Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  “So that’s the notorious Rattler,” O’Sullivan murmured.

  “Aye,” Angus said, “and ye’ll never find a better lawman . . . or a friend, if ye’re ever in need o’ one.”

  O’Sullivan turned to Leslie and asked, "What's the best place to stay around here?"

  "If I had the room, I'd ask you to stay with me," Leslie replied. "I'm just renting a small house, though."

  "I don't want to put you out. A hotel will do fine for us."

  "The Drover's Cottage has good accommodations, but it's pretty close to the stockyards, as you can imagine. Other than that, there's always the Grand Palace. It's close by, and it's actually nicer than it looks. There are several rooming houses down on South Second Street, too."

  Talmage spoke up for the first time in several minutes. "We'll also need a place to conduct our training sessions. Some place where we won't be disturbed."

  "I imagine one of the livery stables would be glad to let you rent some space. With the doors closed, that ought to be private enough."

  Talmage nodded. "Come on, Quincy. You'd better pay for those drinks, and we'll get started looking around."

  "Sure. How much do I owe you, Angus?" O’Sullivan asked the saloonkeeper.

  Angus screwed up his face in thought for a moment. "Twenty dollars will cover it, lad," he finally said.

  O’Sullivan was surprised; he had been expecting Angus to ask for at least fifty dollars, considering the number of men who had been in the tavern when the match was over. But evidently Angus's victory made him feel generous, and O’Sullivan didn’t mind accepting the rare generosity of a Scotsman. He pulled a double eagle from his pocket and slid it across the hardwood to Angus.

  "And it was well worth it," he said with a grin.

  Angus scooped up the money, bit it out of habit, then returned the grin and said, "Thank ye, lad. I trust we'll be seeing ye again?"

  "You can count on it," O’Sullivan promised him.

  Leslie put a hand on O’Sullivan's shoulder. "Come on," he said. "I'll show you around town and make sure you don't get lost in this big city."

  "I'm not sure if you're joking or not," O’Sullivan grunted, "but I know that if I got out of town, I would get lost. I never saw so much flat land in my life."

  Together, O’Sullivan, Leslie, and Talmage strolled out of the tavern. They went down the boardwalk, past the Grand Palace Hotel. Talmage studied the establishment for a moment, then said, "I think we'd prefer one of those boardinghouses you mentioned, Mr. Garrison."

  "Make it Leslie," the teacher replied. "Come on. I'll take you over to Hettie's. When I first came to Abilene, I stayed there until I found a house to rent. The rooms are clean, and Hettie Wilburn sets a mighty good table."

  O’Sullivan grinned. "Lead on, Slugger."

  A grimace pulled at Leslie's mouth. "I try not to use that old nickname too much around here," he said. "Most of the folks in town know I used to be a fighter, but I'm trying to get them to look upon me as a schoolteacher, not an ex-boxer."

  "Sure," O’Sullivan agreed with a nod. "I understand. Don't worry about a thing, Leslie. We're not here to cause trouble for anybody, are we, Sam?"

  Talmage shook his head. "Peace and quiet, that's what we're after."

  Just as Leslie Garrison had said, the rooms in Hettie Wilburn's house were clean—scrupulously clean, in fact. O’Sullivan looked at the starched spread on the bed, the hooked rug on the floor, the lace doily on the dresser, and the chintz curtains on the windows and reflected that this was just about the most wholesome place he had ever seen. It was a far cry from some of the flophouses where he had stayed in leaner times.

  They were in luck. The widow Wilburn had two vacant rooms that were even next door to each other, which was more than either O’Sullivan or Talmage had expected. Maybe that was a good sign, O’Sullivan thought. Since leaving Chicago, they had been very lucky, and maybe that good fortune would hold until they returned to see that Dane Savage and Brett Easton were brought to justice.

  Leslie had left them to get settled in, but before he went, he made O’Sullivan promise that they would have dinner together at the Red Top Café.

  As O’Sullivan finished stowing his clothes in the dresser, the door opened, and Sam Talmage stepped in. The inspector went over to the window and pulled the curtain aside to study the view. They were on the second floor of the rooming house, which was located at the corner of South Second and Buckeye. Across the street were private residences, and although Abilene's business district and the courthouse were only a couple of blocks away, the neighborhood seemed to be fairly quiet. That suited Talmage just fine.

  "I don't think anybody's going to take a shot at you through this window," he grunted, "but try to stay away from it as much as you can after dark."

  O’Sullivan nodded. "I don't think we have anything to worry about, Sam. Savage's men won't be able to trace us all the way out here."

  "You start thinking like that, and you'll wind up dead," Talmage said harshly. "Keep assuming that the worst is going to happen and maybe you'll stay alive."

  O’Sullivan shrugged. There was no point in arguing with Talmage; he realized that already, even though he hadn’t known the policeman for long. He remarked, "Those two lawmen didn't strike me as being the kind of rascals you said they probably would be."

  In fact, O’Sullivan added to himself, Lucas Flint and Cully Markham appeared to be as thoroughly professional as any of the police O’Sullivan had met back East, including Inspector Sam Talmage. He hadn’t seen them in action, of course; then it might be an entirely different story. Lucas Flint certainly had a reputation as a top-notch lawman, though.

  "They seemed all right," Talmage admitted grudgingly. "From the way that deputy was carrying his guns, he struck me as a bit of a show-off. Marshal Flint looked reliable, though." He put his hand on his pocket where his pistol was concealed. "As long as they don't get in my way, I won't worry about them. I don't need their help, and maybe they're honest enough that whoever Savage sends after us won't be able to buy them. But I'm damned if I'm going to rely on some frontier lawman for anything, even one with a colorful nickname."

  Both men had finished unpacking, and it was still an hour or so before they were supposed to meet Leslie for supper. O’Sullivan reached up with his left hand and gingerly rubbed his wounded right shoulder.

  "I'm pretty tired, Sam, and these bullet holes are hurting a little bit. I think I'll stretch out for a while."

  "That's a good idea," Talmage conceded. "I'll come back later and get you when it's time to meet your friend." He went to the door and ordered, "Be sure to lock this behind me."

  "All right," O’Sullivan replied. He waited until Talmage had left the room, then turned the key so that the detective could hear him locking the door.

  The bed was as comfortable as it looked, he discovered when he lay down on it. Sleep came surprisingly quickly, but it wasn’t a restful slumber. It seldom was these days.

  Too many dreams raced through Quincy O’Sullivan's slumber, dreams of violence and blood and death.

  When Sam Talmage and Quincy O’Sullivan reached the Red Top Café, they found Leslie Garrison waiting for them on the boardwalk. He led them inside to a table near the large front windows. As they sat down, Talmage skillfully maneuvered things so that Leslie was seated with his back to the window. That way Talmage could keep an eye on the boardwalk through the glass.

  The red-and-white checked cloth covering the table and the delicious aromas coming from the kitchen gave the place a homey feel. O’Sullivan brightened as a pretty, young, redheaded waitress came up to the table and said, "Hello, Mr. Garrison. What can I get for you tonight?"

  "Hello, Alice," Leslie replied. He glanced at O’Sullivan and Talmage and asked, "Why don't I order for all three of us?"

  "By all means," Talmage answered.

  "We'll have three of the specials," Leslie said, nodding to the menu that was written in chalk on a board over the counter. The evening's
special was ham, sweet potatoes, greens, and deep-dish apple pie.

  "Three specials," Alice replied with a nod. Smiling at the men, she turned to go back to the kitchen and convey the order to the cook.

  "Nice-looking girl," O’Sullivan commented. "She must be an Irish lass, with that red hair."

  "Her name is Alice Hammond," Leslie explained. "She and her brother Patrick came to Abilene last year with a group of orphans. They were brought by a Dominican nun who established an orphanage here. That was before I arrived, but Mr. Thornbury told me all about it." Leslie smiled. "In fact, that orphanage is one reason the town council decided to hire another teacher, that and the arrival of quite a few settlers from the South. There were just too many children for one teacher to handle."

  "So, you took the job." O’Sullivan nodded. "I had heard that you'd given up the ring and gone to college to become a teacher. Didn't believe it at first, not when I thought about that right cross of yours. Seemed like a waste."

  "I'm much happier doing this than I ever was boxing," Leslie said sincerely. "I think this is what I was meant to do all along—" He broke off abruptly as he saw the way Talmage stiffened. Talmage was staring at the doorway, and when Leslie glanced over his shoulder, he saw a clean-cut, earnest-faced young man coming toward them, carrying his hat in his hand.

  Talmage rested his hand on the butt of the pistol in his pocket. The young man didn’t look threatening, but if he was a killer that was probably the edge he counted on.

  "H-Hello, M-Mr. Garrison," the young man stammered a little nervously as he approached the table. "I-I heard there were some friends of yours in town."

  "That's right," Leslie replied, "O’Sullivan, Mr. Talmage, this is Jeffrey Valentine. Jeffrey's a reporter for the Abilene Clarion."

  "And you're Quincy O’Sullivan, the Irish heavyweight," Jeffrey Valentine said excitedly, holding out his hand to the prizefighter. "This is an honor, sir, and a privilege. I heard that you've come to our fair town to train for a bout, and I'd like to do a story about your visit to Abilene if I might."

  Before O’Sullivan could say anything, Talmage shook his head sharply. "No," he snapped. "No interviews, no story. I'm sorry, son, but Mr. O’Sullivan has a great deal of work to do, and we don't need the distraction."

  Jeffrey looked at O’Sullivan. "Are you sure of that, sir?"

  O’Sullivan shrugged. "Sam is my manager, Mr. Valentine. A good fighter always does what his manager tells him."

  The young man looked crestfallen. "Oh. Well, if you're sure..."

  "We're sure," Talmage asserted.

  "In that case, it was nice meeting you, Mr. O’Sullivan. I've read about your fights, but I never expected to see you in Abilene."

  "I guess you never know who'll turn up, son," O’Sullivan said kindly, trying to take some of the sting out of the rejection.

  "Enjoy your dinner, gentlemen," Jeffrey mumbled, and he nodded and backed away.

  Leslie frowned as he watched the young reporter leave the cafe. He hadn’t known that Jeffrey was planning to approach O’Sullivan, but Talmage's refusal to have a story written for the newspaper was surprising. Leslie had been part of the fight game long enough to know publicity was vitally important. Boxing matches were still illegal in most states, but they went on all the time as tolerant authorities looked the other way. To the common man, prizefighters were heroes, and many of them worked hard to build up that image. Leslie found Talmage's curt behavior and O’Sullivan's acceptance of it downright strange.

  But before he could comment, Alice appeared carrying platters piled high with steaming food. With a cheery smile, she placed the dishes in front of them, and delicious aromas filled their nostrils.

  If this appetizing meal was any indication, O’Sullivan thought, his visit to Abilene was getting off to a grand start.

  The restaurant was one of the finest in Chicago. Crystal chandeliers, heavy and ornate, diffused their glow on the sparkling silver and china on the tables below. Elegant men and women in expensive evening dress were dining at those tables. The murmur of softly-spoken conversation and an occasional polite laugh filled the air; delightful scents emanated from the kitchen.

  At one of the tables sat a handsome young man and a stunning woman—a girl, really—who gazed at her companion with adoring eyes. This was the first time they had dined together, and she counted herself lucky to be with such a charming man. Obviously, he was wealthy, or he wouldn’t have chosen this restaurant for their meal.

  The man glanced up, a look of annoyance crossing his face as a waiter approached and bent over to whisper something to him. He gave a curt nod, slipped the man a coin, then turned to the young woman and said, "I'm sorry, darling, but I have to step out for a moment. Something about an urgent message, but I'll wager it's really nothing."

  She smiled at him and said softly, "Hurry back."

  "Oh, I will. You can count on that." He pushed his chair back and followed the waiter out of the dining room, his face becoming more annoyed with every step. Considering the way he hoped this evening would conclude, this message had better be important, he thought.

  In the lobby of the restaurant he found a blue-uniformed policeman waiting for him.

  The man's face tightened for a moment until he recognized the officer. Then he hurried forward and rasped, "What is it?"

  The policeman spoke quickly, in a low-pitched voice that couldn’t be overheard. The young man paled as he listened to the message. Then he nodded again and demanded, "How soon?"

  "Any minute now, sir," the officer answered. "I've got to get out of here. I can't risk being seen—"

  "I know. Go on." The man threw a glance back at the dining room as the policeman hurried out of the building. It was a shame to desert a young lady of such...potential, but there was nothing else he could do. He summoned the waiter who had brought him the message, pressed a bill into his hand, and then ducked outside without bothering to get his hat and cape.

  As he stepped onto the sidewalk, the clatter of hoofbeats on the cobblestoned street made him jerk his head around. He saw a police wagon turning into the avenue a block away. The officer driving the wagon spotted him standing in the glow of the restaurant's lamp, let out a cry, and whipped his team to greater speed.

  The man turned and dashed toward the mouth of a nearby alley. A gun blasted somewhere behind him, but the bullet came nowhere near him as he darted into the welcome shadows of the alley.

  His pulse pounded in his head. At first, he hadn’t believed the warning that the police were closing in on him, that they were going to charge him with murder. It was insane!

  But it appeared to be true. They would have his apartment covered; he wouldn’t even be able to go back there and pack a valise. He would have to flee with only the clothes on his back—and the small, deadly gun tucked under his coat. That would be enough.

  Brett Easton's lips pulled back from his teeth in a grimace as he ran through the night. Someone was going to pay for this—pay in blood.

  4

  The next few days passed quietly, and Quincy O’Sullivan had to admit that Sam Talmage's idea of getting him out of Chicago was starting to look like a good one. The town's initial curiosity about them died down fairly quickly, and they were left to carry out their masquerade in peace.

  As Leslie had suggested, Talmage rented one of the local stables for several hours in the middle of each day. Wearing tight trousers and a loose shirt that concealed his bandages, O’Sullivan accompanied Talmage to the barn. With the doors closed and the horses in the stable as the only witnesses, the two men hung a burlap bag filled with sand from one of the rafters. They would leave it there to convince anyone who bothered to look that O’Sullivan had been using it as a punching bag. That done, the detective proceeded to light his pipe and relax on a chair left by the stable's owner.

  O’Sullivan wandered around the stable, looking at the horses. He had never been an animal lover, but during that first day he found that several of them were gentle
creatures, and he befriended them. Others snorted and bared their teeth at him. He quickly backed away.

  By the second day, boredom had set in. Talmage had brought a copy of the Abilene Clarion under his coat. O’Sullivan watched him reading it for a few minutes, then strolled over to the sandbag. Idly he tapped it lightly with a fist, but the heavy bag didn’t budge. O’Sullivan drew back and hit it again, harder this time. Then, instinct taking over, he whipped a left hook into it. This time the bag shivered satisfactorily.

  "Here now," Talmage scolded, looking up from his newspaper with a frown. "You don't have to do that, O’Sullivan. This whole business is only for show, you know."

  "I know," O’Sullivan replied. Cocking his right fist, he drove a straight jab into the bag. The impact felt good until it reached his shoulder, where he felt a slight twinge of pain. Still, most of the stiffness was gone, and he wasn’t worried about opening the wound. "I need the workout, Sam. I'm getting soft, just sitting around."

  "What you need is to take care of yourself until it's time for Savage's trial, mister," Talmage snapped. "I don't want you starting more trouble with those bullet holes."

  "Don't worry," O’Sullivan assured him. He began to dance lightly around the bag, his hands up in the boxing style he used. Darting forward, he peppered the bag with his left. "I'll be careful. I just need to be doing something again."

  Talmage snorted and went back to reading his paper, but he kept sneaking disapproving glances around it as O’Sullivan sparred with the sandbag.

  O’Sullivan was sore the next morning when he climbed out of bed. Even though he had been inactive for only a few weeks, it had been long enough for him to get out of shape. But it was a good soreness, and he decided to continue working out. When he and Talmage went to the stable that afternoon, he found an old lariat in one of the stalls and fashioned a jump rope out of it.

  "Got to get my wind back," he explained to the scowling policeman.