Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Leslie looked doubtful. "He strikes me as a pretty hard nut, Lucas. Good luck on getting him to talk."

  They parted company then, Leslie heading toward his house, Flint returning to the marshal's office on Texas Street. It was empty when he got there, and he assumed that Cully was out somewhere keeping an eye on the town.

  Not that Abilene needed much watching on a Sunday afternoon. Everything seemed fairly quiet, and Flint took advantage of the lull to catch up on some of his paperwork. After an hour or so, he straightened his desk and retrieved his hat from the peg next to the door. If Quincy O’Sullivan had followed Rose's advice to rest, he would probably be napping by now. Flint hoped so; he wanted a chance to talk to Talmage alone.

  He opened the door of the office just as Cully was about to walk in. The young deputy nodded and said, "Howdy, Marshal. Did O’Sullivan get back from the Barlow place all right?"

  "Eventually," Flint said dryly. Quickly, he filled Cully in on what had happened between Abilene and the Barlow farm. Cully let out a whistle as Flint described the ambush.

  "Somebody really wants O’Sullivan planted," Cully commented when Flint had finished. "You think it was Woodie Price again?"

  "That's what Talmage claims, and I thought I spotted him, too. But something tells me there's more to it than that. I thought I'd go over and have a talk with Talmage."

  Cully nodded. "Sounds like a good idea. Want some company?"

  "No, you stay here at the office in case somebody comes looking for us. I'll be back in a little while."

  Cully took off his black hat and skillfully tossed it onto one of the pegs. "I'll be here."

  Flint walked to South Second Street, nodding greetings to the few pedestrians he passed. When he reached the boardinghouse, he knocked on the door. A moment later, Hettie Wilburn answered. "Hello, Marshal," the middle-aged widow said with a smile. "What can I do for you?"

  "Do you know if your two new boarders are here, Mrs. Wilburn?" Flint asked.

  "You mean Mr. O’Sullivan and Mr. Talmage? I believe they are. Mr. O’Sullivan said he wasn't feeling very well when they came in earlier. He said he was going upstairs to lie down."

  "Which rooms are they in?"

  "The third and fourth doors on the left in the upstairs hall. Mr. O’Sullivan is in the third room, Mr. Talmage in the one just past it." Hettie frowned. "Is there some sort of trouble, Marshal?"

  "No, I just want to talk to Mr. Talmage for a few minutes. I won't disturb Mr. O’Sullivan."

  "I'd appreciate that. The poor man looked absolutely exhausted when they came in. If you ask me, he's been training too hard for that fight he's supposed to have." Hettie shook her head. "If I didn't know better, I wouldn't have believed that Mr. O’Sullivan is a boxer. He seems so nice and polite."

  "I guess he is," Flint grunted. "But I still wouldn't want to step into a prize ring with him."

  He went up the stairs, thinking about Hettie's comment. The way he felt at the moment, he doubted there was even going to be a boxing match. That was just another of the lies the two visitors had been telling, Flint thought.

  He went past O’Sullivan's door and knocked lightly on Talmage's. There was no answer. Flint frowned and rapped again, a little louder this time. When there was still no response, he tried the doorknob. It turned under his fingers.

  Flint opened the door and stuck his head inside the room. "Talmage?" he called. The place was empty, which was a surprise. He had expected Talmage to stick close to O’Sullivan after what had happened today. Moving to the wall that separated the rooms, Flint put his ear to it and heard the rumbling growl of O’Sullivan's snoring. Knowing that his companion was sleeping, Talmage must have stepped out for a moment, Flint speculated, maybe to pay a visit to the outhouse.

  The marshal glanced around the room. There wasn’t much to show that it was occupied. A few shirts hung on a nail, some coins were scattered on the dresser top, and the corner of a carpetbag peeked out from under the bed—these were the only signs of Talmage's presence.

  Flint rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Snooping around someone else's room wasn’t something he enjoyed doing, but ever since O’Sullivan and Talmage had arrived in Abilene, a threat seemed to hang in the air. It had exploded into actual violence on several occasions, and Flint decided abruptly that the time had come to find out why.

  He pulled the carpetbag from under the bed, opened it, and quickly pawed through the contents. At first, he thought it contained only clothes, but then his fingers touched a sheaf of papers. He pulled them out of the bag and frowned when he saw they were wanted posters. He flipped through them quickly, then put them down on the bed and delved deeper into the valise. A moment later, he found a box of ammunition for the Remington that Talmage carried. No surprise there.

  Flint grimaced; something was tugging at his memory. Picking up the stack of wanted posters again, he began looking through them. He paused to study the third one from the top, and suddenly he knew where he had seen the man pictured there.

  Several days earlier, at the train station, Flint's instincts had warned him about one of the disembarking passengers. And now here was the man, staring at him from a wanted poster.

  Brett Easton, that was the man's name. Flint scanned the information underneath the picture and saw that Easton was wanted for murder in Chicago—the same town that O’Sullivan and Talmage were from.

  Flint tossed the reward dodger back onto the bed with the others. There had to be a connection between this Easton and the two visitors from Chicago. He stuck his hand back into the carpetbag. On the very bottom of it, his fingers touched a small leather folder of some sort. He was about to draw it out when the door of the room was shoved open roughly. Flint looked up to see Talmage standing in the doorway, the little pistol leveled at him. He stayed very still, not wanting to spook the man.

  "Damn, Marshal," Talmage said bitterly, "I almost shot you. A man can't even answer the call of nature around here without something happening. What the hell are you doing in here poking around in my things? How dare you?" His voice quivered with indignation.

  Regarding Talmage with a cool stare, Flint said, "The same way you dared to come into my town and lie to me, mister. Somebody is after you and O’Sullivan, has been all along. And now I know why." Moving slowly, he drew out the folder he had found in the valise. Talmage's jaw tightened, and a small muscle there began to jump slightly. Flint flipped open the folder, saw the badge and identification papers. He read aloud, "Inspector Sam Talmage, Chicago Police Department. I had you figured for a liar, Talmage, but not a policeman."

  Talmage grimaced and took a deep breath. He carefully let down the hammer of the Remington and stowed it under his coat. "Well, now you know," he said harshly. "What are you going to do about it?"

  Flint tossed the identification folder to the detective, who caught it deftly. "I'm going to tell you something that maybe you don't know," Flint said as he turned to pick up the wanted poster from the bed. He thrust it toward Talmage. "This fellow's in town, or at least somewhere close by. I saw him getting off the train the other day. I reckon he's the one you're trying to keep from killing O’Sullivan."

  Talmage stared at the poster for a moment before taking it from Flint. "Easton is here?" he asked.

  Flint nodded. "He was probably the man who ambushed O’Sullivan along with Price this afternoon. I don't know how those two got to know each other, but I'd be willing to bet they're working together now."

  Abruptly Talmage's fingers tightened around the poster of Brett Easton and savagely crumpled it into a ball. "I'd say there's a good chance you're right, Marshal," he snarled.

  Flint nodded, trying to put together the facts he had discovered in the last few minutes. "So, Quincy is on the run for some reason, and you came along to try to keep him alive. Don't you think it's time you told me what this is all about, Talmage?"

  "What business is it of yours?" Talmage demanded.

  "You picked my town to hide out in," Flint told him qui
etly, keeping his own anger in check. "That makes it my business. Besides, maybe I can help."

  Talmage sighed. He looked down at the crumpled reward poster in his hand and then tossed it into a corner. "Maybe you're right, Flint," he said. "Anyway, it's not a very long story...or a pretty one. It begins with a man named Dane Savage."

  11

  The faces of the four men who attended the meeting that evening in Lucas Flint's office were grim. The marshal sat behind the scarred desk. Cully Markham lounged beside it, his hip resting on one corner. Quincy O’Sullivan and Sam Talmage sat side by side in the old wooden chairs in front of the desk. To bring Cully up to date, Flint repeated what Talmage had told him that afternoon.

  "So that's why this Easton fellow came here," Flint explained, as he finished the story. "He was tracking O’Sullivan and Talmage."

  Cully nodded. "And now he's caught up to them." The deputy turned to O’Sullivan. "If your testimony can do what you say it can, I can see why Easton wants to get rid of you."

  "I saw Easton and those other men kill Bernie," O’Sullivan rumbled. "That's just about as damning as you can get. Not to mention the death of that gambler. Easton and Savage had a hand in that, too."

  "Easton's trying to keep both himself and his boss out of jail," Cully concluded. "Or away from the gallows, maybe. He's not going to give up easily."

  "He's not going to give up at all," Talmage declared. "The police have had dealings with Easton before. Even though we haven't been able to prove anything, we all know he's one of the most ruthless bastards you'd ever want to meet. He won't stop at anything."

  Flint nodded and clasped his hands together on the desktop. "That's why I want the two of you to stay close to your room at the boardinghouse. Eat as many meals there as you can, and I want you to stay together. Easton's been around for several days, but he waited until today, until O’Sullivan was out in the open by himself before he made his move. Chances are he won't try anything in town unless he gets desperate."

  "That's exactly what I'm concerned about, Marshal," Talmage said anxiously. "Savage's lawyers will stall and pull all the tricks they know, but sooner or later the case will go to trial. By that time, it will be too late to silence Quincy. Easton has to do it now, before the trial."

  "How would he know what date the trial is set for, or if it's even on the docket yet?" Flint asked.

  Talmage laughed curtly. "Easton can contact any number of people back in Chicago, both in the police department and in the underworld. I have no doubt that he could send a wire and know the status of the case within an hour. He may be doing just that from one of the smaller towns around here that have telegraph offices."

  "Most of them do," Cully informed him, "at least the ones where the trains stop. But the marshal is right. The only thing you can do now is lie low."

  Flint shoved his chair back. "We'll try to locate Woodie Price. From what we saw today, he's working with Easton. I'll tell all the bartenders in town I'm looking for him." The lawman stood up, leaned over the desk, and placed his palms on its scarred surface. Looking directly at Talmage, he went on, "Now, I want to know why you didn't come to us and ask for our help as soon as you got here."

  "I didn't think I needed it," Talmage replied, bristling. "This matter is the responsibility of the Chicago police."

  "More folks have a stake in this than just the ones in Chicago, Mr. Talmage," Flint argued. "You and O’Sullivan may have brought most of the trouble with you, but now it's affecting Abilene." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Maybe you just thought that you couldn't trust us."

  Talmage flushed. "I didn't know how close behind us Easton or some of Savage's other men might be," he snapped. "Maybe Quincy’s read about you in those dime novels, but I didn't know one damn thing about you, Flint. From what I had heard of Western lawmen, I thought those killers might be able to buy your assistance for a few dollars."

  Flint straightened, his face tightening at the harsh words, his eyes blazing with anger. Cully watched him for a moment, then said softly, "Take it easy, Marshal. That's what you always tell me, isn't it?"

  Flint stared at Talmage for a few seconds longer, then drew a deep breath. "Thanks, Cully," he said.

  "You're right. Look, Talmage, we've got to work together from here on out, so I'm going to forget you just said that. Why don't you and O’Sullivan head on back to the boardinghouse? Cully, go with them."

  "Look here, we don't need a bodyguard—" Talmage began to protest.

  "Speak for yourself, Sam," O’Sullivan cut in. "I've been lucky once today. Any boxer can tell you that you don't rely on lucky punches."

  "All right," Talmage grudgingly agreed. "But I don't like it."

  Grinning, Cully stood up and went to get his hat from the peg. "Nobody asked you to like it, Mr. Talmage," he remarked. "We just want to keep you and O’Sullivan alive."

  O’Sullivan gave a hollow laugh. "That sounds like a fine idea to me. I don't like being shot at. Or being tossed off a running horse." He put his derby on, adjusting it carefully so that it wouldn’t press on the lump on his head.

  The three men left the office. Flint stepped onto the boardwalk to watch them go. Cully was a good man; he would see to it that nothing happened on the short walk between the office and Hettie Wilburn's place. Flint would start passing the word that he was looking for Woodie Price. He reached into the office to get his own hat.

  Abilene on a Sunday night was relatively quiet, but the saloons were still open for business and doing a leisurely trade. During the next hour Flint dropped in on as many of the taverns as he could and quietly let the owners and the bartenders know why he was there. In most of the saloons he met with a friendly reception, even some of the rougher establishments along Railroad Street. The saloonkeepers knew that, while Flint did everything in his power to enforce law and order, he had never tried to close them down or interfere with their normal business. In fact, the only tavern Flint had ever closed was the Salty Dog Saloon, and that was because its owner had been the head of a criminal network that threatened to take over Abilene. So, in most cases the marshal received quiet promises of assistance.

  Flint's final stop on his tour of the town was Angus's. As he pushed through the batwings, he noticed there were only a few customers in the place, and Angus was behind the bar by himself. Old Bailey, the parrot, was half-heartedly squawking out the lyrics of a bawdy song. Flint approached the bar, and a grinning Angus said, "Good evening, Lucas. What'll ye be having?"

  "Just a beer, Angus," replied Flint, pushing back his hat. "I've been doing some talking, and I'm thirsty."

  "Talking 'bout what?" Angus asked as he drew the beer and slid it across the hardwood.

  Flint explained the situation in a low voice, eliciting a frown of concern from Angus. He knew the burly Scotsman liked Quincy O’Sullivan and wouldn’t want to see anything happen to him.

  "I'll be keeping me eyes open f' tha' scoundrel Price," Angus promised. "Though I dinna believe he would come back in here after last time."

  "I don't either," Flint agreed. He sipped the cold beer. "But if you hear anything about him, you let me know."

  "I certainly will. You think he and tha' Easton fella will try again t' kill Quincy?"

  Flint nodded grimly. "I'm sure of it." Placing the mug on the bar, he lifted his hand to rub his eyes. He was tired, but there seemed to be something else he should be doing. It nagged at him but stayed elusively beyond recall. He hoped it wasn’t so important that it might get O’Sullivan and Talmage killed.

  Hours after the ambush that failed to dispose of Quincy O’Sullivan, Brett Easton was still seething with anger. He glared at Woodie Price across the table, and the big redheaded roughneck looked uncomfortable as he picked up a bottle of whiskey and took a long slug from it.

  The two men were sitting in a cabin that was little more than a shack, west of Abilene on the banks of the Smoky Hill River. It had once belonged to a farmer who struggled for years to scratch a living from the earth. Eventua
lly the man gave up and moved on, abandoning the cabin. Price had chanced upon it a few months earlier and moved in. He usually didn’t have enough money to rent a room in town, so finding this place had been a stroke of luck.

  For the last few days, it had served as the headquarters for Easton and Price as they schemed to kill O’Sullivan. Easton had hated every moment of his stay in the squalid cottage, but he had to admit that it was so isolated that no one was likely to notice them there. If everything had gone right this afternoon, he would have been in Abilene tonight, waiting for the opportunity to kill Sam Talmage. Talmage might even have been dead already, and Easton might have been on a train at this very moment, heading back to Chicago and the life he enjoyed.

  But O’Sullivan was still alive, and that ruined everything. Easton and Price had circled back after trading shots with Flint and Leslie Garrison, being careful not to be spotted but getting close enough to see that O’Sullivan was up and walking around under his own power. Obviously, none of the shots had hit him, and he hadn’t been seriously injured in the fall from the horse.

  As if reading Easton's mind, Price stared down at the table and muttered, "He's a lucky son of a bitch."

  "And you're a trigger-happy fool," Easton said coldly. "If you had waited a few moments longer, we both would have had a sure, easy shot at O’Sullivan. But you had to try to show off."

  Price clenched a fist and slammed it on the table, making the bottle of whiskey jump slightly. "I told you I make that shot nine times out of ten! I should have had him."

  "That's not good enough," Easton snapped. "Now O’Sullivan is still alive, and I'm stuck in this godforsaken wilderness. Well, it won't be for much longer, I promise you that." He pushed back his chair and stood up, stalking over to the cabin's single window. Flicking aside the piece of oilcloth that covered it, he peered out into the night, his brain rapidly turning over all the possibilities.

  Price took another drink, then growled, "We'll have another chance at O’Sullivan. He can't hide out forever."