Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  "I said all along we have to go after Wolfe," Cully declared. "But I don't see anything wrong with sending the note back to Abilene."

  "It's settled then." Brennan turned to Pannier. "Would you like to take the note to Abilene, Mr. Pannier?"

  Pannier shook his head. "No. If you're going on, I want to go with you. I want to be there to do whatever I can for Elizabeth."

  "That's fine. Cully, you know these men; I don't. You pick a good man who can ride fast, all right?"

  "Sure." Cully flipped the knife he was still holding, the knife that had been left behind by Roscoe Wolfe. He caught it by the hilt, then flicked his wrist. The blade drove into the rich paneling on the wall, quivering from the force of the throw. He stalked out of the car.

  7

  By the time Cully Found Angus MacQuarrie, he had curbed his impatience. He quickly described the situation to Angus and with the Scotsman's advice settled on a man named Harvey to take Roscoe Wolfe's ransom demand back to Abilene. Harvey was small and fairly lightweight, and Cully knew that he had worked as a cowhand on several of the ranches in the area. He was a good rider and would be able to cover long distances quickly without wearing out his horse.

  Harvey mounted up and spurred his horse into a gallop. Cully noticed the look of trepidation on Elliott Pannier's face as he watched Harvey ride away. To Pannier, Harvey was carrying a lot more than a piece of paper with an outlaw's crude scrawl on it: he had Elizabeth Stockbridge's fate in his hands. Cully had been concerned about Pannier from the start, and what he saw now only increased his worries.

  "All right, men," Tom Brennan called, swinging into his saddle, "you'd best mount up. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

  As the posse members began climbing onto their horses, Angus appeared on the platform of the passenger car. He had disappeared for a few moments, Cully now realized, without any of them noticing. The burly Scotsman had a canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

  Cully nudged his horse over to the platform and asked, "What the devil have you got there, Angus?"

  The tavern keeper's bearded face split in a grin. "I was thinking tha' there might be a kitchen on this here fancy car." He hefted the bag he was carrying. "And I reckon I was right. It isn't much, but 'twill help wi' our supplies."

  Roland Stockbridge overheard the conversation as he struggled to turn his horse around in the proper direction. He looked up, aghast. "You looted our pantry?" he asked. "But that's stealing!"

  Cully shook his head, trying to get Roland's attention, but it was too late. Angus's already ruddy features darkened even more. He rumbled, "Dinna be callin' me a thief, lad!"

  Tom Brennan rode over to them and smoothly inserted himself between the two men. "What Angus did makes good sense, Mr. Stockbridge. We brought supplies of our own, but the more we can stretch them, the faster we can travel. And the faster we travel, the sooner we catch up to Wolfe and your sister."

  "I suppose you're right," Roland said grudgingly. "I hadn't thought about it that way."

  "That's the only way you can think about it," Brennan told him, his tone sterner now. "Until we get your sister back safely and have Wolfe in custody, everything we do has to relate to that mission. There's no time to worry about anything else."

  The white-haired marshal wheeled his horse and waved for the posse to get moving. They rode out with Brennan in the lead and Cully close beside him. The other members of the group trailed along behind them, Roland Stockbridge and Elliott Pannier bringing up the rear as they struggled to get their mounts to cooperate. Despite the momentary anger he had felt toward Roland, Angus hung back to make sure that the easterners didn’t fall too far behind.

  The posse turned south away from the railroad line to follow the trail left by Wolfe and his men. Soon they splashed through the shallow water of the Smoky Hill River. The tracks left by Wolfe's gang continued on the other side of the stream, angling gradually southwest.

  The day grew hot as the sun rose higher in the sky, and the heat seemed to sap the strength of some of the men. Most of them had had little or no sleep the night before. The brief rest at the abandoned train had helped, but it had not been enough to refresh them completely.

  Brennan called another halt when the sun was directly overhead. "We'll stop here for an hour or so," Brennan announced as he looked around at his dog-tired companions. "As soon as you've eaten, you men had better get a little rest."

  The members of the posse found some scant shade in a grove of scrubby trees and dismounted to eat the noon meal. Angus gathered enough wood to start a small fire and boil a pot of coffee. Brennan accepted a cup of coffee from Angus, along with a biscuit and a handful of jerky and went over to sit cross-legged by Cully.

  The deputy swallowed some coffee from his own cup and nodded toward the hoofprints the posse had been following. "Wolfe isn't making much of an effort to hide his trail," he said. "Fact is, it looks to me like he's not doing anything to cover his tracks."

  "That's an indication of how confident he is," Brennan replied. "He doesn't think we can catch him. And even if we do, he won't be scared of a posse of soft-handed townies and a couple of tenderfoots."

  The marshal's voice was pitched low so that it wouldn’t carry to the other men. Cully glanced over at him and said, "You sound like you don't think much of us."

  "Don’t get me wrong, Deputy. I know Lucas Flint's reputation. They didn’t start calling him the Rattler without a good reason. I haven't seen you in action yet, but you wouldn't be working for him unless you were a good man."

  "What about the rest of them?" Cully nodded toward the other posse members.

  "I'm sure they're fine citizens," Brennan said. "They may work out all right. But none of them really understands just how good Wolfe is. I went up against his gang over in Missouri with a handful of tough, seasoned deputies behind me."

  "What happened?" Obviously, Wolfe had gotten away, but Cully was curious about the details.

  Brennan grinned thinly. "I got out of that scrape alive, but none of my men did."

  Cully restrained a low whistle. "That's bad," he said quietly. "Is that why you're so determined to bring Wolfe in?"

  "That's one of the reasons," Brennan answered. For a moment, both his voice and his gaze were faraway, as if he were seeing something entirely different from this relatively tranquil scene. Most of the posse members had finished their quick meals and were stretched out, dozing in the shade. Roland and Pannier were lying down, too, but they were restless, and occasionally one of them would moan softly in pain.

  After a moment, Cully said, "You think it's going to be pretty bad when we finally catch up to Wolfe, don't you?"

  "It could be," Brennan admitted. "I'd feel better if we had more deputies with us."

  "Why did you bring us, then?" Cully wanted to know.

  Brennan smiled again. "Because you and your friends were the best I could do at the time, son." He laughed softly. "Don’t worry. I didn't bring this posse out just to get it all shot up."

  Cully finished his coffee and frowned but said nothing. He wasn’t so sure about Brennan's last statement. He had a feeling the marshal would do just about anything to capture Roscoe Wolfe.

  Brennan let the silence stretch for a minute, then asked, "You know anything about this Indian Territory we're headed for?"

  "Not much," Cully replied with a shake of his head. "I've ridden into it a time or two, but never very far or for very long." He grinned. "And usually there was somebody chasing me, so I didn't have much time to see the sights."

  "Regular hellion, were you?" Brennan's tone was friendlier now.

  "I got around."

  "Well, I can tell you this about Indian Territory, son. There's probably more lawbreakers to the square mile there than anywhere else in the country."

  "I thought it was all Indian land," Cully commented.

  "It's supposed to be," Brennan said. "And there are several big reservations there. But there are several white settlements around. Ranchers have l
eased some of the land from the government, and they run big herds there. The Texans are always bringing cattle across on their way up the Chisholm Trail to your fair city of Abilene, or to Dodge or Ellsworth or Caldwell. It may be Indian Territory as far as Washington is concerned, but there are plenty of white men there, too." The marshal bit off a chunk of biscuit and then continued, "And very little law."

  "Who keeps the peace?"

  Brennan shrugged. "The army, supposedly. They administer the reservations and try to keep out the whites who don't have a reason to be there. But it's a big country, boy, and not enough troops to go around. U.S. marshals from Arkansas cover the eastern part of the territory when need be, but they don't often range out to the western half. The tribes have police forces of their own, but they’re not allowed to arrest white men. So, outlaw gangs from all over use the place to hole up when the law starts to close in on them."

  "Like Wolfe?"

  Brennan nodded. "Exactly. If we don't catch up to Wolfe before he crosses into Indian Territory, we'll be riding into the biggest pot of trouble you've ever seen."

  "What are the chances of catching Wolfe before then?" Cully thought he knew the answer to that question, but he wanted to see what Brennan would say.

  The marshal chuckled. "Very slim," he declared.

  Cully shrugged and said, "Well, we'll go where we have to and do what we have to do."

  "That's the spirit, Deputy," Brennan said as he slapped Cully on the back. Cully couldn’t tell if his tone was mocking or not. Brennan went on, "I think I've bent your ear long enough. You'd better grab a little sleep while you can."

  "What about you?" Cully asked.

  "Oh, don't worry about me. I'll stay awake so that the rest of you don't sleep too long. We'll need to get back on the trail pretty soon."

  "You'll be all right?"

  "I told you not to worry about me." Brennan's voice was firm.

  Cully shrugged again, leaned back against the tree under which he was sitting, and tipped his hat down over his eyes. His head still ached from the clouting it had received from Wolfe's men, but when he closed his eyes, the pain seemed to recede a little. Sleep drifted in quickly as exhaustion claimed him.

  The next thing he knew Brennan was prodding his shoulder. "Time to get going, Cully," the marshal said.

  Cully blinked rapidly. His eyes felt as though they had been dipped in sand. He shook his head and stood up, wondering how long he had been asleep. From the position of the sun, it had not been long. Around him, the other members of the posse were grumbling and climbing to their feet. Their movements were stiff and jerky.

  In contrast, Tom Brennan seemed rested and fresh as he swung up into his saddle. "Mount up, men," he called. "We'd best be riding."

  "My God!" Roland Stockbridge exclaimed as he straightened up, grabbing at the small of his back as the pain of sore muscles shot through him.

  "You'll get over that, son," Brennan heartily assured him. "A few more days in the saddle and you'll feel like you were born on the back of a horse."

  "I already feel like I died on one," Roland muttered. He grasped his mount's saddle horn, put a foot in the stirrup, and stiffly pulled himself up. Pannier followed suit, moving even more awkwardly.

  Cully took the final half cup of coffee that Angus offered him. The black brew was strong and bitter, but it was bracing. His headache had faded even more. He was convinced that he had not been hurt as badly as Dr. Keller had feared.

  The posse moved out, riding more slowly now than they had earlier. Brennan gradually increased the pace, though, taking the lead and keeping his eyes on the tracks left by Wolfe and his gang.

  The afternoon wore on. Riding beside Brennan, Cully wondered how the middle-aged lawman kept going and seemed to stay fresh. Brennan had to be packing a powerful hate for Roscoe Wolfe, something that kept the fires inside him burning brightly. That was the only explanation that made sense to Cully.

  The terrain continued to be fairly flat and grassy. The posse forded a narrow, shallow stream that Cully guessed to be Walnut Creek. Far to the northwest, they could see a squat elevation that was almost too insignificant to be called a mountain. Beyond that somewhere lay Dodge City. Cully doubted that Wolfe's trail would take them through the cattle town; the outlaw would probably try to avoid as many pockets of civilization as he could.

  As the sun was lowering toward the horizon, Cully asked Brennan, "How long are we going to ride?"

  Brennan frowned at the tracks they were following. "The moon might be bright enough tonight to allow us to read these tracks, but I suppose we'd better stop and camp. What I said about horses applies to men, too. We don't want to ride them into the ground."

  "That's what I was thinking," Cully agreed.

  "We'll keep going until dark," Brennan decided, "and get back on the trail as soon as it's light in the morning."

  Cully nodded. He peered at a thin line of trees a couple of hundred yards ahead of them. There was probably another creek there.

  As Cully looked ahead, flame winked from the shadows under the trees. It was just a brief flash, suddenly there and then gone. Then something whined through the air nearby. And a second later he heard the slap of a shot.

  Cully was already jerking back on his reins. He had recognized the muzzle flash of a rifle. "Ambushers in those trees!" he shouted as he wheeled his horse.

  More gunfire spat from the cover of the trees. Several members of the posse yelled, but the shouts were of alarm, not pain. So far no one seemed to have been hit. The range was long, but unless the posse was able to take cover, it was only a matter of time before the hidden gunmen were able to zero in on them.

  Cully's eyes darted around, looking for any kind of shelter. He spotted a clump of small boulders at the same instant that Brennan flung out an arm to point at the rocks.

  "Take cover over there!" Brennan barked, spurring his horse toward the boulders.

  Cully followed closely behind him. As he rode, he slid his Winchester from the saddle boot and levered a shell into the chamber. Throwing the rifle to his shoulder, Cully steered his horse with his knees and sent a slug whistling toward the trees. From this range, on horseback, it was extremely unlikely that he would hit any of the attackers, but at least they would know that the posse was going to fight back.

  The other men galloped toward the rocks, many of them leaning over the necks of their horses to make themselves smaller targets. Roland Stockbridge followed their example, but as Elliott Pannier spurred his mount, he started to slip out of the saddle.

  Angus saw what was about to happen and swerved his horse toward Pannier. Just as Pannier began to fall, Angus's horse surged up alongside his, and the tavern keeper's strong hand clamped on Pannier's arm. Seemingly effortlessly, Angus boosted the easterner back into the saddle.

  "Hang on, laddie!" Angus yelled. "’Tis not far now!"

  Brennan and Cully reached the boulders and flung themselves from their saddles. Cully grabbed the reins of his mount and dragged down on them, forcing the animal to lie down on its side. Brennan did the same. Even if the posse members escaped from this ambush with their lives, their pursuit of Wolfe's gang would be over if their horses were cut down.

  Cully threw himself behind one of the small boulders and started firing at the trees. He could see movement in the shadows now and could pick out targets. A bullet smacked into the ground a few feet to his right, plowing a furrow in the dirt. That was the closest the ambushers had come so far.

  Brennan had his own rifle out and was pouring lead at the trees. The other men rode into the clump of boulders and frantically dismounted. Brennan paused in his firing long enough to glance over his shoulder and shout, "Get those horses down! We don't want a stray bullet hitting any of them!"

  The posse members fought with their mounts, slowly forcing the horses down into the unaccustomed positions. Roland and Pannier had no success at all, and once again Angus came to their rescue, his brawny muscles hauling on the reins until the horse
s were down.

  Cully's Winchester ran dry. He twisted around and reached for the saddlebags on his horse where he kept his rifle shells. As he leaned out from the shelter of the rock, something tugged at his hat, sending it sailing off his head.

  Cully swore, ducking instinctively and tasting dirt in his mouth as his face hit the ground.

  "Lucky shot," Brennan said coolly. "Those coyotes can't aim that good."

  Cully steeled himself and reached for the ammunition again, and this time he got the box of shells. He flopped back behind the boulder and began feeding cartridges into the rifle’s magazine.

  The other members of the posse were sporadically firing at the ambushers. Cully's ears rang from the blasts. He called over to Brennan, "You think it's Wolfe?"

  "Him or some of his men," Brennan replied. He paused in his own firing. "It's a standoff. Neither bunch can do much damage to the other, but we're pretty well pinned down here."

  The pounding of hoofbeats came to their ears almost before the words were out of Brennan's mouth.

  Cully jerked his head around and saw riders galloping toward them. The men were coming from the west, seemingly out of nowhere. They had to have been concealed in some hidden draw over there, Cully realized, just waiting until the ambushers in the trees had the posse pinned down. Then the riders could sweep behind and overrun the posse, wiping them out.

  And knowing that isn't going to do us a bit of good, Cully thought bitterly. Wolfe's daring maneuver had doomed them.

  "Behind us!" Cully yelled. He swiveled and brought the Winchester to bear on the riders. At least they would go down fighting.

  He fired as fast as he could, squinting through the haze of gun smoke that drifted in front of his eyes, and saw one of the riders fly out of the saddle. Angus and several other men had heeded his warning and had turned around to confront the new threat. But the men on horseback were coming fast and furious, the pistols in their hands blazing.

  Cully saw another rider fall. That cut down the odds, but it wasn’t going to be enough. There were still half a dozen attackers raining death on them.