Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

Time seemed to fly. Before O’Sullivan knew it, the meal was over, but everyone except Netta was content to remain at the table. The little girl slipped into one of the other rooms and came back with a doll that she showed to O’Sullivan with quiet pride. He took the small stuffed figure in his large, calloused hands and examined it with great care. "Why, that's just about the finest doll I've ever seen," he proclaimed.

  "Ellie made her for me," Netta said, beaming. "Her name is Angelina Elizbeth."

  "That's a very pretty name." O’Sullivan glanced at Ellie. "And she's a pretty little doll, just like you, Netta."

  "Thank you." Netta took the doll back and scampered away to play.

  "Why'd you come here, mister?" Charlie Barlow demanded suddenly, speaking for the first time since the meal began.

  "Pa!" Ellie cried before O’Sullivan could answer. "I told you I invited Mr. O’Sullivan."

  "Shut up," Barlow growled. "I didn't ask you. I asked you, mister. Why are you prowlin' around here? You hear in town that my little girl's a whore?"

  "Pa..." Ellie moaned.

  O’Sullivan had never heard more pain in a voice than there was in Ellie's at that moment.

  "Well, that's what folks say, ain't it, gal?" Barlow snarled. "For all I know it's true. You may be a whore, but you couldn't prove it by the money you bring in."

  O’Sullivan felt the blood pounding in his head. He was as angry as he had ever been in his life, but he was trying very hard not to give in to that emotion. If he did, he knew he would beat Charlie Barlow to within an inch of his life.

  Oliver didn’t have that much self-control. He rose from his chair and turned toward his father, shouting, "Shut up! Don't say that about Ellie, you drunken old man! Just shut u—"

  The boy, shaking with fury as he spoke, had unwittingly edged closer to Barlow. Moving with surprising speed, Barlow lashed out and cracked the flat of his hand across Oliver's cheek. The boy cried out in pain and caught himself on the table as he started to fall.

  Fists clenched, O’Sullivan was out of his chair in an instant, but before he could reach Barlow, Ellie grabbed his arm and hung on tightly. "No, Quincy!" she begged. "Don't! Please..."

  Scraping his chair back, Barlow stood up. His hand slid to his belt and drew a knife that was sheathed on his hip. O’Sullivan hadn’t seen the weapon, since Barlow had been sitting ever since he arrived. Waving the blade menacingly, he bellowed, "Come on, you damned fancy prizefighter. I'll carve you into little pieces!" Curses poured from his mouth as he continued to taunt O’Sullivan.

  "You'd better go," Ellie said in a wounded voice. "We're all right, Quincy, we really are. We can handle him."

  O’Sullivan glanced at Oliver. The boy had straightened, and although a bright red imprint from his father's blow marked his pale cheek, he seemed all right. In one corner of the room, Netta sat on the floor, clutching the doll called Angelina Elizbeth and sobbing softly to herself.

  Taking a deep breath, O’Sullivan shrugged off Ellie's hand. He pointed a finger at Barlow and said, "If I get word that you've hurt any of these children, I'm going to come out here and kill you. You understand, mister?"

  Barlow laughed, the sound a cackle edged with hysteria, and uttered more abuse, but he made no move to attack any of them with the knife. Ellie grasped Oliver's shoulder and gently steered him toward the doorway. O’Sullivan stepped between the children and Barlow as Ellie pulled Netta to her feet to bring her along.

  A moment later they had all moved onto the porch, and O’Sullivan shut the door firmly. Turning to Ellie, he cried, "You and the kids can't stay here. That man's crazy!"

  Ellie shook her head wearily. "He's just drunk. Now he'll get one of his bottles and finish it, then he'll go to sleep. When he wakes up, he'll be sorry about all of this...if he remembers it. But he won't hurt us. He's our father, I know he wouldn't hurt us."

  O’Sullivan turned to Oliver. The boy was staring down at the planks of the porch, clearly more ashamed than frightened. "What about that?" O’Sullivan demanded, gesturing at the mark on Oliver's face.

  "He might slap us around a little," Ellie agreed, then she went on, her tone pleading, "but he doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just...drinks too much. And he remembers our mother too much...I'm so sorry this happened, Quincy. He's been doing a little better lately. I thought when I asked you to come for dinner that he might not cause any trouble. I thought it would be good for him to see someone besides us and the men he drinks with in town."

  As Ellie spoke, she dropped her head, ashamed at having to explain her father's behavior. O’Sullivan placed one hand on her shoulder and cupped her chin with the other, gently lifting her face so he could look at her. "Why don't you hitch the wagon and come back to Abilene with me?" he urged. "Nobody should have to put up with this."

  "I'm sorry," Ellie whispered sadly. "We can't. He's our father, and this is our home."

  Frustrated, O’Sullivan sighed. Talking wasn’t going to do any good; he wouldn’t be able to convince Ellie to come with him. "I'm sorry, too," he said. "If I can help, any time, just get word to me. I'll do anything I can."

  "Thank you," she said softly.

  He took a deep breath. He wanted to tilt her head back again and kiss her, even with the two children right there on the porch with them. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had known women in the past, but they had always been bar girls. Never before had he been involved with someone as fresh and beautiful as Ellie. Despite what Barlow had said about her, O’Sullivan knew there was no truth in the man's drunken accusations.

  He squeezed her shoulder and said, "I'd better be going. I hope I'll see you in town again."

  Ellie smiled bravely. "I'm sure you will."

  O’Sullivan ruffled Oliver's hair. "So long, son," he said.

  "Goodbye, Mr. O’Sullivan." Oliver didn’t raise his head, and his voice sounded defeated. O’Sullivan frowned, not liking that a bit.

  Netta was a bit more animated in her farewell, throwing her arms around his neck and giving him a hug when he bent down to tell her goodbye. Awkwardly, O’Sullivan patted the little girl on the back, then stood up and strode quickly to the barn to reclaim his horse. He didn’t look back until he was mounted and riding away, and then the three figures standing on the porch of the ramshackle house seemed so small and helpless that he wished he hadn’t.

  When he got back to Abilene, he decided, he was going to have a talk with Marshal Flint about the Barlow family. Talmage wouldn’t like that, but the detective would already be angry with him for coming out here. Going to see Flint wouldn’t make things any worse. Surely something could be done about Charlie Barlow, O’Sullivan thought. There had to be some way to rescue the three children from their horrible situation.

  Furious and deep in thought, O’Sullivan rode toward Abilene, never noticing the sudden flash of light from the top of a knoll several hundred feet away. And even if he had seen it, he probably wouldn’t have recognized it as the glinting of sunlight on the barrel of a gun.

  Sam Talmage had told himself that O’Sullivan would be back any minute, that he had just gone to visit the outhouse as he had intimated. He doubted that the big prizefighter was devious enough to use that as a ploy to go visit that girl.

  However, when O’Sullivan hadn’t returned by the time the meal was almost over, Talmage knew that O’Sullivan had tricked him. He remembered how obstinate O’Sullivan had been about the invitation to have dinner with the girl's family. He was going to have to start giving O’Sullivan some credit for his intelligence and determination. After he tracked him down and got him back safely to Abilene, that is.

  Heedless of how it might look to the other boarders, Talmage pushed back bis chair and stood up. "Excuse me," he muttered to Hettie. Mentally cursing O’Sullivan for ruining his meal, he left the room quickly, stepped out the back door of the boardinghouse, and went straight to the small frame structure with the half-moon cut in the door. Even before he jerked it open, he knew he would find the outhouse empt
y.

  There was no sign of O’Sullivan, just as Talmage had figured. He slammed the door and stood for a moment with his hands on his hips, trying to decide what his next move should be.

  Barlow, that was her name. Ellie Barlow, Talmage recalled now. He would have to find out where she and her family lived. He was confident he would find O’Sullivan there.

  The logical person to ask for help was Lucas Flint. Talmage grimaced as that thought went through his head. If he went to the marshal to inquire where the Barlow farm was located, Flint would almost certainly want to know why he was interested. Talmage had already sensed more than once that the lawman was suspicious of them. After the fight at Angus's, Flint had seen O’Sullivan's bullet wounds, and although he hadn’t pressed them for an explanation, his curiosity had to have been aroused.

  He could go to Flint and reveal their true identities, Talmage thought; he could tell the lawman why they had really come to Abilene. Then the marshal would be duty-bound to help Talmage track down O’Sullivan and make sure that he was safe. After all, Flint was a fellow officer of the law.

  But here in the West that might not mean much. At least that had always been Talmage's opinion. Abruptly he shook his head. He wouldn’t go to Flint for help, he decided. There had to be some other way.

  Another name suggested itself to him—Leslie Garrison. Garrison was O’Sullivan's friend, and while he was a relative newcomer to the area, the Barlow lad was a student of his. There was a chance Leslie would know how to find the Barlow farm. And Talmage was confident he could allay any suspicions Leslie might have. He headed for the teacher's house at a fast walk, worry eating at him every step of the way.

  Luckily, Leslie Garrison was at home, and he was obviously surprised when he answered the urgent knock on his door and found Talmage standing there. "Hello, Mr. Talmage," he said, frowning. "Where's Quincy?"

  "That's what I want to know," Talmage answered. "Have you seen him today?"

  The teacher shook his head. "I haven't seen him in a couple of days. Did he slip away from you? I thought the two of you were inseparable."

  Ignoring Leslie's comment, Talmage asked, "Do you know where a family named Barlow lives? I think they have a farm somewhere around here."

  Leslie looked thoughtful. "Oliver Barlow's family? I've never been there, but I suppose I could find the place. I know roughly where it is."

  "Can you take me there? I think Quincy has gone out to see some girl."

  Leslie paused before answering, taking in Talmage's agitated state. "That would be Ellie Barlow," he said at last. "What's wrong with Quincy going to visit her? You can't believe the stories you hear around town about her. I think that's just jealous talk started by fellows who didn't have any luck courting her."

  "I don't care about that," Talmage snapped. "I'm just afraid something might happen to Quincy."

  Understanding dawned on Leslie's face. "You think Woodie Price might make another try for him, is that it?"

  "That's right," Talmage said quickly, seizing on that idea. Even though he was far more worried about one of Savage's men tracking them down than he was about some local bully, Price's grudge against them was a good excuse for his concern. He went on, "I don't want Price catching Quincy by himself. Now, will you come out there with me or not?"

  "You're right about Price," Leslie said, a worried scowl on his face. "Let me get my hat and coat. I keep my horse at the livery stable, and I'm sure we can rent one for you there."

  Talmage nodded impatiently. Leslie hurried into the house and emerged a moment later wearing his coat and Stetson and carrying a Winchester. The former big-city prizefighter looked for all the world like a westerner. Glancing at the rifle, Talmage asked, "What's that for?"

  "If we run into Price and his friends, we don't want to be unarmed," Leslie said grimly. "Come on." Turning on his heels, he headed for Texas Street, his long strides moving him along quickly. Talmage had to run to keep up.

  The detective had been afraid that Leslie would suggest going to Marshal Flint with their problem, but Leslie never mentioned it during their brisk walk to the stable. Maybe Leslie was adapting to western ways and wanted to handle his own problems, Talmage speculated. Whatever the reason, he was grateful that the teacher didn’t turn to Flint.

  When they arrived at the livery stable, they rented a mount for Talmage. Leslie saddled his own horse while Wendell put the rig on Talmage's animal. The old man said, "You're the second city feller to rent a horse today. That friend of yours was here earlier."

  "I'm not surprised," Talmage muttered. "Which way was he going when he left?"

  "Headed south out of town," Wendell said laconically. "Was going for a ride to get some fresh air."

  Talmage nodded and clumsily hauled himself up into the saddle. Leslie mounted much more smoothly and, placing his rifle across the pommel of his saddle, led the way out of the stable.

  "I hope we don't run into any trouble," he said as the two men turned their horses south.

  "So do I," Talmage agreed fervently.

  "Of course, Quincy isn't going to like us sticking our noses into his business this way, especially if he's as fond of Ellie Barlow as you seem to think he is," Leslie said.

  "We'll worry about that when we find him," Talmage replied, bouncing awkwardly in the saddle. He could already tell this was going to be a painful, unpleasant journey. And when he found Quincy O’Sullivan, the prizefighter would have a lot to answer for. Blast his black Irish soul!

  10

  Brett Easton and Woodie Price lay on the ground at the top of the knoll. Only their heads and the barrels of their rifles peeked over the crest of the rise. Winding like a ribbon below them was the trail that led from the Barlow farm to Abilene. The afternoon had grown very warm. Easton lifted a hand to wipe away the sweat beading on his forehead before it trickled into his eyes. He couldn’t afford to have sweat blurring his vision at a crucial moment.

  The two men had followed Quincy O’Sullivan all the way to the farmhouse where the prizefighter dismounted and went inside. "That's the Barlow place," Price told Easton. "I reckon O’Sullivan must've come out here to court the gal who lives there. Can't think of another reason why he'd be here."

  Easton laughed coldly. "Let him enjoy his visit, then," he sneered. "He won't be making another one."

  They had ridden back along the trail to choose a spot for their ambush, then returned to watch the farmhouse from their hiding place among the trees. As soon as they saw O’Sullivan walk toward the barn and lead his horse into the yard, they galloped back to their ambush point.

  Now it was just a matter of letting O’Sullivan get within rifle range. They had spotted him a few minutes earlier, approaching from the east along the trail.

  "Wait until there's no chance of missing," Easton cautioned Price. "I don't want anything going wrong. O’Sullivan has to die."

  Price turned and squinted at the man from Chicago. "You ain't never told me exactly why you've got it in for O’Sullivan," he said. "Not that it's any of my business—"

  "That's right," Easton snapped. "It's none of your business. All you need to think about is the five hundred dollars you'll get when both O’Sullivan and Talmage are dead."

  Price licked his dry lips and grinned slowly. "I reckon five hunnerd bucks is enough explanation for me, Mr. Easton."

  Easton laid his cheek against the smooth wooden stock of the rifle and peered over the barrel, lining the sights on the trail. To his left, Quincy O’Sullivan was riding closer and closer. "Come on, come on," Easton breathed, feeling the tingle of anticipation he always experienced before a kill.

  Beside him, Price abruptly raised up slightly. "I can get him for you," he growled as he lifted his rifle to his shoulder.

  Easton twisted, saying, "No! Not yet!" and tried to get his hand on the barrel of Price's Winchester to force it down. He was too late. In his impatience, Price had jerked the trigger.

  The rifle blasted, sending a slug screaming at Quincy O’Sul
livan.

  O’Sullivan heard something that sounded like a large bee buzz close by his right ear. A split second later came the sharp crack of a rifle. He frowned for a moment, then realized that someone was shooting at him. With a yell, he leaned against his horse's neck and banged his heels into its flanks. The animal surged forward into a gallop.

  O’Sullivan grabbed the saddle horn and held on for dear life. With every lunging stride, the horse threatened to unseat him. Over the pounding of the hooves, he heard more shots. He glanced in the direction they came from and saw puffs of gun smoke coming from a small rise. That was where the ambushers were, he thought, but there was no way he could fight back. All he could do now was hang on and pray that the bullets missed him.

  He hoped, too, that the madly running mare wouldn’t throw him from the saddle. The prairie sped by him at a dizzying speed.

  "You idiot!" Easton shouted at Price as he scrambled onto his knees to get a better shot at the fleeing O’Sullivan. "You should have let me take him!" Easton flung the Winchester to his shoulder and fired.

  Price levered another shell into the chamber and triggered again. "I thought I could cut him down!" he replied angrily. "I can still get him!" He fired as fast as he could.

  Easton worked the action of his rifle and cursed his unfamiliarity with the weapon. Back in Chicago he was accustomed to using handguns, and no one was better with a derringer at close range. There didn’t seem to be such a thing as close range out here in the West, however. He took a deep breath, trained his sights on O’Sullivan's back, and pressed the trigger again.

  Through the haze of gun smoke, Easton suddenly saw the horse stumble as one of the bullets struck it. Its legs tangled, and it tumbled to the ground hard. O’Sullivan flew out of the saddle and through the air, landed heavily, and rolled for several feet, sending up a cloud of dust. As the dust blew away, revealing the motionless body sprawled on the ground, a thrill coursed through Easton.