Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Judge Stephens sat down, and the others in the room followed suit. He glanced at the defense table and saw the tense, anxious expression on the defendant's face. She was an attractive, middle-aged brunette who looked as if she should be baking bread or clerking in a milliner's shop—almost anything other than standing trial for her life. Next to her sat her lawyer, a fussy little man with a mustache, who appeared even more worried than his client.

  The judge rapped his gavel on the bench and said, "This court is back in session." Turning to the jury foreman, he asked, "Has the jury reached a verdict in this matter?"

  As the bespectacled, round man stood up, he mopped beads of sweat from his face. He nodded and said, "We have, Your Honor."

  Judge Stephens told the defendant, "Miss Coleman, you will rise and face the jury."

  Rachel Coleman hesitated and glanced nervously at her attorney. Beside her, Leonard Bosworth reached out and put a hand on her arm, squeezing lightly. Rachel nodded, then stood, her features now composed. She was obviously making a great effort to appear calm, but she was a strong woman.

  "What is your verdict, gentlemen?" Judge Stephens asked.

  The jury foreman solemnly intoned, "We find the defendant guilty as charged."

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, the taut silence in the packed courtroom ended abruptly. Excited muttering erupted among the crowd. Many of the spectators seemed upset by the verdict, but the pleased grins on the faces of others indicated that they agreed with the jury.

  Rachel Coleman showed little emotion as the verdict was read. Her hands started to clench into fists, then suddenly relaxed. Although her shoulders didn’t slump, for a moment an air of resignation passed over her.

  She remained standing as Judge Stephens looked back at her. He took a deep breath and asked, "Do you have anything to say in your behalf before I pass sentence on you, Miss Coleman?"

  Rachel shook her head. "I've already told my story, Your Honor," she said. "There's nothing more to say."

  "In that case...Rachel Coleman, you have been found guilty in the murder of Mayor Russell P. Yeager. Therefore, in accordance with the laws of the Territory of Wyoming, I proclaim that you will be hanged by the neck until dead, said execution to take place at nine o'clock, Friday morning, one week from today." The judge's voice shook slightly as he passed sentence. He had been devoted to the law for decades, and the law was clear in this case. Still, this was the first time he had ever sentenced a woman to death. He banged his gavel again and growled over the hubbub in the courtroom, "This court is adjourned. Bailiff, turn the defendant over to the sheriff’s men."

  Rachel Coleman accepted the sentence as stoically as she had the verdict. Now she turned to her lawyer and said, "I'm sorry, Leonard."

  Bosworth stood up and put his hands on her shoulders. "I'm the one who's sorry, Rachel," he said fervently. "I did everything I knew..."

  She patted one of his hands and smiled slightly. "I know. Don't worry."

  The bailiff came up beside her and said, "Let's go, Miss Coleman."

  "Just one moment, please?" Rachel asked. Turning back to Bosworth, she went on quickly, "There is one more thing you can do for me, Leonard."

  "Anything, Rachel, you know that."

  "I want you to send a telegram. There's one man who might still be able to help me." A small flame of hope flickered in her eyes. "If anyone can prove my innocence in time to save me, it's Marshal Lucas Flint of Abilene, Kansas." She smiled. "They call him the Rattler."

  1

  Marshal Lucas Flint ducked as a bullet flew over his head. He was crouched behind a water-trough on Abilene's Texas Street. Lying on his belly a couple of feet away was Deputy Cully Markham.

  Cully glanced at Flint and said, "One of us is going to have to shoot him, Marshal."

  From across the street came a crazed howl. Flint lifted his head long enough to take a quick look. He saw a tall, burly man in a buffalo coat staggering on the boardwalk in front of the Bull's Head Saloon. There was an old Walker Colt in the man's right hand and tucked under the same arm was a Sharps Big Fifty buffalo gun. In his left hand the man held a bottle of whiskey, which he lifted to his mouth for a long swig as Flint watched. When he finally lowered the bottle, he howled again and then loosed another shot from the revolver, this one smacking into the wall of the apothecary nearby.

  "He's just drunk, Cully," Flint muttered. "You know old Leander as well as I do. He doesn't mean to hurt anybody."

  "Maybe not, but he's going to if he keeps shooting like that. He would go on a binge on Saturday afternoon when everybody's in town."

  Flint nodded grimly. He knew his deputy was right. Leander Bullfinch had been a buffalo hunter for years, until the once vast herds had shrunk almost to nothing, the scant remainder migrating south out of Kansas. Now Leander did odd jobs to get along and caused little trouble—except when he went on one of his periodic drinking sprees. This was the worst one yet. As Cully said, somebody was going to get killed.

  Flint raised his voice. "Leander, you'd better put that gun down!" he called. "Stop shooting before someone gets hurt!"

  Leander's reply was a hoot of drunken laughter and another round from the Colt.

  Flint glanced up and down the street. The boardwalks along Texas Street were empty. Everyone who had been on them had scattered when Leander flung the bartender through the saloon's window and then leaped after him with a gun in his hand. The dazed bartender had scrambled back into the saloon through the batwings while the townspeople scurried for cover.

  The commotion had drawn Flint and Cully from the marshal's office, but they had to dive out of the line of fire themselves as Leander shot at them. The old buffalo hunter was so drunk he was firing at anything that moved.

  Flint slipped the long-barreled Colt from the holster on his hip. He knew he could stand up and put a bullet in Leander before the drunken man could even start to fire. But Lucas Flint had taken the job as marshal of Abilene—going against his own vow never to pin on a star again—in order to prevent as much bloodshed as possible in his adopted town. He wouldn’t kill Leander Bullfinch unless he had to.

  Flint slid his gun back in its holster and said to Cully, "Distract him. Put a few bullets into the boardwalk at his feet."

  "Why don't I just shoot him in the leg?" Cully asked.

  Flint shook his head. "That wouldn't stop Leander. It would just make him mad, and he'd still be able to shoot."

  "What are you going to do?"

  "Just get his attention," Flint snapped. Before Cully could argue, he rolled out from behind the water trough and surged to his feet.

  Cully grimaced and raised himself to fire. The Colt in his hand began cracking. Across the street Leander started to turn toward Flint, his attention drawn by the marshal's sudden move, but the slugs slamming into the planks at his feet made him dance back awkwardly.

  Flint dashed across the street. He leaped onto the boardwalk as Cully's gun went silent. Leander turned toward him again, moving surprisingly quickly for a bulky man who had been guzzling whiskey for hours. But the marshal was quicker. He snatched his gun from its holster and lashed out with it. The long barrel cracked against the buffalo hunter's skull.

  Leander's filthy felt hat and his mane of shaggy hair cushioned the blow, but it was powerful enough to stagger him. Flint struck again. This time the barrel of his Colt hit Leander's wrist, causing the big man to drop his gun. The Sharps slipped from under his arm and clattered to the boardwalk.

  Roaring like a wounded bear, Leander lunged. His long arms reached out and encircled Flint. The marshal found himself pressed against his opponent with his arms pinned to his sides. The stench from the buffalo coat that the man wore year-round almost overwhelmed him, but as Leander's arms tightened in a vicious hug, Flint discovered that he couldn’t breathe anyway.

  He brought his knee up, slamming it into Leander's groin. The man grunted in pain and relaxed his grip on Flint just enough for the marshal to work his right arm free.
Flint swung his Colt again. The barrel thudded twice against Leander's head before his eyes rolled up and his muscles sagged. The marshal tore himself out of Leander's grip and staggered back, panting for breath, as the buffalo hunter wobbled and then collapsed heavily on the boardwalk. Flint felt the planks quiver beneath his boots.

  Glancing up, he saw Cully standing nearby, gun in hand in case more bullets were needed. Flint drew a deep breath and then gasped, "I told you we wouldn't have to kill him."

  Cully grinned. "No, but I was starting to think you were going to have to hit him for an hour before he realized he ought to fall down."

  Now that the commotion on the street had subsided, Abilene's citizens began poking their heads out of doorways to see if it was safe to emerge. The marshal holstered his gun and waved to several men. "Throw some ropes on him and drag him if you have to," Flint told them, pointing to Leander's sprawled bulk, "but get him to the jail and put him in one of the cells. I don't think he'll be waking up anytime soon. He's got a lot to sleep off."

  "Sure, Marshal," one of the men replied. He and his companions began trying to lift Leander and haul him to jail.

  Flint and Cully stood on the boardwalk and watched the operation. The two lawmen made a formidable pair. Even as winded as he was, Lucas Flint was an impressive man. Tall, with narrow hips and broad, powerful shoulders, he had worked hard for all his forty-odd years. Most of his time was spent in town these days, so he wore a dark suit and a string tie. The badge pinned to his vest glinted in the sunlight. He was no townie, though, as his boots, broad-brimmed black hat, and well-cared-for gun belt testified. He had thick brown hair and a full mustache that drooped slightly over his wide mouth.

  Cully Markham was a lot younger and more casual in his dress. He could have been taken for a drifting cowhand had it not been for the gun on his hip. The holster was low-slung and the Colt's pearl grips were worn smooth from use. It was a gunfighter's rig, and that was exactly what Cully might have been if he had not met Lucas Flint and wound up on the side of the law. The deputy's quick grin flashed as he watched the townsmen struggling with Leander Bullfinch's huge body.

  "Sort of like trying to throw a buffalo in the hoosegow, isn't it?" Cully asked. "You figure Leander got to looking like that because he spent so much time with those ugly critters?"

  "Could be," Flint said.

  "What are you going to do with him?"

  "Keep him locked up until he's sober," Flint replied. "He'll have to serve some time for disturbing the peace, too. Then I think I'll try to talk him into moving on. Folks around here are getting tired of his ruckuses. Somebody's liable to shoot him next time."

  "Seems like they'd have good cause."

  Flint couldn’t argue with that. "Like I told those boys, I don't expect Leander to wake up anytime soon, but you'd better go over there and keep an eye on things, just in case he comes to before they lock him up. I could use a drink, so I think I'll walk down to Angus's."

  Cully nodded and started across the street toward the jail.

  Flint began walking west down Texas Street toward the tavern where his good friend Angus MacQuarrie served the best whiskey, the coldest beer, and the tallest tales in Abilene. The marshal had taken only a few steps when he heard someone calling his name. He turned and saw one of the clerks from the Western Union telegraph office hurrying toward him.

  "Telegram for you, Marshal," the man said breathlessly as he reached Flint. "I think it's pretty important."

  Flint nodded. "Thanks, Sam," he said as he took the yellow telegraph form from the clerk. As he scanned the words printed there, his lean features tightened into a bleak, angry expression.

  "Sam, this was sent yesterday. See here, it's dated Friday." He pointed to the form and peered at the clerk.

  "Marshal, I'm sorry," Sam began, "but the lines between Cheyenne and Denver were down all last night. We don't know what happened. This just came in. Any reply, Marshal?" he asked somewhat nervously.

  Flint nodded. "Wire Cheyenne," he said. "Tell the lady I'll be there as soon as I can." Then he turned and strode toward his office, the drink he had been anticipating completely forgotten.

  When the marshal reached the jail, he found that the townsmen had managed to haul Leander into one of the cells. The men were standing around puffing and panting as Cully swung the cell door shut with a clang. They all looked around as Flint entered the office and went to his desk.

  Cully saw the expression on Flint's face and knew something was wrong. "Thanks, boys," he said to the others. "We'll take care of Leander now."

  "Behind bars is the best place for him," one of the men muttered. "He ain't nothin' but an animal."

  The townsmen trooped out of the office. Flint didn’t look up as they left. His eyes were fastened on the telegram he had dropped on the desk in front of him.

  Cully shut the cellblock door and strolled to the side of the desk, eyeing the yellow paper. Whatever was on that paper had upset Flint. "What's wrong, Marshal?" he asked.

  Flint grunted and shoved the telegram toward his deputy. "Read that," he said.

  Cully picked it up and quickly read the message.

  CHEYENNE WYOMING TERRITORY JULY 5, 1878 NEED HELP WILL BE HUNG ONE WEEK FROM TODAY FOR MURDER PLEASE COME RACHEL COLEMAN

  Cully looked up from the telegram and stared at Flint. "Sounds like bad business," he murmured. "Womenfolk don't usually hang, even for murder. This lady a friend of yours?"

  The marshal shook his head. "My sister-in-law, Rachel Coleman. I haven't seen her in years, not since Mary was...hurt."

  Flint didn’t need to mention that while he was marshal of Wichita, his wife Mary had taken a bullet meant for him, a bullet that didn’t kill her immediately but instead led to a slow, lingering death despite all that Flint and the best doctors in the East could do. Cully knew about that, knew this telegram had stirred up those painful memories, in addition to the shocking news it contained.

  The marshal took a deep breath. "The last I knew, Rachel was planning to move to Wyoming Territory to start a newspaper in Cheyenne. Publishing a paper, that was what she'd always dreamed of doing, and she figured Wyoming would be a good place for a woman to give it a try."

  "I'd heard that they were letting women vote now in Wyoming." Cully nodded. "Seems like a mighty strange idea to me, but I guess that's their right. What do you think about this murder business?"

  Flint shook his head. "It's unbelievable to me. Rachel doesn't have a violent bone in her body." He smiled humorlessly. "She and I didn't get along too well to start with. She didn't think too much of the line of work I was in, and then it just got worse after Mary—" He broke off with another shake of his head. Then he put his hands on the desk and pushed himself to his feet. "I've got to go see what this is all about."

  "Sure. You want some company?"

  Flint hesitated. "Thanks, Cully," he said after a moment. "I appreciate the offer. But somebody's got to stay here in Abilene to keep the peace. It looks to me like you're elected."

  Cully nodded slowly. Being left in charge of a bustling, growing town like Abilene was a lot of responsibility, but the young deputy had taken on big jobs before. Both he and Flint knew he would be up to it.

  Now that he had decided on his course of action, Flint began to issue orders crisply. "You'd better have Rose take a look at Leander, just to make sure I didn't hit him too hard. I don't think you could crack that skull of his with anything less than a sledgehammer, but there's no point in taking chances. Tell the prosecutor to charge Leander with disturbing the peace. You can swear in Angus as a temporary deputy to give you a hand if you need it. I won't be gone much more than a week."

  Neither Flint nor Cully needed to mention the significance of that period of time.

  He slipped his watch out of his vest pocket and flipped it open, then nodded grimly. "There's a westbound train due through here in about an hour. That'll be more than enough time to pack. I can take it to Denver and change trains for Cheyenne. Ought to
be there day after tomorrow."

  He hated to waste even that much time when he had only a week to save his sister-in-law's life. But there was no quicker way to get to Cheyenne. He would just have to work fast when he arrived.

  Flint found it impossible to believe that Rachel had killed anyone—unless it was an accident. Flint knew that in his bones. And even then, that was no call for a hanging. He vowed he would get to the bottom of this. With a determined look on his lean face he strode out of the office, heading for his rented room to pack a bag.

  2

  Lucas Flint had not expected anyone to come to the Kansas Pacific station to see him off. When he strode through the doors of the depot after buying his ticket, he was surprised to see Dr. Rose Keller and Angus MacQuarrie standing on the platform next to Cully Markham.

  Rose came forward to meet him. She laid a hand on his arm and said, "Cully told us what's happened, Lucas. I'm sure you'll be able to straighten it out."

  Flint nodded. "Thanks. I hope you're right."

  "Ye'll get to th' bottom o' this mess, Lucas," Angus assured him.

  Despite the grim journey he was about to embark upon, he couldn’t help but smile as he looked at his friends. Rose, a very attractive brunette in her late twenties, had been serving Abilene well as its doctor. Angus was a burly Scotsman with powerful shoulders, shaggy red hair, and a full red beard shot with gray. Both of them were staunch friends of his, and Flint was glad to have them here to see him off. He could feel his spirits lifting.

  "Did you get a chance to take a look at Leander Bullfinch's head?" he asked Rose.

  "He's got a pretty good lump on it," she replied with a nod. "He may have a slight concussion as well. It's hard to tell with Leander, he's so addled. But I think he'll be fine once he's sober."

  "He was singing hymns when we left the jail," Cully said, grinning. "Of course, he was making up his own words as he went along."