Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Flint snorted. "McGill struck me as the sort who wouldn't think it was necessary to be too careful. He figured he had this whole territory in his back pocket. As long as he wasn't too obvious about it, nobody was going to do much sniffing in his direction."

  "Then you came to Cheyenne," West said with a short laugh.

  "That's right." Flint smiled.

  The two men stopped at the hotel to pick up the saddlebags they had left in their rooms, then walked to the livery stable to get their horses. They had what they had come for—proof that Lance McGill had sold a lot of cattle in the last year and a half. It was time to depart from Laramie.

  As they were saddling up their mounts, West said grimly, "Reckon Anabel will have to listen to reason now. There's no way I can let her marry McGill. She'll change her thinking when she finds out he's a no-good rustler."

  Flint shook his head. "We don't have any proof of that."

  West frowned and gestured toward Flint's coat pocket. "What about those records?"

  "They just confirm what we suspected about those papers Elijah Jones found," Flint pointed out. "McGill sold a mess of cattle. That's not a crime. What we need is something that will prove he sold more cattle through Ladell than he actually owned or had a legal right to sell."

  West thought that over and then nodded. "Like the ranch's tally book," he suggested.

  "Exactly," Flint said, and his eyes flashed at the idea. "If we could get our hands on that, it would wrap up the case against McGill. Then I think Judge Stephens would have to agree that there's reason to issue a stay of execution while the partnership between McGill and Yeager is investigated further."

  He was pinning his hopes on the judge being reasonable, Flint knew, but it was the one chance they had to stop the hanging. He had been unable to find anything that negated the evidence against Rachel. The only alternative open to him was to point out that someone else could have had a motive to murder Yeager, creating what he hoped was a reasonable doubt.

  It was a long shot, but Flint had to take it. If West and he could get McGill's tally book, it would help make a stronger case.

  They stopped at one of Laramie's general stores on their way out of town to pick up more supplies. With the added stop at the Trident ranch, Flint knew they would have to ride without stopping, except for short breaks to rest the horses in order to reach Cheyenne in time. Once they arrived at the ranch, Flint would stay out of sight while West slipped into the ranch house and got the tally book. The young cowboy knew his way around the place and was confident he could locate the book and get out without being spotted. Flint and West hashed over this plan as they rode out of Laramie, past the maze of big cattle pens on the edge of town.

  As he rode, Flint was lost in thought, and he almost didn’t notice the four men who came around the corner of one of the pens on horseback.

  Then he suddenly stiffened, his senses shouting a warning, and West did the same beside him. Thirty yards or so in front of them, the four riders had halted abruptly. Flint recognized the dark, surly face of Dax Ladell as the hardcase stared at them in surprise.

  "It's that damn marshal!" Ladell yelled to his men. His hand flashed toward his gun.

  Flint let his instincts take over. He jerked his horse's head to the left and spurred it into motion. The animal leapt to the side as Flint palmed out his Colt. He heard the boom of Ladell's pistol and saw the puff of flame and smoke from its muzzle.

  West veered to the right so that Ladell and his men would have to split their fire. He jerked out his gun and triggered off a quick shot as he leaned over the neck of his horse.

  Flint rode hard into a gap between two of the pens. The corrals were full of cattle, and the beasts began to bawl and mill around nervously as more shots rang out. The men with Ladell were spurring after their quarry and firing, too.

  Bullets whined through the air above the horns of the cattle. Men who had been working in the stockyards scurried for cover as the battle broke out. Flint wheeled his horse around another corner. Dust was billowing up from the hooves of the galloping horses and trampling cattle, making it hard to see. Flint held his fire, unwilling to waste bullets on unseen targets. He heard the flat whine of a slug passing close to his head.

  Jordy West headed for the line of trees that marked the banks of the Laramie River. He glanced over his shoulder and saw one of Ladell's men riding hard after him. Beyond the pursuer, West saw the clouds of dust in the cattle yard and knew that somewhere inside it Lucas Flint was fighting for his life against Ladell and the other two men. Pistols banged and cracked in the obscuring clouds.

  West's horse was rested, but the outlaw's mount had more speed. The young cowboy grimaced as he realized he wouldn’t reach the trees in time. The man pursuing him was almost in pistol range already, and there was no cover between the cattle pens and the river.

  Hauling back savagely on the reins, West pulled his horse around in a sliding turn that raised some dust. He was facing Ladell's man now. The man gaped in surprise and pulled on his reins when West spurred his horse and charged. The outlaw had clearly not expected West to go on the offensive. He jerked his gun up and started firing.

  What felt like a white-hot poker ripped through West's sleeve and ran a fiery path up his left arm. He grunted in pain and swayed in the saddle, but he clamped the hand of the injured arm on the saddle horn and braced himself as his horse pounded ahead. He lifted his gun and squeezed the trigger twice, the pistol blasting and bucking back against his palm.

  Ladell's man spun crazily off the back of his horse. His gun slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers and thudded to the dust an instant after its owner landed heavily. The outlaw rolled, tumbled, and finally came to rest in a motionless sprawl.

  Wincing from the pain in his bullet-creased arm, West holstered his gun and then gathered the reins in his right hand. He slowed the horse from a gallop and walked the animal over to check the man he had shot. The hardcase was lying on his back, his arms and legs splayed out. Blood gushed from the wound in his chest. It had been a lucky shot, West reflected grimly, but it had done the job.

  Gunfire crackling from the cattle pens reminded him that Lucas Flint was still in plenty of trouble.

  West wheeled his horse around and galloped toward the corrals.

  Inside the maze of pens, nightmarish noise assaulted Flint's ears. Gunshots, angry yells, and the bawling of terrified cattle blended to make it hard to think, let alone keep track of where Ladell and his men were. Flint squinted against the stinging dust and kept moving. If he stopped, Ladell and the others would pin him down.

  As Flint rounded one of the pens, a shape suddenly loomed out of the billowing dust only a few feet away. The marshal heard a guttural curse, then was almost deafened by the blast of a revolver. The bullet sizzled by his ear, and he snapped a return shot. The other man jerked and slid to the side, firing again as he fell off his horse. This bullet smacked harmlessly into the ground. The man rolled over and came up on his knees. Clutching at his body with his free hand, he tried to lift his gun to fire a final shot.

  Flint yanked his horse around and galloped into the dust cloud. The wounded man pitched forward onto his face, the final shot unfired.

  For a fleeting second, Flint wondered if West was all right. He had last seen the cowboy heading toward the river with an outlaw in pursuit. West was a tough young man, but he might not be a match for one of Ladell's ruthless killers.

  A shot cracked behind him, snapping him out of his concern about West. He ducked instinctively, and the slug whistled over his head. Turning in the saddle, he saw one of Ladell's men galloping down an alley toward him. Flint urged his horse forward, then jerked it around another corner.

  The turn was too much for the frightened horse. It lost its balance, and Flint barely had time to kick his feet free of the stirrups as it fell. He landed hard on his left shoulder and tumbled over. The outlaw was almost on top of him, riding hard and bent on trampling him.

  Flint flung hims
elf to the side, rolling desperately. Hooves pounded the dirt inches from his head. He wound up on his stomach as the man tried to stop his horse and turn the animal for another try.

  The dust cleared for a second, long enough for Flint to see the man struggling with his horse. The outlaw pointed his gun at Flint and snapped a shot that kicked up dirt a foot away.

  The marshal summoned up all the iron nerve he had developed during his years as a lawman. Coolly, he lifted his gun and fired from his prone position. The upward-angling bullet caught Ladell's man in the chest. He swayed, then tumbled from the saddle as his horse bolted.

  Flint had no time to congratulate himself on his marksmanship. Someone howled a curse behind him. The marshal surged to his feet and spun around in time to see Dax Ladell, his dark face contorted in rage, charging toward him on horseback.

  Flint glanced around for his horse. The mare was nowhere to be seen. It must have gotten to its feet after the fall and run away from the dust and chaos. Flint was in a narrow alley, barely ten feet wide, between pens. He had no place to hide from Ladell's attack. He would have to meet it head-on.

  Ladell's pistol blasted. Flint lifted his Colt and tried to sight in on the rustler through the swirling dust. Suddenly more hoofbeats thundered behind him, but he could not turn his attention from Ladell's immediate threat. Ladell's second bullet tugged at his sleeve.

  Jordy West rode through the dust cloud. The cowboy hurtled off the back of his horse and landed beside Lucas Flint, gun in hand. Flint and West fired simultaneously, the twin blasts of their Colts almost indistinguishable. Both slugs crashed into Dax Ladell's chest, and the outlaw flew out of his saddle. He thudded lifelessly to the ground.

  Flint and West stood silently watching Ladell for any sign of life. Then Flint sighed and slid his Colt into its holster. "Thanks," he breathed to West.

  "Glad I got here in time to pitch in," West said. "I hope you didn't think I was running out on you."

  "I figured you'd be back once you'd taken care of that other fella," Flint replied. "We'd better find my horse. This little fracas has slowed us down some."

  West nodded, then grabbed his horse's reins and mounted. Looking down at Flint, he said, "Ladell called you marshal. How did he know that?"

  "McGill knew," Flint said bleakly. "Ladell must have talked to him in the last couple of days. I don't think Ladell and his men followed us up here, though. Running into them was pure bad luck."

  "You're damn right it was, mister," a new voice said. Flint and West turned to see several men striding toward them. The one who had spoken had a rifle trained on them, and a sheriff’s star was pinned to his vest. "You boys just stand still," he went on. "I want to know how come you went and fought a war in my town."

  14

  By Thursday morning, Anabel Yeager was so consumed by doubts about her father's business dealings that she was unable to think of anything else. Ever since Elijah Jones and Jordy West had visited her two nights earlier, she had asked herself if her father could have been mixed up in something unlawful, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe it.

  As she thought about the partnership, she decided she could definitely see Lance McGill in such a role. She recalled that during her childhood she sensed how ambitious he was, although she thought nothing of the trait at the time. Somehow, because he was her father's partner, it was acceptable. But now she wondered if that driving ambition had led him to engage in illegal activities. If so, she could easily imagine his being part of a rustling ring.

  After breakfast Thursday morning, she went to the desk and took the documents Elijah had given her from the locked drawer. She spread the pages out and studied them for several long minutes, but no matter how hard she tried to find her father's innocence in the numbers, the results were the same.

  And despite the words that Jordy West had spoken to reassure her, she didn’t believe for an instant that Lance McGill could have been behind the rustling by himself. For one thing, these records were in her father's handwriting. For another, she knew quite well that Russell P. Yeager had always been fully aware of everything that went on in his business enterprises.

  Her father had known about it, all right. Everything she possessed, she realized, could have come from tainted money. That thought prompted her to gaze around at the luxurious furnishings in the parlor and feel uncomfortable. And as that realization came over Anabel, she knew what she had to do.

  No one must ever know that her father had been a criminal. She would shield his memory, even if she had not been able to protect him from death. And she was certain she could convince Jordy West to keep silent, too.

  She gathered up the papers, retied the string around them, and went to the huge fireplace with its massive mantel. Now that it was summer, the fireplace was cold; it had not been lit since before her father's death. Placing the bundle on the mantel, Anabel bent down and carefully reached up into the chimney, trying not to get soot on the sleeve of her dress.

  It had been years since she had done this, but it came back to her in a rush. Her searching fingers ran over the inside wall of the chimney until they touched the loose brick. Working it back and forth for a few minutes, she was able to pull it free. Behind the brick was a small space where she had hidden things as a child. Now, after all this time, she couldn’t remember what she had once put there. But the niche was empty and would be just big enough for the documents.

  Holding the loose brick, she withdrew her hand and winced at the soot on her dress. The oily black dirt had fallen on her arm when she pulled the brick out. She had to do something about the dress so no one would know where she had hidden the records. She hoped the dress could be cleaned—but even if it were permanently soiled and therefore ruined, the loss would be worthwhile.

  She took the bundle off the mantel and stuffed it into the hiding place. After she had replaced the brick, Anabel went upstairs, changed into a clean dress, and carried the soiled garment back down to give to the maid to clean.

  As she reached the bottom of the stairs, someone knocked on the front door. She was only a few steps away, so she decided to answer the knock herself. Carefully tucking the soiled sleeve inside, she folded the dress and placed it on a table in the hall. When she swung the door open, she saw Lance McGill standing on the veranda, holding his hat.

  "Good morning, Anabel," he said, smiling.

  "Hello, Lance," she said coolly. She couldn’t keep the icy edge from her tone now that she knew about McGill and his activities.

  "You don't sound too happy to see me."

  Anabel shook her head. "I'm sorry, I'm just not feeling well this morning."

  "Maybe I can cheer you up." McGill gestured with his hat and raised his eyebrows. "Can I come in?"

  "Of course." Anabel stepped back to allow him to enter. McGill strolled past her into the parlor and sat down in an overstuffed armchair, making himself at home.

  Anabel sat at the end of the sofa, as far away from him as she could get. She didn’t attempt to be gracious or offer him anything, but instead asked bluntly, "Are you here for a reason, Lance?"

  McGill leaned forward, placed his hands on his knees, and regarded her earnestly. "I sure am, Anabel," he said. "I know how you've been feeling ever since...well, ever since your father died. You've got a right to mourn, of course, but I hate to see you pining away like this. I think it's time we did something to snap you out of it."

  The oily smoothness of his words fanned the hatred in Anabel. She now despised his arrogance and his utter confidence in himself. McGill had been the one to suggest the rustling scheme, she was sure of that. And her father had been too weak to oppose it. That was a bitter pill for Anabel to swallow, but she believed it was the truth.

  She tried to control her temper as she said, "Just what is it you propose to do, Lance?"

  He grinned. "'Propose.' Now, that's an interesting choice of words. You know how I feel about you, Anabel, how I've felt for a couple of years now. Russell always hoped that you and I wo
uld wind up together. I think it's time we made his dream come true."

  "You mean...you want me to marry you? Now?"

  McGill shook his head. "It would hardly be proper right now, what with Russell's death being so recent. But I think we could go ahead and make it official, announce our engagement and all. And then in six months or so, I'll throw the biggest wedding party this territory's ever seen." He stood up and came over to the sofa, sinking into its cushions close beside her. He reached out and grasped her hand. "How about it, Anabel?" he asked.

  "No!" she shrieked, unable to control her feelings any longer. Repelled by his touch, she jerked her hand from his and cringed back against the sofa. "I could never marry you after what you did to my father . . . turning him into a criminal...!" The accusation tumbled from her lips.

  McGill's face hardened. "What the devil are you talking about?" he demanded impatiently.

  Furious, Anabel said without thinking, "I saw those papers of my father's! I know about the rustling and how you were using the money to buy land. I know all about it, Lance, and I hate you for getting him mixed up in it!"

  McGill's handsome face looked as if it were carved out of stone. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about," he snapped.

  But his eyes told a different story. In them, Anabel could see that her accusations were true. She saw something else, too. She started to stand up.

  McGill's hand shot out and clasped her wrist. Roughly he pulled her back onto the sofa, then pinned her down with one strong arm.

  "Let...let me up!" she gasped.

  "Not until you tell me what you're talking about," McGill said. "Has someone been spreading lies about me?"

  "They're not lies! My father kept records of all those transactions."

  "And where are these documents?" McGill hissed.

  "I—I don't have them anymore," Anabel stammered.