Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  As they passed the marshal's office, O’Sullivan said, "Maybe it would be a good idea if we went in and talked to the local authorities, Inspec—Sam. You know, tell them who we are and why we're here. They might be able to help in case there's trouble."

  Talmage snorted. "Bring in some bumbling frontier lawman who's not good for anything but locking up drunks and breaking up saloon fights? I don't think so, O’Sullivan. From everything I've heard, the marshals and sheriffs out here aren't real lawmen. They're not much better than the criminals they arrest."

  O’Sullivan didn’t feel like arguing with the detective. He walked beside Talmage, taking in the sights. Diagonally across Texas Street from the marshal's office was a restaurant called the Red Top Café. Colorful curtains adorned its sparkling windows, and it looked like the kind of establishment whose proprietors would serve a good meal in simple, clean surroundings. He had traveled so much during the last year with Bernie that he now made a habit of looking for good places to eat whenever they came into a town.

  Tears stung his eyes; he quickly blinked them away. The pain had nothing to do with his bullet wounds. This was the pain of memory, hurt fueled by vivid images of Savage's thugs beating Bernie to death, just as they had killed Randolph. O’Sullivan hoped that when the time came, he could watch Dane Savage hang.

  Talmage spotted Angus's Tavern across the street in the next block. Once again, the men had to dodge wagons as they crossed Texas Street. The Grand Palace Hotel, which was a great deal seedier than its name indicated, stood in the middle of the block. Next to it was a small, well-kept house, set back from the boardwalk behind a tidy yard. Hanging from a lamppost set in the yard was a neatly lettered sign that read: dr. rose keller, physician. O’Sullivan frowned and exclaimed, "They've got a woman doctor here!"

  They had hoped Abilene would have a physician, in case O’Sullivan's wounds needed any medical attention, but neither man had expected to find a woman doctor.

  Talmage shook his head. "Maybe we'll be lucky and won't need any medical help. I wouldn't trust a frontier doctor to do much more than pry out a bullet, and that's probably all this woman is qualified to do."

  O’Sullivan hoped the Chicago policeman was right. He knew he would feel uncomfortable if he had to be examined by a female physician.

  Next to Dr. Keller's office was the long narrow building known as Angus's Tavern. The two men pushed through the batwing doors and found that the interior of the saloon was very similar to the Curly Wolf, from the sawdust on the floor to the shelves full of liquor bottles lining the wall behind the bar. There was a mirror on the backbar wall, though, which the other saloon didn’t have.

  O’Sullivan had to look twice at the backbar before he saw that it contained something besides bottled goods. A wooden perch was nestled among the liquor bottles, and on it sat a brilliant green parrot. The bird seemed to stare at them for a long moment with its beady black eyes before it suddenly screeched, "Dinna be daft, man! Dinna be daft!"

  A brawny man whose muscles stretched the fabric of his dark shirt stood behind the bar. He turned toward the parrot and snapped, "Hush up, ye great feathered noosance. Tha' will be enough out o' ye." The man was a little below medium height, but the breadth of his burly shoulders made up for it. He had a tangle of reddish-gray hair and sported a majestic beard of the same hue. The authority with which he carried himself said that he was probably the proprietor of the tavern.

  O’Sullivan and Talmage went to the bar. The detective regarded the red-bearded man for a moment, then said, "You must be Angus."

  "Aye." The man stuck a big hand across the bar toward them. "Angus MacQuarrie, at yer service, lads. Wha' kin I get f ye?"

  Before either of them could answer, the parrot squawked, "Enough grog t'choke a horse!"

  Several of the tavern's customers laughed out loud. Angus waved at the bird and told the two newcomers, "Dinna mind Ol' Bailey there. Damned if I know where he comes up wi' all his nonsense. Now, ye were about to tell me wha' ye want t'drink?"

  "Actually, we were looking for some information," Talmage replied as he shook Angus's hand. "We were told you might be able to tell us where to find a man named Leslie Garrison?"

  "The slugger? Aye, I know where he might be found." Angus peered at them, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The lad's a friend o' mine, though. What be ye business wi' him?"

  "We're not out to cause him trouble, I promise you," O’Sullivan said. "He's an old friend of mine—"

  He broke off as Angus suddenly pointed a finger at him. "Ye be a prizefighter!" the Scotsman exclaimed. "I thought ye looked familiar when ye came in! I saw ye take on South Paw Sonny Carson four, no, five years ago. Wha' a fight tha' was! Ye was quite a fighter...for an Irisher."

  O’Sullivan had to laugh. "South Paw Sonny gave me all I wanted, that's for sure," he declared.

  "I'm sorry I kinna remember ye name, lad—"

  "O’Sullivan, Quincy O’Sullivan."

  Angus nodded enthusiastically. "O' course, tha' was it. Well, I want ye and ye friend t' have a drink on me, Mr. O’Sullivan."

  "Thanks," Talmage said, "but we're looking for Leslie Garrison."

  Angus jerked his head toward the saloon's entrance. "Then ye be in luck. Here comes the lad now."

  O’Sullivan turned around and saw the man pushing through the batwings. Even though it had been several years since he had seen Leslie Garrison, O’Sullivan recognized him immediately. Leslie's appearance had changed very little other than the simple, conservative suit he now wore. Grinning, O’Sullivan strode toward him with his hand thrust out. "Hello, Slugger," he said.

  Leslie stopped in his tracks, frowning for a moment as he studied O’Sullivan's face, then he cried, "O’Sullivan? Is that you?"

  "It certainly is!" O’Sullivan grasped Leslie's hand and shook it firmly. Leslie reacted to the hard grip, returning it with an equal amount of power. O’Sullivan's grin widened. "I see you haven't changed much."

  "Neither have you," Leslie replied. "What are you doing in Abilene?"

  Talmage appeared at O’Sullivan's side, slapping him on the shoulder, taking care not to hit the injured one. "We're in training," he cut in before O’Sullivan could reply. "Isn't that right, Quincy?"

  "That's right," O’Sullivan answered, recalling the story Talmage had prepared. "I've got a bout coming up, and Sam and I figured it might be a good idea to get away from the city while I trained. Sam thought it might be easier for me to keep my mind on the work." He nodded to Talmage. "By the way, this is my new manager, Sam Talmage."

  The teacher shook hands with him. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Talmage," he said. Looking back at O’Sullivan, he went on, "I thought I remembered reading that Bernie Campbell was handling you now."

  O’Sullivan's jaw tightened, and a small cheek muscle began to jump. But he forced himself to relax and said, "Bernie passed away not long ago, Leslie. I don't suppose you heard about it, all the way out here on the frontier."

  Leslie shook his head and grimaced. "No, I didn't know," he said solemnly. "We don't get much boxing news out here. I'm sorry to hear about it. Bernie was a good man."

  "That he was," Talmage intoned mournfully.

  For a moment, all three men were silent. Then Leslie broke the silence by saying, "You said you have a bout coming up, Quincy. Is it a big one?"

  O’Sullivan nodded. "The biggest one of my life," he replied. And that was no lie, he added to himself. Staying alive to testify against Dane Savage and Brett Easton would be the most important thing he would ever do.

  Angus had come from behind the bar and was listening to the conversation. Now he announced, "Leslie here is the perennial challenger f' me arm-wrestling champeenship. Would ye care t' watch this week's match, Mr. O’Sullivan?"

  O’Sullivan cocked an eyebrow at the burly saloonkeeper. "Is there any wagering allowed, Mr. MacQuarrie?"

  "Call me Angus. And if there was no wagering, 'twouldn’t be much point t' the match, would there now?"

  "Then I'll
bet a round of drinks on Leslie," O’Sullivan declared.

  "F' the house?" Angus asked.

  "Why not?" O’Sullivan saw the warning look in Talmage's eyes as he responded to Angus's challenge. Talmage had cautioned him about drawing too much attention to himself. But for the first time in weeks, O’Sullivan felt really alive. He was enjoying this reunion with Leslie Garrison, and he sensed that in Angus MacQuarrie he had found a kindred spirit.

  "'Tis a bet!" Angus responded. Grinning broadly, the Scotsman began rolling up his sleeve.

  3

  Spectators awaiting the start of the arm- wrestling match were cheering so loudly that even more men were drawn into Angus's Tavern from Texas Street. Cowboys, townsmen, and railroad workers crowded around the table where Angus MacQuarrie and Leslie Garrison were seated. Bets flew through the air along with laughter and jeers. In the forefront of the crowd were Quincy O’Sullivan and Sam Talmage.

  O’Sullivan was grinning broadly, while Talmage still looked worried, but both men were engrossed in the spectacle that was about to take place. As the two participants in the match locked hands at the center of the table, a silence fell over the room, broken only by an occasional shrill piece of gibberish from Old Bailey, the parrot.

  Angus glanced up at O’Sullivan. "Start us, will ye, Mr. O’Sullivan?"

  "Sure," O’Sullivan replied. He looked at each man and asked if he was ready. After both nodded in affirmation, he paused, then suddenly slapped the table sharply. Angus and Leslie pitted their weight and strength against each other, concentrating all the power they commanded in their brawny arms.

  As the spectators yelled their encouragement to the two men, O’Sullivan joined in the shouting. He glanced over at Talmage and saw that the detective wasn’t participating in the excitement. Talmage was scanning the room, his eyes darting around the group looking for any sign that someone might want to hurt O’Sullivan. The relaxation that had seemed to finally settle over the Chicago policeman while they were on the train had vanished.

  O’Sullivan realized that he was more exposed here than he had been during the journey and that it was harder to keep track of everyone around them. In the future, he decided, he would try to cooperate more with Talmage and avoid situations like this one. Being in the middle of a crowd was probably the worst thing he could do right now.

  The batwings at the tavern's entrance swung open, and two men strolled in, drawn like everyone else by the cheering spectators at the weekly arm-wrestling contest. Something about them, however, made Quincy pause to examine them. The easy way they carried themselves spoke of their quiet confidence in their abilities, but the attitude didn’t edge over into arrogance. It was the same sort of bearing the best of champions possessed.

  The older of the two men was in his forties and was dressed in a dark suit and a brown vest. A broad-brimmed, flat-crowned black hat sat squarely on his thick sandy hair, and a heavy mustache drooped past the corners of his wide mouth. Around his lean waist was a shell belt; a walnut-butted Colt rode neatly in its holster. As he ambled closer to the crowd, O’Sullivan saw the star pinned to his vest, just under the lapel of his coat.

  The man's companion wore a dusty brown Stetson pushed back on a thatch of black hair. He was probably about twenty years younger than the lawman, but his dark, watchful eyes showed that he had packed a lot of living into that relatively short span. His denims, work shirt, and scuffed boots made him look like a ranch hand, as did the bright bandanna tied around his neck. But he was no simple cowboy; the badge pinned on his shirt and the twin Colts in tied-down holsters at his hips told that eloquently.

  The two men glanced through the crowd at the straining, sweating, red-faced combatants at the table, then turned and went to the bar. Evidently, they were accustomed to seeing matches like this. As they ordered drinks from the gangly, aproned youth who had taken Angus's place behind the bar, O’Sullivan turned his attention back to the arm-wrestling.

  Angus had Leslie Garrison's arm bent far over. Leslie was struggling valiantly to keep his hand from touching the tabletop, but barring a dramatic turnaround, it was a matter of time—probably only moments—before Angus won. The muscles in the teacher's shoulders bunched and rippled as he channeled all his remaining strength into one last effort. For a few seconds, he was able to force Angus's arm back up several inches, but that was all he could do. Angus grunted as he overcame Leslie's final attempt and slowly forced his opponent's hand back down. A shout went up as Leslie's knuckles grazed the table.

  Leslie relaxed, letting his arm fall limp. With a beaming smile on his bearded face, Angus raised both hands and locked them together over his head as he stood up.

  "Winner and still champeen!" he proclaimed. As the men who had bet on him crowded around and slapped him on the back in congratulations, Angus turned toward O’Sullivan and went on, "I believe ye said something about a round o' drinks, Mr. O’Sullivan?"

  O’Sullivan joined in the laughter and reached out to shake Angus's hand. "I sure did," he replied. "Set 'em up!"

  Angus headed for the bar, still surrounded by his admirers. Leslie remained seated at the table, massaging his reddened hand. He grinned ruefully at O’Sullivan. "Guess I cost you some money," he said. "Maybe if you're still around next week, you can win it back."

  "You do this every week?" O’Sullivan asked.

  "When I have time. It helps keep me in shape. Besides, I've beaten him a couple of times. He just keeps winning the so-called title back the next week."

  O’Sullivan slapped his friend on the shoulder. "Well, it looked like you gave him a good run for it. Come on, I imagine you could use a drink yourself, and since I'm paying for them..."

  "I won't turn that down," Leslie grinned.

  Talmage had said nothing during the match or its aftermath, but now he spoke quietly to O’Sullivan. His voice was insistent enough to cut through the clamor in the room. "We have to see about finding a place to stay, Quincy. Don't forget that."

  O’Sullivan nodded. "I know, Sam, I know. We won't stay long, just to have that drink. If I'm going to be paying as much as I am, I want to sample some of Mr. MacQuarrie's whiskey myself."

  "You'll find it's the best in Abilene," Leslie said as he shrugged into his coat. Together, the three men turned toward the bar and made their way through the crowd of people. When they reached the hardwood, they found themselves standing next to the two men O’Sullivan had seen enter the tavern during the match.

  The older man glanced over at them with the keenly appraising gaze of a lawman. He nodded and said simply, "Hello, gents."

  His young companion leaned past him and said to Leslie, "That was a good fight you put up. Maybe you'll take Angus again next time."

  The parrot squawked, "Dinna be daft!"

  Leslie laughed. "Old Bailey doesn't sound convinced of that, Cully," he chortled.

  Angus had gone behind the bar to help his assistant pour the drinks O’Sullivan would be paying for. Now he made his way down to stand in front of the little group. "Did ye see the match today, Lucas?" he asked.

  The older lawman nodded. "I saw enough of it, Angus."

  Leslie leaned in from the other side. "Quincy, I want you to meet our marshal. This is Lucas Flint. Marshal, this is an old friend of mine, Quincy O’Sullivan."

  Marshal Lucas Flint extended his hand to O’Sullivan. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. O’Sullivan. From the looks of you, I'd say you used to be in the prizefighting business, too."

  "Still am, Marshal," O’Sullivan replied as he shook Flint's hand. "I've come to Abilene to train for a match of my own. I don't think it'll be as entertaining as the one I just saw, though."

  Flint smiled. "Around here, Angus and Leslie are famous for their contests." He inclined his head toward his companion. "This is my deputy, Cully Markham."

  "And this is my manager, Sam Talmage," O’Sullivan indicated, continuing the introductions. Something stirred in his memory, and

  when they had all shaken hands, he went on, “You
r name is familiar, Marshal. You wouldn’t happen to be the one they call the Rattler, would you?”

  Before Flint could answer, Angus said, “Aye, tha’ be him. Th’ Rattler his ownself, in the flesh!”

  Flint didn’t look particularly pleased by the turn the conversation had taken, but his tone was still cordial enough as he asked, “How did you happen to hear about that?”

  “In the fight game, you wind up sitting around in a lot of hotel rooms without much to do except read the Police Gazette and dime novels,” O’Sullivan replied. “Your name shows up in some of them, Marshal. The famous town-taming lawman known as the Rattler because he’s as fast and deadly as one of those snakes.”

  “Drunken scribblers with no other talent come up with a lot of those stories, you know,” Flint pointed out.

  “Maybe so, but there must be a grain of truth to them.”

  “More than a grain!” Angus said. “Lucas lives up to the legend, ye dinna need t’ doubt that.”

  In an obvious attempt to change the subject, Flint said, "Well, Mr. Talmage, what do you think of Abilene so far?"

  "I suppose it's all right, as far as frontier towns go," the detective replied.

  "Shoot, this isn't hardly the frontier anymore," Cully told him. "It's downright civilized."

  "That's right," Leslie added dryly. "It's been months since the last Indian attack, hasn't it, Cully?"

  The deputy grinned and went back to his beer without responding.

  Flint drained his mug and then said, "If there's anything we can help you with while you're here, just let us know. Nice meeting both of you." He turned to Cully and went on, "I'll head back to the office."

  Cully nodded. "I'll be in later."

  Flint left the tavern with a casual wave to the others. The place had settled down considerably now that the arm-wrestling contest was over, and the crowd began to thin out as people left the tavern to attend to their Saturday errands.