

  "That's that," he said, straightening. "Thank you, Marshal."

  "Glad to help," Flint replied. As far as he could tell, Stockbridge wasn’t breathing very hard from his labors, though the marshal was left panting.

  "What do we do now?" Roland asked.

  "I suppose we might as well make arrangements to stay in the local hotel," Stockbridge said as he rolled down his sleeves and took his coat from his son. "I daresay it will be more comfortable than our accommodations here on the train."

  "I wouldn't guarantee that," Flint said with a smile. "But you're welcome to give it a try, Mr. Stockbridge."

  Brewer appeared in the corridor, clearly nervous at being in this luxurious private car. "There're riders coming from the west, Marshal," he announced. "Might be the rescue party returning from the wreck."

  Flint hurried out of the railroad car and strode to the end of the station platform, the other men following behind him. He peered down Railroad Street to where it merged with Texas Street, and he saw a group of men slowly riding on horseback into town. Behind them came several buckboards. The slow-moving group was raising quite a cloud of dust.

  Flint spotted Deputy Cully Markham's horse in the lead. Cully had led the rescue party that started out as soon as the news had reached them. They must have ridden hard to be back this soon, Flint thought. He had a feeling that they weren’t bringing good news.

  2

  As Deputy Cully Markham walked his tired pinto into Abilene, he reflexively scanned the streets and buildings. Immediately he noticed the small train standing at the depot, the gilt on the ornate passenger car glinting in the midday sun. Standing next to the car was the lean, denim-clad figure of the marshal. Normally Cully would smile and wave at Lucas Flint, but today the grim news he carried and the sorry procession he led weighed heavily on him.

  The deputy was more tired than he had been in a very long time. He had been working an all-night shift in the marshal's office when the drifting cowboy brought word of the train disaster. He had gathered the rescue party and led the long, breakneck ride to the site of the wreck. Cully knew this country, knew the shortcuts available to horses and wagons that were denied to the railroad, and the group of rescuers had made good time. If only they had found something better when they arrived at their destination...

  Cully had never seen a derailed train before, and the extent of the damage was astonishing to him. The train was crumpled like some discarded toy.

  In one of the cars that wasn’t too heavily damaged, sixteen bodies had been laid side by side. They were draped with sheets, coats, and anything else that could be found to cover the bloody ruins that had once been human. The engineer, the fireman, and one brakeman were among them, but the rest were all passengers.

  Nothing could be done for the dead, but the many injured needed attention.

  Dr. Rose Keller, the younger of the town's two physicians, had insisted on joining the rescue party. Cully knew that Lucas Flint had started to try to talk her out of it, but the marshal had stopped when he realized that she would be needed. Besides, once Rose got an idea in her head, there was no dissuading her from it.

  Rose was still out at the scene of the wreck, doing what she could for the passengers who were too badly hurt to be moved. The ones who were less severely injured had been sent back to Abilene in the wagons that now rolled down Railroad Street behind the deputy.

  Cully Markham drew his horse to a stop by the steps leading to the station platform. Dust coated his dark clothes, but he made no effort to brush it away. Instead he pushed his hat back and cocked a leg around the saddle horn to ease the strain in his muscles after the long ride.

  Flint studied his deputy's grim face. "Pretty bad?" Flint asked.

  Cully nodded, glancing past the marshal at the private train and the men who were waiting with Flint. Cully recognized Angus and Brewer, but the fellows in suits were strangers to him.

  "Real bad," he said. He inclined his head to indicate the wagons that had continued past the depot down Texas Street toward Rose Keller's office. Her mentor, the semi-retired Dr. Lewis Gilmore, was waiting there to receive any injured patients that Rose sent in from the wreck. Cully went on
, "By the time we got there, two more people had died. That brought the total so far to sixteen. And that train's a complete wreck."

  "Good Lord," the tall, middle-aged man next to Flint breathed. His face was haggard.

  "Cully, this is Nicholas Stockbridge," Flint said. "He's the president of the Kansas Pacific. And this is his son, Roland, and his assistant, Mr. Pannier. My deputy, Cully Markham."

  Cully nodded to the men, all of whom were pale and shaken by the news he brought. He wondered briefly what such men were doing in Abilene, but he was too tired to worry about that for more than a few seconds.

  "We brought the express messenger in," Cully went on. "He's badly shot up, but Dr. Keller says he'll probably be all right. The conductor wasn't hurt, so he wanted to stay out there for a while."

  Flint nodded. "We'll want to talk to the messenger."

  "I've already talked with him some. He says the leader of the gang that hit them was Roscoe Wolfe."

  "Wolfe!" Roland Stockbridge exclaimed. "That—that bandit! When is the law going to catch up with him?"

  "As soon as we can, Mr. Stockbridge," Flint said firmly. "We'd best go talk to that messenger. Cully, I know you're pretty worn out, but I've got another job for you."

  Cully suppressed a groan. "Sure, Marshal. What is it?"

  "There's a couple of young women waiting inside the station. They're Mr. Stockbridge's daughters, and I want you to see to it that they get to the hotel all right with their baggage. Angus will help you."

  Cully opened his mouth to protest, but then the implications of Flint's words sank into his tired brain. Two young women, and daughters of a rich man, at that. He said, "I expect I can handle that."

  "Figured you could," Flint said dryly.

  Flint, Stockbridge, Roland, and Pannier cut across on Cedar Street to Texas Street, then followed the plank boardwalk to Rose Keller's office. The neat little house was set back slightly from the street, behind a well-cared-for and attractively planted yard. A sign with Rose's name on it, indicating the location of her practice, hung by the boardwalk.