Abruptly Easton turned away from the window and shook his head. "We're not going to wait for O’Sullivan to come out in the open again. We're going to force him out."
Price stared muddily at him. "How are we goin' to do that?"
"Didn't you say that a girl lives at that farm where O’Sullivan went today?"
A smile slowly stretched across Price's craggy face. "That's right," he said. "Ellie Barlow's her name. Can't think of any other reason O’Sullivan would've gone out there unless it was to court her."
"Who else lives there?"
"Don't know for sure," Price replied. "There's the gal's pa, Charlie Barlow. He's drunk most of the time, from what I've seen of him around town. I think he's got a couple more whelps 'sides Ellie, too, younger ones. Barlow's wife died a while back, at least it seems like I heard that."
Easton nodded, smiling now himself. "This Ellie Barlow, is she attractive?"
"Reckon most folks would say so." Price's smile became a leer. "I'd damn sure say so. Too good for a bastard like O’Sullivan."
Easton sat down at the table. "O’Sullivan is bound to care for the girl, and that's going to be his undoing. We might be able to take a little pleasure ourselves along the way, besides disposing of O’Sullivan." Easton reached for the bottle of whiskey, in a much more expansive frame of mind now. "Do you think you could round up a few of your friends who'd be willing to help us out?"
Price chuckled. "If you're willin' to pay, I know I can come up with a couple of boys who'd be glad to go along with us. Especially when they hear what you're plannin'."
"Excellent." Easton gave Price a stern look. "But this time all of you will do as you're told, or I'll kill you myself."
Price flushed angrily for a moment, but then he laughed harshly and nodded his head. "Sure. You're the boss, Mr. Easton."
"Don't forget it." Easton tilted the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow. He grinned wolfishly as he lowered the whiskey. "Tomorrow, then, we'll pay a little visit to the Barlow farm."
Charlie Barlow rolled over, the sheets rough against his skin, and squinted at the light that hit his eyes. Even though the day was a bit overcast, the sunlight was still bright enough to be painful to him.
He forced himself to sit up in bed, not because it was nearly noon and long past the hour when any normal farmer would have been out working his land, but because his head was pounding and his throat was as scratchy as sandpaper. He desperately needed a drink, and the bottle on the floor beside the bed was empty.
Standing up shakily, Barlow turned toward the open door of his room. He made his feet work and shuffled into the large room that was the parlor, kitchen, and dining room. His footsteps echoed hollowly in the silent house. He was the only one here, he knew. The children would be out working if they knew what was good for them.
Barlow went to a cabinet near the stove. One of the hinges on the cabinet had broken sometime in the past and never been repaired, so the door hung crookedly. Barlow pulled it open, reached inside, and drew out a bottle that sloshed satisfactorily when he shook it. A grin pulled at his mouth. He lifted the bottle and yanked the cork from its neck, then took a long drink from it. The liquor seared his throat as he swallowed it, and he could feel the warmth immediately calming his frenzied nerves. The stuff dribbled from his mouth into his thick, bushy beard. When he finally lowered the bottle, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Damn, that's good," he murmured.
Carrying the whiskey with him, he walked over to one of the windows and looked out, narrowing his eyes against the still-painful brightness. From the window, he could see one of his fields, and in the field his three children were working to harvest the last of a late corn crop. Oliver and Netta had expected to go to school today, but Barlow told them the night before that they had to work instead.
"You don't want your big sis to have to do it all herself, do you?" he had asked. The question seemed reasonable enough to him. Oliver just bit his lip and then agreed to stay home from school. Netta said nothing, but Barlow was used to that. Seemed like none of the kids talked to him as much as they once did.
That was all right with him. They were all ungrateful little brats, anyway. It was better for them to keep their traps shut than pester him all the time with stupid questions like why was the sky blue and why did it rain and what was that over there and do you love me, Papa? Mollie had been alive when they asked him questions like that and then threw their arms around his neck when he answered them. Mollie...
Barlow put his free hand against the wall to steady himself. He blinked, shook his head, and raised the bottle to his mouth again. Mollie was gone and the children didn’t ask him anything now, but he still had the raw bite of whiskey to take away the memories and the pain.
He peered through the window and tried to focus on the work his children were doing. The cornfield was only about fifty yards from the house, and he could see Ellie moving along the rows picking the higher ears, leaving the lower ones for Oliver and Netta, who dragged the bushel baskets in which the corn was placed. They were working hard, as they always did. Barlow supposed they were not such bad kids after all.
Looking past the three youngsters toward the edge of the cornfield, he blinked again and frowned. Four men on horseback had suddenly appeared there, and with no warning they charged through the rows, trampling the stalks heedlessly. Barlow heard Ellie scream; the sound seemed to come from a long way off.
"What the hell!" Barlow exclaimed. For an instant, he thought he was imagining things, that the liquor that had befogged his brain for so long was making him see phantoms. But then he realized the sight was all too real. In a matter of seconds, the strange riders would gallop right over his three children.
Ellie dropped the corn she was holding and spun around to grab Oliver and Netta. She tried to push and pull them into a run, but their feet sank in the soft, wet ground, and they couldn’t pull them out quickly enough. They would never be able to elude their pursuers, Barlow knew.
He snapped out of the trance that held him and lunged toward the doorway of the house. There were pegs above the door, and on them was hung an old Winchester. Barlow reached up and yanked the rifle down. He had no idea who the men attacking his children were, but he wasn’t going to stand by and let them get away with it.
Staggering onto the porch, Barlow worked the lever of the rifle to see if it was loaded. It was. Somehow, he caught the ejected cartridge in midair and thumbed it back into the magazine. Then he hurried to the end of the porch where he would be able to see the cornfield.
He got there in time to see the riders veering around the fleeing youngsters. One of the men leaned over and tried to grab the collar of Ellie's dress. Shrieking, she twisted away from him. Barlow raised the Winchester to his shoulder and took a deep breath as he tried to steady it. The barrel seemed to dance around by itself. When the sights settled for an instant on one of the strangers, Barlow pressed the trigger.
The blast of the rifle hurt his ears, and the butt thumped back painfully against his shoulder. He jacked another shell into the chamber without waiting to see if his first shot had hit anything. As he squinted over the wavering barrel, he saw that one of the men had wheeled his horse around and was now galloping toward him. Barlow tried desperately to line up the sights on the man.
The raider lifted his hand. Just as Barlow touched off another shot, he saw the pistol that the man was brandishing. Barlow had no idea where his slug went, but the man kept coming and now noise and flame spurted from the barrel of his weapon. The sharp crack of a gunshot assaulted Barlow's already aching head.
What felt like a fist thumped hard in his chest, throwing him back a couple of steps. He tried to work the lever on the Winchester again, but he suddenly discovered he didn’t have the strength. The rifle slipped from his fingers and thudded to the planks of the porch.
Reeling forward, Barlow heard the thunder of hoofbeats close by and then another gunshot. Again, something hit him in the chest. He g
runted and sank to his knees, feeling how wet the front of his shirt was. He must have spilled some whiskey on it, he thought fuzzily. Waste of good liquor, that was what it was.
The sun didn’t seem nearly as bright now, but there was enough light for Charlie Barlow to see his children, smiling and laughing and happy as they came toward him. They were happier than he had seen them in years, he thought, and that was because he suddenly realized that Mollie was with them again. He held out his arms to them. Little Netta ran into his embrace and hugged his neck, her soft hair tickling his cheek. Then the others were with him, and Mollie put out a hand and took his, her fingers cool and soft just as he remembered them. ...
There was one more shot, but Charlie Barlow never heard it.
The men were all strangers to Ellie—evil, laughing strangers who lunged toward her and tried to grab her. She ducked away from them as best she could and urged her brother and sister to keep running, even though she knew it was hopeless. There was no way they could get away from three men on horseback.
One of the raiders had galloped toward the house, and a minute later Ellie heard the shots. She knew what had happened. More grief than she would have thought possible tore at her for a few seconds. Then she was overwhelmed by fear—for herself and for Oliver and Netta. When the men had first ridden into the cornfield, Ellie thought that they intended to trample the three of them. Now she knew they had something even worse in mind.
"Run, Oliver! Run, Netta!" she cried.
One of the men, a burly redhead in a calfskin vest, leaned over in his saddle and lashed out at her. She tried to dodge, but his fingers grasped her dress and clamped down. The fabric gave for a moment with a ripping sound, then held. Ellie was jerked around as the man pulled his horse to a halt. She screamed again.
Oliver stumbled along behind Netta, but he stopped short when he heard Ellie's terrified cry. Turning around, he shouted, "Let her go!"
"Oliver, no!" Ellie called to him, her voice breaking in a sob. "K-keep going!"
Oliver ignored her. He flung himself at the man who held Ellie, but before he could reach him, one of the others nudged his horse forward. The animal's broad chest banged into Oliver's shoulder, knocking him down. The horse danced around nervously, its hooves coming perilously close to the fallen boy.
The man who was holding Ellie laughed, and she felt a powerful anger surge through her. Then she noticed the pistol holstered on the man's hip. She twisted in his grasp, bringing her head closer to his arm, and before he knew what she was doing, she sank her teeth into his forearm, biting right through his filthy shirt. At the same time, she reached blindly for the gun, trying to get her fingers around it.
Her captor shouted in pain and tried to dislodge her teeth from his arm. Suddenly the weapon was free of its holster and in Ellie's hand. Her arm sagged at the gun's weight, but she managed to slip her finger around the trigger. She yanked on it as hard as she could, although she had no idea where the pistol was pointing.
It blasted, the report thunderous and deafening, and the recoil almost tore it out of her hand. But she forced herself to fire it again and again.
Now the cornfield was a dusty, nightmarish place, filled with a whirlwind of desperate activity. The man who had caught her smashed his balled fist at her head, knocking her away from his other arm. As Ellie reeled, she caught a glimpse of his sleeve and noted with fleeting satisfaction that it was bloody. But then she saw Oliver struggle to his feet only to be struck down again by one of the other men. This time he fell limply, unconscious—or worse. That was all Ellie had time to see before someone grabbed her wrist, wrenched it savagely, and forced her to drop the pistol. Her jaw ached where the man had struck her, and now that pain was joined by another as a fist rammed into her stomach. A voice yelled, "Don't kill her!"
Strong hands grasped her shoulders and flung her face-down to the ground. She tasted the dirt of the cornfield in her mouth and jerked her head up, spitting. Someone came down on her back, a knee driving painfully into her spine and pinning her there.
"That other kid's getting away!" one of the men yelled.
Ellie lifted her head. Her hair had fallen over her eyes, but through the strands she could see Netta still running, her figure small and distant as she vanished into a stand of trees a hundred yards away.
"Let her run," a voice replied, the same voice that had warned them not to kill her. "We don't need all of them. These two will do just as well. And the little girl will probably save us the trouble of getting in touch with O’Sullivan. She's liable to go right to him."
The man was right, Ellie knew. Netta had idolized O’Sullivan. There was every chance that she would try to reach him now that she was alone and scared.
They hauled her to her feet. All of them were on foot now except for one man. He was much better dressed than the others and looked out of place on the frontier. He peered at her with the coldest eyes she had ever seen and said, "Don't worry, Miss Barlow. You won't be hurt if you cooperate with us."
Ellie saw Oliver lying a few feet away. She ran to him, dropped to her knees beside him, and lifted his head to cradle it in her lap. With a surge of relief, she saw that he was breathing and, other than being unconscious, seemed to be all right.
Ellie glanced toward the house. "My father...?" she whispered.
The man with the cold eyes said, "He was shooting at us. I'm sorry, Miss Barlow. There was nothing else we could do."
But to Ellie he didn’t sound sorry at all. She stared up at him, at the little half-smile that would have been charming and handsome under different circumstances and saw the utter evil in his gaze. Horror suddenly chilled her to the core of her being, a greater horror than she had ever known before.
"Marshal! Marshal!"
Lucas Flint heard the urgent cries, pushed back his chair, and hurried from behind his desk. Cully, who was dozing on one of the bunks in the empty cellblock, leaped to his feet. He appeared in the doorway seconds after Flint started for the door of the office.
Both lawmen burst onto the boardwalk and saw a wagon careening down Texas Street toward the marshal's office. The driver was whipping his team, urging more speed from the lathered animals. Beside him, holding on tightly, was a woman with a little girl in her arms. More children were huddled in the back of the wagon.
"That's Dan McFarland!" Cully exclaimed. "Looks like he's got his whole family with him!"
The farmer suddenly stopped whipping his mules and began hauling back on the reins instead, trying to bring the plunging animals to a halt. As the team slowed, Cully ran into the street, grabbed the harness of one of the leaders, and pulled hard to make the animal stop. The wagon shuddered to a halt in front of the office.
McFarland jumped down from the box, breathing heavily. The dust that coated his face was streaked with sweat. "There's bad trouble at the Barlow place, Marshal!" he cried. "You'd better get out there!"
Flint caught the man's arm as he frantically waved his hands around. "Hold on there!" Flint said sharply. "Now slow down and tell me what's going on."
"There was a bunch of shootin' over at the Barlow farm, Marshal," McFarland gasped as he gulped air. "I don't know what happened, but it was bad!"
"Netta came to our soddy," McFarland's wife put in as she stroked the trembling little child in her arms.
Flint recognized Netta Barlow now. He nodded toward her and said softly, "Cully."
The deputy moved forward and reached up to take Netta from Mrs. McFarland. At first, she didn’t want to go to the young man, but she seemed to relax as he spoke to her in a surprisingly gentle, soothing voice. Cully nestled her head against his shoulder and carried her to Flint.
Glancing around at the crowd drawn by the commotion, Flint ordered, "You people go on about your business." He was worried that a mob, even just a curious one, would frighten the terrified Netta even more. While Cully still held her, Flint asked, "Can you tell me what happened, Netta?"
"I don't think she can, Marshal," McFarland s
aid before Netta could answer. "She was bawlin' and scared out of her wits when she got to our place. Mighty tired, too. Reckon she ran all the way from her house."
Flint glared at the distraught farmer, making him fall silent, then turned back to Netta. "What about it, darling?" he asked. "You know Cully and me. We just want to help you. Why don't you tell us what happened?"
"Th-they chased us," Netta said in a voice so small that Flint had to lean closer to make out the words.
"Chased you? Who'd do a thing like that?" Cully asked as he patted her back.
"Some men...I think they...they hurt Ellie and Oliver...and maybe Papa. They yelled at us, and they shot their guns..." Suddenly the little girl wailed, "I want Angelina Elizbeth!"
Flint and Cully exchanged a puzzled glance, unsure whom Netta was referring to. One of the McFarland children piped up from the back of the wagon, "That's her dolly."
"Oh," Flint said. "Well, we'll see that you get Angelina Elizbeth back, Netta. Did you know any of the men who hurt your family?"
Netta shook her head and sniffled.
Flint heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Rose Keller hurrying up to him. "My God, Lucas," she said. "What happened?"
"We're not sure yet, Rose, but I'm glad to see you. Can you take care of this little girl for us?"
"Of course." Rose reached out to take Netta from Cully. The youngster went eagerly to her, still muttering about her doll.
"Come on, Cully," Flint continued. "I reckon there's a lot more to the story, but we'd better get out there in case anybody needs help."
"You want me to get some of the boys together?" Cully asked.
Flint shook his head. "I don't want to take the time to raise a posse right now. Rose, we may have some more work for you in a little while." His grim expression made it plain what he meant.
The doctor nodded as she comforted Netta.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 133