Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Flint had accomplished his goal: He had brought the settlers into town and let them see that not everyone opposed them. Now the time had come to get them out of here.

  "Go back to Georgia, you damn Rebels!"

  Flint jerked his head around and glared at the crowd, trying to locate the source of the harsh shout. He saw a townsman step to the edge of the boardwalk and raise a clenched fist. Angrily shaking the fist at the wagons, the man went on, "You killed my boy at Gettysburg, you bastards!"

  While some people on the boardwalk frowned disapprovingly at the outburst, several others echoed it. Nevertheless, once the jeering started, it seemed to feed on itself, and soon angry cries filled the air.

  As Flint wheeled his horse, he noticed that Cully had abandoned his negligent pose. The young deputy was striding into the street, his hand poised near the butt of his Colt.

  The Southern men on the wagon seats listened silently to the insults being hurled at them. Flint was certain that this was hardly the first time they had heard such abuse, for they made no move and showed no sign that they were affected by the verbal assault. But Flint knew men; he knew they would take this treatment for only so long. Then, humiliated in front of their wives and children, they would strike back.

  "I'm so sorry, Mr. Powell," Flint heard Joshua Markham utter quickly to Ira. He shook his head sadly as more ugly words poured from the citizens of Abilene.

  Slowly Flint rode down the center of Texas Street along the train, his furious gaze raking over the jeering townspeople. Some of the men who had been yelling fell silent as he passed them. Flint singled out the man who had begun the shouting and rode directly up to him.

  Flint thought he looked vaguely familiar, but he didn’t know the man's name. Glaring at the man's flushed face, he snapped, "You got anything else to say, mister?"

  The red-faced man tightened his jaw. As he glowered at Flint, the shouting along the street slowly died away. The townspeople and the Southerners were focusing on the confrontation between Flint and the angry man, just as Flint had hoped they would.

  "You're damned right I've got something else to say, Marshal," the man finally growled. "You goin' to let me say it, or are you just interested in protectin' these Rebs?"

  "The law says a man's got the right to talk as much as he wants," Flint answered coldly, "whether what he says makes sense or not."

  "I'm makin' sense, all right." The man raised his voice and turned to address the people gathered on the boardwalk. "Why the hell do we need a bunch of dirt-poor Rebel trash draggin' our town into the mud? Did you ask 'em to come? Did you?"

  As he spoke, the man singled out two bystanders and angrily pointed a quivering finger at them. Both men shook their heads vehemently.

  Cully stalked up and stood between the man and the crowd. His dark eyes stared grimly as he said, "Did anybody ask you to come here, mister, or did you just show up looking for a better place to live?"

  "I came on my own," the man replied haughtily. "I've always done things that way. Never asked for anybody's help."

  Cully waved an arm at the wagon train. "Neither are these folks. They just want a chance to make a life for themselves. They're not going to get that in the South."

  Flint was proud of Cully for speaking up, but he knew it wouldn’t do much good; the old attitudes were too ingrained.

  Flint stared at the man who had started this commotion and said levelly, "I don't care what you think about these folks. I can't change that. But while they're in my town, they'll be treated lawfully and decently. You understand that, mister?"

  After a moment, the man nodded grudgingly. He muttered, "I just want 'em to go back where they came from." He turned and stormed down the boardwalk. As he passed, the silent bystanders moved aside to let him through.

  Flint watched with satisfaction as the crowd along the street began to disperse. He had defused the situation by confronting the man who had brought it into the open. He realized that the angry feelings underlying it still existed, and that tough talk wouldn’t drive them away.

  Glancing at Cully, Flint said, "I think I'd better ride out to Copeland's place with these folks. You keep an eye on things here in town while I'm gone, all right?"

  Cully nodded. "Sure, Marshal."

  "And if you see Billy Day, tell him I want to talk to him."

  Cully's lips twitched as a slight smile played over his face. "I'll tell him," he said. "Be glad to."

  Flint hesitated, wondering what Cully intended to do if Billy Day ventured into Abilene. Then he shrugged and rode toward Ira's wagon. Cully was a lawman, Flint thought. He might not always follow the book, but he wouldn’t stray too far.

  As he passed the second wagon in line, Flint noticed the tension on Tom Powell’s face. Taking his measure of the young man, Flint sensed that Tom wouldn’t take much abuse before he struck back. The marshal would remember that.

  Joshua, Rose, and Sister Lorraine were still apologizing to Ira, assuring him that not everyone in Abilene opposed the settlers, when Flint rode up. "I appreciate what you tried to do, folks," Ira was saying, "but I reckon we'd best be moving on. Given a little time, maybe things will quiet down later."

  He flicked the reins and shouted at his mules. The team began moving slowly. Flint glanced at Rose Keller, and he saw the tense, worried look on her face. Only a fool would feel optimistic after this episode, he thought, and Rose was no fool.

  The wagon train rolled down Texas Street and out of Abilene, the wheels of the vehicles clattering on the bridge over Mud Creek. Flint knew the way to Doug Copeland's D Slash C, and several miles west of town, he directed Ira Powell to swing his wagon train to the northwest.

  The sun was lowering toward the horizon, bathing the hot Kansas prairie in an orange glow, when Flint spotted Copeland's ranch house. The white, two-story frame building stood on a knoll surrounded by trees. Copeland had built the house for his wife, Flint recalled, and had lived there alone ever since the woman had passed away several years earlier. A long, low bunkhouse sprawled a hundred yards beyond the ranch headquarters. A barn surrounded by several corrals loomed next to the bunkhouse. At one time, the D Slash C had been a well-run, prosperous ranch, but now the corrals were simply fences around open land, housing nothing, and the bunkhouse appeared to be empty, too. Copeland must have let his hands go after Texas fever had decimated his herd.

  Ira led the wagon train directly to the house, pulling his wagon to a halt in front of it. The door banged open, and Doug Copeland strode onto the shaded porch. Flint had met him a few times in Abilene but didn’t know him well. Copeland was a wiry man just under medium height. His dark hair was shot with gray, as was the thick mustache he sported. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and looked up at Ira, who was still sitting on the box of his wagon.

  "You must be Powell," Copeland said curtly.

  "I am." Ira nodded. "I'm glad to meet you after all the letters we've exchanged, Mr. Copeland."

  "Expected you before this." Copeland switched his gaze to Flint. "What are you doing out here, Marshal?"

  "There was some trouble," Flint answered without offering any further explanation. "I want to talk to you, Copeland."

  "So, talk."

  "Hadn't you better get these folks settled in first?"

  Copeland nodded impatiently. "Sure, sure." He turned to Ira and said, "Just drive the wagons on down to the bunkhouse. Your people can stay there for a while until we decide who's going to farm which section of land. I expect you'll want to put up your own soddies then."

  "That's fine, Mr. Copeland," Ira said. "I suppose we can use your corrals for our stock?"

  "Right." Copeland stood on the porch and watched as the wagons rolled around the house and headed for the bunkhouse. When the last one was bounced away, the rancher turned back to Flint and snapped, "Now what the hell do you want with me, Marshal?"

  Flint didn’t dismount, and Copeland didn’t ask him to. The marshal said, "I hope you know you're going to have trouble over this, Cop
eland."

  "From you? I ain't broken no laws."

  Flint shook his head. "I don't care if you run cattle or farm or dig for gold out here. But the other cattlemen and a lot of the people in Abilene won't see it that way. It's not just that you brought in a whole group of poor settlers, although Lord knows that'd be enough to set some folks off. It's this business of giving up ranching and turning to farming. You know the other cattlemen aren't going to like that."

  Copeland snorted contemptuously. "I don't recollect any of them runnin' over here to help me when my stock was dyin' right and left."

  "Maybe not, but they've got no use for farmers and barbed wire. They're used to open range. They're going to consider you a turncoat."

  "It's my land, and I'll do what I want with it," Copeland bristled. "And I'll take a gun to anybody who tries to tell me different."

  Flint sighed. He had expected this response from Doug Copeland. Copeland's abrasive personality was well known. He had never gotten along well with his neighbors, particularly Houston Day, whose spread bordered Copeland's to the north. Now, to Day and the other ranchers, Copeland was just another sodbuster to be trampled if need be.

  "You get in touch with me if you have trouble," Flint warned.

  Copeland laughed harshly. "I've always handled my own problems, Marshal. That ain't goin' to change now."

  Flint nodded. He could see that more talk wasn’t going to do any good. He wheeled his horse and walked his mount away from the ranch.

  As he rode along the trail, he paused and looked back at the buildings. The settlers were unloading their wagons and moving some of their belongings into the D Slash C bunkhouse. The children were running around the yard, playing a game, and Flint could faintly hear their laughter. They probably felt they had finally reached their new home.

  For the sake of the children, Flint hoped they were right.

  4

  At daybreak three mornings later as Angus MacQuarrie sat drinking his coffee, he finally made the decision to ride out to the Copeland ranch. The clear, bright dawn held the promise of a beautiful spring day, and he had nothing earth-shattering to attend to in Abilene. What was driving him was the memory of the welcome Abilene's citizens had given the Southern settlers. The image of those impoverished people sitting on their wagons as they were harassed by the more prosperous townspeople enraged him.

  He had hoped Ira Powell would come into town on some errand so that he could tell the man how he felt and perhaps rectify the ugly impression of Abilene Ira must have. But none of the settlers had ventured into town during the past three days.

  Angus decided he would seize the initiative. Waking Percy, who slept in the storeroom, and telling him to mind the tavern, he mounted up and was on his way long before seven.

  Doug Copeland was in his house when Angus came riding up on a big bay horse. The rancher must have heard the saloonkeeper's approach because he strode onto the porch with his right hand resting on the butt of the pistol holstered at his hip. He frowned at Angus and snapped, "MacQuarrie, ain't it? What the hell are you doin' out here?"

  Angus pushed back his broad-brimmed hat and gazed around the yard. He saw no wagons parked anywhere, and the corrals held only a couple of old milk cows. A saddle horse was tied to one of the porch rails.

  "I come t'see tha' fellow Ira Powell," Angus said. "D'ye kin where I might be finding him?"

  Copeland kept his hand on his gun. "What's your business with Powell?" he demanded.

  "Tha' be a'tween him and me," Angus replied. He had never liked Doug Copeland, and the rancher was giving him no reason to revise his opinion now.

  Another man came out of the house, and Angus recognized the tall, gray-haired figure. "I'm Ira Powell," the man said as he came down the porch steps. "What can I do for you, friend?"

  Angus leaned over in the saddle and extended his hand. "Angus MacQuarrie," he introduced himself. "I be the proud proprietor o' Angus's Tavern in Abilene."

  While Copeland looked on suspiciously, Ira shook Angus's hand and said, "I remember seeing your establishment, sir. I believe you mentioned you had business with me."

  "Aye. Lucas—tha' be Marshal Flint—told me tha' ye intend t'farm this land. Ye'll be putting up soddies, will ye not?" Angus asked, referring to the houses built from strips of cut turf. The dwellings were not unusual here on the plains, where timber was hard to come by.

  Ira nodded. "Indeed, we will. In fact, we've already started building them. That's where everyone is now."

  "Not that it's any of your business, MacQuarrie," Copeland put in harshly, "but we've spent the last couple of days decidin' which family is goin' to farm which section. You can tell Flint everything is fine. I reckon he's the one who sent you out here to spy on us."

  Anger surged inside Angus, and he repressed it with effort. Ignoring Copeland's gibe, he told Ira Powell, "I come t'offer me help, Mr. Powell. I've put up a few soddies in me time."

  Ira smiled. "In that case, you're more than welcome, Mr. MacQuarrie." He untied the other horse and swung into the saddle. "You can come with me to our place." Calling to the rancher, he said, "I'll see you later, Mr. Copeland."

  Ira turned his mount and trotted away from the house. Angus shot a parting glance at Doug Copeland, who still glowered hostilely, and then the Scotsman followed the leader of the settlers.

  As Angus came up beside Ira, the gray-haired man looked at him and said, "I'm afraid Mr. Copeland doesn't have much use for anybody from Abilene."

  "From wha' I've seen o' him, Copeland's got no use f’anyone. An unpleasant man he is, Mr. Powell."

  Ira laughed shortly. "I guess I have to agree with you, Mr. MacQuarrie. But he has good land, and he's willing to let us use it for our farms. We're grateful to him."

  "Call me Angus."

  "All right, Angus. I'm Ira."

  The two men rode over the plains in silence for a few minutes. The gently rolling prairie so common in this part of the country was punctuated with occasional clumps of trees, pastures of thick grass, and patches of wildflowers beginning to bloom. The sweltering heat of a few days earlier had abated, leaving the air pleasantly warm and fragrant with spring.

  Angus noticed a rise ahead of them, and against the side of the shallow hill were the beginnings of a sod dugout. Blocks of earth had been cut and laid out to mark the foundations for three walls, the hill serving as the fourth wall. More chunks of sod would be stacked up to form the walls themselves. With the scarcity of timber on the prairie, only people with quite a bit of money could afford a frame house. For poor settlers like Ira Powell, soddies would have to do. The few planks they could acquire would be used as roof supports for the earthen cabins.

  Two wagons were parked next to the foundation of the soddy, and Angus saw a young man and woman hard at work. He recognized them from the wagon train's passage through Abilene and knew from what Flint had told him afterward that they were Ira's son, Tom, and a young woman called Violet. Flint had been uncertain of Violet's relation to Ira and Tom, although he said she seemed to be treated as part of the family.

  Tom looked up as Ira and Angus approached the wagons. He brushed his face with his sleeve to wipe away the dirt and sweat. He had been stacking the heavy blocks of sod, and he was breathing heavily from the exertion. His lean face wore a wary expression as he appraised Angus.

  "Who's this, Pa?" he asked in a surly voice.

  Ira dismounted, a stern frown on his face. "That's no way to greet a visitor, Tom. This is Mr. MacQuarrie from Abilene, and he says he's come to help us with the soddies."

  "Why would you want to do that, MacQuarrie?"

  "I saw wha' happened when ye came into town, lad. Reckoned ye should know tha' not all the folks o' Abilene be agin ye." As he spoke, Angus smiled at Violet. The pretty young woman stood shyly behind one of the wagons and peered uncertainly at the big Scotsman.

  Tom looked unconvinced. He shrugged and turned to his father. "Did you and Copeland settle that business?" he asked.

&
nbsp; Ira nodded. "Yes, he agreed that the Logan family needs more land to support themselves, what with those twelve children. We adjusted the original division of land. I'll ride over and tell the Logans later." He swung down from the saddle and began to roll up his shirt sleeves. "Right now, I suppose we should get to work."

  Angus grinned and pushed up the sleeves of his shirt on his muscular forearms. "Tha' be just wha' I was thinking," he said as he dismounted.

  Several squares of earth were stacked near the dugout. Angus hefted one and carried it to the wall opposite the one where Tom was working. Carefully positioning it on top of the first layer, he pressed it down to secure it in place, then returned for another piece of sod. Ira Powell did the same on the front wall. Violet returned to her job. She was cutting out the chunks of earth with a plow pulled by an ox. It was hard work, but Angus noticed that she performed it without complaint.

  The day grew hotter as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky. By noon, Tom had removed his shirt, and the others were drenched with sweat. But the work had gone much faster with three men, and the sides of the soddy were almost complete. Ira called a halt and said, "You'll be staying to eat with us, I hope, Angus."

  "Aye. ’Twould be me pleasure."

  The meal was simple fare: beans, biscuits, and canned tomatoes. Tom's attitude had softened once he saw how hard Angus was working, and now as he lifted one of the juicy chunks of tomato with his fingers, he said warmly to Angus, "Next year we'll have our own tomatoes, grown right here."

  "Aye, I reckon ye will," Angus replied with an easy smile. "’Tis good land."

  Ira nodded as he chewed on a biscuit. When he was finished, he knelt and picked up a handful of the soil, rubbing it between his fingers. "A man can tell that just by looking at it and touching it," he said. "Given time, we can make a paradise out of this country, Angus."