Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Deputy Cully Markham had just finished his breakfast—steak, biscuits, eggs, and strong black coffee—and he knew he should be getting to work. But it was an especially nice morning in Abilene, and Cully had decided to savor it for a moment.

  His rather forbidding appearance masked a keen intelligence, a quick wit, and a wealth of affection that he gave readily to his friends. Depending upon the situation, Cully could be a staunch ally or a deadly enemy. Now, as he relaxed against the post at the edge of the boardwalk, a smile began to play across his wide mouth.

  The traffic on Texas Street was light this morning. A few men rode by on horseback, and an occasional farm wagon rolled down the hard-packed street. The dusty haze that would fill the air later in the day had not yet been kicked up.

  Even at this hour, tinny music drifted through the batwings of the Old Fruit Saloon, several doors away. Most of the saloons in Abilene never closed. Although the vast herds of cattle were no longer being driven up from Texas to the railhead in Kansas, Abilene would always be a cow town at heart. The Great Western Cattle Company still maintained their stockyards on the eastern edge of town, and cowboys, either Texans or hands from some of the local ranches, were always on the streets of the city.

  And Abilene was becoming a city, Cully thought as he looked at the buildings on Texas Street. There were plenty of saloons, but they stood storefront to storefront with general mercantile stores, hotels, and blacksmith shops. Dr. Rose Keller's office was just down the street, across from the apothecary and a milliner's shop. From where he stood, he could see the roof of the red brick train depot, which was a couple of blocks north on Railroad Street. The tracks of the Kansas Pacific ran through the heart of Abilene, and near the depot were quite a few warehouses, a cotton gin, and two farm implement companies.

  Civilization, Cully thought. I'm not sure I like it. Despite his youth, he had already been down some wild trails. Were it not for the badge, a stranger might have taken the young man for a gunfighter. In fact, Cully Markham had been on that path when he had met Marshal Lucas Flint. Since that day, Cully had worked for law and order, although his impulsive nature inspired him to bend the rules from time to time. He enjoyed his work and respected Lucas Flint, but he wasn’t certain he was ready for the settled life of a solid citizen just yet.

  Those thoughts were running through Cully's head when a man riding down Texas Street from the west caught his eye. The stranger rode a fine-looking sorrel, but it was the buckskins he wore that attracted Cully's attention.

  As the stranger drew closer, Cully saw that under his broad-brimmed hat, he had a dark, handsome face and was young, probably in his mid-twenties. A pistol was holstered on his right hip, a Bowie knife sheathed on the left. In a fringed buckskin scabbard attached to the saddle was a rifle. The young man was armed as if he expected trouble, and his wary, roving eyes contributed to the impression. Here was a man accustomed to riding in lonesome places, living on the fringes of the still-wild frontier, and depending on no one but himself for survival.

  Cully could remember a time when he had been like that. Suddenly he wondered if living in a town, even with the frequent dangers he faced as a lawman, was taking the edge off his skills.

  The stranger's searching eyes brushed over the deputy, then abruptly returned to him. As if he had found what he was looking for, the man swung his horse out of the center of the street and walked him toward the boardwalk. When he reined in, Cully noticed the stubble on his cheeks and the gaunt look that spoke of several long days spent on the trail.

  "Howdy. You the law around here?" the stranger asked as he nodded at the badge pinned to Cully's shirt.

  "I'm the deputy," Cully answered. "What can I do for you?"

  "I'm looking for a man named Pierre Dandaneau." The words were spoken without feeling, the tone flat, emotionless.

  "You've got business with this fellow?" Cully asked bluntly.

  A tiny smile played at the stranger's mouth. "I suppose you could say that," he replied. "If you're worried that I've come to cause trouble, Deputy, don't be. I'm not gunning for anybody."

  "Fair enough," Cully said with a nod. Then he frowned. "Dandaneau...the name's familiar, but I'm afraid I don't know where he lives." After a moment's pause, he went on, "I'll tell you what, let's go to the marshal's office and ask him. Marshal Flint knows everybody in town. Do you have any objection to that?"

  This time the stranger grinned broadly. "I'm not wanted, either," he said with a laugh. "I don't mind at all if we go to the marshal's office."

  Feeling a little foolish, Cully returned the grin. The buckskinned man had seen right through him. Well, I've never been known for my subtlety, Cully thought. When it came to outlaws and pretty ladies—the two things that concerned him most—he usually followed a simple, direct course.

  The stranger swung from his saddle and, leading the horse across the street, fell in step beside Cully. Despite the early hour, the sun was hot, and it felt good to step into the cool shade of the boardwalk's awning in front of the marshal's office. The stranger flipped his horse's reins over the hitchrack and followed the deputy into the simple plank building.

  Marshal Lucas Flint was sitting at his desk, scanning the local newspaper as he sipped a cup of coffee. When the two men walked in, he glanced up, and his keen eyes narrowed with interest at the man he didn’t know.

  "Morning, Cully," Flint said to his deputy. As he nodded a greeting to the stranger, he unfolded his long legs and stood up.

  The marshal was a handsome, broad-shouldered man with thick, sandy-brown hair a shade lighter than the full mustache that drooped over his wide mouth. Only the fine lines around his intelligent eyes and the glints of gray at his temples suggested that the youthful-looking marshal was on the far side of forty. On his lean frame he wore a brown work shirt and denim pants over comfortable boots. Both the holster and the Colt .44 slung at his hip had seen a lot of use.

  Cully gestured to the stranger and said, "This man is looking for somebody named Pierre Dandaneau, Marshal. Do you know the man?"

  As Flint's eyes narrowed in thought, the stranger said, "Dandaneau is older than I am, Marshal, around fifty. I don't know what he looks like now. It's been a long time since I've seen him."

  Cully shot a glance at Flint. "That wouldn't be the fellow they call Frenchy, would it?"

  "I think you're right, Cully," Flint said. "I believe I have heard him called Pierre." He looked at the stranger again. "You mind if I ask what you want with him?"

  The stranger smiled wearily. "Your deputy asked me the same thing, Marshal. I told him that I don't intend to start any trouble."

  "I'm responsible for keeping the peace in Abilene," Flint said. "Knowing who's liable to break it is part of the job."

  The stranger drew a deep breath, and the pleasant expression vanished from his face. "My name is White Eagle Dandaneau," he said. "Pierre Dandaneau is my father."

  Both Flint and Cully were surprised. The marshal coughed and muttered, "I didn't know Dandaneau had any grown kids."

  The stranger frowned abruptly, as if puzzled by the remark. But instead of asking questions, he provided more information. "I have not seen my father in many years, Marshal. I simply want to say hello to him and be on my way."

  Flint nodded. "I know where Fren—I mean, I know where your father lives. But I don't guarantee that he's there. He works as a driver for some of Abilene's freight companies, and he may be away on a run."

  "I had heard that he had taken up freighting," White Eagle said. "To be honest, Marshal, I wasn’t sure if I would find him here. My father always moved around a great deal."

  "I expect he's settled down since you've seen him," Flint said cryptically. He came from behind the desk and reached for a wide-brimmed, flat-crowned brown hat that hung on a peg just inside the door. "I'd be glad to take you to his house."

  "Thanks, Marshal. I was hoping somebody might be able to tell me where to find him."

  Flint led the two young men out of t
he office and turned east. White Eagle stepped into the street, picked up his horse's reins, and fell in step beside the marshal and his deputy. Flint said, "Your father's place is on Third Street."

  Cully stared at the marshal. Some of the finest homes in Abilene were on Third Street. J.G. McCoy, one of the founders of the town, still lived there. The deputy didn’t expect to find an itinerant freighter and former fur trapper living in a posh neighborhood like that. Flint evidently knew more about the man than he was saying.

  As they walked along the street, Flint said, "I remember hearing about a scout named Dandaneau who rode for General Mackenzie during the Red River War."

  "That was me," White Eagle said with a nod. "I'm on the Army's books as a civilian Indian scout. My mother was a Kiowa squaw, so the officers in charge of the campaign chose me to help track down Quanah Parker and the big band he had gathered."

  Neither lawman was surprised by White Eagle's admission that he was half Kiowa. His high cheekbones and dark skin spoke eloquently of his heritage. What was unusual, however, was that he had obviously spent a great deal of time in the white man's world and had had some education.

  "I've heard about Quanah Parker," Cully said with growing interest. "He gave the Army quite a fight down in Texas."

  White Eagle nodded. "Quanah managed to do something few chiefs have done. He not only led his own people, the Quahadi Comanche, into the battle, but he persuaded the Kiowa and the Cheyenne to join them. For a time, the Texas frontier was no place for a white man." The buckskinned man's voice grew solemn as he went on, "All that's over now. Mackenzie tracked them to Palo Duro Canyon and defeated the Indians on their own ground. Most of the warriors are on reservations now."

  "You sound like you think that might not be a good thing," Cully commented.

  White Eagle smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "I am half Kiowa, Deputy. There's a part of me that regrets what has happened to them. They are a proud people. I should know, I lived with them for many years when I was a child."

  "Your father stayed with the tribe?" Flint asked.

  White Eagle shook his head. "No. My father left when I was a baby. I didn’t see him again until after my mother died." There was a touch of bitterness in his reply.

  Flint and Cully could understand the man's feelings. Both of them had seen how half-breeds were reviled by white men and red men alike, unwelcome in either world.

  Even now, quite a few people stared as White Eagle Dandaneau passed them on the street. While many of Abilene's townsfolk had lived on the frontier for years and were accustomed to buckskins, others had only recently arrived from the East. To them, White Eagle probably looked like something out of a dime novel with his broad-brimmed hat, fringed clothing, Bowie knife, and long-barreled pistol.

  The scout was aware of the stares, too. Cully could tell that from the way he glanced around quickly. Yet White Eagle had to be comfortable to speak of his background so readily.

  "My grandfather was a mountain man," the scout went on. "Henri Dandaneau was his name, and he traveled in the Rockies with Jim Bridger and Jim Beckwourth and the others. He probably had Indian wives, too, but he always came back to my grandmother Josephine in Illinois. My father followed in his father's footsteps, coming south to follow the Santa Fe Trail. He met my mother somewhere along the way, spent a year with her and her people, and then moved on. As I was growing up, I knew my father was a white man, but it didn't make any difference to me. It did to my mother's people, though."

  The three men had been walking north on Buckeye Street, and now Flint turned east on Third at the intersection.

  "It must have been hard on you, growing up in an Indian camp with a long-gone white father," Flint said.

  White Eagle laughed. "I've never wasted any time pitying myself, Marshal. No need for you to, either. When I was a boy, I learned how to ride, shoot, hunt, and take care of myself. I always seemed to have what I needed to get along in life. How other folks felt about me didn't matter."

  "That's a good way to look at it," Flint replied. He had seen many men who hadn’t coped so well with their mixed-blood heritage and had turned to lives of crime.

  "When my mother died, I figured the time had come for me to leave the Kiowas," White Eagle went on. "I was only fourteen winters at the time, but the way I saw it, I was a man. My mother had told me that when my father left, he was heading for New Mexico, so I started there myself. I finally found him in Taos." He chuckled humorlessly. "He had taken up with a Hopi woman and wasn't too happy to find a skinny half-Kiowa whelp on his doorstep."

  "I've never met Dandaneau," Flint said, "but I can imagine."

  ''We stayed together for a while," White Eagle went on. "But there were too many grudges on both sides. We couldn't get along. I thought it would be better for me to try to make my own way in the world. I wound up working for the Army, been doing that ever since."

  "What made you decide to come to Abilene?" Flint asked. He knew he was prying, but White Eagle didn’t seem to mind.

  "I had some time coming to me," he answered. "Thought it might be a good idea to look up my father and see how he's doing. I don't like having unfinished business, Marshal."

  The three men had passed the McCoy house. The homes along Third Street were substantial, some made of stone, others of whitewashed clapboard. All were well maintained and neat, as were the yards that surrounded them. Spring had been warm and wet, and the trees and grass were a lush green. Carefully tended flower beds were beginning to bloom.

  Flint paused in front of a freshly whitewashed frame house. The rather small yard, which was attractively enclosed by a white picket fence, was as carefully maintained as the other plots on the street. Brightly colored flowers had been planted in front of the porch, and a bench swing hung from its roof. It was a very pleasant house, the kind of place that was definitely a home.

  "This is it," Flint said. "If we're thinking about the same Dandaneau, then this is where your father lives."

  White Eagle stared at the house and shook his head. "This is a far cry from some of the other places he's lived in," he said in astonishment. "Compared to the hovel where he was staying in New Mexico, this is a palace."

  "He must've come up in the world since then," Cully said. "I've got to admit—"

  The marshal glared at him, and Cully abruptly stopped speaking.

  Flint looked at White Eagle and inclined his head toward the house. "If you really want to see your father, don't you think you'd better go up and knock on the door?" he asked.

  "I do," White Eagle nodded. A look of apprehension passed over his features. As a scout for the Army, he must have faced all sorts of dangers, but this challenge obviously unnerved him.

  He pushed open the gate in the picket fence and strode up the smooth stone walk. Flint and Cully didn’t follow but stood watching outside the fence until White Eagle stepped onto the porch. With a sigh, the marshal started to turn away. "Come on, Cully. The man's got a right to a private reunion."

  Cully nodded. "That's true. I'm really surprised to see that Frenchy Dandaneau lives in a house like this. I usually see him in the rougher places in town."

  Flint glanced over his shoulder and saw White Eagle Dandaneau lifting his hand to knock on the door. "You're not as surprised as that fellow will be in a minute or so," he said.

  2

  White Eagle's stomach knotted painfully as he waited for someone to answer his knock. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. He had thought long and hard before he set out to find his father, and he had made the trip to Abilene certain that it was what he wanted to do. But deciding on a course of action and then seeing it through were often two different things.

  He had never regretted leaving his father and finding his own way in the world. As time passed, he had become convinced that he had done the right thing, and he had made a good life for himself. There was danger in it, of course, and loneliness, but those were things that White Eagle could tolerate. He was his own man.

 
Nevertheless, the memory of the angry parting between father and son had haunted him. Pierre Dandaneau wasn’t an endearing man, not someone easy to love, but he was White Eagle's only blood relative. White Eagle believed deeply that it was wrong they should remember each other badly.

  The quick patter of footsteps beyond the door startled him. The knob turned, and the door swung open. A woman's voice said, "Yes? Who is—"

  She stopped speaking, obviously startled by the sight of this tall, buckskin-clad stranger on her porch.

  White Eagle was stunned. He had one overwhelming impression: She was beautiful. He stared silently into her china-blue eyes and, after a long moment, shifted his gaze. She was a young woman in her early twenties. Fine, long, cornsilk-blonde hair framed her lovely face. She was clad in a light blue dress, the fabric dotted with tiny white flowers, and he was surprised further when he noticed that her belly was swollen with impending motherhood. Her pregnancy only enhanced her beauty, for her skin was luminous, and her eyes were clear and sparkling. As she stood in the doorway, the picture she made was one of the most compelling White Eagle had ever seen.

  Recovering his composure, he reached up and snatched off his hat. He jerked his head in a nod and said, "Ma'am."

  The young woman replied, "Hello. What can I do for you, sir?"

  "Is this...is this the house of Pierre Dandaneau, ma'am?"

  "It is," she said.

  "Would it be too much for me to ask if he is here?"