Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  "Not yet, old man," Price snarled. "Now get the hell out of my way."

  "Old man, is it?" Angus cried indignantly. "Why, ye bald-faced scut—"

  Standing up, O’Sullivan put a hand on the Scotsman's arm. "Take it easy, Angus," he cautioned. "This young fellow doesn't really want a fight with you. It's me he's trying to insult."

  "That's right, O’Sullivan. So how about it? We settle it once and for all?"

  Again, O’Sullivan shook his head. "I'm not fighting you, and that's all there is to it. Now, if you won't leave and let folks enjoy their drinks in peace, I suppose I'll have to go." He nodded good night to Angus and started to move past Woodie Price.

  The hardcase reached out quickly, grabbed O’Sullivan's right shoulder, and shoved him back. The rough push jarred the half-healed bullet wound, and O’Sullivan grimaced as pain shot through his shoulder. But, making an effort not to reveal his injury, he set his face in determined lines and tried once more to get around Price.

  Price wouldn’t allow it. His face contorting in whiskey-fueled anger, he suddenly launched a fist at O’Sullivan's head.

  Instincts developed over years as a boxer warned O’Sullivan that the punch was coming. The prizefighter reflexively moved his head out of the way. Price's fist flew harmlessly by, and he stumbled as the momentum of the missed blow threw him off-balance. He staggered into O’Sullivan but recovered quickly enough to drive a punch into the prizefighter's midsection.

  As the breath was forced from O’Sullivan's lungs, instinct took over again. The heavyweight's right hand balled into a fist and slammed into Price's chin. The man's head jerked around, and the punch knocked him back a step. But he simply shook his head and charged again, his three friends right behind him. Roaring in anger, Price swung wild, pile-driver punches at O’Sullivan.

  The first time Talmage left him alone since they had come to Abilene, O’Sullivan thought fleetingly, and a brawl had to break out. The detective would never let him out of his sight again.

  That thought was all O’Sullivan had time for. He was too busy defending himself to worry about anything else. Price and his friends swarmed over him, and he took several blows to the body before he could set his feet and start swinging. His first punch caught one of the other men, lifting him off his feet and dumping him atop one of the nearby tables. The table broke under the impact, and man and shattered table crashed to the sawdust-covered floor.

  Curses shouted in a Scots accent told O’Sullivan that Angus was joining the fight. The tavern owner grabbed the collar of one man, spun him around, and threw a right cross at his face.

  At least none of them had gone for their guns, O’Sullivan thought gratefully, while he tried to block Price's punches and get in some of his own. Price and his men could take punishment as well as deliver it, O’Sullivan saw. They kept coming, throwing a flurry of blows that rocked him and Angus back. O’Sullivan stumbled over a chair, kicked it aside, bobbed backwards momentarily out of the range of Price's long arms. The man came after him without pausing.

  While Price and his friends knew little or nothing about boxing, they outnumbered O’Sullivan and Angus and packed plenty of power in their blows. The other customers in the tavern had scurried for cover when the fight broke out, and O’Sullivan knew they couldn’t count on any help from them. Young Augie emerged from behind the bar carrying a wooden mallet, but he was so nervous as he danced around looking for an opening that he would probably do more harm than good if he stepped in swinging the thing. O’Sullivan tried to block a punch with his forearm, but it slipped past his guard and smacked into his right shoulder.

  Fiery pain coursed through his arm and chest. He could already feel a hot wetness on his shirt and knew the wound in his side had opened again. Now, as his shoulder throbbed agonizingly, he realized that it was bleeding, too. But there was nothing he could do at the moment except keep fighting. Price and his men were bent on destroying him.

  Angus lunged, wrapped his arms around one of the men, and pressed him in a crushing bear hug. As the man howled in pain, Angus spun around several times and then threw the man across the room. The hardcase smashed against the wall and slid to the floor heavily. The Scotsman shouted triumphantly, but before he could return to the fight, another man scooped up a chair and brought it crashing down on his head. Angus fell to one knee, and the man whipped the broken chair leg he still held across the back of the Scotsman's neck.

  Another punch from Price staggered O’Sullivan, and he didn’t recover quickly enough to keep the fourth man from getting behind him. The man leaped on his back, wrapped his arms and legs around him, and immobilized him. "Get him, Woodie!" the man bellowed in O’Sullivan's ear.

  Price bore in, slamming punch after punch into O’Sullivan while the other man held him. The blows battered O’Sullivan's midsection, then Price moved to his face. His head jerked from side to side as Price alternated rights and lefts. His eyes swelled until he could barely see, but there was nothing to see except fists shooting toward his face.

  He had lost too much of his edge during the long, enforced inactivity, O’Sullivan knew. He was being beaten by men who had no business getting the best of him. But he was too weary to break free of the iron grip of the man holding him, too tired to do anything but stand there and take the punishment.

  "O’Sullivan!" cried Sam Talmage from the tavern entrance. The detective hurtled across the room and threw himself into the fracas, lashing out at Woodie Price. But the detective hadn’t reckoned on the man who had just downed Angus with the chair leg. The man slashed at Talmage's head with the makeshift weapon. Talmage's derby cushioned the blow somewhat, but the club thudded against his skull with enough force to send him staggering.

  Price had turned away from O’Sullivan at the sound of Talmage's shout, and the prizefighter seized what he knew would be his last chance to turn the course of this battle. He threw himself backward, shoving off with all the strength remaining in his legs, and hoped that he was close enough to the wall for the maneuver to work. He was, he discovered an instant later. He crashed against the planks, pinning the man who had been holding him, and bouncing his head with a hollow thud off the wall. As O’Sullivan straightened, the man slipped off his back, out cold. The prizefighter was still on his feet, swaying but upright.

  He was facing Woodie Price and the man with the chair leg. Angus was down, and so was Talmage. O’Sullivan knew he couldn’t hope to take on both men, but he still managed to clench his fists and raise one of them tauntingly. "Come on, you bastard!" he rasped hoarsely at Price.

  Price snarled and started forward. He had taken one step when a gun blasted, and a bullet kicked up splinters between his feet.

  Everyone in the room froze. O’Sullivan turned toward the doorway and squinted between his swollen eyelids. Through a bloody haze, he saw Lucas Flint and Cully Markham striding into the tavern. The marshal was holding a rifle, and smoke curled from the barrel of the Colt in Cully's hand.

  Cully kept Price and his remaining cohort covered. "You boys just stand still," he said grimly. "This isn't the first fight of yours we've broken up, Price, and I wouldn't mind putting a bullet in you. Might slow you down for a while."

  Flint came over to Angus, who had pushed himself onto his knees and was shaking his head groggily. The marshal slipped a hand under Angus's arm and helped him to his feet, supporting the burly saloonkeeper with surprising strength. "You all right, Angus?" Flint asked anxiously.

  Angus reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. "Aye," he rumbled. "One o' the rapscallions clouted me from behind, Lucas. 'Twas a mean-spirited thing t' do!"

  "About what I'd expect from Price and his bunch," Flint grunted. He turned to O’Sullivan. "What about you, O’Sullivan?"

  O’Sullivan forced his bruised lips into a grin. "Bloody but unbowed, as they say. Still, I'm glad you showed up when you did, Marshal."

  "Bloody is right," Flint muttered, nodding at O’Sullivan's shirt. "We'd better get you to the doctor. Did Pr
ice cut you?"

  Before O’Sullivan could answer, Price said harshly, "I didn't have no knife, Flint! It was a fair fight."

  Cully snorted. "Four against two is a fair fight?"

  Price turned toward him with a snarl on his battered face. "How about you and me then, Deputy? That fair enough for you?"

  "I'll holster my gun right now," Cully threatened. "You're wearing one."

  "Cully!" Flint's voice cut across the room. "I don't want any gunplay. Enough damage has been done in here tonight—Angus doesn't need bullet holes in the walls, too. Now get Price and his friends over to the jail and lock them up. Angus, do you mind getting your shotgun and helping Cully keep an eye on them?"

  "I'd be right happy t'do that, Lucas," Angus growled. He went behind the bar, spoke soothingly for a moment to the highly agitated Old Bailey, then drew out the sawed-off shotgun that he kept under the bar. Together, he and Cully covered Price and his friend while they carried their unconscious cohorts out of the tavern.

  Flint was helping Talmage get to his feet. "How are you feeling, Mr. Talmage?" the marshal asked. "We're about to take Mr. O’Sullivan over to the doctor, and I think you'd better come along and let her take a look at you."

  Talmage shook his head, jerked out of Flint's grip, and hurried over to O’Sullivan. "Are you all right, Quincy?" he asked anxiously, eyeing the spreading bloodstains on O’Sullivan's shirt. Talmage slipped an arm around O’Sullivan's middle and said, "Never mind answering. Come on."

  O’Sullivan wasn’t going to argue. With Talmage on one side and Flint on the other, he allowed himself to be led out of the tavern and steered toward the doctor's office next door.

  As they walked down the boardwalk, O’Sullivan unsteady on his feet, the prizefighter grinned crookedly and croaked, "You're acting like you care what happens to me, Sam."

  "Why the hell shouldn't I care?" Talmage snapped in reply. "You know how much that fight back in Chicago means to me. You're not going to do any of us a damn bit of good if you die from loss of blood or some infection."

  That was true, O’Sullivan thought. Talmage wanted him alive long enough to testify against Dane Savage, and after that the detective didn’t care what happened. He had made that plain.

  The three men turned at the walk that led to Rose Keller's office. O’Sullivan noticed a light burning inside; evidently the doctor was still there. Frowning, he rumbled, "I'm not sure about letting a woman doctor poke around and examine me."

  "You don't have anything to worry about, Mr. O’Sullivan," Flint assured him. "Doctors don't come any better than Rose Keller. She can handle anything from gunshot wounds to major surgery."

  In the shadows O’Sullivan and Talmage exchanged a quick look. If the doctor had any training at all, she would instantly recognize O’Sullivan's wounds as bullet holes, and that could lead to some awkward questions. But there was nothing they could do. The big man's shirt was already soaked, and more blood was flowing profusely from the angry wounds. O’Sullivan was feeling light-headed, and he knew it was from loss of blood.

  Flint and Talmage helped O’Sullivan up the steps to the low porch. Then, leaving Talmage to support O’Sullivan, the marshal went to the door and rapped sharply on it. A moment later the door opened, and the same attractive brunette O’Sullivan had noticed a few days earlier peered out curiously. When she saw Flint standing there, she smiled brightly.

  "Why, good evening, Lucas," she said warmly. "What can I do for you?"

  Flint half turned toward O’Sullivan and Talmage. "We've got a hurt man here, Rose," he declared. "Looks like he's bleeding pretty bad."

  Rose glanced over at them, the pleasant expression vanishing from her face to be replaced by one of concern. "He certainly is," she said crisply. "Hurry, bring him inside."

  She stood back and held the door as Flint and Talmage assisted O’Sullivan into the house. They went down a short hall and into one of the examining rooms. O’Sullivan winced as he climbed onto the sheet-covered table, but then as the pain eased slightly, he was glad for the opportunity to sit down.

  "Take his shirt off carefully, please," Rose requested, her tone calm and professional, as she stepped into the room after them. Talmage quickly unfastened the buttons and peeled the garment off O’Sullivan. Rose paled slightly when she saw the wounds but made no comment. Taking a soft cloth and a basin of water, she began to wash the blood away from the injuries. As she worked, Flint introduced O’Sullivan and Talmage without telling her why they were in Abilene.

  O’Sullivan felt himself flushing in embarrassment as Rose swabbed his bloody torso. Up close like this, she was even more attractive than he had first thought. She couldn’t be older than thirty, and her lovely, unlined face looked even younger than that. Her hair was a dark, rich brown, and even though it was pinned up in a bun at the moment, O’Sullivan had a feeling that if it was undone and allowed to flow freely, it would be thick and luxurious.

  He glanced over at Talmage and saw that he seemed to be equally aware of the doctor's charms. The detective had hardly taken his eyes off her since they had entered the office. As tired and beaten up as he was, O’Sullivan had to smile slightly as he remembered Talmage's disparaging comments about frontier physicians, especially female ones. From the look in his eyes, Talmage might be changing his tune, O’Sullivan thought wryly.

  As Rose swabbed the bullet wound in his shoulder, O’Sullivan grimaced, and his breath hissed between clenched teeth. Rose glanced at him and murmured, "Sorry." Her touch was as gentle as soft rain, but it was impossible to clean the wounds without causing some pain.

  O’Sullivan looked at Flint and saw that the marshal was watching intently, his eyes fixed on the wounds. The lawman had undoubtedly seen enough bullet holes to know them when he saw them. For the moment, though, Flint said nothing, evidently content to let the doctor concentrate on her work.

  "Well, that should help," Rose finally said, stepping back and dropping the cloth into the basin. The water in the vessel immediately turned pink. "At least we can see what we're doing now. I'd say these wounds look worse than they actually are, but we need to stop that bleeding." She turned and took bandages from a cabinet on one wall, then began to form some compresses to bind the wounds. As she worked, she asked, "How long ago did you receive these injuries, Mr. O’Sullivan?"

  "Nearly three weeks ago," O’Sullivan answered. He glanced at Talmage and saw him shake his head slightly. Clearly the detective didn’t want him to say any more.

  "They look as if they were healing very nicely until you tore them open again. How did you manage that?"

  O’Sullivan grinned, his expression considerably more cheerful than he felt at the moment. "There was a fight at Angus's."

  "Oh, yes, I do seem to remember hearing a commotion a little while ago. And a shot."

  "That was Cully breaking things up," Flint put in.

  Rose nodded. "I see. I want to disinfect those wounds, Mr. O’Sullivan. It will hurt, but it needs to be done."

  "Do whatever you need to, ma'am," O’Sullivan told her.

  Rose poured carbolic acid from a bottle onto a sponge and placed it on the wounds, holding it there while O’Sullivan gritted his teeth. That done, she covered the holes with the compresses and began wrapping the bandages around them.

  "You'll have to be careful," she warned him. "You'll recover from the loss of blood fairly quickly and more scar tissue should form on the wounds, but there's a limit to the amount of damage you can do to them—not to mention the danger of infection. I want you to come back tomorrow so that I can change these dressings and check the wounds."

  Talmage stepped in and nodded. "I'll see to it, ma'am. And I'll gladly pay you for your trouble tonight."

  "No need for that," Flint said. "Rose's fee will come out of the fine the judge is going to levy against Woodie Price and his friends for public brawling."

  "I should have known Mr. Price was involved in this," Rose said tightly. "I seem to be spending more and more of my time lately
patching up people who have made his acquaintance."

  Flint nodded toward Talmage. "You'd better have a look at Mr. Talmage, too, Rose. One of Price's friends hit him on the top of his head with a busted chair leg during the fight."

  "It's nothing," Talmage protested, trying to wave off Flint's suggestion. "I've been hit harder."

  "Nonsense," Rose replied. "It's only reasonable that you let me take a look at it, since you're already here."

  O’Sullivan watched with a grin as Talmage removed his rumpled hat and let Rose probe the swelling on his head. She asked him how his vision was. "A little blurry," Talmage responded, shrugging, "but nothing to worry about."

  "I suggest you take it easy for several days, too," Rose said sternly. "You may well have a concussion, although I can't be sure. You'll have a headache, that's certain. If the blurred vision doesn't go away in a week or two, you may need more medical attention."

  "I'll go to a doctor when we get back to Chicago," Talmage said. He was blushing furiously and seemed all too aware that Rose was standing only inches away from him.

  "Chicago!" Rose said, smiling with delight. "Is that where you're from?"

  Talmage nodded. "That's right."

  "I always enjoyed visiting Chicago," Rose went on, her soft brown eyes sparkling. "I haven't been there in several years, but I've never forgotten it. Such a bustling, metropolitan place. There's nothing more full of life than a big city."

  For one of the few times since O’Sullivan had known him, he saw a big smile on Talmage's face. "There's plenty of life in Chicago, that's for sure," the detective agreed warmly. "All kinds, in fact."

  "I'd enjoy talking to you about it sometime, if you wouldn't mind," Rose said. "I keep thinking that I'll make a trip east again, but there never seems to be time for it."

  "I'd be glad to bring you up to date on the city," Talmage replied.

  Flint had been paying close attention to this exchange, and now O’Sullivan saw a frown creasing the marshal's brow. He wondered briefly if there was anything between the lawman and the physician, and then Flint said, "I'd like one of you to bring me up to date on why Mr. O’Sullivan has a couple of bullet holes in him."