Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  And there wasn’t one thing Sam Talmage could do about it.

  Lucas Flint had been taking a leisurely turn around the town prior to eating his dinner when he saw O’Sullivan riding out of the livery stable. The big man looked pretty uncomfortable on horseback, but he seemed to be managing to make the animal go where he wanted it to go. Seeing O’Sullivan on a horse was one of the last things Flint would have expected. He strolled over to the stable to satisfy his curiosity.

  Wendell confirmed that O’Sullivan had rented the horse. "Said he was just going for a ride south of town to get some fresh air," Wendell told the marshal. "Reckon he must've been tellin' the truth. Don't know why else a greenhorn like that would want to get on a horse."

  Flint nodded thoughtfully, then thanked Wendell for the information and headed toward his office, forgetting for the moment his plan to visit the Red Top Café for his Sunday dinner. As he strode along the boardwalk, he thought about the angry conversation between O’Sullivan and Talmage he had overheard earlier. O’Sullivan had mentioned an invitation of some sort from a woman.

  Cully was in the marshal's office, cleaning the rifles from the wall rack when Flint came in. He looked up and nodded a greeting, then peered at the marshal more closely as he noticed the puzzled expression on Flint's face. "Something bothering you, Marshal?" he asked.

  "I just saw Quincy O’Sullivan riding out of town on a horse," Flint said.

  "Was that Talmage fella with him? He's been sticking to O’Sullivan like a grass burr."

  Flint shook his head. "O’Sullivan was alone, as far as I could tell. He rode south out of town. Wendell over at the livery stable rented him the horse, said O’Sullivan told him he was going for a ride."

  "A ride out to the Barlow place, most likely." Cully grinned.

  Flint's interest quickened. "What's that about the Barlows?"

  "I saw O’Sullivan talking to Ellie Barlow a few days ago. He asked me a few questions about her afterwards, seemed pretty taken with her." Cully's grin widened. "I warned him he probably wouldn't get very far."

  Remembering O’Sullivan's statement about an invitation, Flint wasn’t so sure about that. Given the day and the time, Sunday dinner was pretty likely to figure in any invitation.

  "The Barlow farm is south of here, isn't it?"

  "Southeast," Cully replied. "Over past the McFarland place."

  Flint nodded, again deep in thought. "Maybe I'll ride out there a little later and make sure O’Sullivan got there all right. He looked like he might get thrown off that horse if he wasn't careful."

  "Probably never been on one before," Cully commented. "You think he was going to see Ellie Barlow?"

  "Reckon we'll find out. Now, why don't we go get some dinner ourselves?"

  Cully quickly finished cleaning the rifle he was working on and replaced it on the rack. "Sounds good to me," he said.

  Quincy O’Sullivan wasn’t the only man traveling south out of Abilene on this sunny autumn Sunday. Riding far enough behind him so that they wouldn’t be seen were two men, who were keeping an eye on the distant figure of their quarry.

  Brett Easton reached down and stroked the stock of the Winchester sheathed in the saddle boot. The smooth wood was reassuring. He felt slightly uneasy sitting on the back of a horse, but with Woodie Price along, he expected no trouble.

  Enlisting Price as an ally had been simplicity itself. The man wasn’t overly intelligent, but he knew this area and, as far as Easton could tell, had no scruples. He also possessed a grudge against O’Sullivan that demanded vengeance. Price had been only too happy to keep an eye on O’Sullivan and report his movements to Easton, allowing the man from Chicago to remain in the background. For several days, Price had watched O’Sullivan, but until today the big prizefighter had always been with a man Easton recognized as Inspector Sam Talmage of the Chicago police force.

  Now O’Sullivan was alone, and Easton wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to kill him. As the only eyewitness against Easton and Dane Savage, O’Sullivan was the more important target. Talmage could be disposed of later. Once Price had brought him the news that O’Sullivan was riding out of town by himself, Easton had quickly gotten horses and guns ready. All that remained was finding the right spot.

  Today, Easton thought as he patted the stock of the rifle again, Quincy O’Sullivan was going to die.

  9

  As Quincy O’Sullivan followed the broad, well-beaten trail south from Abilene onto the rolling prairie, it occurred to him that he had always judged distances in city blocks. Ellie had told him to take this route for a mile, but he had no idea how far that was. There were few landmarks on the vast, open landscape, and O’Sullivan quickly saw that he had no way of knowing how far he had come from town.

  After he had been riding on the road for what seemed to be a long time, he came upon a smaller track that veered off to his left. That should be east, he supposed. Pulling back on the reins, he brought his horse to a halt and studied the trail for a moment before making up his mind.

  Might as well follow it for a while and see what I find, he decided. Turning the horse's head, he gently urged it down the narrow track.

  When he had traveled on the smaller trail for what he figured was as far as he had come from Abilene, he noticed a cluster of buildings nestled in a copse of trees up ahead. The house was a dirt structure that Leslie Garrison had told him was called a soddy. At one point, the teacher mentioned that it was expensive to build frame houses in Kansas because timber was scarce and that settlers often lived in soddies for quite a while. Near the house stood a barn with a corral next to it. The small farm looked well-cared for and fairly prosperous.

  In front of the sod house a man was lounging in a chair, whittling while several small children played on the ground around him. Suddenly spotting O’Sullivan, the man straightened, reached behind him, and plucked a rifle from the ground. Resting the weapon lightly on his lap, he stared at O’Sullivan and waited for him to ride up to the house.

  Feeling the cautious settler's eyes upon him, O’Sullivan realized that, while the area seemed pretty civilized, danger from outlaws and possibly even Indians was a persistent threat to what he assumed was an easygoing, perhaps monotonous life. He wondered how Ellie felt about living so far from town when a situation could become precarious with very little warning.

  O’Sullivan reined in, pulling too hard on the lines and making his horse dance around nervously. When the mare quieted down, O’Sullivan grinned and pushed his derby back on his head. "Hello," he said to the vigilant settler. "I'm looking for the Barlow place. Am I going in the right direction?"

  The farmer spat on the ground. "You got business with the Barlows?" he asked warily. As the man spoke, O’Sullivan noticed a woman standing half-hidden in the shadows of the doorway, peering at him. She motioned abruptly with her fingers, and the children scurried inside the house.

  "Miss Ellie Barlow invited me to take Sunday dinner with them," O’Sullivan replied in a soothing tone. "Don't worry, mister. I didn't ride out here to cause any trouble."

  The man seemed to relax. "It don't pay to take chances this far out. Yeah, you're on the right trail, friend. My name's McFarland; my place borders the Barlow farm." He nodded toward the east. "You just keep on followin' this trail. You'll see their place in about another mile."

  "Thanks," O’Sullivan answered and glanced around again at the farm. "Looks like you've got a pretty nice place."

  "We've worked hard enough for it," McFarland observed dryly, but he nodded and smiled slightly at the compliment.

  His wife reappeared in the doorway. "Not like that shiftless Charlie Barlow," she snapped. Obviously, the lean, sour-faced woman had been listening to their conversation.

  McFarland glanced up at her. "Now, Freida, you got no call to talk like that," he chided. "I reckon Charlie does the best he can—"

  "No, he don't, and you know it, Dwight McFarland. When I think about those poor children having to do without so Charlie can
keep drinkin' up every cent he makes..." She shook her head and clucked her tongue.

  "Mind what you say now, woman. It ain't none of our business." McFarland scowled and shook his head. Evidently, he had been fighting this battle with his acid-tongued spouse for quite some time.

  O’Sullivan tipped his hat to the lady and said to McFarland, "Thanks again for the help. I'd better be going." Turning the horse's head back toward the trail, he bumped his heels gently against its flanks and nudged it into a walk.

  The exchange between the settler and his wife confirmed O’Sullivan's suspicions about Charlie Barlow. After Barlow's wife died, he must have retreated into the bottle in an attempt to ease his pain. O’Sullivan had watched several boxers do the same thing, only they were trying to forget physical rather than emotional aches. Early in his career he himself had gone on an occasional binge, but then Bernie had come along and turned his career—and him—around.

  Bernie had probably saved his life, O’Sullivan reflected. Maybe all Charlie Barlow needed was someone to take him in hand and straighten out his thinking.

  He mulled that over as he followed the trail. After he had ridden for what he guessed to be a mile, he began to look around for signs of the Barlow farm. As he topped a rise and started down into the shallow valley below, he saw the house near a line of brush and small trees that indicated the presence of a stream. Pleased with himself, O’Sullivan smiled. McFarland had told him it was about a mile farther on; he was getting better at judging distances.

  As he drew closer, O’Sullivan could see that at one time the Barlow house must have been considerably nicer than McFarland's soddy. Now it really needed work. The two-story structure was built of planks that once had been whitewashed, although it had obviously been a long time since a new coat had been applied. There were a couple of broken posts in the front porch railing. Several shingles had blown off the roof sometime in the past and had never been replaced. The barn behind the house was in no better shape. O’Sullivan shook his head sadly. What had once been a fine little farm was falling apart.

  Suddenly O’Sullivan was angry. Charlie Barlow had stopped caring. How could a man—even one who had suffered the loss of his wife—neglect his responsibilities like this when he had such a fine family in Ellie, Oliver, and little Netta?

  Then he reined in his roiling emotions and told himself not to voice those thoughts once he got in the house. As an itinerant boxer, a slugger who made his living by being able to take more punishment and dish out more pain than the other man in the ring, he had no right to judge anyone. He was no example.

  But that didn’t change the way he was starting to feel about Ellie. It didn’t matter that he had only seen her and talked with her a couple of times. O’Sullivan knew his feelings were genuine.

  The front door of the house burst open, and Oliver ran out on the porch. "Mr. O’Sullivan!" he cried gleefully. "Mr. O’Sullivan's here!"

  O’Sullivan wondered if the boy had been sitting inside watching through the window, waiting for him. He rode into the yard in front of the house and slid out of the saddle, glad to feel the solid ground beneath his feet again. Oliver, a broad smile on his pale face, rushed down the steps to meet him.

  "Hello, Oliver," O’Sullivan greeted him. "I hope I'm not too late for dinner."

  "Oh, no, Ellie wouldn't let us eat until you got here," Oliver blurted. "She said nobody was touching a bite until then."

  "Oliver!" Ellie cried from the doorway. O’Sullivan glanced up and saw she was blushing. Netta pushed past Ellie and came onto the porch, beaming at O’Sullivan.

  O’Sullivan extended the mare's reins toward Oliver. "Do you think you could do something with this horse, lad?" he asked.

  "Oh, sure. I'll put her in the barn and give her some grain," the boy replied happily. He took the reins and started leading the animal toward the barn. Over his shoulder, he called, "Don't start without me!"

  "We won't," Ellie assured him. Suddenly she blushed again and reached quickly behind her to untie the apron she was wearing. O’Sullivan stepped onto the porch.

  He rested a hand on Netta's blonde head for a moment, then looked at Ellie and smiled. "You're looking as lovely as ever," he told her.

  "Thank you," she murmured, her blush deepening as she met his gaze.

  O’Sullivan had never seen a more beautiful woman. Her dress was made of simple homespun calico, like Netta's, but on her slim figure it was attractive, almost elegant. She had brushed her clean, long hair until it shone, and her eyes were warm and soft.

  "Damn it, he's here, ain't he? Get inside and let's eat! A man could damn well starve to death around here."

  Ellie flinched at the harsh words bellowed from inside the house. Little Netta suddenly looked frightened and cowered against her sister's skirts. Ellie squeezed her shoulder and said softly, "It's all right, Netta. It's not your fault. I'm the one he's mad at."

  O’Sullivan frowned. "I made trouble for you by being late, didn't I?"

  "Not at all," Ellie said, shaking her head quickly. "My father's just not feeling very well today."

  O’Sullivan nodded, willing to accept the fiction rather than cause her any more embarrassment. At that moment Oliver came running back from the barn, and the four of them went into the house, the two children leading the way.

  They entered a large room that served as the parlor, dining room, and kitchen, and O’Sullivan glanced around. The disrepair he had noticed outside continued inside the house as well. At one time the walls had been plastered, but large cracks had developed that badly needed attention. Moisture from a leak in the roof had warped the floorboards. The upholstered furniture, which was arranged in one corner of the room, was heavily patched, and the sofa's stuffing threatened to cascade onto the floor in a few places. Despite these problems, the place was clean and neat, and O’Sullivan knew that Ellie was doing her very best with little or no help.

  In the center of the room stood a long table, and a man was slumped in a chair at its head. O’Sullivan recognized Charlie Barlow from the brief glimpse he had had of him in Abilene. Now that O’Sullivan was in the same room with him, he could see the dull yet haunted expression in Barlow's eyes and the silver streaks in his hair and beard. His lined face, which once had been handsome, was set in what seemed to be a perpetual scowl.

  Barlow looked O’Sullivan up and down and said, "So you're the one these whelps have been talkin' about for a week. Big one, ain't you?"

  "Pa, this is Quincy O’Sullivan," Ellie said in a tightly controlled voice. "He's our friend, so please be nice to him."

  "Are you sayin' I ain't always nice?" Barlow snapped. "What the hell kind of a way is that to talk? Do you know how hard I work for you and those brats? Ain't that nice?"

  O’Sullivan felt his hands slowly bunching into fists. He saw the way Ellie stoically withstood her father's unpleasantness. Oliver and Netta, however, didn’t take it quite as well. Both children looked ashamed and frightened at the same time, as if they wished they could run away and hide.

  For a moment O’Sullivan thought how satisfying it would be to grab Charlie Barlow's shirtfront, drag him to his feet, and backhand him a few times. But with great effort he controlled that impulse. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to say calmly, "There's no need to get upset, Mr. Barlow. I'm sure Ellie and the kids know what you've done for them." He stepped forward and extended his hand. "I'm glad to meet you."

  Barlow grunted and said nothing, but after a moment he half rose and grudgingly shook his hand. O’Sullivan could smell the liquor on his breath as he sank back in his chair. Barlow had probably been drinking since he got up that morning.

  Ellie hurried to the stove that stood against one wall of the big room. "We don't have anything fancy," she said apologetically to O’Sullivan as she started carrying the food to the table.

  "I came for some good home-cooked food," he assured her, waving off her comment, "and I'm sure everything will be just fine."

  Smiling at his compl
iment, Ellie nodded to the children to help as she put down a large pot of stew that smelled wonderful to O’Sullivan. She instructed Netta to bring a dish of buttered greens, while Oliver carried two pans of cornbread. Returning to the stove, she picked up a pot of coffee and brought it to the table.

  While they worked, O’Sullivan had remained standing. Now Ellie stood at her chair with a puzzled frown creasing her brow until she realized that he was waiting for her to sit down. She smiled and blushed again, then sat down after seeing that Oliver and Netta were both settled in their seats.

  As O’Sullivan took his own seat across the table from the two children, he realized he must seem like quite a gentleman to Ellie after what she was used to. The idea surprised him because he had never thought of himself that way. Where he had grown up, the fight game had been the only thing to aspire to. While it had been good to him, it hadn’t taught him manners or turned him into a gentleman. There were usually gentlemen around, gamblers and swells like Morgan Randolph, but the boxers were a pretty rough lot.

  Evidently Ellie had a higher opinion of him than he had of himself. The smile she gave him as she held out a bowl of stew warmed him more than the hot food ever would.

  Gradually the atmosphere around the table became more relaxed. Charlie Barlow busied himself with eating and didn’t speak. But Oliver, emboldened by O’Sullivan's friendly demeanor, asked him a multitude of questions about prizefighting. Then Ellie wanted to know about Chicago and Philadelphia and New York. O’Sullivan tried his best to answer all their questions and enjoyed himself hugely in the process. The food was excellent, and with the exception of the surly, silent figure at the head of the table, he couldn’t have asked for better company.