"You still know all about boxing, though, don't you?"
"I'm not sure I ever knew all about boxing," Leslie replied with a slight smile. His record included only a few more victories than defeats. He had been a good, solid boxer but never a contender for any titles.
"I'll bet you know enough to teach me how to fight," Oliver said, his boyish enthusiasm growing by the second.
Leslie shook his head slowly. "I don't know about that, Oliver—" he began.
"I just want some pointers," Oliver cut in excitedly. "I hate it when Ray and the rest of them push me around, Mr. Garrison. I hate it."
Leslie could understand that. He rubbed his bearded jaw thoughtfully for a moment. "All right," he agreed. "I suppose I could show you a few things."
"Right now?"
"Well, I was about to do some more shopping."
"But I've got to get back to our farm by dark," Oliver protested. "I've got our old mule to ride, but it'll take me a while."
Leslie shrugged. "All right, come on. There won't be time for much, but at least we can get started." He would get those headache powders another time, he decided.
With Oliver bouncing happily at his side, Leslie walked to the small house he rented on South Second Street near the school. A scrubby tree grew in the front yard surrounded by a little grass. Leslie stepped onto the porch, placed his package on a chair that stood there, and took off his hat and coat. He put the hat on top of the bundle from Karatofsky's, then hung the coat over the back of the chair. As he rolled up his sleeves, he said to Oliver, "The first thing you have to remember is that you don't want to fight."
"But I thought—"
Leslie shook his head. "If there's a way of solving a problem without your fists, always try that first. And if that doesn't work, you try to think of something else, and then something else. Fighting is only a last resort."
"You fought all the time, didn't you?"
"That was different. Prizefighting was my business, the way I made my living." Leslie hoped the boy could understand that distinction.
"But if you try ever' way you can think of and none of them work, what else can you do but fight?"
Leslie hesitated for a moment, then said, "If you've got to fight, then you have to be prepared to win. There's no point to it otherwise. That's why we're here." He put his hands on his hips and went on, "Now, let me see how you'd get ready to fight somebody like Ray."
He watched Oliver ball up his fists and lift his arms awkwardly. The boy certainly didn’t look like a fighter, he thought. Oliver was twelve years old, but he was small for his age. Dark brown hair framed his narrow face. As his teacher, Leslie knew the boy was intelligent, but he was definitely not imposing physically. Oliver had developed muscles from his chores on the family farm, but Leslie could see the lad had no idea how to use them.
The teacher raised his big hand, the palm facing Oliver. "Hit my hand," he ordered.
Oliver frowned slightly. "You're sure?" Clearly the idea of trying to hit an adult, let alone his teacher, was foreign to him.
"I'm sure." Leslie nodded. "Go ahead."
Oliver took a deep breath and swung his right fist toward Leslie's hand. Without seeming to move fast at all, Leslie slid his hand to the side so that Oliver's blow missed badly. Thrown off-balance, the boy staggered.
"Try again," Leslie told him.
For several moments, they repeated the maneuver, and Oliver continued to punch futilely at Leslie's hand. As they practiced, Leslie recalled what he knew about Oliver Barlow and his family. He knew the boy's mother was dead; she had passed away before Leslie came to Abilene. Calvin Barlow, Oliver's father, was indeed a drunk, just as the bully named Ray had said. Leslie had seen him stagger around town often enough to know that. There were also two daughters in the family, one younger than Oliver named Netta, whom Leslie knew from school. The other girl was considerably older. While Leslie had seen her before, he didn’t know her. He had no idea if there was any truth in Ray's slurs concerning her virtue. Nevertheless, the boy had no right to say them.
"That's enough," Leslie said after another of Oliver's punches sailed past its target. "You're just swinging at my hand as if it wasn't going to move. You're not thinking about what I'm going to do with it."
"You told me to hit it!" Oliver protested.
"Watch where it goes when you try."
Oliver swung again, then twice more, paying attention now to the way the teacher's hand moved easily out of the path of the blows. The boy took a deep breath, started to throw another punch, then suddenly altered its angle slightly. His fist grazed the side of Leslie's hand before the teacher could flick it away.
"Much better," Leslie observed encouragingly. "You've got to develop both a quick eye and quick hands. But most of all, you've got to think. The first step in outfighting a man is outthinking him."
As the sun sank toward the horizon, the man and the boy worked together in the front yard under the tree. This was teaching, too, Leslie Garrison thought, as important as spelling and geography and arithmetic. And in a town set on the frontier, what Oliver Barlow was learning now might mean more to him than any of those academic subjects.
Quincy O’Sullivan peered through the window of the passenger car and watched the Kansas plains roll by. He had never seen so much open space in his life. Just the sight of that much land with the blue sky looming over it made him slightly nervous.
Even though he had been born and raised in New York, he hadn’t spent his entire life in cities. But neither was he accustomed to the vast openness of the frontier. He reflected on the journey thus far and realized he hadn’t seen a building more than two stories high since leaving Kansas City.
In the seat beside him, Inspector Sam Talmage was dozing, his derby tilted over his eyes. O’Sullivan glanced at him and thought that the detective had relaxed considerably in the last few days. When they first left Chicago, Talmage was on edge constantly, always alert in case one of Dane Savage's henchmen tried to kill O’Sullivan.
Now, however, they were evidently far enough away from Chicago for Talmage to believe they were safe. They had taken a roundabout route that required twice the time it would normally take to reach Abilene. At last they were on the final leg of their journey and would be pulling into the town in less than an hour.
North of the Kansas Pacific tracks were seemingly unending plains and gently rolling hills occasionally dotted with scrubby trees. Looking across the aisle and through the windows on the south side of the train, O’Sullivan caught a glimpse of a line of bigger trees that marked the banks of the Smoky Hill River.
Every now and then he moved his right arm slightly to ease the sore muscles in his shoulder. Easton's first bullet had punched through his body there, luckily missing the bones. The shoulder was stiff, but O’Sullivan knew that would go away eventually. The second slug had slammed into his side, causing him to lose quite a bit of blood but once again missing anything important. Bandages were still wrapped around his middle, but they didn’t hamper his movements too much.
During O’Sullivan's stay in the Chicago hospital, Talmage had watched over him like a mother hen. The detective brought in a clerk to take down O’Sullivan's statement concerning the murders of Bernie Campbell and Morgan Randolph. Then warrants were issued for the arrest of Dane Savage and Brett Easton. Talmage kept O’Sullivan up to date on the progress of the investigation, reporting the futile attempts to locate Savage and Easton so that they could be taken into custody.
As soon as O’Sullivan was strong enough to travel, Talmage appointed himself O’Sullivan's bodyguard, and the two men left Chicago in great secrecy. No one on the police force knew their ultimate destination.
Just before they left, Talmage received word that Dane Savage had been picked up as he attempted to leave town in a private carriage. O’Sullivan thought that was good news, but Talmage shook his head.
"Savage can pull just as many strings from inside the city jail as he can when he's free," Talmag
e told him bleakly. "And Easton is still at large. As long as he's on the loose, you're not out of danger, O’Sullivan. We're going through with our plan."
That was all right with O’Sullivan. Once he had reconciled himself to the idea of hiding out, he found that he was looking forward to seeing Leslie Garrison again. They had never been close friends, but they shared the camaraderie of men in a hard, demanding profession. O’Sullivan respected Garrison, although it was beyond him why anyone would want to give up prizefighting to become a teacher.
Beside him, Talmage awoke from his nap, yawning and straightening up in the hard, wooden seat. Blinking, he peered past O’Sullivan out the window. "That looks like the same place we passed an hour ago," he observed.
"Everything out here seems to look the same," O’Sullivan said. "I suppose you have to live with the land to be able to see its differences."
Talmage glanced at him through slitted eyes. "Waxing philosophical, are we?"
O’Sullivan shrugged his heavy shoulders. "I'm just a dumb boxer, Inspector, but I like to look at things and think about them sometimes."
Talmage grunted. He twisted his head to look around the car, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. But O’Sullivan knew that all he would see were the usual travelers: immigrant families, businessmen, gamblers, prostitutes, and cowboys.
"Right now, all I'm interested in seeing is this Abilene place," Talmage grumbled. "It seems like we've been riding one train or another for ages. I'm tired of breathing smoke and spitting out ashes. But it's better than ducking bullets, I suppose. And don't call me inspector. I'm your new manager, remember?"
O’Sullivan nodded. "I think we'll be reaching Abilene soon. I hope Garrison is still there. We should have wired him we were coming."
Talmage shook his head. "I didn't want to take any chances that some telegraph operator might be working for Savage. I'd rather be too cautious than dead."
"I have to agree with that," O’Sullivan admitted with a smile. Then he returned to watching the passing prairie and listening to the endless clatter of the train's wheels on the rails. A half hour later, the blue-uniformed conductor strolled down the aisle calling, "Abilene, five minutes! Five minutes to Abilene!"
O’Sullivan leaned forward eagerly. Like Talmage, he was more than ready to end this journey. As the train rounded a bend, he saw the town still far down the tracks. At this distance, the only landmark that was clearly visible was the water tower at the depot, but as they drew closer, O’Sullivan could make out some buildings and trees. Abilene appeared to be a sizable community.
The railroad tracks led through a large area of stockyards on the east side of town. According to a sign over one of the gates, the property belonged to the Great Western Cattle Company. The pens were not full at this time of year, but O’Sullivan saw quite a few cattle—more than he had ever seen in one place before. Talmage, who had worked in the Chicago stockyards before joining the police force, identified some as Texas longhorns and others as Herefords. Most of them would be loaded onto eastbound trains to be shipped to the Chicago slaughterhouses. Looking at them more closely as the train passed, O’Sullivan felt it was a shame to have to slaughter such handsome creatures, even though he enjoyed a good steak as much as the next man.
Talmage wrinkled his nose at the distinctive odor. "Smells like we're back in Chicago," he grumbled.
The train chugged slowly toward the station. Through the window on the north side of the tracks, O’Sullivan could see several tree-lined avenues. Neat, whitewashed houses gleamed in the autumn sun. As they neared the depot, the train slid past brick warehouses and a row of saloons and businesses that fronted on the street. Then the massive red brick depot itself loomed into view. With a squeal of brakes, the locomotive came to a stop, leaving the cars next to the long platform.
"Here we are," Talmage declared, putting his hands on his knees and pushing himself to his feet. "Are you ready, O’Sullivan?"
O’Sullivan took a deep breath. Now that they had reached Abilene, he suddenly felt unaccountably nervous. It had been agreed that they would say nothing to anyone about the real reason they had come here, but O’Sullivan doubted his ability to be convincing. Talmage had worked out a story to explain their presence and had gone over it with O’Sullivan many times during the trip. I'm a prizefighter, not some actor, O’Sullivan thought as he stood up.
"I guess I'm as ready as I'm going to be," he rumbled. Settling his derby on his head, he followed as Talmage started toward the door at the rear of the car.
Quite a few passengers were disembarking in Abilene, and O’Sullivan and Talmage had to wait in line for a moment before they could approach the steps that led down to the station platform. Talmage was watchful, his hand near his pocket in case he had to reach for the little pistol concealed there. It was a .41 caliber Remington Number Four revolver, a weapon that packed considerable power despite its small size, and Talmage handled it with practiced ease.
At last the two men stepped off the train and turned toward the baggage car, joining the crowd of passengers who had come to collect their bags and boxes. Again, they had to wait, but after a few minutes they claimed their bags. Talmage led the way through the depot with its vaulted ceiling, and a moment later they got their first good look at Railroad Street.
On this bright autumn Saturday Abilene's dirt streets bustled with traffic. As they passed, buggies, wagons, and men on horseback raised a cloud of dust. Even though it was only the middle of the day, the hitch racks in front of the saloons across the street were lined with horses, and the establishments seemed to be doing a booming business. Talmage nodded toward them and suggested, "Why don't we wet our whistles first, then look for this friend of yours?"
"Sounds like a good idea to me," O’Sullivan agreed. During the time he had been traveling with Talmage, he had discovered that the detective enjoyed an occasional drink. O’Sullivan wouldn’t mind having a beer himself. The dusty air made a man thirsty. Dodging a wagon, they started across the busy street.
Talmage led the way, angling toward a place with a crudely painted sign above its doors that read: THE CURLY WOLF SALOON. They stepped onto the boardwalk in front of the establishment and pushed through the batwing doors.
The interior of the Curly Wolf was very similar to the saloons and dives O’Sullivan had known all over the East coast. The air was full of smoke, whiskey fumes, and raucous laughter. Several square wooden tables surrounded by chairs were scattered around the narrow, low-ceilinged room. In the dim light, O’Sullivan noticed that the occupants at three of the tables were playing poker. At the bar that ran along one wall stood quite a few men drinking beer or downing shots of liquor. A layer of sawdust covered the floor.
O’Sullivan assessed the saloon's customers, judging their occupations by their attire. Most of them appeared to be cowboys wearing range clothes. A few others, dressed in coats and ties, were townsmen or travelers. No one seemed to be paying much attention to them. Talmage headed for the bar, and O’Sullivan followed.
The bald bartender, a soiled apron wrapped around his ample stomach, came over to them and nodded a greeting. "Howdy, gents," he said. "What can I get for you?"
"Two beers," Talmage grunted. "As cold as you've got."
"Sure." The barman drew the beers and slid them across the hardwood. "Here you go. That'll be a half-dollar."
Talmage dug in his pocket, drew out a coin, and flipped it to the bartender. O’Sullivan picked up the mug of foaming liquid and took a long sip. The beer was just cool, not cold, but it went down smoothly.
Talmage drank from his mug and, licking the foam from his mustache, nodded his satisfaction.
The bartender poured drinks for some other customers, then drifted back to them. He leaned his elbows on the bar and said, "You gents just get off the train?"
"That's right," Talmage answered.
"Just passin' through?"
The man's curiosity seemed to spring more from boredom than anything else. Talmage said,
"I believe we'll be here a while. It all depends on how our business goes."
"And what business is that?"
"Ours," Talmage snapped.
The bartender shrugged. "Suit yourself, mister. I ain't nosy."
O’Sullivan took another drink of his beer and then leaned forward. "Actually, you might be able to help us," he said, trying to counter Talmage's abrasiveness. "We're looking for a man named Leslie Garrison."
The bartender frowned. "Garrison...Garrison. Let me see. I don't recollect the name right off."
"He's supposed to teach school here. At least that's what he planned to do."
The bartender nodded abruptly. "Sure, I remember now. Say, it caused quite a stir when that fella showed up last year. We was all expectin' a gal—I mean a young lady, judgin' from the name and the fact that she—I mean he—was a teacher and all." The man threw back his head and laughed. "I hear ol’ Emery Thornbury was fit to be tied."
"Who's Thornbury?" Talmage asked.
"He's the schoolmaster. Likes runnin' everything his own way. I hear that him and that Garrison fella don't always get along too well."
O’Sullivan could believe that. Leslie was capable of being strong-willed at times.
"Do you know where we could find Garrison?" O’Sullivan asked.
The bartender considered again. After a moment, he suggested, "You might try Angus's Tavern over on Texas Street. Angus usually knows where most folks can be found around here. If he don't, there's always the marshal's office."
"Thanks," O’Sullivan replied with a nod. He drained his mug as Talmage did the same. Then they picked up their bags and headed out of the saloon.
Texas Street was clearly Abilene's main thoroughfare; it was even busier than Railroad Street. Moving among women shopping or chatting, youngsters running and playing, and men loading wagons, they strolled along the boardwalk that fronted all the buildings and peered into shop windows on their way to Angus's Tavern.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 119