Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  "Aye, Lucas," Angus said with a big grin.

  Rose slipped next to the marshal and put a hand on his arm. "Are you and Cully all right?" she asked anxiously.

  "I'm fine, ma'am," Cully answered for himself, smiling broadly as he took his gun belt from Angus and buckled it. "That was a pretty good scrape while it lasted."

  "It was," Flint agreed. Assuring Rose he was fine, he strapped on his own gun. The bumps and bruises he had received would heal on their own. He gestured at the wounded raider. "You'd better take a look at that man. I don't want him bleeding to death on the way to town."

  "Of course." Rose hurried to get her medical bag while Angus, Garrison, and the other men took charge of the prisoners and gathered up their guns.

  "What about these men, Marshal?" Garrison asked, gesturing with his rifle barrel at the group of hardcases. "I don't think you've got enough cells in Abilene to hold all of them."

  Flint considered the problem for a long moment. Ramsey would be going to jail, that was certain, and so would the two men who had resisted arrest. The others were guilty of terrorizing the settlers on Copeland's ranch, but there was a good chance they would only be fined. It would be impossible to discover who among them had actually killed Guy Yarbrough, but as their leader, Ramsey would bear the responsibility.

  "Keep their guns and their gear," Flint said at last. "They can have their horses, so that they can get out of the territory." He faced the surly gang and raised his voice. "Did you men hear that? I want you to leave Kansas while you've got the chance. We won't stand for your lawlessness any longer."

  Standing behind the marshal, the grim-faced posse confirmed Flint's words with their steady rifles.

  Slowly, the hardcases mounted and rode away from the camp. As Flint watched them go, he was relieved and felt a warmth growing inside him—pride in Abilene and its people. It had taken them a while to come around, but tonight the citizens had taken a stand.

  Flint turned to Tom Powell and put a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Things will be different now," he said. "You'll see, Tom."

  "I hope so, Marshal. I just wish my pa...that he—"

  Flint nodded, but before he could say anything, Leslie Garrison called urgently, "Marshal, you'd better get over here!"

  Flint wheeled around and saw Garrison hurrying to assist a man who was staggering into the camp leading a mule. A woman trudged on foot beside him. Ira Powell's body was slung over the back of the mule.

  "Joshua!" Cully cried as he ran to his brother. He grabbed Joshua's arm as the minister started to sway. Flint rushed over and noticed the dark splotches on Joshua's shirt. Garrison took the mule's halter while Tom pulled Violet into his arms and held her tightly. A blanket wrapped around her covered her tattered dress.

  "What happened, Violet?" he asked. "You all right?"

  "I'm fine, Tom, thanks to Joshua," she replied. "He saved my life."

  Flint called to Rose as Cully helped Joshua stretch out on one of the bedrolls. Even in the flickering firelight, Flint could see that Joshua's face was pale, and he was struggling to stay conscious. The others clustered around him while Rose opened his shirt and began to examine the bullet wound. After a moment, she glanced up at Cully and Flint and said, "I believe it's just a deep crease. He's lost quite a bit of blood, and he's weak from the beating, but he should be all right if we can keep the wound from becoming infected." Taking her bag from Angus, she began to clean the wound.

  Joshua tried to raise his head. "I...I have to tell...to tell you—"

  "Just lie still, Joshua," Rose cautioned him. "You've been through a lot. You need to rest."

  "No!" Joshua whispered fiercely. Calling on all his strength, he propped himself up on one elbow. "Th-this is important. Marshal, Billy Day did this."

  "Billy!" Cully exclaimed.

  Flint knelt beside Joshua. "All right, Joshua, tell me about it. Then you do like Dr. Keller says and take it easy."

  His voice fading in and out, Joshua managed to relate the story of Billy Day's atrocities at the Powell soddy. "After we got out of the fire, I rested a little and then found that mule and a blanket for Violet. We...we started looking for help, but then we found Ira's body. I...I couldn't leave him there. Violet told me that Tom had gone to town to get you and Cully, Marshal. I thought you might...might be here." Joshua's fingers clutched at Flint's sleeve. "Billy must have run into Ira when he was fleeing from the cabin. He thought he had killed us, so he had to...to—"

  "I understand, Joshua," Flint said gently. Carefully, he urged Joshua to lie back. "You let Rose patch you up now. We'll take care of everything else."

  Flint stood up. As he did so, G. W. Ramsey said from behind him, "I told you, dammit! I told you I didn't kill Powell! It was that Day pup! He's been the one behind all of this."

  Flint turned around to face the bearded man. Ramsey's hands had been tied behind his back, as had those of his men, and they were waiting to be put on horses and taken to Abilene. Flint stepped closer to him and asked, "Just what is your connection with Billy Day?"

  Ramsey snorted. "Hell, he's the one who got in touch with me in the first place and had me and the boys come here. He wanted those sodbusters run off for some reason."

  "You weren't working for Houston Day?"

  "Never even saw the man," Ramsey declared.

  Flint nodded. A few questions remained unanswered, but a clear picture was beginning to emerge. He looked at Cully and said, "I think we'd better go see Billy Day."

  Cully glanced at his brother's bloody, battered form. He put his hand on the pearl handle of his Colt and grimaced angrily. "I think so, too."

  16

  Rose Keller stood up and snapped her medical bag shut. She had cleaned and disinfected the bullet crease in Joshua's side and then bandaged it. She had also tended to the cuts and scratches he had suffered in the earlier beating. Now, the minister's head lay on the bedroll. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be asleep.

  Flint turned to Rose and nodded at Joshua. "Can he travel?" the marshal asked.

  "He can make the trip back to Abilene," Rose replied. "But he'll need plenty of rest."

  "I was thinking about his going to Day's ranch now with Cully and me."

  Rose looked dubious. "I don't know, Lucas," she said slowly. "I don't want that wound to start bleeding again."

  Joshua opened his eyes, turned his head, and looked up at Flint. "I can travel, Lucas," he said softly. "I'm sure I'll be all right."

  Flint knelt beside the minister. "We could probably manage without you, Joshua, but I've been thinking about Billy Day. We can charge him with hiring Ramsey and his men to carry out those raids, but I'd like to see him pay for everything else he's done, not just that."

  Joshua nodded weakly and said, "I...I agree. If someone will just help me up..."

  Angus stepped forward and lifted Joshua to his feet. Rose stood close by, her forehead creased in a frown. "I'm not sure this is a good idea, Lucas," she said.

  Joshua smiled at her. "I'm all right, Doctor. I want to be in on the finish of this. I want to see Billy Day brought to justice."

  Cully slipped an arm around Joshua's waist and helped him walk to a horse. He grinned and said, "Sort of a vindictive attitude for a preacher, isn't it, Joshua? I thought I was the vengeful brother."

  "'Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,'" Joshua quoted. "But He uses many instruments for that vengeance, Cully."

  With the help of Cully and Angus, Joshua climbed into the saddle. The mount's owner would double up with another man for the ride back to town.

  Flint and Cully swung onto their horses. The marshal said, "All right, Angus, the rest of you can take Ramsey and his men back to town now. Tom, you and Violet go with them."

  Shaking his head, Tom looked at Flint. "I want to go with you, Marshal. If Billy killed my pa, I've got a right."

  Flint considered it for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, you do. Rose, will you look after Violet?"

  "Of course," the doctor re
plied. "And as soon as you're through at Day's, Lucas, please bring Joshua into town as quickly as you can."

  Flint agreed. With a wave to the others, he rode out of Ramsey's camp, followed by Cully, Joshua, and Tom.

  The grim foursome said little as they rode through the night toward the Rafter D headquarters. Concerned that the ride would drain all Joshua's strength, Flint set an easy pace. While they rode, the two lawmen checked their guns, then returned the weapons to their holsters.

  When they at last sighted the ranch house, Flint lifted a hand to halt the riders. In a low voice, he asked, "How are you doing, Joshua?"

  "I'm...all right, Lucas," Joshua answered after a moment. "Just pretty tired. My side doesn't hurt very much, just aches a bit."

  Flint nodded. He turned to Tom and said, "I want you and Joshua to circle north around the house and come from behind it. Swing wide, so you won't be noticed. I want the Days and their men to pay attention to what's happening at the front of the house. You two stay hidden until you see my signal."

  "All right, Marshal," Tom replied. Flint noticed that the young man's face was drawn and haggard. Even though he was functioning, it was clear that his father's death had hit him hard.

  "We'll wait here for a few minutes to give you time to get into position," Flint said.

  Tom and Joshua both nodded and then rode off. The moon had begun to set, and although it was somewhat dimmer, the light was still bright enough to guide them.

  Ten minutes later, Flint and Cully trotted their horses into the front yard of Houston Day's house. A few lights burned in the main house, but the bunkhouse was dark. Most of the hands were probably asleep.

  Flint reined in. Leaning on the pommel of his saddle, he called, "Day! Houston Day!"

  A couple of minutes passed. Flint heard confused muttering inside the bunkhouse, and then a man, holding a lantern, appeared in the doorway. The front door of the main house swung open abruptly. Light from inside spilled onto the porch and into the yard as Houston Day stepped through the doorway with a shotgun in his hands.

  "Who the hell is out here yellin' in the middle of the night?" he demanded. He squinted into the darkness. "That you, Marshal?"

  Flint and Cully walked their horses toward the house until they stood in the pool of light. A quick glance at the bunkhouse told Flint that the punchers were coming out and hurrying across the yard to the main house.

  "Deputy Markham and I have a few questions to ask, Day," Flint told the rancher.

  Day stared belligerently at them. "By what right? You don't have any authority here."

  "I'm a lawman," Flint said simply. "If I have knowledge of a crime, I've got a duty to go after the criminal."

  "Then ask your damned questions," Day growled.

  "They're not for you. They're for Billy."

  Day glared again, but he turned his head and bellowed into the house, "Billy! Get out here!"

  A moment later, Billy stepped onto the porch. The young man was pale. He swallowed nervously and asked, "What do you want, Pa?"

  With the shotgun, Day gestured toward Flint and Cully. "These star-packers want to ask you some questions."

  Billy glared at the lawmen. "I don't have to answer any questions," he snapped. "I haven't done anything."

  "Nobody said you did, boy," Day replied.

  Flint spoke up. "We just want to know where you were earlier tonight, Billy. That's all."

  Billy seemed to relax a little. He hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and said, "I was in Abilene for a little while, then here on the ranch for the rest of the evening. Wasn't I, boys?"

  Several of the ranch hands who had gathered around the porch hesitated, then finally nodded. Flint was not surprised. These men were concerned with keeping their jobs and had no idea that Billy might have murdered someone.

  "Are you sure you weren't over on Copeland's range?" Cully asked in a cold voice.

  Billy turned sharply to his father. "I told you they've been hounding me, Pa! There must have been some trouble with those sodbusters again, so naturally these law dogs come after me!"

  Houston Day looked intently at his son. "You swear you didn't ride over to Copeland's tonight, Billy?"

  "I swear it, Pa."

  Day nodded abruptly. "Then that's good enough for me." He glared at Flint. "You got the answers to your questions, Marshal. I'll thank you to ride on now."

  "It's not that simple, Day," Flint said. He looked around the yard at the cowboys surrounding them. Most of the men were armed, and all of them were angry and ready to defend their employer and his son. Unless his plan worked, he and Cully would have a hard time arresting Billy Day. Some innocent men would get hurt.

  Houston Day scowled at him. "Just what are you really after, Flint?"

  "A killer," the marshal answered bluntly.

  Billy laughed and shook his head. "He's crazy, Pa!" the young man declared contemptuously.

  Fixing his gaze on Billy, Flint smiled. Careful not to spook the nervous cowhands, he slowly lifted his hand and made a small gesture. At the sound of approaching hoofbeats, everyone looked toward the north corner of the house.

  Joshua Markham and Tom Powell rode into the lantern light. His hand reaching across the gap between the two horses, Tom held Joshua's shoulder to steady him. In the harsh light, with his bloody shirt, Joshua looked like an apparition from Hell.

  Billy Day's head snapped around. He stared at the two riders, and his mouth fell open in shock. Staggering back, he pointed a shaking hand at Joshua. "You're dead!" he exclaimed. "I shot you, dammit! You're dead!"

  An awful silence descended on the ranch yard. Houston Day stared at his son in horror. Finally, in a choked voice, he said, "You shot the preacher?"

  Billy suddenly jerked back against the wall. Like a cornered wild animal, he swiveled his head in fear. "What if I did?" he demanded angrily. "He had it coming, him and the girl and that old man..."

  "Ira Powell," Flint said coldly. "Billy shot him when he was running away, after he shot Joshua, pistol-whipped Violet Sills, and then tried to burn them to death!"

  "What does it matter?" Billy demanded bitterly. He looked at his father, a desperate plea in his eyes. "Powell was just a squatter, Pa. He didn't mean a damn thing!"

  Billy reached out, put a hand on his father's arm, and plucked at Day's shirt sleeve.

  Day tore out of his son's grasp. "Get away from me!" he rasped. "I don't know you anymore, boy! I didn't want those farmers here, but I never wanted anybody killed."

  "Billy hired G. W. Ramsey," Flint told the cattleman. "Ramsey has already admitted it. He and some of his men are in custody. I imagine they'll tell us the whole story."

  Day glanced again at his pale, shaking son. "Why, dammit? Why?"

  "I thought that was what you wanted, Pa," Billy whined. "I just wanted to show you that I could handle things the way you wanted."

  Day shook his head. The marshal thought the haggard man appeared to have aged ten years in the last few moments. As Day backed away from Billy, he muttered, "I won't protect a murderer, son or no son..."

  Flint risked a glance at the Rafter D punchers. All of them seemed to share Day's revulsion for Billy's crimes. They wouldn’t try to prevent Billy's arrest now.

  "It's all over, Billy," Flint said softly. "Drop your gun and get your horse. You're coming with us."

  Billy stood with his back against the wall of the house. His chest heaved as he panted. He nervously licked his lips as his eyes darted anxiously from one grim face to another. Flint, Cully, Joshua, and Tom stood silently watching the desperate young man.

  "No!" Billy yelled suddenly. "You won't take me!" His hand flashed toward the gun on his hip.

  Cully Markham's draw was a flicker of motion. The gun in his hand roared. Billy crashed against the white wooden siding of the house, and for a moment he seemed pinned to the wall. Then his pistol slipped from his fingers and thumped unfired onto the porch while a thin stream of blood trickled from the black-rimmed hole in his ches
t. His body crumpled to the porch floor.

  Tense and ready, Cully held his gun. Flint had drawn his Colt, but Day's cowboys gave no sign that they would cause any trouble. In fact, most of them looked a little sick.

  "I'm sorry, Day," Flint said.

  The rancher stared at the body of his son for a long moment, then slowly drew a deep breath. "Get him out of here," he said. "Get him off this ranch." His face a granite mask, Houston Day turned, strode into the house, and slammed the door behind him.

  17

  Basking in the late-afternoon sun, Lucas Flint surveyed the scene before him and felt an unusual sense of well-being. The whole town had come to Doug Copeland's ranch for this covered-dish supper. A warm breeze ruffled the brightly colored tablecloths, and groups of laughing, talking people were clustered around the food-laden tables, while the youngsters played merrily among the adults.

  Many of the area ranchers and their crews had joined the citizens of Abilene for this get-together that was being held belatedly to welcome the Georgia settlers. As a lawman, Lucas Flint was always alert for trouble, but he doubted that anyone would cause problems today. Not unless some of the ladies started to argue about who made the best sweet-potato pie.

  A week had passed since the night of fire and blood that had left Ira Powell and Billy Day dead. At last things had settled down. In an unusually speedy display of justice, G. W. Ramsey and two of his men had been found guilty of attempted murder in the assaults on Joshua Markham and Max Fontenot. They were also convicted on several lesser charges stemming from their campaign of terror against the farmers. The trio had been fined heavily and sentenced to a year in prison. The marshal knew that at this very moment they were on their way to the state penitentiary.

  Flint was convinced that Ramsey was responsible for Guy Yarbrough’s murder, also, and deserved a hangrope for it, but there hadn’t been any way to prove that. The knowledge was galling, but the law was an imperfect master.