The gambler had no time to congratulate himself, however. There were farms in the area, and the residents might well have heard the gunfire. He had better hurry and make sure O’Sullivan was dead, then get back to Abilene as quickly as possible before someone came to investigate the shooting.
But this was still the Wild West, after all, Easton thought. Maybe gunshots were such a commonplace sound that no one would get excited about them. He still had to make certain O’Sullivan was dead.
"Get the horses," he ordered Price. "We're going down there."
"That fall had to have killed him, even if we didn't hit him with any of those shots," Price argued. "We'd better get out of here."
"After I'm sure he's dead. Now get the horses." Easton's tone contained an unmistakable edge of menace.
Price got to his feet and gave a surly nod. He went quickly to the clump of brush where their horses were tied and brought them back to the top of the knoll. Both men mounted up and started toward the trail. Easton kept the muzzle of his rifle pointed toward the motionless body.
When they reached O’Sullivan, he intended to pump several more bullets into him just to make sure. A savage grin tugged at his mouth. It had taken him a while, but he was finally going to finish the job he had started on that dark, wind-swept Chicago pier.
Leslie Garrison and Sam Talmage had just passed a farm that the teacher identified as the McFarland place when they heard the piercing crack of gunfire somewhere up ahead. Talmage exclaimed, "That's got to be where Quincy is!"
"Come on," Leslie cried, urging his horse into a run.
Talmage struggled to get his own mount to gallop, wincing every time he landed on the sore spots where the saddle had rubbed him. Clutching the reins and the saddle horn with his left hand, he reached under his coat with his right hand for his pistol and yanked the Remington Number Four from his pocket. It wasn’t very accurate at distances over ten or fifteen feet, but at least he could make some noise with it.
As more gunshots rang out, the two men rode hard over the rolling prairie, making good time for men who were not accustomed to riding galloping horses. Talmage's pulse was racing not only from the exertion of this desperate dash but also because he was worried about O’Sullivan. He could almost see the case against Dane Savage and Brett Easton going up in smoke.
Suddenly the firing stopped, and the only sounds Leslie and Talmage could hear were the hoofbeats of their animals. Leslie was in the lead, and he glanced anxiously over his shoulder at Talmage. Both men knew what the abrupt silence might mean.
The trail dipped through a shallow depression and curved around a hill, then opened into a long straight stretch. North of it rose a small knoll. Coming down that slope were two figures on horseback. Up ahead, on the trail itself, lay a fallen horse, and beyond that a man was sprawled in the dirt.
"Quincy!" Talmage yelled. He felt as if someone had plunged an icy blade into his belly. The body on the ground was still and lifeless.
The two men riding down the knoll stopped short at the sight of Leslie and Talmage. One of the riders jerked a rifle to his shoulder and blasted a shot at them. The slug whined past, high overhead, but close enough for them to hear the eerie sound of its passage. Leslie hauled back on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt. He lifted his Winchester and pressed the trigger.
Talmage, desperate to stop his horse, tugged frantically on the reins. Nervous from the shooting and the inexperience of its rider, the horse skittered to a stop and reared up on its hind legs. Talmage almost fell from the saddle. He grabbed at the saddle horn and wrapped his scrabbling fingers around it. The horse came down on all four hooves with a bone-jarring thud. Talmage started to slip again, but he caught himself and lifted the revolver.
The Remington's blasts were a counterpoint to the cracking of the Winchester. Leslie glanced over in surprise, unaware until this moment that Talmage had been armed. It was a good thing he was. Now the odds were even.
Leslie hated having to resort to violence, but there was nothing else they could do. He recognized the fallen man as O’Sullivan and knew that the other two had probably been on their way down the hill to finish him off. If O’Sullivan was even still alive, Leslie thought grimly. From the looks of the horse, it had been shot out from under him. O’Sullivan had to have taken a bad fall.
The two ambushers altered their course, spurring their horses forward and angling toward Leslie and Talmage. Leslie fired again but was unsure where his bullet went. Given time to aim, he wasn’t a bad shot when his only goal was to hit a target. But this was the first time he had ever traded lead with anyone who was also trying to kill him. Fear was a sharp, acrid taste in his mouth.
Talmage was calmer, but he was plagued by a nervous mount, and his gun was ineffective at this range. He emptied the Remington and then coolly took more shells from his pocket and began reloading. As he glanced up at the two riders charging toward them, he saw that he wouldn’t have the little pistol ready in time to meet their attack.
Leslie levered the Winchester and fired again. Looking over at Talmage, he cried, "We've got to get out of here!"
Talmage shook his head. "Not without Quincy," he snapped as he thumbed fresh cartridges into his revolver.
Suddenly Leslie felt ashamed. He had wanted to run when O’Sullivan was up there maybe badly injured, maybe already dead. But regardless of his condition, he was Leslie's friend, and the teacher knew now that he couldn’t leave without trying to help him. Arranging his features into a stony expression to conceal his fear, Leslie jacked another shell into the rifle and raised it to fire.
More shots rang out, this time coming from behind Leslie and Talmage. The detective jerked his head around, expecting to meet a new threat, but instead he saw Lucas Flint galloping toward them, firing a Winchester from the back of his speeding horse. As Flint swept past them, the marshal shouted, "See to O’Sullivan!"
Talmage urged his mount forward. With the fire from Flint and Leslie covering him, he hurried up the trail toward the fallen figure of his friend.
The two ambushers pulled up when they saw that the odds had turned against them. They wheeled their horses and started back up the slope. As they did, Leslie Garrison kicked his horse into a gallop and raced to catch up to Flint. The two men from Abilene fired their rifles together, the slugs kicking up dust just behind the fleeing duo. The ambushers reached the top of the hill and vanished over it.
Reining in, Flint called, "Hold on, Leslie!" When Leslie had halted his own horse, the marshal went on, "We might be riding into a trap if we go over that hill after them. Better to let them go right now and try to catch up to them later."
Leslie nodded. His heart was pounding heavily in his chest, and he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. "Could you tell who they were?" he asked Flint in a hoarse voice.
Flint shook his head. "Not for sure. One of them might have been Woodie Price. I thought I caught a glimpse of that cowhide vest he wears all the time. The other fellow I didn't know at all." He slid his Winchester back into the saddle boot. "Are you all right?"
Leslie looked down at himself as if to check for blood or bullet holes. He grinned sheepishly. "I wasn't sure for a minute there. But I don't seem to be hit anywhere. I don't think Mr. Talmage was, either."
"I'm not surprised," Flint grunted. "Even with all that lead flying around, it's mighty hard to hit anything from horseback. Come on, we'd better check on O’Sullivan."
The two men trotted their horses toward the sprawled figure, their faces bleak at the prospect of what they might find.
By the time Talmage reached O’Sullivan, he was convinced that the big prizefighter was dead. O’Sullivan hadn’t moved during the chaotic gun battle. His horse was also motionless, and as Talmage passed the animal, he saw the bloody wound in its side, just behind the forelegs. A lucky shot, but one that had probably found the heart. The horse was dead.
He slid out of the saddle as soon as he reached O’Sullivan's still form, lying face-down in the d
ust. He dropped to one knee and grasped the prizefighter's shoulders. Dreading what he was going to see, Talmage turned him over as gently as possible.
To his surprise, he saw no blood on O’Sullivan's clothes, only the dirt of the trail. And with a mixed feeling of relief and excitement, he saw the boxer's chest rising and falling rhythmically. O’Sullivan was alive! Not only alive, Talmage decided, but not too badly hurt
Flint and Leslie rode up then. Talmage had seen their fight with the ambushers out of the corner of his eye, had seen the two men fleeing over the rise. Now, as Leslie hurriedly dismounted and joined Talmage beside O’Sullivan, Flint watched the knoll in case the two men tried to attack again.
"How is he?" Leslie asked anxiously.
"I think he may be all right," Talmage replied. "I can't find any bullet wounds, and the fall doesn't seem to have opened his old injuries."
"Give him some of this," Flint said. He pulled a canteen from his saddle and tossed it to Leslie. The teacher uncapped it and knelt beside O’Sullivan's head, lifting it to let some of the water trickle into his mouth. O’Sullivan choked, then swallowed and began moving his head from side to side. He let out a moan.
A moment later, he was sitting up, still shaking his head and grunting occasionally in pain. Talmage asked, "Are you all right?"
"Ohhh..." O’Sullivan lifted a hand and rubbed a swollen knot on the side of his head. "I think so. But what happened?"
"A couple of men shot your horse out from under you," said Flint, still astride his mount. "We came along and stopped them from finishing you off."
O’Sullivan looked around at the three of them. "But who would want to...?"
"That low-life bully Price," Talmage grated. "It had to be him and one of his friends."
"I thought I saw him, all right," Flint agreed. "And the other man could have been one of bis pards. Is there any other reason why somebody would be trying to kill you, O’Sullivan?"
O’Sullivan quickly glanced at Talmage, trying to discern what the detective wanted him to say. Before he could answer, Talmage said, "Of course there isn't. It was Price, I tell you. He's been trying to settle his grudge against Quincy ever since that brawl in Angus's."
O’Sullivan nodded. "Makes sense to me, Marshal. I don't know why anybody else would want to shoot me."
"All right," Flint said, accepting the explanation. "You reckon you can get on your feet?"
"I can try," O’Sullivan said. With Leslie's help, he pulled himself upright. He was a little shaky for a moment, but then the feeling passed. He went on, "I think I'll be fine once I—oh, no!"
Flint followed his gaze and saw that O’Sullivan had noticed the horse. O’Sullivan walked unsteadily over to the animal and looked down at it sadly. When he raised his eyes he murmured, "That was a good horse. They had no right to do that."
"No, they didn't," Flint agreed, his voice hard with anger. "You and Mr. Talmage will have to ride back to town together. When we get there, we'll let the folks at the livery stable know what happened. They'll want to come out to get the saddle."
"Come on, Quincy," Talmage said, steering him toward the other rented animal, "we'll get you back to Abilene and have the doctor take a look at you, just to make sure you're not hurt badly."
O’Sullivan angrily shook off Talmage's hand. "All right," he said. "But somebody's going to pay for this."
"Damn right they will," Flint agreed in a deceptively quiet voice.
Talmage and O’Sullivan mounted up, O’Sullivan taking the saddle at Talmage's insistence and the detective climbing on behind him. They started down the trail at a slow pace. Flint rode even more slowly, keeping an eye on the knoll and falling several yards behind. Leslie Garrison let his mount drop back until he was riding beside Flint.
"What were you doing out here, Lucas?" Leslie asked. "Was it just luck that you happened to be around when we needed you?"
Flint shrugged and nodded toward the horse moving ahead of them with its double load. "I rode out to make sure that nothing happened to O’Sullivan while he was visiting the Barlows, but I guess you could say it was luck that made me curious in the first place." Quickly and in a voice low enough that the other two men couldn’t hear him, he told Leslie about the angry conversation between O’Sullivan and Talmage he had overheard earlier in the day. "And Cully had talked to O’Sullivan and seemed to think that he might be interested in the Barlow girl," Flint went on, "so I figured it might be a good idea to keep an eye on him. He's a greenhorn out here."
"Like me," Leslie commented.
Flint shook his head. "You and Talmage were holding your own." A thoughtful expression appeared on the lawman's lean face. "Did you happen to notice that gun Talmage carries?"
"I noticed it, all right. I was surprised when he started firing it earlier."
"Why would a fight manager be carrying a gun?" Flint mused.
Leslie gave a short laugh. "Why do men out here always carry guns, Lucas?"
"Out here you never know when you'll need one," Flint replied. "Even if there weren't plenty of two-legged skunks around to give trouble, there are snakes and all kinds of other varmints."
"It's the same in the big cities back East," Leslie told him earnestly. "Especially in the areas where prizefights take place. The matches are illegal in most states, but they go on anyway with the police usually looking the other way. That means the people attracted to the bouts aren't the most law-abiding citizens in the world. A lot of the fight managers I've known carry guns just as a matter of course, Lucas, like the men out here."
Flint nodded in understanding. What Leslie said made sense. But Flint still thought there was something that O’Sullivan and Talmage weren’t telling him. As quick as it had been, he had still seen the look that passed between the two men when he asked who else besides Price might have been responsible for the ambush. There was some sort of secret between them.
And he was going to find out what it was before somebody in his town got killed because of it, Lucas Flint told himself.
The group returned to Abilene without further trouble. There was no sign of the men who had ambushed O’Sullivan, and Flint figured that they might be miles away by this time. "If it was Price, he may not try again," the lawman speculated as he and the others paused in front of the boardinghouse where O’Sullivan and Talmage were staying. "This would be the second time he's tried to even the score since the fight, and he's failed both times."
"From what I've seen of him, Price's got a head like a rock," Leslie commented. "He's not the kind to give up easily."
"Well, we can hope," O’Sullivan replied. He extended his hand to Flint. "Thanks for the help, Marshal."
"I'm just glad I happened to be there," Flint said as he shook the prizefighter's hand.
O’Sullivan turned to Leslie. "And you, Slugger—I guess I'd be dead now if it wasn't for you."
Leslie clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about that," he assured him. "Just get some rest. I think Rose is getting a little tired of you having a new bump or bruise every time she sees you."
O’Sullivan laughed. "Could be, but at least that way Sam here gets to see her again."
"That's enough of that, Quincy," Talmage snapped. "Come on. I want you to take it easy for the rest of the day."
O’Sullivan nodded and let Talmage lead him into the boardinghouse. He waved to Flint and Leslie as he climbed onto the porch with Talmage.
They had stopped at Rose Keller's office first. Even though it was a Sunday afternoon, she was there, reading the medical journals that she had shipped out to her from the East. Flint wasn’t surprised by her presence; he knew how dedicated she was to her practice, how little time she spent in the room she rented. She quickly examined O’Sullivan and pronounced him very lucky. He had the bump on his head, a result of the impact that had knocked him out when he was thrown from the horse, and several other bruises, but that was the extent of his injuries. The weeks-old bullet wounds hadn’t been torn open by the fall.
&
nbsp; From there they had gone to the livery stable to tell Wendell about the shooting of the rented horse. The old man was upset, as could be expected, but he calmed down when Talmage handed over enough cash to cover the cost of the animal. Wendell promised to have some of the hostlers go out and retrieve the gear from the animal and tend to the body, unpleasant though the chore might be. Then Flint and Leslie accompanied O’Sullivan and Talmage to the boardinghouse.
Now, as they walked away from the place, the teacher asked Flint, "What do you think of that fellow Talmage?"
Flint glanced over at him, thinking about Talmage's mysterious behavior and the interest he had shown in Rose Keller. "I'm not very fond of him," the marshal said bluntly. "Why do you ask?"
"I've been thinking about what you asked me, about him carrying a gun," Leslie replied. "The fact that he was armed doesn't surprise me, but until I thought about it, I didn't realize how he acted when those two bushwhackers started shooting at us. He was mighty cool, Lucas, a lot calmer than I was. Like he was used to being shot at or something."
Flint nodded, deep in thought. After a moment, he said, "You think there's something strange about this situation, too, don't you?"
"Something sure doesn't seem right," Leslie agreed. "I don't think either Talmage or Quincy is telling the whole truth about why they're here."
"That's what I've thought ever since I saw those bullet holes in O’Sullivan. Somebody tried to kill him not too long ago, and I'd like to know why."
Leslie paused and met Flint's level gaze. "If there's anything I can do to help, Lucas, I'd be glad to."
"I thought O’Sullivan was your friend. He might not want us poking around in his business."
"He is my friend," Leslie said solemnly. "That's why I don't want somebody trying to kill him."
Flint nodded. "Thanks, Leslie. If I need any help, I’ll let you know. Right now, it seems to me Talmage is the key to this puzzle. I think I'll pay him a visit later and see if I can convince him to open up."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 131