"Howdy, Mrs. Stapleton," Day said with an awkward nod. He gazed into the parlor at the women plainly visible through the arched entrance. "Ladies."
Mrs. Stapleton had regained some of her composure. As she glanced down to make certain that Day had cleaned his boots, she said, "Won't you join us in the parlor, Mr. Day? It isn't often that a man participates in our meetings, but you're quite welcome, of course."
Day turned his hat over in his hands. Rose could almost read his thoughts as he looked uncomfortably at the ladies gathered in the parlor. Clearly, he would rather face a gang of rustlers.
"I can't stay but a minute, ma'am," Day said to Mrs. Stapleton. "I knew you ladies would be planning the spring dance tonight, and I had something I wanted to say about it."
"Feel free, Mr. Day. We're all interested in anything you have to say, aren't we, ladies?"
Several women murmured their agreement.
Day nodded. "All right," he said abruptly. "I'll say it straight out. You ladies always invite the whole town and all the neighboring folks to that dance, don't you?"
"That's right, Mr. Day. It's a celebration for the entire community," Mrs. Stapleton pointed out.
"Well, me and the other ranchers think you ought to do it different this year. That bunch of squatters out on Doug Copeland's place shouldn't be welcome at the dance."
Day's words didn’t surprise Rose. She had suspected that his objection to the settlers was the reason he had ventured into this female sanctum, especially after the trouble between Day's son and Tom Powell a few days earlier. She decided to speak up. "Those settlers are part of the community, Mr. Day. They have a right to be part of any community function."
Day's cold eyes settled on her. "According to my son, Billy, they're troublemakers. We didn't ask them to come and take over good ranchland, Doctor."
Rose felt the disapproving eyes of the other committee members boring into her as she glared at Day. She was a newcomer to the group, but she didn’t intend to back down.
"What actual harm are they doing to your ranch or any other, Mr. Day?" she asked bluntly.
"Copeland's trying to fence off his range," Day snapped. "That land is next to mine. Our cattle have always used it when they needed to. Besides, if you let one bunch of farmers come in and take over open range, more will move in right behind them, looking to get rich off land that me and the other ranchers tamed!"
Rose laughed and shook her head. "You obviously haven't been to visit any of those families, Mr. Day. If you had, you'd see that getting rich is the farthest thing from their minds. They're just trying to survive from one day to the next."
"Please, Dr. Keller," Mrs. Stapleton said curtly. "We didn’t come here tonight to argue." She turned to the rancher. "I'm afraid you haven't given us a good reason to exclude any group from the dance, Mr. Day."
"Then how about this? Most of my ranch hands as well as riders from the other spreads will be at that dance. You let those farmers come, and there's bound to be trouble between them and the cowboys. You don't want a brawl, do you, Mrs. Stapleton?"
The woman pursed her lips sourly. "I thought we were trying to put all of that uncivilized behavior behind us, Mr. Day."
"I can't be responsible for what'll happen if they see those sodbusters there."
Mrs. Stapleton sighed. "I see."
So did Rose. Day was delivering a warning. Keep the farmers away from the dance—or he would see to it that there was trouble.
"I believe you have a point after all, Mr. Day," Mrs. Stapleton said. She turned to the other women. "What do you think, ladies? We certainly don't want any disturbances to ruin the dance, do we?"
Rose wasn’t surprised that Mrs. Stapleton was giving in to Day's threat or that the other women agreed with her. Nevertheless, she refused to yield.
"It seems to me that the best way to avoid problems is to accept the newcomers as part of the community," she said quickly. Even as she spoke, she knew her words were futile.
Within moments, the committee had made a decision. The settlers from Georgia wouldn’t be invited to the annual spring dance. Houston Day clapped his hat on his head and said, "Thank you, ladies," and quickly left.
Rose put down her teacup and stood up. "I believe I had better be going, too," she said coolly.
"But we haven't finished our plans for the dance," Mrs. Stapleton protested.
Rose smiled. "I'm afraid that doesn't seem to be my area of expertise," she said. "Thank you, anyway."
No one made any attempt to stop her as she said her good nights and left. Rose knew it would be a long time before she was invited to another committee meeting.
But if what she had seen tonight was any indication of how Abilene's high society worked, that was all right with her.
The next day Lucas Flint rode to the D Slash C and headed for the Powell farm. Over coffee early that morning, Rose had told him about her previous evening's experience with the social committee and their decision to keep the settlers from the dance. Flint had decided that the settlers needed to be informed. He wasn’t sure that Ira and the others would even care about being excluded, but they did need to know about the pressure Houston Day was putting on other members of the community.
Flint also wanted to check on Tom Powell. Since the near-gunfight with Billy Day the week before, Tom hadn’t come into town, and Flint wanted to know if the young man was still packing a handgun. He hoped Tom had finally put aside his anger and was behaving with some sense.
As the marshal approached the earthen cabin, he saw that Tom and Ira were both at work, repairing a broken plow handle. He was disappointed when he noticed the old Colt still strapped on Tom's hip. Violet was washing clothes in a tub that sat under the canvas awning.
Flint dismounted and greeted the settlers. Ira smiled and asked, "What brings you out here, Marshal?"
"Just wanted to see if you've had any more trouble," Flint replied.
"Billy Day hasn't been around, if that's what you mean," Tom said. "It's been pretty quiet."
"The cowboys seem to have gotten tired of bothering us again," Ira added. "Maybe this time it'll last. Sooner or later they'll accept us, Lucas. I'm convinced of that."
"Maybe." Flint looked uncomfortably at the man. "I'm not sure, though. Have you heard about the big dance they have every spring in Abilene?"
"Mr. Copeland told us about it," Violet said. "It sounds like a lot of fun." A childlike smile of anticipation brightened her pretty face, making Flint realize sadly that this was one of the few times he had seen the young woman smile.
No point in postponing it, he decided. He broke the news to them, quickly explaining the decision of the social committee and the role Houston Day had played in it. When he had finished, Flint glanced at the three hardworking settlers. Ira looked disappointed, and Violet's eyes were flooded with tears. Anger darkened Tom's face.
"That's not fair!" the young man cried. "They're invitin’ everybody in these parts 'cept us, aren't they?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Isn't there anything you can do, Marshal?" Violet pleaded.
Flint shrugged and shook his head. "No law's being broken," he explained as gently as he could. "The committee can invite anybody they want to. Since the dance is being held in a building owned by the town, you could attend. They can't keep you off public property."
"Then that's just what we'll do," Tom declared.
Flint shook his head. "There'll be trouble if you do." He looked at the older man. "Ira, I'm asking you to talk to the other settlers. I don't want another brawl in my town."
"Sounds to me like you're lettin' this Day fellow boss you around, Marshal," Tom said harshly.
Flint stiffened. He looked pointedly at Tom and said coldly, "I'm trying to keep law and order in Abilene. That's what I'm paid for. As long as nobody's breaking the law, I can't take sides, Tom. You know that."
"We know, Lucas," Ira said at last. He had a thoughtful expression on his face. "And it's all right. I'll talk to the
others. In fact, I've got my own idea about how to handle this."
"Oh?" Flint said. "What's that?"
"What's to stop us from having our own dance?" he asked quietly. His blue eyes began to twinkle.
Slowly, a grin spread across Flint's face. "You just might have something there," the marshal said. "Yes, sir, you just might."
It was Saturday evening, two weeks after the run-in between Tom Powell and Billy Day, and Cully Markham was in the marshal's office getting ready for Abilene's spring dance. He stood before the small mirror that hung on the wall just outside of the cellblock and struggled with the top button of his white shirt. When he finally fastened it, he looped a string tie around his neck and shrugged into the jacket of his only suit. Running a finger around the tight shirt collar, he turned toward Lucas Flint and grinned. "I tell you, Marshal, if it weren't for the ladies, I'd say that getting dressed up like this was a waste of time."
Flint was also wearing a suit and tie and, like Cully, had looped his gun belt around his waist. Neither lawman would be unarmed tonight, even though they were going to social functions.
"You'll survive, Cully," Flint said drily. "Just keep your eyes open. I've sworn in a couple of extra deputies, but you'll be in charge."
Cully nodded. "I don't think things will get out of hand, but we'll be ready if they do. You just watch out while you're at Copeland's place. I've got a bad feeling about that."
"So do I," Flint agreed. He moved to the pegs that hung on the wall next to the door and picked up his hat. "When Ira first told me about it, I thought having a separate dance for the settlers was a good idea, but the more I've thought about it, the more worried I've gotten."
"I'm sure that Billy Day and his bunch of cowhands know about that party by now." Cully's face was grim as he looked at the marshal. "You sure you don't want me to ride out there with you?"
"I'm sure," Flint said. "I need you here in town. I can handle Billy and his friends if they show up and start trouble."
"Just be careful," Cully said quietly as he stared at Flint.
Flint laughed out loud. "I'm the one who's usually saying that to you. And you're the one who's going to be dancing with all the pretty young gals in town tonight."
Cully grinned. "That's right."
The lawmen walked out of the office together and mounted their horses. Cully swung his pinto down Texas Street to the east toward the courthouse, where Abilene's dance was being held.
With a wave to his deputy, Flint headed west. He was getting a later start than he had intended. The sun was already setting, sending purple and orange streaks across the deep blue Kansas sky. Flint hoped that nothing would happen before he reached Copeland's ranch. Maybe nothing would happen at all tonight, and the settlers could simply enjoy their celebration. But every instinct Lucas Flint had developed during long years as a lawman told him that things would work out differently.
The settlers had been on Copeland's ranch for nearly six weeks, and even though the cowboys were not harassing the farmers as regularly now, the hostility was still evident. Most of the townspeople also continued to be cool toward the newcomers. The efforts of Rose, Joshua, and Angus had done little to change the prevailing attitudes in Abilene.
Night had fallen by the time Flint reached Doug Copeland's ranch house. As he looked around the yard, he saw dozens of lanterns, some of them placed in the trees around the house, making the ranch a beacon in the darkness for miles around. The party was being held in the large open space between the house and barn. A buckboard was parked near the barn, and several men with fiddles and guitars stood in the wagon bed. They sawed and plucked at the instruments with vigor and enthusiasm, if not much talent. Quite a few couples were dancing to the music.
A great many wagons and saddle horses were tied up in front of the house. Flint put his mount among them and then spotted Doug Copeland and Ira Powell standing at the end of the porch. From where they stood, they could watch the dancing while they smoked their pipes and talked.
Flint stepped onto the porch. Ira and Copeland nodded greetings to him, and Ira said, "I'm glad you could make it, Marshal. How about some punch?"
Flint grinned. "What sort of ingredients does that concoction have, Ira?"
"Well, it depends on which bowl you sample," he said with a chuckle.
Copeland lifted a cup. "I recommend the one on the left, Flint."
Flint looked at the long table standing in the yard several feet away from the musicians' makeshift platform. Plates of food covered most of it, and two bowls of punch had been placed at the far end. Not surprisingly, the one on the left had the longest line of people in front of it.
"I'm glad you talked me into this fandango, Powell,"
Copeland went on. "Figured it was nothin’ but foolishness at first, but danged if I'm not enjoyin' watchin' these folks have fun."
"Any trouble so far?" Flint asked.
"Not a bit," Ira replied. "Nearly everyone is here tonight, and I think this is the best time we've had since we left Georgia. You're not expecting trouble, are you, Lucas?"
How was he to explain the worry that gnawed at him? Flint wondered. There was no point in throwing cold water on the good time these people were having.
He chose to ignore Ira's question and nodded toward the dancers. Tom and Violet were swooping around. Like the musicians, they made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in practice. Flint said, "They make a fine-looking couple, don't they?"
"Indeed, they do, Lucas," Ira murmured in agreement. "Indeed, they do."
Copeland drained his cup. "I could use a little more of that," he said. Flint and Ira fell in beside him as he went down the porch steps and started toward the table.
It looked as if the dance was going to work out after all, Flint mused. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. The children were everywhere—running, laughing, and playing—and the adults beamed rare smiles as they danced. If there are no other benefits from this party, Doug Copeland seems almost human tonight, and that's enough, the marshal thought.
The sound of pounding hoofbeats stopped the three men before they could reach the punch bowls. Flint swung around and stared into the darkness beyond the pool of light cast by the lanterns. At the edge of the light, he saw the father of an arriving settler family suddenly swerve his buckboard to the side in an effort to get out of the way. The man's wife screamed in fright as a large group of riders thundered past the wagon into the ranch yard.
The newcomers brandished rifles and wore bandannas over their faces. One of the startled farmers jerked around and yelled, "Outlaws!" then leaped onto the porch to avoid being trampled.
Flint's hand flashed toward his gun. He palmed the Colt as the masked strangers yanked their mounts to a halt. As several men trained rifles on him, Flint froze, his gun not having cleared leather.
A large man who seemed to be leading the raiders shouted at the milling mob of frightened settlers, "Hold it! You sodbusters stand still, and nobody will get hurt!" He snapped his gaze on Flint and went on, "Drop that gun, mister, or we'll have to shoot you."
Slowly, Flint slid the Colt into its holster instead of dropping it as he had been ordered. He pushed back his coat to reveal the badge pinned to his vest. It gleamed in the lantern light.
"You'd better think twice about this," Flint advised coldly. A tense silence had fallen over the party, an abrupt contrast to the sounds of laughter and enjoyment that had filled the air only moments before. The musicians had lowered their instruments and fidgeted nervously.
The gang leader nudged his horse and walked the animal to where Flint stood motionless beside Ira Powell and Doug Copeland. As the man approached, Flint could see dark eyes blazing under the brim of his black sombrero. Like the other riders, he wore a duster and gripped a Winchester menacingly in his hand. The bandanna was bright red and obscured the lower half of his face, but it wasn’t large enough to conceal completely a bushy black beard.
Looking past the leader, Flint saw that the eigh
teen or nineteen men in the group were covering the entire crowd with their rifles. In a voice taut with tension, the marshal said, "What do you men want here?"
"Now that's an interesting question, Marshal," the spokesman for the raiders said. "I guess you could say we came to deliver a message."
"This is my place," Doug Copeland said harshly. "If you have a message for anyone, you might as well give it to me."
"Sure, mister." The bearded man dropped the barrel of his Winchester and blasted a slug into the ground between Copeland's feet. Leaping backward, the stunned rancher lost his balance and would have fallen if Ira hadn’t grabbed his arm and steadied him.
Flint remained motionless, exerting every ounce of willpower not to reach for his gun. He knew he could take the leader of the masked men, but that would jeopardize every settler. At all costs, he had to maintain control.
The bearded man turned to the group of settlers. Lifting his voice, he boomed, "We heard about you squatters and came to see what we could do to put matters right! You people have no place on cattle range!"
"These folks aren't squatters," Flint said coldly. "They have a legal right to be on this land and to use it for farming or anything they choose."
The man glanced at Flint, his glittering eyes unreadable, then went on, "You sodbusters have been killing cattle that don't belong to you and denying the ranchers their legal right to have access to water and graze for their stock. We've come to put a stop to that and to see that the rights of the ranchers are enforced!"
Flint hadn’t expected a disturbance like this. Some rowdy cowboys...perhaps, but examining this crew of hardcases, he knew they were not from the Abilene area. What were hired guns doing here?
"That's a lie!" Ira called out. "We've killed no cattle. And the only fences that have been put up are on Mr. Copeland's land. There's nothing illegal about it."
"Maybe that's what you think, old man. But that's not the way the ranchers see it. They've got rights, too."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 70