Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  O’Sullivan turned to face Leslie and asked in a low voice, "Look, why can't we just put on a little show for the kids? Some footwork, a little sparring, things like that. We'll take it easy, and nobody will get hurt."

  "Quincy..." Talmage warned.

  "This is something I want to do, Sam." O’Sullivan's voice was sharp as he spoke to his supposed manager. "These seem like nice youngsters, and I think they deserve a little excitement, don't you?"

  Talmage made no reply, but his tightly-set features showed his displeasure. Leslie rubbed his bearded jaw in thought for a moment, then said, "I swore I wouldn't ever set foot in a boxing ring again, but I suppose this would be different... If it's not too much trouble, Quincy, I guess we could show them a little of how it's done."

  "Fine," O’Sullivan agreed, starting to feel some of Patrick Hammond's boisterousness himself. "How about this afternoon, right after you're through with your classes?"

  Leslie nodded. "That would be all right." He thrust out his hand, and he and O’Sullivan shook on the deal. Then he turned to the students and raised his voice to announce, "Mr. O’Sullivan and I have decided to put on a little boxing exhibition for you after all, children." He had to pause as shouts of excitement rang through the yard, led by Patrick Hammond's enthusiastic approval. "If you can stay after school for a few extra minutes this afternoon, we'll give you a demonstration of the art and science of pugilism."

  "He means prizefighting," O’Sullivan added with a grin.

  Leslie lifted his arms to quiet the youngsters down. "Now, you'd better all go back inside. Mr. Thornbury will be back from the general store any minute now with that new supply of chalk, and I'm sure he plans to use plenty of it this afternoon."

  As the children trooped into the building, O’Sullivan said, "I'll see you later, Leslie. I'm anxious to find out if you've lost any of your fighting skill, living this quiet life that you do."

  The teacher's eyes sparkled as he replied, "It will be interesting, won't it?" Then with a wave he turned and went into the schoolhouse.

  As O’Sullivan and Talmage walked away, the detective said, "I don't like this either, O’Sullivan. You're only asking for trouble by calling so much attention to yourself."

  "It's just an exhibition for some kiddies. Stop worrying about every little thing, Sam, or you'll wind up looking like that." O’Sullivan nodded at the man hurrying down the street toward them. Emery Thornbury was carrying a box, no doubt that supply of new chalk Leslie had mentioned, and he sniffed and barely nodded when he passed the two men. As usual, Thornbury looked sour, as if he had been eating something particularly distasteful.

  Talmage glanced over his shoulder at the teacher. "Don't worry, I'll be able to smile again," he said. "I'll smile plenty when Dane Savage and that mad dog Easton are both dangling from the end of a rope."

  All afternoon long, Emery Thornbury thought that the children were unusually excited and happy. It was an attitude he attempted to repress as much as possible. Education was an arduous, trying process, and it was certainly no laughing matter. Thornbury wondered if something was going on that he didn’t know about, but as usual, no one told him anything they didn’t have to.

  In the second classroom, which had been built by putting up a partition to divide the old one-room schoolhouse, Leslie Garrison was also having problems, but his didn’t stem from the pupils who were looking up at him eagerly. Although he tried to concentrate on the lessons he had prepared, he kept remembering all the bouts he had fought, all the times fists crashed into his face and body, all the blood he had shed. And he recalled, too, the damage his own fists had inflicted on other men. He had vowed never to go back to that way of life.

  He tried to convince himself that this simple sparring match with Quincy O’Sullivan didn’t represent a return to anything. It would be a few moments' entertainment for the children, that was all. But he wondered if it was part of a trend, a course that had started with the boxing lessons he was giving to Oliver Barlow. Once violence had lived inside a man, did it always try to draw him back?

  Sam Talmage was as disturbed as either of the two teachers, but for different reasons. Every time O’Sullivan attracted attention to himself this way, he increased the risk that Savage's killers would be able to track him to Abilene. People passing through town might hear about the presence of a heavyweight boxer and unwittingly carry the word on to other cities. Sooner or later, Talmage thought pessimistically, the news would reach the wrong man. Then it would just be a matter of time until someone showed up with murder on his mind.

  In fact, Quincy O’Sullivan was the only one who wasn’t concerned. He was looking forward to pitting his skills against Leslie's, even in an informal little affair like the one that would take place that afternoon.

  When classes were dismissed for the day, he and Talmage were waiting in the yard outside the schoolhouse as the children burst through the doors with even more than their usual zest for freedom. Patrick Hammond and several other boys called greetings to O’Sullivan, who acknowledged them with a grin.

  By the time Leslie came out a moment later, the excited children had formed a large circle around O’Sullivan, while Talmage stood off to one side. The group of students parted to let Leslie through. Smiling at O’Sullivan, he shrugged out of his coat. "I suppose this will have to do for our ring," he commented.

  "It'll be fine with me," O’Sullivan replied, taking off his own coat. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves up on his brawny forearms while Leslie did the same. Both men handed their coats over the heads of the children to Talmage.

  "Shall we begin?" Leslie asked.

  "Whenever you're ready," O’Sullivan agreed. Positioning his feet, he brought his fists up and cocked them.

  Inside the schoolhouse, Emery Thornbury was preparing to leave for the day. He heard the commotion outside but thought nothing of it. Some of the children often stayed after school to play in the yard. That was fine with him as long as the town council and the parents of the children involved understood that he would take no responsibility for them after school hours.

  But when Thornbury stepped to the doorway and looked out into the school yard, he saw Leslie and O’Sullivan standing in the middle of a group of children, obviously about to fight. Both of them had taken their coats off and were brandishing their fists.

  Outrage shot through Thornbury's slender frame. He had never liked the idea of hiring a man like Leslie to teach impressionable young children, and here was vivid proof that he had been right. The man was obviously a ruffian, and he was about to engage O’Sullivan in a barbarous display of violence no doubt brought on by some loutish insult by one or the other of them.

  For the sake of the children, Emery Thornbury had to stop this. He rushed forward just as Leslie Garrison swung.

  O’Sullivan heard the patter of rapid footsteps behind him and turned around, stepping aside quickly just in case Talmage had been right and some danger really was threatening. He was just in time to see Thornbury push his way through the crowd of children and lunge toward the center of the impromptu prize ring. Leslie saw him coming, too, but couldn’t stop the punch he had just thrown.

  Thornbury ran right into Leslie's fist. It was as if the teacher had plowed into a stone wall. His feet went out from under him, flying up into the air as his body was driven backwards. He landed heavily in the dirt while the children let out a huge roar of approval at the mishap. Lights pinwheeled in front of Thornbury's eyes, lights that were abruptly replaced by utter blackness.

  He came to a moment later with Leslie and O’Sullivan and Talmage bending anxiously over him. One of the children had run to fetch some water from the creek, and Leslie splashed some of it in Thornbury's face. The teacher came up off the ground, sputtering and blowing.

  Leslie helped him to his feet, brushing off his clothes and asking, "Are you all right, Mr. Thornbury?"

  "All right?" Thornbury squawked indignantly. "You just assaulted me, and you dare to ask me if I'm
all right? I—I'll have you fired, you...you..."

  "It was an accident, Mr. Thornbury," Leslie assured him. "Quincy and I were just putting on an exhibition for the children, so they could see what a boxing match is like. I guess we should have told you about it earlier." He paused, then asked, "You didn't think we were actually fighting, did you?"

  "Well, what the devil was I supposed to think?" Thornbury demanded. He winced and reached up to touch his aching jaw. "I think you broke something," he moaned.

  "Let me see." Leslie prodded at the jaw while Thornbury grimaced and groaned, then announced, "I don't think it's broken, Mr. Thornbury, but if you want to go see Dr. Keller, I'll be glad to pay her to take a look at it."

  "I'll do that!" Thornbury said thickly. He swung to face O’Sullivan and pointed a quivering finger at him. "You! I'll wager this was all your idea, wasn't it?"

  O’Sullivan glanced at Patrick Hammond, who suddenly looked as if he wanted to be somewhere—anywhere —else. Then O’Sullivan grinned and said, "It was my idea, all right. I thought the kids would enjoy it."

  "Get out!" Thornbury shrieked. "Get out of my school yard, do you understand? And don't come back!" He moaned again and clutched his jaw as his angry shouts made it hurt worse. Then he stalked away, bound for Rose Keller's office.

  Leslie scanned the circle of now silent children, who were staring at him with awed expressions on their faces. They had expected something entertaining, but none of them dreamed they would see the schoolmaster knocked flat on his back. This day would become a legend.

  Trying not to grin, Leslie said, "You kids go on home now. There won't be any more boxing today."

  A few of them protested, but within minutes, they were walking out of the yard, chattering animatedly among themselves about what they had just seen.

  As the teacher watched the departing students, O’Sullivan turned to him and said, "I suppose you'll be in a bit of trouble now."

  Leslie shook his head. "It was an accident. Thornbury may complain to the town council, but all of them know that, if I was going to haul off and punch the man, I would have done it a long time ago. He'll cool off sooner or later."

  O’Sullivan took his coat from Talmage. "Guess we'd better go," he said, "since we were ordered off the place. How about some supper at the café?"

  "Sounds good." Leslie nodded.

  As they walked away from the school, Talmage said gloomily, "I told you somebody would get hurt if you went through with that crazy idea."

  O’Sullivan's booming laugh shook his huge frame. "If getting thrown out of a school yard is the worst thing that happens to us while we're here, Sam, I'll be as pleased as I can be!"

  5

  As Leslie Garrison had predicted, Emery Thornbury did calm down, although not until after he had gone to each member of the town council individually and demanded that Leslie be fired. Luckily, enough members of the council knew and liked the teacher and wanted to hear his side of the story rather than simply accepting Thornbury's version. Leslie explained to them what really happened, and once he had, several council members chuckled at the thought of the pompous Thornbury being knocked out cold. Of course, the teacher didn’t lose his job.

  Several evenings later over beers at Angus's, Leslie told O’Sullivan and Talmage what had happened. "The swelling on Mr. Thornbury's jaw has just about gone down," he said, finishing his story. "He'll be angry with me for a while, but I think he realizes it was an accident."

  "Too bad it was over so quickly you didn't get a chance to enjoy it," O’Sullivan quipped.

  Leslie shook his head. "I wouldn't have enjoyed it under any circumstances. I've had enough of fighting." He finished his beer and stood up. "Now, I'm paying for this round, and I don't want any argument from you."

  "Wouldn't dream of it." O’Sullivan grinned.

  Leslie dropped some coins on the table. "I've got to be going," he said. "I'll see you later."

  As the burly teacher strode toward the batwings, O’Sullivan took another sip of beer, then glanced at Talmage. The detective had been especially tense ever since they had stopped at the telegraph office in the Kansas Pacific depot earlier that day.

  "What's the matter, Sam?" O’Sullivan asked. "Are you worried about that wire you sent to Chicago this afternoon?"

  Talmage shrugged. "No need to worry about the one I sent. It was coded so that it just sounded like a question about that so-called upcoming boxing match. I'm worried about the answer. I should have heard from them by now."

  "Maybe you will soon." O’Sullivan knew that Talmage had sent the message to a trusted associate in the police department. The man was supposed to let them know if the date for Dane Savage's trial had been set, and if so when it was scheduled. Talmage had also asked if Brett Easton had been captured yet.

  The detective shoved his chair back. "I think I'll go over to the telegraph office," he declared. "You were planning on staying here for a while longer, weren't you?"

  "That's what I intended, but I can come with you if you'd like," O’Sullivan offered.

  "No, that's not necessary," Talmage said, after he had scanned the room. There were only a dozen men in Angus's, and during the last few days Talmage had become less nervous about O’Sullivan visiting the tavern. He went on, "I'd rather have you in here than out on the street where somebody could take a potshot at you. I'll just run over and see if there's been a reply, then I'll come right back."

  "Fine," O’Sullivan agreed and inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. He much preferred to stay at Angus's rather than tag along with Talmage.

  The detective pushed through the batwings, leaving O’Sullivan sitting alone at the table. A few moments later Angus ambled over; the job of serving drinks to the few customers at the bar fell to his young assistant, Augie. The Scotsman pulled out a chair. "Ye mind if I sit down?"

  "Not at all," O’Sullivan replied. "It's your place, after all. And I'd be glad for the company."

  "How's ye training coming along?"

  O’Sullivan shrugged. "All right, I suppose. A fellow gets a little bored just practicing, though." A light glittered in the prizefighter's eyes. "I want to get back to Chicago and start trading real punches."

  "Aye, I kin understand tha' feeling—" Angus broke off suddenly and stared at the tavern entrance. O’Sullivan followed his gaze and saw four men pushing through the batwings.

  The one in the lead was tall, broad-shouldered, and brawny. A shock of red hair showed under his cuffed-back Stetson. He wore dusty range clothes, as did his companions, who were smaller but appeared to be equally rough. Besides his red hair, the leader was also distinguished by a black-and-white cowhide vest and wide leather cuffs on the sleeves of his shirt. He would have looked like a tough, competent cowboy were it not for the Colt riding in a low-hung holster on his hip. That said gunman.

  Angus grimaced. "I hope there will no' be trouble," he muttered.

  O’Sullivan leaned over the tabletop and watched the four men stroll to the bar and order drinks from Augie. "You know them?" he asked.

  "Aye." The saloonkeeper nodded. "The one in the vest is Woodie Price, and a bad 'un he be. 'Tis thought he's an outlaw, but Lucas has no' been able t'prove anything agin him. He and his friends have busted up more than one bar in this town. They dinna cause no trouble the last time they came in here, though."

  Angus kept an eye on Woodie Price and his cronies as he talked to O’Sullivan in a low voice. Price and his friends downed the drinks that Augie brought them and seemed peaceful enough at the moment, but that abruptly changed when Price idly glanced over his shoulder and spotted O’Sullivan and Angus sitting at the table.

  O’Sullivan saw Price's eyes narrow in recognition. The redhead nudged the man standing next to him and exchanged a few whispered words with him. That man spoke quietly to the other two. By the time Price set his empty glass on the bar and turned to slouch toward the table, his companions had finished their drinks and fallen into step behind him.

  O’Sullivan watch
ed them coming, and his hopes for a quiet evening evaporated when he saw the arrogant grin that twisted Price's mouth. The man's face was slightly flushed as if he had been drinking heavily all evening, but he didn’t walk like a man who was drunk. In fact, Price was light on his feet for a big man, O’Sullivan realized.

  The hardcase came to a stop beside the table and stared coldly at O’Sullivan. After a moment, Angus asked impatiently, "Wha' is it ye be wanting, Price?"

  Ignoring Angus, Price continued to glare at O’Sullivan. "You're that prizefighter I've heard so much about, ain't you?" he demanded.

  "I don't know, lad," O’Sullivan said evenly. "I'm a prizefighter, all right, but I don't know that it's me you're talking about. What are folks saying?"

  "That there's a fella in town from back East who can take on anybody and beat them," Price snarled. "I ain't sure I like that. I've always been pretty damn good with my fists myself."

  "I'm sure you are," O’Sullivan replied, trying to keep his voice level and polite. He wanted to avoid a fight if he possibly could. Working out with the punching bag, even a little sparring, was quite different from a no-holds-barred saloon brawl with the likes of Woodie Price. Such a battle could rupture his healing wounds.

  Pushing his hat farther back on his head, Price hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and began rocking back and forth on his bootheels. "Maybe you'd like to fight me, mister. That way we can find out who's really better, you or me."

  "I don't want to fight you, Price," O’Sullivan declared, shaking his head. "I've got a real fight waiting for me back home, so I can't be waltzing around with the likes of you."

  Price gave a short bark of humorless laughter. "So, you've heard of me, have you? I reckon most folks around here have. Ain't nobody I can't beat with gun or fist, prizefighter, and I ain't leavin' here until I hear you say the same thing."

  Angus scraped back his chair and stood up. Price's friends closed ranks around the table as Angus snapped, "I've warned ye 'bout causing trouble in here, Price. I'll thank ye t' leave me tavern right now."