Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Acting reflexively, she snatched the pan and whipped it wildly toward Billy Day's head. She would have killed him then if she could, would have battered his head with every ounce of energy she possessed. But she was a fraction of a second too slow. Billy raised his right arm as he glimpsed the pan coming at him, and as the heavy iron pan thudded into his forearm, he cried out in pain.

  "Stop it!" he shouted, shoving Violet away from him. "Drop that pan, gal!"

  Overwhelmed by fear and anger and hate, Violet didn’t heed his warning. She lifted the pan and started to lunge at him.

  Behind Billy, on the narrow cot, Joshua Markham opened his eyes. He had heard muttering for what seemed like hours. His pain-fogged mind couldn’t understand the words, and he didn’t know how long he had been drifting toward consciousness. But the screams and cries had pierced the fog and jarred Joshua from the peaceful darkness into the horrifying real world.

  Fully conscious, he clearly saw Billy Day yank his gun from its holster and slash Violet Sills with it. How he had gotten to the Powell farm—what role Billy Day was playing in this—were questions Joshua couldn’t answer.

  But he saw Billy's gun slam into the side of Violet's head, then heard metal crack cruelly into flesh and bone. Violet crumpled to the floor as the frying pan clattered away.

  His back to Joshua, Billy Day stood motionless, as if stunned by what he had done. Beyond him Joshua saw the limp body of the young woman.

  Seeing Violet struck down so brutally galvanized Joshua, and somehow, he found the strength to get up from the cot and take Billy by surprise. He tackled the young man, wrapping his long arms around him and grappling for the gun.

  Despite the fury that had driven him to this desperate act, Joshua was extremely weak, and when Billy rammed an elbow into his midsection, the blow dislodged his grip. Then Billy, spinning around, grabbed Joshua's shirt, and flung him to the floor.

  Breath rasping in his throat, Billy stared at Joshua's slumped form for a long moment. He shook his head and aimed the pistol at the minister. "Can't leave any witnesses," he muttered.

  Joshua looked up to see the barrel of the gun pointing at him. He clambered to his knees and tried to struggle to his feet, but his muscles betrayed him. All he could do was stare in disbelief—

  The gun blasted, flame darting from its muzzle. The slug slammed into Joshua's side, the impact spinning him around and causing him to fall heavily. He could taste the dirt of the hard-packed earthen floor as waves of fiery pain emanated from his side.

  Moving like a man possessed, Billy tore around the cabin, overturning furniture and shoving it to the center of the room. He knocked over two oil lamps and spilled the fuel in puddles on the floor. There was a book and some old papers in a chest. Billy tore them out, shredding them as he did, and threw them around.

  When he was satisfied, he backed toward the door and glanced around the soddy. Violet hadn’t moved since she collapsed from the blow on the head, and Joshua's struggles had grown feebler. Billy didn’t care that the preacher was still alive, since he knew that Joshua would never have a chance to testify against him. To cover his trail, Billy intended to erase all proof of what had happened.

  Reaching into his pocket for a match, he found a lucifer, flicked it to life, and waited until it was burning strongly. Then he tossed the match into a puddle of lamp oil.

  The littered paper caught quickly, followed by bright blue flames leaping from the pile of wooden furniture. As the fire spread, Billy ran from the cabin. He raced to his horse and mounted. For one long moment he looked at his handiwork and smiled. A garish red glow lit the soddy's doorway, and sparks flew to the thatched roof.

  Still grinning, Billy dug in his spurs and galloped across the moonlit field toward his father's ranch.

  Inside the soddy, the crackling flames, smarting fumes, and searing heat overcame Joshua Markham's pain. Blinking against the smoke, he struggled onto his hands and knees and began crawling across the floor. Violet lay somewhere in front of him, he hoped.

  Or rather, he prayed, because he knew that divine help was needed. Beaten and shot, he had little strength left. The Lord would have to provide for them now.

  He touched Violet's ripped dress. Sliding his arms around her, he braced himself and pushed against the floor. It was a long nightmare of smoke and flame and heat, a vision of hell more vivid than Joshua or any preacher could conjure up in a sermon.

  As the fire gutted the inside of the soddy, the two limp forms somehow tumbled through the door and into the cool night air. Joshua pulled Violet a few feet farther from the flames, then collapsed beside her. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he touched the softness of her throat. He found a pulse beat, somewhat erratic but still strong.

  Joshua closed his eyes and moved his lips in a silent prayer of thanks. He had no idea what would happen next, but for the moment, both of them were alive...

  Clinging to that thought, he slipped into the darkness again.

  14

  Galloping north over the moonlit prairie toward Houston Day's ranch, Ira Powell trembled with rage. He knew where the Rafter D was, and he would force the cattleman to tell him where he would find G. W. Ramsey. Despite the dangers he faced, Ira could no longer stand by meekly and watch as men like Joshua Markham were brutally beaten. He had always been a peaceable man, but the time had come to change.

  Ten minutes after leaving his soddy, Ira reached the trail that led from Abilene to Houston Day's ranch. As he veered onto it, the faint sound of a gunshot startled him. Frowning, he reined in and peered into the night behind him.

  It sounded as though the shot had come from his cabin. If so, someone else must be there now, because Violet and Joshua had been alone when he left.

  A choking sensation seized Ira, and he recognized it as fear. Every instinct told him that something was very wrong. A moment later, a faint red glow lighting the sky confirmed his horrible suspicions.

  Yanking his mount around, Ira heeled it to a gallop. As he drew closer to the cabin, the red glow became brighter, and he knew with a chilling certainty that the place was on fire. He whispered a short, heartfelt prayer.

  As Ira raced toward home, his coat flapping in the wind and tears streaming down his cheeks, he suddenly spotted someone riding toward him. The man galloped down the trail at breakneck speed, as if he were fleeing something.

  Maybe he was running from the fire at the soddy, Ira thought as he hauled back on the reins and brought his horse to a sliding stop. The other man was close now, pulling on his own reins and causing his mount to rear and paw at the air. As the two men stared at each other across several yards of ground, the bright moonlight shone clearly on the other man's face—Billy Day.

  "You!" Ira exclaimed. He knew how Billy hated them, remembered in a flash that he had tried to molest Violet.

  His brain screaming a warning, Ira started to raise his shotgun. He was too late.

  Billy jerked his Colt from its holster and triggered twice. The first shot was hurried, the wild slug kicking into the dirt in front of Ira's terrified horse, but the second found its target. The bullet slammed into Ira's chest, killing him instantly. Tumbling from the saddle, his body thudded to the ground.

  The gun trembled in Billy's hand as he shook with fear. To calm his shattered nerves, he slowly holstered his gun and drew a long, deep breath. Even if the old man hadn’t trained the shotgun on him, he would have had to kill Ira Powell. With two murders already behind him, Billy Day couldn’t afford to make a mistake. No one could know that he was near the scene of the crimes committed tonight.

  Ira was dead, and with any luck Billy wouldn’t meet anyone else on the trail. Once he reached the Rafter D, he would be safe. All the ranch hands would swear that he had never left the place that night.

  Leaving Ira's body sprawled on the moonlit trail, Billy Day spurred his horse toward home.

  Lucas Flint needed all the speed his horse could possibly give to catch Cully. Fueled by pent-up fury, the deputy was
galloping recklessly toward Houston Day's ranch. In the bright moonlight, Flint knew Cully would easily find the side trail that led to G. W. Ramsey's camp.

  When Flint finally spotted Cully riding ahead of him, he called to the young man to wait. Cully slowed a little, and Flint quickly pulled up beside him. The marshal leaned over, grasped the reins of Cully's horse, and pulled the animal to a stop.

  "Dammit, Marshal, why'd you do that?" Cully demanded angrily.

  "So you'd stop long enough for me to talk some sense into that hard head of yours," Flint shot back. "What were you planning to do, have a shoot-out with twenty men?"

  "I've faced tough odds before."

  Flint nodded. "I know it. But you didn't have a choice then, and, if you remember, you almost got yourself killed. You know you can't ride into Ramsey's camp with guns blazing. That won't help Joshua or anyone else."

  The hard truth of Flint's words made Cully stop. The deputy took a deep breath, and after a moment he said, "Maybe you're right."

  "Of course I am. We'll both go see Mr. G. W. Ramsey."

  Cully suddenly grinned. "Sounds like you have a few scores to settle yourself."

  Flint urged his horse to a trot. "Come on," he called over his shoulder. As his deputy drew even with him, the marshal spurred his horse to a gallop.

  A few moments later they heard the drumming of fast hoofbeats behind them. Glancing over his shoulder, Flint spotted a lone rider following them. "Wait a minute;" he called to Cully. "Who's that?" The lawmen pulled their horses to a halt.

  As the horseman pounded toward them, both lawmen rested their hands on their guns. The rider suddenly called out, "Wait up, Marshal!"

  "That's Tom Powell," Cully said in surprise. "You told him to take the doctor to his place to help Joshua."

  "Something else must be wrong," Flint said with an anxious frown.

  Tom reached them a moment later. The young man patted the exhausted animal's sweating neck and said, "I couldn't find the doctor anywhere in town, Marshal. Didn't know what to do, so I thought I'd best come after you."

  Flint frowned. "Rose should have been either in her office or the room she rents. Did you check there?"

  "Yes, sir. Mr. MacQuarrie showed me where it is."

  Tom shook his head. "There's just no sign of her, and nobody's seen her, either."

  "She must have had an emergency call," Flint said thoughtfully. He glanced at Cully. "Do you want to go to Ramsey's camp or the Powell farm?"

  Cully's jaw tightened. He asked Tom, "You said Violet and your pa are looking after Joshua?"

  "That's right. But I don't know how badly he's hurt."

  "You'd better go to the cabin," Cully decided. "We'll go to Ramsey's. When you know how Joshua is, go back to Abilene. If Rose hasn't returned, get Angus to help you find Dr. Wright. That's the retired doctor."

  Agreeing with Cully's suggestions, Flint and Tom rode side by side with the deputy. The trail that led to Copeland's spread and beyond to Day's ranch was easy to follow, and Flint knew that even at night he could find the smaller path to Ramsey's camp once they reached it. As they passed the turnoff for Copeland's ranch, Tom swung his horse onto the smaller trail and waved a hand in farewell. Flint and Cully continued on.

  They had gone less than a hundred yards when they heard Tom Powell utter a hoarse shout.

  "What's the matter?" Cully asked, pulling his horse to a stop and looking back.

  "Looks like Tom's found something. Come on."

  They cut across a field, not sticking to the trail. Up ahead, they could see Tom's horse and a second mount. Tom was kneeling on the ground beside a dark shape, and as Flint and Cully drew closer, the marshal felt a terrible sense of dread.

  "No," Flint breathed as he and Cully reined in.

  "It's Pa," Tom said as he looked up from the body. His voice was thick and choked with emotion.

  Flint dismounted and examined Ira Powell’s body in the moonlight. "Shot in the chest," he said. "Just one shot, from the looks of it. God, I'm sorry, Tom."

  Tom, grief and rage blending on his stricken face, stood up abruptly. "It was Ramsey!" he howled. "Ramsey and his damned hired thugs! They killed him!"

  Flint frowned as he looked at the furious young man. He knew the kind of man Ira had been, knew that Ira would have wanted to confront Ramsey about Joshua's beating. Perhaps Ira had been heading for Day's ranch to start his search for the outlaw leader there. Unfortunately, at the moment they had no proof that Ramsey had had anything to do with Ira's killing.

  "Just hold on, Tom," he began. "We'll get to the bottom of this. We'll find whoever killed your pa—"

  "You know damn well it was Ramsey!" Tom snapped. He turned toward his horse.

  "Wait a minute, Tom!"

  Ignoring Flint, the young man leaped onto his horse and banged his heels on its flanks. As the animal bounded into a gallop, Tom yelled bitterly, "I'll kill him myself!"

  Flint hurried to his horse and mounted up. "We've got to go after him. You think he knows where Ramsey's camp is?"

  Cully shrugged. "You told me, I told Joshua, Joshua could have told him. They've become pretty good friends. Marshal, if he goes busting in there, they'll kill him."

  Flint nodded grimly. "I know. He's as hotheaded as somebody else I know. Come on."

  The two lawmen galloped after Tom. It bothered Flint to leave Ira's body where it had fallen, but there was no time to do anything else right now. Besides, he believed that Ira would want him to do everything in his power to see that Tom didn’t get himself killed. And that was what would happen if Tom got to Ramsey's camp ahead of them.

  Rose Keller had worried about Joshua Markham's visiting Houston Day all the way back to Abilene. When she reached Elm Street, she turned the buggy north toward the Calvary Methodist Church. She would check with Joshua first, make sure he was all right, and find out if he had reported Max Fontenot's beating to Lucas Flint.

  The injured man had been resting quietly when she left the soddy. She was confident that he would recover, given the time to rest and heal. With his brother Zeb, Elsie, and the children, the farm work could continue until Max was on his feet. The family had been lucky.

  For now, Rose thought grimly. It was only a matter of time before the raiders struck again. They brought their grief and suffering to all the families struggling to carve a place for themselves on Copeland's land. Unless Ramsey and his men were stopped...

  Rose understood the frustration that gripped Lucas Flint. He was a good man, a man committed to the ideals of justice and fairness, but he was also a man sworn to uphold the law. As much as he might want to settle this problem with a gun, Lucas would exhaust every legal avenue first.

  The Methodist church was dark when Rose drew her buggy in front of it, but a small light was burning in the parsonage. Rose tied her horse and went to the parsonage door. She knocked softly on it so that she wouldn’t awaken the sleeping children inside.

  A moment later Sister Lorraine opened the door and looked in surprise at Rose. The Dominican nun held a book in her hand, a finger marking her place.

  "Good evening, Sister," Rose said quietly. "I didn't mean to disturb your reading, but I'm looking for Reverend Markham."

  Sister Lorraine smiled. "A visit from you is never disturbing, Doctor. Come in. I'll see if Joshua is still awake."

  "Thank you." Rose stepped into the small parlor of the parsonage. A single lamp burned on a table beside an armchair, and she guessed that Sister Lorraine had been sitting there. The nun placed her book on the table, then went along the hall where Joshua's bedroom was located.

  Idly, Rose picked up the book and glanced at the spine. Roughing It, by Mark Twain. She smiled, remembering some of the humorous tales in the book from her own reading of it a couple of years earlier. She would have thought that Mr. Twain's writings were a bit bawdy for a Dominican sister to read, but then Sister Lorraine had never completely fit most people's idea of a nun. The doctor recalled a dangerous masquerade when the sister ha
d played a thoroughly convincing madam.

  At the sound of Sister Lorraine's footsteps, Rose replaced the book and turned around. A puzzled frown lined the nun's face. "I'm sorry, Doctor," she said, "but Reverend Markham isn't here. His room is empty, and I can't find him anywhere."

  Rose tensed. That wasn’t the news she had wanted to hear. "That's all right," she said quickly, trying to keep the concern out of her voice so as not to worry Sister Lorraine unnecessarily. "I'll speak to him another time."

  "Wait, Doctor." Sister Lorraine put a hand on Rose's arm. "I think I know what you're trying to do, but if the reverend is in some sort of trouble, I have a right to know about it. Joshua is my friend, too."

  "I should have known I couldn't fool you," Rose said with a rueful smile. Quickly, she recounted what she knew of the night's events.

  When Rose had finished, Sister Lorraine shook her head. "That's Joshua, always so eager to do the Lord's work and set right all the wrongs of the world. I think you had better tell Marshal Flint about this, Doctor."

  Rose nodded. "That's what I thought. I'll let you know if I find out anything."

  "Thank you." Sister Lorraine sighed. "I suppose I shall go back to my reading, but I'm afraid Mr. Twain won't seem so humorous now."

  Rose climbed into her buggy and, flicking the reins, urged the mare to a trot. She reached Texas Street a few moments later and turned toward the marshal's office. Before she reached the door, she noticed lamplight pooling on the boardwalk.

  When she went inside, she discovered the office was empty. That was strange, Rose thought as she glanced into the cellblock to make sure Cully wasn’t dozing on one of the cots. The deputy's hat was hanging on one of the pegs by the door.

  Puzzled, Rose walked onto the boardwalk and thoughtfully looked up and down Texas Street. Abilene was quiet. All she heard were the usual sounds of soft music and laughter coming from several saloons—no fights, no gunshots, no pounding hooves. Nevertheless, the sense that something was terribly wrong haunted her.