Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  "Glad to meet you, boys," White Eagle replied.

  Emboldened by Patrick's success at talking to the scout, Donny spoke up. "They say you been fighting Injuns for a long time."

  "Oh, not that long. Just a few years, really. Sometimes it just seems like a long time."

  "You were in the Red River War, weren't you?" Patrick asked.

  White Eagle nodded. "How did you hear about the Red River War?"

  "Shoot, it was in all the papers," Patrick replied proudly. "That was before we came to Abilene. All the papers back East wrote about the Injun wars."

  Donny peered at White Eagle for a long moment, then said, "You look like you're part Injun yourself, Mr. Dandaneau."

  "Darn it, Donny, hush up!" Patrick whispered and poked his companion in the ribs.

  White Eagle shook his head. "That's all right, Patrick. It just so happens Donny's right. My mother was a Kiowa Indian."

  "So you fight against your own folks?" Donny asked brashly. Other children began to appear on the boardwalk, edging closer to hear the conversation between their friends and the buckskin-clad scout.

  "I'm half white, too," White Eagle explained. "But I have to admit that I did worry about that, Donny. In a lot of ways, the Indians make more sense about things than the white men. But I went to school and studied history, and I could tell that sooner or later the white men were going to come out on top." He shrugged. "And the sooner the fighting is over, the sooner folks will stop dying, white and Indian alike. You understand?"

  "I think I do," a new voice said. "You're a pragmatist, Mr. Dandaneau."

  He turned and saw a stern-faced woman in the black habit of a Dominican nun standing nearby. He stood up quickly, then after a moment nodded and said, "I guess you could say that. You look like you don't approve, Sister."

  "I don't approve of these children pestering you, especially when they're neglecting their chores." She waved at the youngsters. "Patrick, Donny, you and the others move along now. I'll expect you back at the orphanage shortly."

  Grudgingly, the youngsters started to walk away. Patrick Hammond glanced back and said, "So long, Mr. Dandaneau. Maybe we can talk some more later."

  "I hope so," White Eagle said.

  When the children had gone, the nun said, "My name is Sister Laurel, Mr. Dandaneau. I run the orphanage where most of those children live. I hope they didn't bother you too much."

  White Eagle shook his head. "No, I like kids, Sister. They're orphans, eh?"

  "Most of them. We've established a place for them to live, a healthy environment for them to grow up in."

  A grin tugged at White Eagle's mouth. "And I suspect you don't think someone like me ought to be part of that healthy environment."

  Sister Laurel's expression softened. "I didn't mean to sound so disapproving of you, Mr. Dandaneau," she said. "You at least sound like an educated man. The good Lord knows, with all the cowhands and tinhorn gamblers and saloon women in Abilene, an Army scout is...is..." She seemed to be at a loss for words.

  White Eagle's grin widened. "No worse than anybody else?" he finished for her. He lifted his hand as she started to protest. "No, Sister, I understand exactly what you're saying. I'm a living reminder of a great deal of violence, my skin color as well as my profession. I am curious, though. You sounded almost as if you were on the side of the Indians a moment ago."

  She met his frank gaze. "I'm opposed to violence except when it's absolutely necessary, Mr. Dandaneau. It just seems to me that what you do helps to foster the killing on the frontier."

  White Eagle's eyes turned bleak with memory. "Then you haven't been out here long enough, Sister. I've watched the soldiers and the Indians killing each other for a long time, and nobody wants a war to end any sooner than the people who are fighting it. I can promise you that."

  "I'm glad to hear you say that," Sister Laurel said with a smile. "I've enjoyed talking to you, Mr. Dandaneau, but I have to be going now. Otherwise I'll never round up all of those rascals."

  White Eagle touched the brim of his hat. "Ma'am," he said with a nod.

  Leaning against the boardwalk railing, he thoughtfully watched the black-clad nun move down the street. His conversations with the youngsters and with Sister Laurel had certainly not helped him resolve any of the doubts that had been nagging at him. Despite what he had told them, he wasn’t at all sure what he would do with the rest of his life.

  As his gaze came to rest on Orion's Tavern two doors away, an answer suggested itself, at least as far as the immediate future was concerned. He would have a drink. He remembered Cully Markham saying that Orion's served the best whiskey in Abilene.

  Next to the Grand Palace was a house set back from the boardwalk behind a neat lawn. This was Dr. Rose Keller's office. White Eagle glanced at it as he went by and saw several people on their way into the building. Saturday would be a busy day for doctors, too.

  Orion's Tavern was a narrow frame structure with the standard batwing doors at its entrance. White Eagle pushed them open and paused for a second to let his eyes adjust to the relative dimness inside.

  Like most saloons, Orion's was laid out in a simple manner. A long bar with a polished hardwood top ran along the right side; on the wall behind it were shelves filled with bottles of liquor. Scattered throughout the room were tables, some covered with red-checked cloths, the rest bare so that cards could be shuffled and dealt more easily.

  A half-dozen laughing, talking cowboys were resting their boots on the brass railing that ran along the bottom of the bar as they tossed back shots of whiskey or sipped from mugs of beer. They shared the tavern with at least that many farmers and a handful of townsmen. At three of the tables, poker games were in progress. White Eagle wasn’t surprised that he didn’t see any women. In a place like this, men drank, played cards, and swapped lies. When it was time for female companionship, there were plenty of other places in Abilene to find it—like Addie Plunket's.

  A white-aproned young man with a receding chin was busily pouring drinks behind the bar. At the far end of the bar, a broad-shouldered man with a shaggy, reddish-gray beard was standing next to a wooden perch. A large green parrot clung to the perch, rapidly blinking its eyes as it peered around the room. The bearded man fed it a bit of bread and spoke to it in a rumbling voice. The parrot squawked and then launched into a screeching rendition of a Scots ballad.

  White Eagle, immediately comfortable, grinned, and stepped into the tavern. As he strolled to the bar, he could feel the men in the room study him with frank curiosity; but he didn’t sense any of the hostility he had encountered in other saloons.

  The parrot broke off his song and shrilled, "Devil be damned! Devil be damned!"

  The red-bearded man chuckled and said, "Aye." He came around the end of the bar and ambled toward the newcomer. White Eagle watched him approach and noticed the obvious strength and power in his burly frame. The man might be middle-aged, but he was far from past his prime.

  "Good day to ye, sir," the man said as he stuck out a massive hand. "I be Orion McCarthy, the proprietor o' this here establishment."

  "White Eagle Dandaneau," the scout replied, shaking Orion's hand. "I'm glad to meet you, Mr. McCarthy."

  "Call me Orion," the saloonkeeper said. "I been expecting ye. Cully told me he had informed ye o' the excellent libations to be had here."

  White Eagle grinned. "He did indeed. Said you had the best whiskey in Abilene, in fact."

  "And a fact it is!" Orion boomed. He turned to the bartender and called, "Percy! Bring us a bottle an' a couple o' glasses, lad."

  While the bartender hurried to bring the whiskey and glasses, White Eagle said in a low voice, "Did Markham also tell you that I have Indian blood, Orion? Legally, I'm not sure you should be serving me."

  Orion looked at him and cocked one bushy eyebrow. "I'm a firm believer in law an' order, or at least in the spirit of it. But ye look to me like the kind o' lad who can hold his liquor. I'll ask ye flat out—kin ye handle it?"

&
nbsp; White Eagle grinned. "I seem to have inherited my capacity from my father rather than my mother, and my father is Pierre Dandaneau. I'm told he's sometimes called Frenchy around here. Does that answer your question?"

  "Aye, that it does!" Orion clapped a hand exuberantly on White Eagle's back, and the younger man staggered slightly. Taking the bottle from Percy, Orion splashed whiskey into the glasses and raised one. "Here's to ye, lad!"

  White Eagle picked up his drink and tossed it back, savoring the hot bite of the liquor. "Cully was right," he said a moment later. "That is fine whiskey."

  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a shadow loom in the doorway. Keeping track of such things was a habit that had helped keep him alive and one that he didn’t want to break. He turned to see who was coming in.

  Cully Markham strode into the tavern. Several patrons called his name and raised beer mugs in greeting. The deputy waved casually and headed for the bar. He grinned broadly at White Eagle and said, "I see you decided to try the whiskey."

  "You were right," White Eagle replied as Orion motioned to Percy to refill their glasses. "It is good."

  Cully fished in his pocket and brought out a coin, which he flipped to Percy. "I told you the first round was going to be on me," he said, "and I meant it."

  "Here, lad," Orion protested. "I meant for Mr. Dandaneau's drink to be on the house."

  "You can get the next one," Cully pointed out. "After all, it is your place."

  Orion shrugged and nodded. "And the third round is on me," White Eagle said.

  "I'm not going to argue with that. But I'm one behind. Bring me a glass, Percy," Cully requested.

  Orion nodded toward one of the tables. "What say we make ourselves a bit more comfortable, laddies?"

  White Eagle and Cully followed him to a table. During the next hour Orion refilled their glasses several times, and White Eagle found that he was enjoying himself immensely. Cully and Orion were both friendly and full of questions about his experiences as an Army scout.

  "Orion and I were in Indian Territory a little while ago," Cully said after White Eagle had mentioned being headquartered at the Kiowa reservation there. "Had to chase some train robbers."

  "Aye, 'twas a good fight while it lasted," Orion added.

  White Eagle leaned back in his chair. "I think I heard about that. They kidnapped a girl, too, didn't they?"

  "That's right. Had the town in quite an uproar." Cully sipped his whiskey. "Things have settled down now. Abilene's pretty quiet most of the time. Speaking of that, I don't recall you saying what you've been doing with yourself the last few days. I thought you'd have headed back to the Army by now."

  White Eagle could tell that Cully was asking not as a lawman but as a newfound friend. "I'm not sure I'm going back," he said. "A man gets tired of all the fighting:"

  Cully and Orion nodded. Both of them had seen their share of violence. As a lawman, Cully dealt with it often. Sudden death was a way of life on the frontier.

  "What will ye do if ye don't go back?" Orion asked. "Not that 'tis any o' me business."

  White Eagle smiled. "I really don't know. That's one of the things I've been thinking about today."

  The batwings were pushed open, and three men stepped into the tavern. White Eagle glanced at them and found himself looking into the glaring face of Butch Gilbert.

  "Damn it," Gilbert said slowly, loudly, and distinctly in a voice that carried to every man in the room. "I didn't know Orion would let a damn Injun drink in his place. We'll have to stop comin' in here, boys."

  "At least 'til the stink's worn off," one of the other men replied with a nasty grin.

  White Eagle's fingers tightened on his glass, and his jaw set in a taut line. He was in no mood for another battle with the loudmouthed Gilbert and his friends.

  Cully's eyes darted from White Eagle to the newcomers and back. "Take it easy, White Eagle," he said in a low voice. "I know those boys, and they'd like nothing better than to prod you into a fight."

  "I know that," White Eagle replied. "I've already had a run-in with them."

  Orion shoved his chair back, the legs rasping on the floor. Moving with surprising agility, he slipped around the table and started toward Butch and the other men. "Hold on, lads," he said, "I'll have no fighting in me place, not unless I be doing some of it meself."

  "Don't worry, McCarthy," Butch sneered. "I'm tired of dirtying my hands on that filthy half-breed. I just want one quick drink, and then we'll be out of here. All right?"

  Orion considered, then shrugged. "Be quick about it," he warned as he jerked his head toward the bar.

  Butch and his friends moved unsteadily to the bar. Obviously, they had been sampling whiskey in some other saloon. They ordered drinks from Percy and leaned on the bar without looking at the table where White Eagle and Cully sat.

  Orion returned to the table, muttering curses under his breath as he sat down. "One of the few disadvantages of owning a tavern," he said to White Eagle, "is the people ye sometimes have t'serve."

  "I understand," White Eagle replied. "I don't want to cause any trouble, Orion. I'll leave if you like."

  Orion shook his head. Cully said, "It looked to me like Gilbert was the one who wanted to cause trouble. The man's carrying a grudge, White Eagle. What happened?"

  The scout nodded. "He's carrying a grudge, all right. He and those two and a couple of other men jumped me when I was in—Well, it doesn't matter where I was."

  "Five agin one," Orion growled. "Such men are no better'n a pack o' wild dogs."

  "A couple of friends of mine helped me out," White Eagle said. "We managed to send them packing. To begin with, Gilbert doesn't like me because of the color of my skin, and that brawl just made things worse."

  Cully nodded. "I'd keep my eyes open if I were you. I wouldn't put much past Gilbert."

  "Neither would I," White Eagle agreed.

  He and the others resumed their drinking, but White Eagle continued to watch Gilbert cautiously. The men were taking their time with their drinks, but after several minutes they finished the whiskey and turned away from the bar.

  Instead of heading toward the door, the trio ambled across the room to the table where White Eagle, Cully, and Orion sat. White Eagle tensed. Despite the grin on Butch Gilbert's face, the scout was certain that he was coming to make trouble.

  Butch paused beside the table and nodded to Cully. "Howdy, Deputy," he said.

  Cully returned the greeting and said, "What can I do for you, Gilbert?"

  "We just wanted to tell Dandaneau here that there're no hard feelings about the other night." Gilbert smiled at White Eagle as he spoke, but his eyes were as cold and hateful as they had been at Addie's.

  White Eagle didn’t believe a word he said. Gilbert had been humiliated by his defeat, and the fact that White Eagle knew of his failure with the prostitute called Lulu made matters worse. But if Butch wanted to avoid trouble, that was fine with the scout.

  "No hard feelings," White Eagle said. He didn’t extend his hand.

  "Glad to hear it," Gilbert replied. "Guess we'll be moving along now."

  As he started to turn away, Gilbert flung his arm out. His hand hit the half-full whiskey bottle sitting on the table and tipped it over so that the liquor spilled directly into White Eagle's lap. Gilbert glanced back and laughed harshly.

  "Looks like I had a little accident," he jeered. "Sorry about that, redskin."

  White Eagle sat frozen, staring straight ahead as the last of the whiskey gurgled out of the bottle and splashed onto his buckskins. The whole room seemed to hold its breath.

  Then White Eagle exploded out of his chair. Everything that had happened since he had arrived in Abilene—the two run-ins with Gilbert, the friction with his father, his uncertainty about his future—blew up inside White Eagle. With a howl of rage, he smashed his fist into Butch Gilbert's face. Gilbert staggered back from the blow, and White Eagle followed him, swinging more punches.

  One of Gilbert's fri
ends yelled, "Red-skinned dog!" The man yanked the pistol from his holster and raised it to slash at White Eagle's head with the barrel.

  In a flash Cully was out of his chair. His strong fingers wrapped around the man's wrist, stopping the blow before it could fall. He wrenched the man around and drove a fist into his belly.

  The third man grabbed a chair and started to swing it. Orion lunged at him with a roar, knocked the chair aside, and grappled with him.

  Gilbert had recovered his balance and was blocking White Eagle's punches while throwing some of his own. His fist slammed into White Eagle's jaw, knocking the scout backward into a table and upsetting it. Shouting with rage, Gilbert followed him, swinging wild punches that missed.

  White Eagle had not wanted this fight, but it had been forced on him. He felt a pang of regret as he realized the damage they would do to Orion's place. But there was no time for thinking; he had to stop Gilbert before the man beat him to death.

  Orion's arms went around his opponent's waist; then he picked him up and slung him across the room. The man smashed into Gilbert and sent him flying.

  At that same moment, Cully was rocked backward by a hard blow to the chin, and he careened into the path of the charging Orion. As they crashed, both men reeled, their feet tangling. Cully fell. Orion maintained his balance, but the effort cost him a punch in the face.

  Butch Gilbert charged at White Eagle just as Cully pushed himself to his feet. Gilbert and Cully collided. They sprawled on the floor and began clawing at each other. In the heat of the battle, Gilbert was heedless of the fact that his foe was a lawman. His clutching fingers reached for Cully's throat.

  The two men rolled over and over in the sawdust and came up on their knees near the door. Gilbert's hands were locked on Cully's neck, and the deputy was gasping for breath. Cully thrust his arms up savagely and broke Gilbert's grip. Gilbert dove at him, burying his shoulder in Cully's middle as Cully tried to lunge to his feet. Together, they smashed through the batwings onto the boardwalk. Cully's back hit the railing. He felt the wood crack, then he and Gilbert were falling into the street. Somewhere nearby, a woman screamed.