Firing their pistols into the air and whooping as they galloped toward the wagon train, the strangers were now within fifty yards of the wagons. Bandannas tied around their faces hid their features. Ira, reaching cautiously into the wagon, grasped the breech of an old rifle. It wouldn’t hurt to be ready, he thought, just in case the attack suddenly turned more serious.
All along the wagon train, he heard the fearful cries of the children as the shooting, yelling riders swarmed around the wagons. The anxious women tried to calm the frightened youngsters, but they met with little success.
Ira cast a worried glance at the wagon directly behind his as he heard its team of horses whinny nervously. Unlike the other wagons in the caravan, this one wasn’t driven by a man. Instead, a young woman—not much more than a girl really—cowered on the seat, tightly clutching the reins and trying to keep the scared team from panicking.
The marauders swept past Ira's wagon, forcing Tom to yank his mount even closer to the sideboards to avoid a collision. There were only six riders, but the uproar they were creating made it seem as though there were many more. The man in the lead yelled at Ira, "Welcome to Kansas, old man!"
Ira shook with anger at the savage irony of the cry. As a rule, he tried to control his temper, but this arrogant, dangerous display made him want to raise the concealed rifle and start shooting—
"Ira!"
The young woman's scream made him jerk his head around. As the strangers blasted slugs into the dirt around the hooves of her team, the panicked animals reared, stomped the earth, and then surged forward and off to one side away from the other wagons. The lines were wrenched from the slender fingers of the young woman, and the wagon lurched dangerously as the team bolted.
"Violet!" Tom cried in alarm.
Ira stared numbly as the runaway wagon careened across the prairie. He saw the dark-haired form of the young woman leaning over recklessly as she tried to retrieve the fallen lines. The wagon hit a bump just then, and the sudden jolt threw her down hard onto the floorboards.
"Violet!" Tom yelled again. He dug his heels into his horse's sides and slashed at it with the reins in his hand. The horse responded instantly, and Tom galloped at full speed after the runaway wagon.
A line of low bushes and trees stood a quarter of a mile away from the wagon train. Ira's jaw tightened when he realized that the wagon was racing directly toward the trees. That hedgerow more than likely concealed a creek, maybe a gully of some sort, he thought.
He knew with a terrifying certainty that Violet's wagon would crash unless it was stopped before it reached the tree line. He had seen the twisted remains of men who had been injured in wagon wrecks, had seen what the grinding impact could do to a human body. He was equally certain that Tom couldn’t catch the careening wagon in time. Forgetting about the whooping, shooting strangers for the moment, he watched with horror as the terrible drama unfolded before his eyes. "Violet," he whispered, unable to tear his eyes away.
Flint and Cully had ridden east from Abilene, following the Kansas Pacific railroad tracks and the trail from Junction City. With the baking sun and sweltering heat, the two lawmen had decided to travel at an easy pace, but the cracking of gunfire drifting through the hot air—more gunshots than would come from anything innocent—made them forget the heat of the day.
"Come on," Flint snapped, spurring his horse. Cully reacted instantly and urged his mount to a gallop.
A line of wagons came quickly into view in the shimmering air. Flint felt a surge of anger when he saw the masked riders circling the wagon train, firing their guns, and shouting. He felt sure that Billy Day was under one of those bandannas.
Cully's horse pounded beside Flint's. "Over there!" the deputy shouted, pointing at a wagon that was bouncing crazily over the plains as its team raced frantically away from the shooting.
"See if you can stop it!" Flint commanded. "I'll handle those boys at the train."
With a grim nod, Cully steered his mount away from Flint and urged his pinto to greater speed. He wasn’t sure if anyone was on board the runaway wagon, but then he caught a glimpse of a figure scrambling from the floorboards onto the seat. Long brown hair fluttered in the wind.
A woman! Cully leaned forward in the saddle and huddled close to his pinto's neck. He and the animal flew across the plain as he desperately strove to cut the gap between him and the careening wagon: Suddenly, he noticed another man on horseback, flailing his mount as he, too, pursued the wagon. Cully was closer, though, and if either man had a chance to stop the wagon, it was the young deputy. But if he didn’t bring the crazed team to a halt, Cully realized, the wagon would plunge into the trees ahead of it and crash.
Cully approached the path of the wagon at an angle, enabling him to cover the distance quickly. Once he reached the wagon, he swung his horse's head to the side to correct his course so that he was racing alongside it.
Glancing quickly toward the wagon seat, he caught a glimpse of tangled chestnut hair and young features set in a mask of terror. Despairingly, he spotted the reins dragging in the dirt, just behind the thundering hooves of the team.
As he looked ahead again, he realized with horror that the trees were less than fifty yards away now. Cully remembered from fishing trips that a narrow creek was just beyond them, and although its banks were not very high, the drop-off was abrupt. Should the wagon crash into the trees, the bank was steep enough to send the wagon cartwheeling.
Cully whispered soft words of encouragement as he tried to coax more speed from his mount. The horse couldn’t have understood the words, but it must have sensed Cully's urgency because it responded. Reaching into its reserves of strength, the pinto gradually pulled past the wagon seat and drew even with the lead horses in the runaway team.
As his horse thundered beside the galloping team, Cully took a deep breath. He saw only one sure way to stop the panicked horses in time. Leaning to the side in his saddle, he kicked his feet free of the stirrups, then launched into the air, flinging himself over the backs of the horses next to him. He spread his arms, his fingers frantically grabbing for anything he could hold.
In the same instant that one foot touched the wagon tongue, the fingers of both hands grasped, then twined in the manes of the lead horses. Cully hung on for dear life as the terrified animals wildly tossed their heads. He caught his balance and, one hand at a time, transferred his grip to the halters of the horses. Calling on all his strength, he hauled back heavily and slowed them. A moment later, they came to a halt, no more than ten feet from the trees.
Exhausted and breathless, Cully closed his eyes and didn’t move for a long moment. Taking in lungfuls of hot, dusty air, he coughed several times. Slowly he slid onto the back of one of the horses. Twisting around, he saw that the young woman driver was sitting on the seat with her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she cried.
Cully cleared the last of the dust from his throat and said hoarsely, "It's all right, ma'am. These horses aren't going anywhere now."
Before she could answer, the other man who had been chasing after the wagon came pounding up. He threw himself from the saddle, ran over to the wagon, and vaulted onto the seat. Clutching the young woman's shoulders, he said urgently, "Violet! You all right, Violet?"
Dropping her hands, she looked up, revealing large brown eyes in a soft round face. Despite her tear-stained complexion and disheveled hair, Cully could see that she was a very pretty young woman. She threw her arms around the young man and clung to him desperately. "Oh, Tom!" she cried raggedly. "I...I was so scared!"
Tom put his arms around her protectively, patting her awkwardly as he tried to comfort her. He looked over her shoulder at Cully and said, "Don't know who you are, mister, but we're right thankful you came along. I've never seen anything like what you did."
Cully slid off the horse's back and said with a weary grin, "I never did anything quite like it, either. Seemed to be the only way to stop this wagon in time, though." He walked up to the wagon box
. "I'm Deputy Cully Markham, from Abilene. What the devil's going on out here, anyway?"
The young man turned abruptly and looked toward the other wagons. "Those...those men came ridin' up and started shootin'... I got to get back!"
"Take it easy," Cully said soothingly as he started to walk to his pinto. "Marshal Lucas Flint is over there. He'll put a stop to it if anybody can."
After Cully had swung his horse to chase the runaway wagon, Flint galloped toward the besieged wagon train. While he rode, he slipped his Winchester from the saddle boot and levered a cartridge into the chamber. Pointing the barrel of the rifle into the air, he squeezed the trigger.
At the Winchester's sharp crack, a couple of the marauders spun their heads around. They stopped firing. Flint heard them yell and saw them point at him to alert their companions to the approaching danger.
The six masked men wheeled their horses away from the wagons and put the spurs to them.
Flint bit back a curse as he saw the men veer north and race away from the wagon train. He fired a couple of shots after them, knowing he couldn’t hit anything at this range from the back of a running horse. At least he had succeeded in driving them off. The wagon train was safe.
As the riders disappeared in the cloud of dust raised by their horses' hooves, Flint slowed his horse to a trot and slid the Winchester into its sheath. Then, cantering up to the lead wagon and reining his horse to a stop, he raised his hand in greeting to the tall, haggard man who stood on the wagon box clutching an old rifle.
"Howdy," Flint called to him. "Everybody all right here?"
The man turned toward the wagons behind him and asked in a booming voice, "Anyone hurt?"
Slowly, negative replies came back to him as several men jumped from their wagons and hurried to the lead wagon. They clustered around it, clearly eager to learn what was going on.
"We appear to be unharmed, Marshal," the lantern-jawed leader told Flint. "Those men seemed content to fire into the air and scare us half to death."
"That's what it looked like to me, too," Flint agreed. "They were pretty quick to leave when things got more serious."
"When they saw you and your friend coming, you mean?"
"And when that team bolted." Flint shifted in his saddle and surveyed the prairie for some sign of the runaway wagon. To his relief, he saw it, undamaged, moving slowly toward the train. Cully Markham rode on his pinto beside it. Flint wasn’t surprised that the resourceful Cully had found a way to stop the team. His hotheaded young deputy usually managed to accomplish whatever had to be done.
Flint looked back at the wagon train's leader as the man said, "My name is Ira Powell, Marshal. I suppose you could say I'm in charge of this group of pilgrims."
"I'm Lucas Flint, marshal of Abilene," he said as he extended a hand to Ira. "Sorry I can't welcome you under better circumstances, Mr. Powell."
Ira Powell reached out and shook Flint's hand, then bent and placed his rifle in the wagon. As he straightened, he said, "Do you have any idea who those ruffians were, Marshal Flint, or what they wanted?"
"I've an idea who they were. Nothing I can prove, though, since I wasn’t close enough to get a good look at them or their horses. As for what they wanted, well, I guess they were just having some fun at your expense."
Ira grimaced. "Fun? Frightening innocent women and children? Stampeding a wagon and nearly killing a young woman? Can anyone think of that as fun?"
Flint nodded and said, "I agree with you, Mr. Powell, and I promise you I'll look into this, even though we are officially outside my jurisdiction. I figure anything that goes on in the area has an effect on the town of Abilene sooner or later, though."
One of the men standing in the cluster around Flint and Ira Powell blurted angrily, "You goin' to arrest them, Marshal? They oughta be throwed in jail!" Several other Southerners echoed his sentiments.
Flint took a deep breath and leaned on the pommel of his saddle. Looking sternly at the group, he answered, "Just because I have my suspicions doesn't mean I can prove it. And I can't arrest anybody without proof, mister."
"I knew it," the man shot back bitterly. He turned his gaunt face to Ira Powell. "It's just like ever'where else, Ira. People don't give a damn 'bout po' folks like us."
"I'm sure that's not true, Henry," Ira replied in an attempt to calm the man's outrage. "Marshal Flint is just trying to do his job." While the words were conciliatory, the tone behind them was less certain.
Flint's jaw tightened as he worked to control the mounting anger and impatience he felt. He and Cully hadn’t hesitated to race in and help these troubled settlers, who apparently had encountered so many problems during their journey that they no longer trusted anyone, even those who intervened on their behalf. Making an effort to keep his voice level and polite, Flint asked Ira, "Where are you folks from?"
"We've come from Georgia, sir," Ira replied. "And we plan to settle here." He looked past Flint at the runaway wagon as it returned to the train.
Following the man's gaze, Flint saw Cully on his horse next to the approaching wagon. A thin young man sat on the driver's box, holding the reins tightly, and a pretty but frightened young woman huddled next to him. Cully reined in beside the wagon as it came to a stop. Flint assumed the saddle horse tied to the back of the wagon belonged to the young man who was now driving.
"Are you all right, Violet?" Ira asked anxiously.
The young woman nodded. She clutched the driver's arm as if she would never let it go. "I reckon I am," she whispered. "I...I was just scared."
"Damn lucky," the young man beside her growled. He nodded to Cully. "If this deputy here hadn't come along..."
Ira turned to Flint and said, "Marshal, this is my son Tom. The girl's called Violet."
Flint touched the brim of his hat. "Glad to meet you. Like I was telling your pa, I wish it hadn't been this way."
"It won't be next time," Tom Powell snapped. "We'll be ready for the...." His voice dropped and he muttered a curse under his breath.
"Tom! There's no need for that," Ira reprimanded his son. The gray-haired man took a deep breath and addressed the men gathered around his wagon. "Now that the danger is over, we'd best be getting on our way."
Muttering angrily about their welcome to Abilene, the disgruntled men walked to their wagons.
Flint found his anger and impatience dying as his keen eyes surveyed the caravan: the shabby old wagons, the torn canvas covers, the threadbare clothing of the travelers, the weariness in the expressions of the people. Thin-faced children peeped hollow-eyed at him from the shelter of the wagons. The gaunt women wore plain dresses and faded sunbonnets. Although many of them were probably still young, they looked washed out, drained of any vitality they might have once had. The features of the men were set in taut, angry masks.
Flint didn’t doubt that these grim-faced, proud people had seen a great deal of trouble. The Civil War hadn’t touched him personally, but like everyone on the frontier, he had heard stories about the widespread devastation of the South. General Sherman's scorched-earth policy in the final months of the conflict had been bad enough, but then the assassination of Abraham Lincoln and the ineffectiveness of President Andrew Johnson had opened the door for all kinds of abuses. The South was under the heel of its Northern conquerors, and the carpetbaggers intended to see that it stayed that way.
Nevertheless, Flint wondered what had made them choose Abilene, in particular, as a place of refuge.
The wagons began rolling again. Tom Powell worked the one he was driving into line behind his father's wagon as Flint turned his horse so that he rode alongside them. "We'll ride on with you for a while to make sure there's no more trouble," he called to Ira.
"We'd be much obliged, Marshal," the man replied stiffly.
Cully moved up beside Flint, who glanced over at the young man and said, "Have any trouble getting that wagon stopped?"
Cully grinned and said, "Oh, not too much. Just had to jump on the team and rein 'em in."
"From horseback?"
"Yep." Cully's grin widened.
Flint shook his head. Cully was reckless, all right, but he had stopped the wagon in time to prevent a tragedy.
As they rode, Flint decided to indulge his curiosity. In a carefully casual voice he asked Ira, "What brings you to these parts, Mr. Powell?"
"Hope, Marshal," Ira answered simply. "Hope and desperation." Ira fixed him with an intense gaze. "Have you ever been to the South, Marshal Flint?"
Flint slowly shook his head. "Nothing closer to your part of the country than New Orleans," he answered. "And that was before the war."
"Then you have no idea how everything has changed there. That senseless struggle took so many of our young men, and on top of that, it ruined our economy. The...the whole structure of our lives was torn apart."
Flint frowned at the pained words. "I never held with slavery," he said.
"Neither did I. I never owned a slave, Marshal. Never wanted to." Ira's voice quavered. "But that didn't stop the carpetbaggers from burning my cabin and taking my land away from me...and killing my wife."
Flint raised his brow, shocked by what the settler had said. "I'm sorry, sir. I know how horrible that is."
That was true. Flint had lost his own wife. Grief had hollowed him out, and cold, bitter fury had flowed in to replace what had once been there in his soul. But a new purpose and new friends in Abilene had helped ease some of that, although he still had to guard against the darkness that sometimes threatened to well up inside him.
Ira waved a hand to indicate the wagons following him. "All of these folks have had things like that happen to them. We finally got fed up with all of it and decided to pull up stakes. We figured there had to be a better place to live."
"So, you came to Kansas."
Ira nodded. "We're farmers, Marshal, and we're good at it when we're given half a chance. I'm told Kansas has fertile land."
"That it does," Flint admitted. "What's that got to do with Doug Copeland, though?"
Ira glanced at him in surprise. "You know that we're going to Mr. Copeland's ranch?"
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 61