"Hmmmph!" was Talmage's only response.
That evening, tired and aching, O’Sullivan felt better than he had since the deadly encounter in Chicago with Dane Savage and Brett Easton. He stood before the mirror in his room at Hettie Wilburn's and unwound the bandages from his shoulder and torso. When the wounds were uncovered, he saw that scar tissue had formed, leaving the skin reddish and somewhat sore-looking, but he was very pleased. He would leave the bandages off from now on, he decided.
Someone rapped lightly on the door. O’Sullivan made no reply, following Talmage's instructions, and a moment later the detective called softly, "It's me, O’Sullivan."
O’Sullivan went to the door and unlocked it. Talmage slipped into the room, stopped short when he saw that O’Sullivan had taken the bandages off, and stared. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asked.
"I think it is," O’Sullivan declared. "I'm tired of acting like an invalid, Sam. Easton came damned close to making me one, but not close enough. I'm alive, and I want to act like it again."
Talmage took a deep breath, preparing to say something, then shook his head instead. Finally, he said, "All right, but just be careful, O’Sullivan. After all we've been through, I don't want anything happening to my star witness."
O’Sullivan grimaced. "Sorry, Sam," he said coldly. "I suppose I thought I was your friend now, not just your star witness." He started to turn away.
Talmage reached out and grasped O’Sullivan's arm. "Don't talk to me like that!" he snapped. "I'm just trying to keep you alive—"
"Until I can testify against Savage and Easton," O’Sullivan shot back.
"Yes. Until you can testify."
"Fine. Just so we both know where we stand."
Talmage made no reply. He walked over to the window, pushed the curtains aside slightly so that he could look out. Night was falling, cloaking the streets in shadows. Talmage's keen eyes searched the gloom, looking for anything unusual, anything that might be potentially threatening.
When he turned around a few moments later, O’Sullivan had donned a shirt and was shrugging into his coat. "Where do you think you're going?" Talmage asked sharply. Both men had already eaten supper downstairs at Hettie's table.
"Thought I'd go over to Angus's for a drink," O’Sullivan answered. "Maybe I'll hunt up Leslie and talk to him for a while. I was wondering if he'd like to spar a little with me while I'm here."
"I'm not sure that's a good idea."
"Going to Angus's or sparring?"
"Either one," Talmage snapped. "I don't like you going out at night, and if you mix it up with Garrison, he's liable to notice that you've been hurt. That could lead to some awkward questions."
"Leslie Garrison is no threat," O’Sullivan declared flatly. "I still think we're making a mistake by not taking him into our confidence, him and that marshal both."
"We don't need their help."
O’Sullivan laughed humorlessly. "I just hope you're right, Sam." He started toward the door.
"Hold on." Talmage sighed. "If you're determined to do this, at least let me come with you." Out of habit, he slipped his hand in his pocket and touched the butt of the Remington. The gun was there, as it always was.
The two men walked one block north to Texas Street, turning left when they reached the avenue. The saloons were doing their usual busy trade. Music and laughter floated out of the Alamo, the Bull's Head, the O. K., and the Pioneer. Several of the mercantile stores were still open, their evening business brisk. The street was well lit by the yellow lantern light that washed out of the businesses lining it. Wagons rolled by, along with quite a few men on horseback.
O’Sullivan glanced across the street as he and Talmage strolled along the boardwalk. He spotted Lucas Flint leaning against one of the posts that supported the awning over the walkway. The marshal lifted a hand in greeting, and O’Sullivan returned the wave. Quietly he said to Talmage, "It looks like Flint keeps a pretty close eye on his town."
"Perhaps," Talmage replied, obviously unwilling to share O’Sullivan's confidence in Abilene's lawman.
As they passed the Red Top Café, O’Sullivan saw Leslie Garrison walking toward them. At Leslie's side was a much smaller man with thinning hair and a narrow face that was screwed into a pinched, sour expression. Leslie spotted the two visitors from Chicago at the same time and grinned.
"Hello, Quincy, Mr. Talmage," he said warmly as the four men met on the boardwalk at the corner of Texas and Mulberry. "It's a pleasant evening, isn't it?"
O’Sullivan smiled. "It will be as soon as I get some of Angus's good whiskey in me," he replied. "Who's your friend?"
Leslie glanced down at the scowling man, who had begun to tap his foot impatiently. "Ah, this is Emery Thornbury, Quincy. Mr. Thornbury is Abilene's other schoolteacher."
"Schoolmaster," Emery Thornbury corrected. "I've been in charge of the school here for several years." His pale eyes played over O’Sullivan and were evidently not very impressed with what they saw. "And you must be the pugilist I've heard about, sir."
"That I am." O’Sullivan extended a hand to Thornbury. "Quincy O’Sullivan, at your service."
Thornbury's hand felt like a lump of biscuit dough as O’Sullivan pressed it. The schoolmaster said, "No offense, Mr. O’Sullivan, but I've always considered pugilism the most barbaric of pastimes."
"Oh, no offense, Mr. Thornbury. 'Tis indeed barbaric. That's why the people enjoy it so much."
Thornbury sniffed. "The hoi polloi must have their spectacles. Bread and circuses, you know."
O’Sullivan nodded solemnly. "Exactly," he said, wondering what the devil Thornbury was talking about. "Bread and circuses, that's just what I was thinking."
Talmage glanced around nervously, unhappy that they were standing out in plain sight on a street corner. He said to O’Sullivan, "We'd better go on if we're going to get that drink. And just one, Quincy; remember you're in training."
"You're not likely to let me forget, are you, Sam? Mr. Thornbury, this is my manager, Sam Talmage."
Thornbury and Talmage nodded at each other, neither man offering to shake hands. Leslie said, "We'd better get going, too, Mr. Thornbury, if we're going to be on time for the meeting." To O’Sullivan, he explained, "We're going to a town council meeting. They're going to discuss how much money will be allocated to the school this year. I don't suppose you'd like to come along?"
O’Sullivan laughed. "I'm afraid we'd be out of place at such a meeting, Leslie. But come on down to Angus's afterward and I'll buy you a drink. You, too, Mr. Thornbury."
Thornbury sniffed. "I don't drink."
That came as no surprise to O’Sullivan. He slapped Leslie on the shoulder as they moved on. "Good luck," he said. "Get as much money as you can out of them."
Leslie grinned. "We'll try."
O’Sullivan and Talmage continued down the street toward Angus's. As they passed the doctor's office, O’Sullivan noticed a young woman stepping through the front door of the house. In the light of a lantern on the porch he saw she was an attractive brunette and wondered if she was the doctor. He would have thought that a doctor, even a woman doctor, would be older. The sight of her strengthened his resolve not to seek any medical attention unless it was absolutely necessary.
The bar at Angus's was full, O’Sullivan saw as he and Talmage pushed through the batwings, but several of the tables were vacant. They took one of them. O’Sullivan caught Angus's eye behind the bar and held up two fingers. The burly Scotsman nodded, and a few moments later came over to their table carrying a tray that held two glasses and a bottle.
"How be ye this fine evening, Quincy?" he asked as he placed the tray on the table.
"Just fine," O’Sullivan replied. "And yourself?"
Before Angus could answer, Talmage gestured toward the bottle and said, "We won't need that. We just want one drink apiece."
Angus nodded. "All right. I recall now tha' ye be in training, Quincy. Kinna be drinking too much, eh? And I'm doing just sup
erlatively, to answer yer question."
Grinning, O’Sullivan picked up the bottle and splashed generous amounts of the amber liquor into each of the glasses. Talmage had said one drink, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about its size. O’Sullivan set down the bottle, raised his glass, and said, "Here's to you, Mr. MacQuarrie...even if you are a bagpipe-player."
Angus threw back his head and laughed. "Remember, I've seen ye fight," he chortled. "I know ye be an Irisher 'cause I recall how many blows t' the head ye took. 'Tis easier when ye dinna have t' think t' start wi', ain't it?"
O’Sullivan joined in the laughter. Despite the differences in their heritage, both men were a good deal alike and knew it.
As O’Sullivan drank his whiskey, a speculative look came into Angus's eyes. He ventured, "I don't suppose ye'd care t'try ye luck this Saturday, would ye?"
"You mean in the arm-wrestling contest?"
Talmage shook his head. "Remember that bout you have scheduled back in Chicago, Quincy," he cautioned.
"That's true enough," O’Sullivan agreed. "I'm sorry, Angus, but I don't want to risk getting hurt before I'm through with what I have to do."
"I understand," Angus replied. "Well, I hope ye enjoyed ye drinks, gentlemen." He took bottle, glasses, and tray back to the bar.
"Are you ready to head back to the rooming house now?" Talmage asked when Angus was gone.
"We just got here, Sam," O’Sullivan protested. "Besides, I invited Leslie to join us after his meeting. I didn't get a chance to ask him about sparring."
Talmage looked as if he hoped O’Sullivan had forgotten that invitation, but he said nothing. The two men stayed at the table, talking aimlessly and watching the other customers. A few townsmen came over and spoke to O’Sullivan, having heard of his reputation as a prizefighter, but while he was polite to all of them, he didn’t ask anyone to join them.
An hour passed pleasantly, although Talmage was obviously impatient to get back to their rooms, and then Leslie Garrison strolled into the tavern. He spotted O’Sullivan and Talmage at the table and came over to them. "Pull up a chair," O’Sullivan said with a welcoming grin.
Signaling to Angus for a beer, Leslie sat down. The Scotsman brought it over, and the teacher sipped it gratefully. As he placed the mug on the table, he smiled and said, "Talking to the town council is a thirsty business."
"I'd think you would be used to talking, being a teacher," O’Sullivan commented.
"Take my word for it, a roomful of kids and a town council full of businessmen are two entirely different things. But with Rose's help, I think we convinced them to spend a little more on the school this year. We need more books."
"Rose? That's the lady doctor, isn't it?"
Leslie nodded. "She's on the council. In fact, she's always been the best friend the school has in town government. As I understand it, she and Sister Laurel and Reverend Markham were responsible for my being hired."
"Sister Laurel is that nun you mentioned, the one with the orphanage?"
"That's right. And Joshua Markham is Cully's brother. He's the pastor of the Calvary Methodist Church."
"You have influential friends," O’Sullivan mused, "and it looks like you've made a good life for yourself here, Leslie."
"As I said, I'm happier than I've ever been." Leslie shrugged. "Are you thinking of getting out of the fight game, Quincy?"
The heavyweight laughed. "And do what? I'd never make a teacher like you, and I don't know what else I'm fit for but being a slugger."
"Well, if you ever decide to retire, Abilene would be a nice place to do it."
O’Sullivan shook his head. "Too much country and not enough buildings. I'd go crazy here, Leslie."
The teacher grinned. "That's what I thought at first, too, but you'd be surprised how quickly you get used to it." Leslie finished his beer. "I have to get going. I still have to prepare tomorrow's lesson. Say, would you mind coming by the school tomorrow, Quincy?"
"Me come to the school? Why?"
"Some of the children want to meet you. They've heard so much from their parents about you, and I think it would do them good to see that you're a normal man just like anyone else."
O’Sullivan glanced at Talmage and saw that the detective was going to shake his head. The prizefighter bristled; he was tired of Talmage declining every invitation before he could answer for himself. "I'd be glad to," he said quickly, scowling at Talmage's sudden frown.
"Thanks." Leslie got to his feet. "Around lunchtime would be best, I think. That way we won't have to interrupt class; Mr. Thornbury gets pretty upset if anything interferes with class."
"Around lunchtime, then," O’Sullivan said, nodding. He waved off Leslie's offer to pay for the beer, insisting that it was on him, then said good night as the teacher left the saloon. O’Sullivan turned to the glowering Talmage. "I know, you don't think it's a good idea for me to go over there. But what could happen at a school, for God's sake?"
"I don't know," Talmage said, shaking his head. "But I don't have a good feeling about this, O’Sullivan. Somebody's going to get hurt."
O’Sullivan tried to ignore Talmage's misgivings. It was the policeman's job to be cautious but worrying about some sort of ambush at a school was taking things too far, O’Sullivan thought.
A few minutes after noon the next day, the two men strolled west down Second Street toward the school. The large frame structure built of wide, whitewashed planks was a typical frontier schoolhouse. Set back from the street on a wide lawn, it was surrounded by several trees, and the slow-moving waters of Mud Creek angled across the lot behind it. The yard in front of the building was full of children as O’Sullivan and Talmage approached. Some of the youngsters were still eating their lunch; others had already finished and were playing. Their laughter was a type of music O’Sullivan hadn’t heard often in his rather grim life.
Leslie must have been watching for them because he came out of the building when O’Sullivan and Talmage entered the school yard. A sturdy-looking, redheaded youth with freckles sprinkled over his impish face bounced at his side as he strode over to meet the two men.
"Hello, Quincy," Leslie said. "I'm glad you could come." Grinning broadly, he ruffled the boy's hair. "I think this is probably one of your biggest admirers. Meet Patrick Hammond. Patrick, this is Quincy O’Sullivan."
O’Sullivan shook hands with the lad. "I'm glad to meet you, Patrick," he said solemnly. "Hammond, is it? Your sister must be the waitress at the Red Top Café."
"Yes, sir," Patrick answered breathlessly, clearly awed to be meeting Quincy. "That's Alice, all right. She said you eat like a horse."
O’Sullivan threw his head back and roared. "Aye, that I do," he agreed after a moment. "It takes a lot to keep a big fella like me going."
Other children began to crowd around now. O’Sullivan greeted them, and several of the more daring boys shook hands with him. Patrick said, "Angus has told us all about your fight with Kid Randisi, Mr. O’Sullivan. Mr. Garrison here has fought him, too."
O’Sullivan nodded. "I know. The Kid's a tough one, that's for sure. He hits hard, but he fights fair. I suppose that's what all of you try to do, too."
Leslie grasped the shoulder of a small boy who was standing timidly at the edge of the crowd and guided the youngster through the press of children, saying, "Here's another lad who wants to meet you, Quincy. This is Oliver Barlow."
Bending down, O’Sullivan took Oliver's hand. "Glad to meet you, son."
Oliver nodded shyly, said nothing, and gazed at the ground. O’Sullivan's eyes narrowed as he studied the boy. Something about Oliver reminded him of a scared animal. The lad looked ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble or even disapproval.
O’Sullivan glanced up at Leslie and saw the teacher shake his head ever so slightly. If Oliver had problems, Leslie was already aware of them. Patting the boy lightly on the shoulder, O’Sullivan straightened. "You be a good lad now," he said.
Looking over the heads of the children c
rowded around him, he saw that a few students hadn’t joined the gathering. A half-dozen boys were grouped under a tree, watching out of the corners of their eyes and occasionally snickering. O’Sullivan gave a mental shrug. He couldn’t hope to impress everyone, he supposed.
"I've got an idea, Mr. Garrison!" Patrick Hammond exclaimed. "Why don't you and Mr. O’Sullivan show us how you box?"
Leslie frowned at the redheaded boy. "You mean you want us to put on a match?"
"Sure!" Patrick replied enthusiastically. "It'd be great!"
Leslie grimaced, and Talmage's expression was equally negative. The detective had stayed on the edge of the proceedings, watching the street. Before he could voice his disapproval, Leslie said, "I don't think we could do that, Patrick. We wouldn't want to impose on Mr. O’Sullivan."
Patrick turned to O’Sullivan. "You wouldn't mind, would you, Mr. O’Sullivan? We'll probably never get a chance again to see two real prizefighters put on a match here in Abilene."
The boy could be persuasive, O’Sullivan thought. And he had been planning to ask Leslie to spar with him. They would have to take it easy, since he was still recuperating from the bullet wounds, but O’Sullivan could see nothing wrong with an informal exhibition for the children.
"I don't mind, Leslie," he said. "A little workout would probably do both of us some good."
Talmage stepped in. "I'm sorry, but I can't allow this," he countered. "Quincy has got to save himself for the fight back in Chicago."
"And I've given up fighting," Leslie added. "We just can't do it, Patrick."
Patrick sighed and nodded. "All right," he said. "I just thought it was a good idea..."
O’Sullivan caught Leslie's eye. "Could I talk to you in private for a minute?" he asked.
"All right," Leslie agreed. "You kids go back to what you were doing. I expect Mr. Thornbury to return from town in a few minutes, and I know he'll want to get right back to work." As the children dispersed, Leslie and O’Sullivan strolled toward one of the trees. Talmage, warily eyeing the prizefighter, followed.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 122