"This is all right, son, thanks."
Rachel placed the tray on her bunk and stood up. "Lucas, if you don't mind, I would like you to come in."
"Well, sure." Flint nodded. He slipped his Colt from its holster and extended it, butt first, to the deputy. "That's the only gun I've got on me, but you're welcome to check if you'd like."
"I've heard of you, Marshal," the young man replied as he took the Colt from Flint. "Not many in our line of work haven’t heard of the Rattler. So I'll take your word for it that you don’t have any other weapons." He tucked the gun behind his belt and then unlocked the cell door. "I'll leave you folks alone."
Flint waited until the deputy had retreated into the office and shut the door behind him. Then he stepped into the cell and faced Rachel.
She moved into his arms, and he automatically reached out to embrace her. Her face rested against his chest as she drew a deep, shuddering breath.
"Thank you, Lucas," she said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. "It's been a hard time, and I ...I just needed to be held for a minute."
"Sure," Flint replied. "Sure. That's fine." He felt awkward and uncomfortable, unsure what he should do. He thought about patting her on the back, then rejected the idea. Instead, he just stood there, his arms loosely around her.
After a moment, Rachel sighed and lifted her head. As she stepped back, she had a mocking smile on her face. "I think that's about all the intimacy two old adversaries like us can stand, Lucas. But I do thank you for that."
"You're welcome," Flint said gruffly. "Why don't you sit down and finish your supper?"
"All right." She picked up the tray and sat down on the bunk. Reversing the straight chair, Flint straddled it. Rachel went on, "I do appreciate you coming to see me. Leonard and Thatcher stop by fairly often, but they're so depressed, their visits usually just make me feel worse."
"They don't know what to do to help you," Flint said. "I'm not sure I do, either, but I'm going to give it a try. I went to see Anabel Yeager earlier today. Met Lance McGill while I was there."
Rachel looked surprised. "Did you learn anything from either of them?"
"Not much." Flint shrugged. "McGill and I didn't get along too well. He struck me as a man who can be dangerous when he wants to be."
"He is," Rachel agreed. "He runs the Trident spread with an iron hand. There have been rumors about some killings in his past, too."
"I can believe that. Trident, eh? That's the brand he and Yeager used?"
"That's right. One leg of the trident for McGill, another for Yeager."
"Who's the third leg for?" Flint asked.
Rachel shook her head. "Anabel, I suppose. Not that it really matters. Yeager and McGill were enough for anyone to have to deal with."
"Ran roughshod over anybody who got in their way, eh?" Flint grunted. "I can believe that after meeting McGill. What is going on between Anabel Yeager and him?"
Rachel frowned. "The mayor was always hinting to Anabel that she and McGill should get married. I sensed that McGill was willing, but Anabel wasn't. Yeager wanted his relationship with McGill cast in stone, though, and I suppose he thought that would do it."
"Sounds logical." Quickly, Flint told Rachel about what he had seen at the Yeager house. He added, "It looks to me like Anabel changed her mind about marrying McGill since her father's death. She has to be feeling pretty worried about what's going to happen to her."
"Of course," Rachel agreed. "Marrying McGill might look like the best solution to her. Without him to run things, the estate she inherited from her father isn't going to be worth much."
"But with McGill?"
"Then they're well on their way to their own little private empire," Rachel said solemnly. "Especially if they get married."
"McGill doesn't have to share that power with anyone now," Flint mused. "Anabel won't be a threat to anything he wants to do. I could tell she's not going to oppose him."
Rachel set her supper tray aside. "You still see McGill as the most likely suspect, don't you, even with his alibi?"
"He had the most to gain by Yeager's death. He could have hired somebody to help him with the actual murder." Flint narrowed his eyes and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. "How did Yeager and McGill get started, anyway? I haven't heard anyone talk about that."
"I'm not sure," Rachel replied slowly. "They were here when I moved to Cheyenne. They weren't as successful then, but they were already building up their ranch." She frowned in thought. "Now that I think about it, their holdings seemed to grow pretty rapidly."
Flint leaned forward. "The quickest way to build up a ranch is to help yourself to another man's cattle. Do you think that's what McGill did?"
Rachel shook her head. "I don't know, Lucas. I just don't know."
"Might be worth looking into." Flint stood up. "I need more information, and the best place to find out what's really going on in any town is probably the red-light district."
Rachel smiled faintly. "Here in Cheyenne it's called the Golden Gate district. It's along Ferguson Street. You'll find practically everyone who's involved in anything shady over there." She stood up and lightly touched Flint's arm. "But you're not really going over there, are you? It's a robbers' roost, Lucas. Sheriff Dedrick won't go into that part of town unless he has to, and then he takes several deputies with him."
"Don't worry about me." Flint grinned. "I've dealt with some pretty unsavory characters in my time."
"But if those men over there know you're a lawman—"
"I don't plan to tell them," Flint cut in. "I'll be fine, Rachel. And I'll wager that I'll find somebody who can tell me a little more about Mr. Lance McGill and his activities."
With the grin still on his face, he stepped out of the cell, closed the door behind him, and went over to the cellblock door to summon the young deputy.
By the time Flint left the jail, the evening's festivities in the Golden Gate district were already well under way. Flint found it without any trouble just by listening to the uproar coming from the saloons that lined Ferguson Street.
The hammering on the gallows had finally stopped for the day, and Flint was glad of that. The noise had gotten on his nerves and made him so edgy that he had trouble thinking straight.
As he strode along the street, he glanced into the saloons that he passed. The entrances and windows framed scenes of drinking, laughing, and carousing. Music from pianos and fiddles floated in the night air, the different tunes blending into a discordant melody occasionally punctuated by a shrill cry.
So far, Flint had heard no gunshots. It must be a quiet night, he reflected.
Across the street, Flint saw an establishment that took up an entire block. It was a two-story frame structure with a long sign attached to the railing around its balcony. stubb’s place, the sign declared; smaller letters beneath read Restaurant, Bar, Rooms for Rent.
From what Flint saw through the windows, the bar occupied the entire first floor. Shapes cavorted by lantern light, and he could hear a band playing. Quite a few horses were tethered at the hitchrack in front, and there was a steady stream of men coming and going through the batwings.
It looked like a good place to have a drink and maybe collect some information, Flint thought as he started across the street. He had to wait for a couple of wagons to rattle by, then climbed onto the boardwalk and stepped to the saloon's entrance.
Pausing just outside, Flint studied the big room a little more closely before he entered. The bar ran the length of the back wall, underneath an interior balcony. Staircases led up to the second floor on both sides of the room. Stuffed animal heads adorned the walls. Flint saw deer and antelope and even the head of a huge silvertip grizzly. As he swung his gaze around the room, he blinked when he saw a buffalo head. The buffalo seemed to be staring down malevolently at the men and women below him, as if offended that it had to witness such goings-on.
A grin tugged at Flint's mouth as he stepped into Stubb's Place. The Golden Gate district w
as a remnant of the wild frontier town Cheyenne had been only a few years before, and Stubb's appeared to be a vivid example of that legacy.
He had taken just a few steps inside the door when something tapped him on the shoulder. Flint looked around in surprise, then glanced up and let his eyes follow the long pole that had nudged him.
To one side of the door, five feet above the sawdust-covered plank floor, was a raised platform supported by heavy beams. On the platform stood a chair that was occupied by a man wearing a dark suit. The man's feet barely touched the platform, Flint quickly noted before he spied the sawed-off shotgun lying across the man's lap.
When he saw that he had Flint's attention, the man leaned the pole against the wall and then patted the stock of his weapon. "Just wanted to let you know I've got me eye on you, mate," the man said in a gravelly voice that easily carried above the music and laughter blaring in the room.
"Do you always greet customers that way, friend?" Flint asked.
The man had brawny shoulders and thinning dark hair and appeared to be in his forties. "I do when they be strangers," he said. "Me name is Morven Stubb, mister, from Liverpool, England. And I don't stand for trouble in me place. Understand?"
For a moment, Flint's mouth tightened. It seemed as though everyone in Cheyenne delivered warnings, and he was getting tired of it. But then he forced himself to grin and replied, "I'm not here looking for trouble, Mr. Stubb, just a drink of good whiskey."
"Then you've come to the right place." Stubb slid from the chair, cradling the shotgun in his arms. He gestured with its barrels toward the bar. "The first one's on me. Just tell the bartender."
Flint nodded. "Thanks." He turned and started to make his way among the crowd toward the bar. Halfway across the room, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Stubb standing on the platform, his dark eyes surveying the room. As Flint had thought, the man wasn’t tall, only a little over five feet. Stubb fit his name. But there was no mistaking the fact that he was in complete command of this place, nor that he would be a dangerous man to cross.
Flint found a spot at the bar, shouldered his way between two rough-looking men dressed in dusty range clothes, and lifted a hand to catch the barman's eye. One of the cowhands beside him growled a curse as Flint told the bartender, "Whiskey. Stubb said the first one was on him."
The barman nodded and splashed liquor into a glass. Flint wasn’t expecting high-quality whiskey, and what he got was typical bar whiskey, raw and watered down.
He cast a hard-eyed glance at the man next to him, who was still muttering about being moved aside. The cowboy quieted down as Flint glared at him. Then Flint turned to use the long, gilt-framed mirror behind the bar to study the saloon's patrons. Many of them were cowboys, but there were a few townsmen and railroad workers. Bar girls in lacy, low-cut dresses moved among the men. Narrow-eyed gamblers flipped cards on the green felt tabletops. Men who wore their guns tied low on their thighs sat watchfully nursing their drinks. Hardcases, Flint thought. Above them all sat Morven Stubb, the master of the hall, who ruled with a sawed-off shotgun.
The marshal was glad his badge was stowed safely away in his pocket. A known lawman would be taking quite a risk coming in here alone.
Flint took a deep breath and then tossed off the rest of the whiskey, trying not to grimace as it burned fiercely in his throat and stomach. He thumped the empty glass on the bar and gestured to the bartender to refill it. Rolling a coin to the barkeep, he picked up the fresh drink and turned to start back across the room.
He had to dodge several dancing couples along the way, but a moment later he was standing beside the platform where Stubb sat. Grinning up at the short saloonkeeper, Flint said, "Thanks for the first one." He lifted the second drink in a brief salute.
"You're welcome," Stubb said as he leaned forward. "Enjoy yourself, friend."
"Oh, I intend to. But I would like to ask a question if you don't mind."
Stubb frowned. "We're not much on questions around here, mister. But seeing as you be new in town... what is it?"
"If you're the owner of this place, why are you acting as the bouncer?"
A grin split Stubb's homely face. "I like to keep me hand in, so to speak. I started out busting heads in a place back in Boston when folks got out of line. Guess I got in the habit."
"You look like a man who keeps a close eye on things," Flint said with a thoughtful nod. "You probably know everything that's going on in this territory."
"Maybe." Stubbs peered at him suspiciously. "What do you want to know?"
Flint sipped his drink. "I was just wondering what a man could do to earn a little money around here," he said lightly.
"You're in need of a job, are you?"
"We all have to eat," Flint answered with a shrug.
"What are you good at, me friend?"
Flint let his hand drift down to the butt of his gun. "This and that," he said.
Stubb nodded sagely. "I see."
Venturing a little further, Flint said, "I've heard there's been some trouble around here with rustling. I thought I might be able to help somebody who's been having problems."
Stubb cocked his head, and his tone grew harsh as he asked, "You're not a damned range detective, are you?"
Flint threw back his head and laughed. "Not hardly," he said.
"Well...a man in me position hears things. Just rumors, mind you. But if you're looking for someone who's been losing cattle, it seems to me you could talk to just about any rancher in the area."
Flint's eyes narrowed. "It's that widespread?"
"I wouldn't know who's behind it, mind you. I run an honest place here. What folks do outside these walls ain't none of me business."
Flint nodded. "Do you know a man named McGill?"
"Everybody in this part of the country knows McGill, mister. What's he to you?"
"I was just wondering if his ranch was being hit, too."
"Same as everybody else, from what I've heard." Stubb shook his head. "I'm a friendly sort, but I think this conversation has gone far enough. If you're here to drink, go right ahead. If you're just wanting to ask questions, you'd best go someplace else."
"Thanks," Flint said dryly. "I think I'll drink."
The marshal left after finishing his second glass of whiskey, though. As he pushed through the batwings, he could feel Stubb watching him, and he knew that the saloonkeeper was suspicious. He wondered if Stubb would tell anyone about the inquisitive stranger.
That was the beginning of a long evening for Flint. He visited several saloons along Ferguson Street and managed to talk to bartenders and patrons in each of them, always steering the conversation around to the rustling in the area. When he came to the Golden Gate district, he had not intended to become so involved in the problems the cattlemen were having, but all of the instincts he had developed in his years as a lawman told him that the questions might turn out to be important.
No matter who he talked to, the story was the same. There was plenty of rustling going on in the territory, but the Trident ranch had suffered its share of losses. As for McGill's background, no one was willing to come right out and accuse him of rustling when he and Yeager had started up their ranch, but it was implied more than once.
A little before midnight Flint headed back toward his hotel. He had been nursing whiskeys and beers for several hours, and while he wasn’t drunk, he did have a headache from the liquor. And he was frustrated because he didn’t know if he was any closer to finding out the truth about the murder that had landed Rachel in jail. At the moment the best thing he could do was get some sleep. Maybe he would be able to think more clearly in the morning.
The bullet that came out of the darkness and slammed past Flint's head was so close that it sounded like the crack of a whip next to his ear.
He threw himself forward, grabbing for his Colt as he fell. Twisting around, he spotted a spurt of flame from a nearby alley as the hidden gunman fired again. The second slug smacked into the dirt of the s
treet a couple of feet from Flint.
He jerked up his pistol and triggered twice, then rolled quickly to the side. There was no return fire, though. Flint surged to his feet and darted toward the building next to the alley. He flattened against its wall, putting himself out of the line of fire of anyone hiding in the shadows.
Flint stayed there for several long moments, watching the mouth of the alley. No one emerged, and there were no more shots.
No one seemed to be coming to investigate the gunfire, either. He supposed exchanges like this were not that unusual, especially ones of such short duration. Probably Dedrick or one of his deputies would show up sooner or later to ask a few questions and try to find out what had gone on.
Flint didn’t want to be there when that happened. Apparently, the gunman was gone now, driven off by Flint's shots, and the man from Abilene decided that he wanted to be gone, too. Still holding his gun ready, he moved across the street and hurried toward his hotel.
No one else bothered him or tried to ambush him. At the hotel entrance Flint finally holstered his gun. His racing pulse had slowed down after the brief flurry of violence, but the wheels of his brain were still whirling.
There were a number of reasons why someone would have taken a shot at him. It could have been something as mundane as an attempted robbery. Or it could have been that his questions had stirred someone up, just as he hoped they would.
Maybe he was closer than he thought to finding the real killer of Mayor Russell P. Yeager.
7
Early the next morning, Sheriff Bob Dedrick was at his desk when the door of the office swung open and K. W. Newcomb strode in. Nodding to Dedrick, the hangman said, "Good morning, Sheriff."
"Mr. Newcomb," the sheriff replied. "What can I do for you this morning?"
"I was wondering if it would be possible for me to meet the prisoner."
Dedrick leaned back in his chair and frowned. Newcomb's request was an unusual one. If he were the executioner, Dedrick reflected, he wouldn’t want to meet anyone he was about to hang.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 103