Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Newcomb said, "Let's get that table," and moved quickly to do so. Flint took the chair opposite him.

  A few moments later one of the bar girls sauntered to the table. "What can I do for you, gents?" she asked lazily.

  "Two beers," Newcomb replied. "And fry us up some steaks. Mashed potatoes, red beans, and deep-dish apple pie to go with them. Got that?"

  "Sure, mister," the girl said. Then, eyeing Flint suggestively, she added, "Anything else?"

  Flint shook his head. The girl shrugged, smiled, and sashayed back to the bar to relay the order to the bartender, who pushed open a door behind him and called the order to the cook.

  Newcomb grinned. "You're in for a treat, Lucas."

  Flint nodded somewhat absentmindedly. This dive wasn’t the kind of place he normally patronized, and besides that he was still upset over the delayed train. But he made himself listen as Newcomb told him about a previous trip to Denver. The man seemed to have been to a lot of places in the West, although he claimed that he had never visited Cheyenne before.

  The girl brought their beers, and then a few minutes later returned with the platters of food. Newcomb attacked his dinner with gusto. Flint ate with a little less enthusiasm, but he had to admit that the meal was surprisingly good. He would have enjoyed it more if he had not had to put up with the constant uproar coming from Ray's customers.

  Suddenly some instinct triggered a warning in Flint's brain. He glanced up and saw two men standing at the bar, peering intently at the table where he and Newcomb sat. They weren’t looking at him, however; their gazes were fixed on Newcomb.

  Newcomb had taken off his derby and put it on the table beside his plate. He was relishing his food and paying no attention to what was going on around him.

  The men at the bar abruptly became aware that Flint had noticed them, and they looked away to concentrate on their drinks. The marshal turned his attention back to his plate but kept a cautious eye on the men. They were both young and dressed in dusty range clothes, as if they had just ridden in from somewhere. Each man carried a pistol holstered in a tied-down rig on his hip. They were either handy with their guns or wanted folks to think they were. Flint hoped they weren’t looking for trouble. He was in no mood for it.

  A few minutes later the two men gulped down their drinks, turned away from the bar, and started pushing through the crowd toward the table where Flint and Newcomb sat. Flint put down his knife and fork when he saw them coming.

  Both men looked grim and determined as they strode over to the table. Newcomb still appeared not to notice them, but then one of the hard-faced men said harshly, "I know you, mister."

  Newcomb glanced up. "Are you speaking to me, sir?" he asked politely. His words were spoken so softly that they were almost inaudible in the tavern's hubbub.

  "Damn right I'm talking to you!" the man shot back. "Ever since you came in here, I've been trying to remember where I saw you before, and it finally came to me just a few minutes ago."

  He paused. Newcomb put down his knife and fork, looked up at the man for a moment, and then shook his head. "Sorry, friend," he said. "I don't believe we've ever met."

  "We didn't meet, but I saw you, all right." The man's lip curled in a hate-filled sneer. "You're the son of a bitch who hung my brother in Omaha last year!"

  Flint glanced at Newcomb, his eyes narrowed in surprise at this unexpected accusation.

  Newcomb didn’t answer the charge immediately. Moving deliberately, he lifted his napkin from his lap, wiped his mouth, and placed it on the table. "I did some work in Omaha last year," he said slowly. "I'm afraid I don't remember your brother, but if I hanged him, then he had a fair trial, was convicted by a jury, and sentenced by a judge. All I did was carry out the legal sentence." While Newcomb spoke softly, his voice was edged with steel.

  Flint was shocked by the revelation, but he worked to remain calm and controlled.

  "You self-righteous bastard!" spat the man who had accused Newcomb. "Here's where I even the score!"

  The man's hand dropped to his gun, and his companion also started to draw. They were fast; Flint saw that instantly.

  But K. W. Newcomb also moved with surprising speed. His hand scooped up the platter of food in front of him and hurled it at the gunman who had spoken. The heavy plate, still laden with food, smashed into the man's face as he drew. He cried out involuntarily and staggered back, clawing at his gun.

  Newcomb rose out of his chair, his arm sweeping around in a backhand blow that caught his opponent on a jaw smeared with mashed potatoes. The impact jerked the man's head around. His gun came out of its holster, but he couldn’t hold it. It slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

  In the same split second, Lucas Flint surged to his feet, his hand flashing toward his gun. He saw that the second man was going to clear leather first. He had no time to be fancy.

  Flint fired a shot from his hip. The other man might have gotten his gun out faster, but Flint's weapon was the first to roar. The slug slammed into the man's midsection, doubling him over and knocking him back. As he toppled, his gun barrel dropped. The pistol blasted, but the bullet thudded harmlessly into the floor at his feet. Then the man collapsed.

  The first man was also crumpled on the floor, knocked out cold by Newcomb's punch. Flint held his gun at the ready as he moved around the table to check on both of them. The man he had shot was dead, and the other one wouldn’t wake up soon. The marshal glanced at Newcomb and saw that he was holding a short-barreled Smith & Wesson .38, popularly known as a "Baby Russian".

  "You won't need that," Flint said. "This fight's over."

  Newcomb nodded curtly and stowed the pistol away in a holster that was clipped to his belt and concealed beneath his coat. Flint made a mental note of it and chided himself for not noticing the gun earlier. That showed how distracted he had been during this journey. Obviously, K. W. Newcomb wasn’t a drummer as Flint had thought.

  When the fight started, the patrons of Ray’s had lunged for cover. Now they began scrambling up off the floor and crawling from under tables.

  No one seemed particularly upset by the violence. Shoot-outs such as this one, while not as common as they used to be, were still regular occurrences in Denver.

  Flint slipped his Colt back in its holster and called to the bartender, "You'd better send for the sheriff."

  "No need to do that, mister," a new voice called from the doorway. "You and your friend yust stay still."

  Flint looked over his shoulder and saw a thick-bodied man with a white walrus mustache coming into the room. The newcomer wore a suit and carried a shotgun. His hat was pushed back on his bald head, and a badge was pinned to his vest.

  A grin spread across Flint's face. "Take it easy, Bjorn," he said. "Point that shotgun somewhere else before it goes off."

  "Yah, and if it goes off, it'll be where I mean to point it," Sheriff Bjorn Gundersen said. "Is that you, Lucas?"

  "That's right," Flint said, turning around to face his fellow lawman. He stuck out a hand. "It's been a long time, Bjorn."

  Gundersen shook hands with Flint, glanced at Newcomb, and said, "What happened here?"

  The noise level in the saloon was rapidly returning to its normal roar. Flint jerked his head toward the door, and Gundersen, Newcomb, and he stepped out of the saloon onto the boardwalk.

  Once outside, Newcomb said, "I guess it's my fault, Sheriff. One of those men recognized me and had a grudge to settle on account of his brother." He filled in the details of the fight.

  "What are you doing here, Newcomb?" the sheriff asked. His voice still retained a slight accent from his days as a boy in Norway. "We got nobody to hang right now."

  "I'm just passing through. Our train was delayed, so I thought I'd show Lucas where to get a good meal."

  Gundersen looked from Newcomb to Flint. "You two traveling together?"

  "More like just heading for the same place," Flint said. His eyes were narrow and thoughtful as he looked at Newcomb. He
couldn’t help but think about what he had discovered in the last few minutes.

  Gundersen nodded. "I'll talk to the bartender, yust to make sure everything is straightened out. You two can go back to your supper."

  "I'm afraid mine is all over the floor," Newcomb said.

  "And I've lost my appetite," Flint added.

  "Yah, that can happen after a shooting." Gundersen nodded as he led the way back inside.

  The sheriff quickly questioned the bartender and some of the witnesses. Then, satisfied that Flint and Newcomb had acted in self-defense, he ordered the dead man taken to the undertaker's. The other man was pulled to his feet and marched groggily out of Ray’s. He would be held for trial on charges of attempted murder.

  Flint was quiet until Gundersen had gone, then he said to Newcomb, "I think I'll go back to the station to wait for the train. Like I told Bjorn, I've lost my appetite."

  "You and the sheriff seem to be old friends," Newcomb commented.

  "Acquaintances," Flint said curtly. "We're in the same line of work."

  "Seems like there are some things you didn't tell me about yourself, Lucas."

  "That's true for you, too." Flint turned on his heel and stalked out of the saloon.

  The marshal stormed toward the railroad station. A moment later, Newcomb caught up with him and fell in step beside him, clearly determined to ignore Flint's wish to be left alone.

  "Look," Newcomb said, "what Gundersen and that hardcase said about me is true. I'm a hangman. A traveling executioner, I guess you could say. And there's no one better at his trade, I might add."

  Flint glanced over at him. "You sound proud of it."

  "And why shouldn't I be?" Newcomb demanded. "My job is perfectly legal and all too necessary. I sometimes wish it wasn't."

  "And now you're going to Cheyenne on business," Flint said icily.

  "That's right." Newcomb's voice was solemn as he went on. "I'm supposed to carry out the sentence of the court on a woman named Rachel Coleman."

  Flint stopped at the entrance to the depot and faced Newcomb. In a flat, emotionless voice, he said, "Rachel Coleman is my sister-in-law."

  Newcomb stared at Flint's stony face for a long moment, then finally said, "Oh. I . . . I didn't know. I'm sorry, Lucas. I guess you're on your way to see her."

  "I'm on my way to see that it doesn't happen."

  Newcomb nodded. "You're a lawman, aren't you?" he asked after a few seconds.

  "I'm the marshal of Abilene, Kansas," Flint replied tautly.

  "Then we're on the same side of the law, Lucas," Newcomb said quietly but firmly. "I'd like us to keep it that way, even if we don't see eye to eye on this. You know I have to do my job, just the way you have to do yours."

  While Flint saw the man's logic, he was too furious to care. "That may be the way you see it," he said coldly. "But I'll tell you one thing, Newcomb. When we get to Cheyenne, you'd better stay out of my way."

  Without another word, Flint pushed past the hangman and went into the depot to wait for the northbound train.

  3

  Lucas Flint might have thought Cheyenne was a pretty place if he had been in the mood to appreciate such things. The rapidly growing settlement was situated in a basin on the eastern edge of the Laramie Mountains, which, while not as imposing as the Rockies beyond, were still quite majestic to someone who was accustomed to the rolling plains of Kansas.

  Two hours after dawn, the train clattered over the trestle spanning Crow Creek and then chugged to a stop a few minutes later at the depot. The northbound had arrived in Denver earlier than expected the night before, and its crew raced the locomotive through the night to make up the delay.

  Flint had not seen K. W. Newcomb boarding the train in Denver, and when he chose his seat, he made certain that Newcomb wasn’t in the car. Newcomb didn’t seek him out, either, and Flint concluded that their harsh exchange had convinced the hangman to leave him alone.

  Once again, Flint had not slept well during the night. As he disembarked, he realized that his muscles ached, and his eyes were as gritty as if someone had thrown sand in them. He paused on the platform and rolled his shoulders to loosen them.

  Then he walked quickly along the train to the baggage car to claim his bag from the clerk. As he turned to leave the platform, he almost ran into K. W. Newcomb. He, too, had come to retrieve his bag.

  "Good morning, Lucas," Newcomb said evenly.

  Flint nodded but said nothing. He strode past Newcomb into the depot building, walked straight through it, and emerged on the street.

  The bustling streets of Cheyenne spread out before him. Men on horseback and wagons drawn by mules and oxen filled the dusty avenues. Most of the buildings had wide plank boardwalks similar to the ones in Abilene, although not as well constructed, and people thronged on them. Cheyenne was clearly a thriving city.

  Flint knew that the discovery of gold in the Black Hills in nearby Dakota Territory had spurred the tremendous growth. It seemed as though every second man he saw on the street was dressed as a miner. They brushed shoulders with an equal number of cowhands, which made sense to Flint since he knew there were numerous ranches in the area. Cheyenne's rail depot was a vital supply link for both the miners and ranchers.

  Stepping off the depot's porch, Flint started walking down the street and a minute later stopped one of the passersby. "Say, mister, can you tell me where to find the sheriff’s office?" he asked.

  The man was dressed in range clothes, but they were a little more expensive than those a regular cowhand could afford. Flint took him for a rancher. The man nodded and said, "Sure. Go a couple of blocks and turn left. You'll see it."

  "Thanks," Flint told him. As he resumed his long stride, he began to wonder who the sheriff was these days. His old friend Jeff Carr was an officer in the State Militia now, although Carr still primarily ran down rustlers and assorted outlaws. Wild Bill Hickok had also enforced the law here but stayed only a short time before moving on to Deadwood. Flint grimaced at the thought. Hickok had been dead almost two years now, in some respects the victim of his own legend.

  Flint turned the corner and, on his left, saw the sheriff’s office, housed in a substantial stone building. Next to it stood an even sturdier-looking structure that no doubt served as the jail. He moved toward the office and opened the door.

  He grinned as the familiar room almost made him feel at home. A battered desk flanked by two wooden chairs stood in the center of the room. Behind it was a cabinet full of rifles and shotguns. Along one wall was a crumbling sofa that was losing its stuffing. A wood-burning stove with the ubiquitous coffeepot on it occupied a far corner.

  Behind the scarred desk was a man sitting in a swivel chair who looked up as Flint's booted feet stepped heavily into the room. He had iron-gray hair and piercing blue eyes. Leaning back in his chair, he asked, "Can I help you, mister?"

  "Are you the sheriff?" Flint asked.

  The man stroked his narrow mustache as he nodded. "Bob Dedrick."

  "My name's Lucas Flint. I've come to see one of your prisoners."

  The sheriff tensed and began to assess Flint. After a moment, he said, "I've got only three prisoners right now. Two of 'em are in here for guzzling too much whiskey and starting a brawl. You don't look like the kind of fella who'd want to see them."

  "I'm talking about Rachel Coleman," Flint said bluntly.

  Dedrick nodded. "Figured you were." He sighed and stood up. "Mind if I ask what your business is with her?"

  "I'm her brother-in-law."

  The sheriff was silent as he turned that over in his mind. Then he said, "I seem to recall hearing your name somewhere before, Mr. Flint. What line of work are you in?"

  "I'm the marshal of Abilene, Kansas," Flint replied levelly. "Before that I served in the same position in Wichita, a few years back."

  Dedrick sat up straighter and slapped the desk lightly. "You’re the one they call the Rattler," he said. "I knew that name was familiar. "

  "S
ome have also called me that," Flint admitted. He had not heard of Bob Dedrick, but Cheyenne's lawman struck him as competent. There was something about him that said he could be as hard as nails when he needed to be.

  Dedrick nodded again. "You say you're related to Rachel?"

  "That's right."

  The sheriff turned and yanked a ring of keys from a nail on the wall behind him and said, "Come on. I'll be glad to let you talk to her. She's in the back. We've got one cell here in the building, and I wasn't going to put her in with those drunks next door."

  Flint was glad to hear that Dedrick had some compassion. During this ordeal Rachel had probably been treated decently. But he still refused to believe there was any reason why she should be in jail, no matter how well she was being treated. There had to have been some horrible mistake.

  Dedrick opened a door at the rear of the office and led Flint into a short hall. A single, sparsely furnished cell was on his left. On one wall was a bunk with a thin mattress and a gray blanket. A ladderback chair stood beside it. There was also a rocking chair in the cell, but whether it was a regular fixture or had been brought in especially for this prisoner, Flint didn’t know.

  The woman in the cell was sitting in the rocking chair, but she stood up quickly as Flint entered the hall behind Dedrick. A smile formed on her lips as she hurried toward the iron bars. "Lucas!" she called softly.

  Flint stepped toward the bars. "Hello, Rachel," he said. He started to reach for the hands she thrust through the bars when the sheriff stopped him.

  "Marshal," he snapped, "I'd appreciate it if you'd unstrap that gun and hand it to me before you start visiting."

  Flint glanced over his shoulder and saw that Dedrick's hand was resting on the butt of his pistol. "Don't worry, Sheriff," he said as he unbuckled his gun belt and held it out to the lawman. "I'm not here to pull off any jailbreaks."

  Dedrick nodded as he took Flint's gun. "I'll let you two folks have a little privacy," he said. He went out and shut the door behind him.