Flint dismounted and quickly stepped up onto the porch. He prodded Woodie Price's body with a toe and grunted, "Neither is this one." Then he knelt next to O’Sullivan's crumpled form.
Leslie and Angus hurried to Ellie's side. She was sitting on the ground cradling Oliver's head in her lap. On the boy's temple was a gash from Easton's gun barrel, and although it was bleeding freely, his eyes were open. "Damn it, Ellie, let me up!" he cried. "Quincy might need some more help!"
Leslie knelt beside the boy and put a hand on his shoulder to help hold him down. "Just take it easy, Oliver," Leslie told him sternly. "You've done plenty to help. Besides, you're hurt."
Angus studied the cut and pronounced, "'Tis bleeding a mite, but it dinna look too deep. I think ye'll be all right, lad, but we'd best get ye back t' town f' the doctor t' have a look at ye."
Ellie, satisfied that Oliver was all right and that the danger was over, looked up and searched the faces of the men crowded around her, trying to find O’Sullivan. Then, suddenly, she saw him lying on the porch, saw the grim look on Flint's face as the marshal stood up and motioned to Cully to join him. As the marshal spoke quietly to his deputy, Ellie stared at O’Sullivan's pallid face and felt new horror welling up inside her.
"I saw a fella that I reckon was Easton take off on the back of a horse, heading east along the river," Flint was saying to Cully. "Can you handle things here?"
"Sure." Cully nodded, slipping his pistol back into its holster.
Flint stepped off the porch and went to his horse. "I'm going after him," he said as he mounted up. "The rest of you stay here."
Before any of them could argue with him, he wheeled the horse around and galloped away from the cabin, riding on the bluff above the stream.
Hatless, his heart pounding in his chest, Brett Easton hung on tightly to keep from being thrown from the back of the racing horse. He was heading east toward the rail line, the only way he knew to go in this godforsaken prairie. If he were lucky, he could jump on an eastbound train before any of those damned frontier lawmen caught him. More than ever, he wished he were back in Chicago. There he would have had no trouble fleeing from the law.
Everything had gone wrong. He had thought that kidnapping the girl and her brother would be a sure way to lure O’Sullivan into a trap. That part of the plan seemed to have worked, all right, but then all hell broke loose.
At least he had seen O’Sullivan go down with a bullet in him before being forced to run, Easton thought with savage satisfaction. Without the prizefighter's testimony, the authorities back in Illinois had nothing with which to prosecute Easton and Savage. If he could just get back to Chicago, he would be safe from the consequences of his actions here in Kansas. Savage had too much influence to let trouble like this catch up to his right-hand man.
Easton swiveled his head and peered behind him as he rode, searching for any sign of pursuit. So far there was none. Evidently Price and the others had put up enough of a fight to keep the posse occupied. Easton grinned. He was going to get away; he could sense it.
When he turned back around in the saddle, he saw someone riding right toward him. The rider wore city clothes and a derby that threatened to fly off every time his galloping horse touched the ground.
Talmage!
Easton reached for his pistol as he recognized the detective from Chicago. The two men were rapidly approaching each other and would be within firing range in a matter of seconds. Easton's pistol got caught on the flap of his coat for a second, and that was enough to make the difference.
Talmage aimed his Remington and began squeezing the trigger. Three shots cracked as the detective pulled his horse to a stop with his other hand. Easton triggered one shot, but his bullet came nowhere near Talmage. One of Talmage's slugs burned a furrow across Easton's forearm. Another hit him in the side and knocked him out of the saddle. The third bullet missed, but the damage was already done. Easton fell heavily to the ground as his spooked horse ran away.
Moving quickly, Talmage slid off his mount and walked warily toward the fallen Easton, training his pistol on the wounded mobster. Easton saw him coming and looked around frantically for his own gun, but he had dropped it when he fell and couldn’t locate it. Pain and frustration coursed through him.
Talmage stopped a few feet away. For a moment he was tempted to finish the job, to put a bullet through Easton's brain. But then his training and his devotion to his job won out. He took a deep breath and said, "Brett Easton, you're under arrest for the murders of Morgan Randolph, Bernie Campbell, and Charlie Barlow and for the kidnapping of Ellie and her brother Oliver."
At that moment Lucas Flint galloped out of a grove of trees fifty yards away. Talmage glanced up, worried for an instant that the newcomer might be Price, but then he recognized the marshal. Flint took in the scene and slowed his horse to a walk. As he came up to the two men, he reined in and gave Easton a hard look before switching his attention to Talmage.
"I'm a little surprised to see you out here, Inspector," Flint said. "I figured Quincy had knocked you out cold and left you back in Abilene. Judging from that bruise on your jaw, he must have at that."
Talmage reached up with his free hand and rubbed the sore lump where O’Sullivan had hit him. "He was even more stubborn than I expected," Talmage replied. "When I woke up, I managed to talk Dr. Keller into telling me which way all of you had gone. I came as quickly as I could, but I'm afraid I'm not much of a horseman. I heard a great deal of shooting, Marshal. What happened?"
"We were able to rescue those two youngsters." Flint dismounted, reached across his saddle, and took a coiled rope from it. He gestured at Easton with the rope. "What do you aim to do with this skunk?"
"Why, I'll take him back to Chicago with me, of course," Talmage responded, then looked anxious. "Is Quincy all right?"
Flint ignored the question. He glanced at one of the nearby trees, seeming to study a thick branch that extended out from the trunk. "We do things a little different out here," he drawled flatly. "This fellow kidnapped a woman and a boy and murdered their father, and that's a hanging crime, the way we see it." He began to fashion a noose as he strolled toward the tree. Talmage watched, surprised into silence, as Flint tossed the loop over the branch and went on, "Not only that, but Easton just killed Quincy O’Sullivan."
"Quincy is dead?" Talmage exclaimed, horror etched on his face.
At the same moment, Easton burst out, "I didn't do it! Price's the one who shot him!"
"You were part of it," Flint told him. "That makes you just as guilty in my book." He caught the noose and tugged on the rope, checking the strength of the branch.
"See here!" Talmage exclaimed, his dedication to the law overcoming the hatred he felt toward Easton. "You can't just lynch this man without a trial."
"Can you convict Dane Savage without Quincy's testimony?" Flint asked him.
"Probably not," Talmage answered bitterly. "I'm afraid Savage will go free. He'll be able to continue his reign as the boss of Chicago's underworld."
"Easton's a killer and a kidnapper," Flint said. He turned to face Talmage, putting his back to the frightened Easton. "Since you can't get Savage, we might as well see some frontier justice done for Easton, right here and now."
Slowly, the marshal's right eyelid closed in an elaborate, meaningful wink.
Talmage's own eyes widened for an instant in understanding, but he quickly controlled the reaction. Hoping that Flint knew what he was doing, Talmage said bleakly, "I suppose you're right. We might as well string him up. Isn't that what you say out here?"
"That's right," Flint grunted. He stepped over to Easton and bent to grasp his arm. He roughly hauled the criminal to his feet, then shoved him toward the dangling noose.
Easton stared aghast at the rope that was awaiting him. He had never thought it would come to this. To die out here in this wilderness, while Dane Savage would go untouched back to his elegant, comfortable life.
"No!" Easton rasped. He twisted around
and lunged toward Talmage, but he wasn’t attacking now. He grasped the detective's coat and babbled, "I'll tell you anything you want to know about Savage! He's the one you really want, Talmage! I can give you enough to convict him a hundred times over. Just don't let that crazy marshal hang me!"
Talmage stared at Easton, his face grim but his eyes shining with triumph. "You'll confess to your own crimes and testify against Savage?" he demanded.
"Anything! Just get me out of Kansas!"
Talmage looked over at Flint. "What do you say, Marshal?"
"He's your prisoner, Inspector Talmage!" Flint replied with a broad grin.
At Talmage's request Flint examined Easton's wounds and bound them with strips torn from the man's shirt. The makeshift dressings would suffice until Talmage could get Easton patched up in Abilene. "Can I borrow one of your cells, Marshal?" Talmage asked.
"Be my guest," Flint told him.
"I want to get his confession written down and signed, while that memory is fresh in his mind." Talmage gestured toward the noose that was still hanging over the tree limb.
Flint turned and looked at the wounded and shaken Brett Easton. “If he tries to change his mind about confessing,” Flint said, his eyes as cold and merciless as a rattler’s, “we can still dispense a little frontier justice.”
Easton hung his head. Knowing that the man wouldn’t change his story, Flint swung into his saddle and went to retrieve Easton's horse, which had wandered and was grazing in the brush about a hundred yards away. When they were all mounted, the sound of approaching hoofbeats made the two lawmen look around. Most of the posse, with Angus MacQuarrie at its head, came riding up. The wounded survivor of Price's gang was with them, his shoulder roughly bandaged and his hands tied in front of him.
"I see ye caught up wi' the scalawag, Lucas!" Angus boomed, glaring at Easton.
"Actually, it was Inspector Talmage who captured him," Flint informed him. "Easton is the inspector's prisoner, Angus. Would you and the other men mind escorting them back to Abilene?"
"'Twould be our pleasure." Angus waved a big hand at the other posse members. "Come on, lads."
A grin tugged at Flint's mouth as he watched the group ride toward Abilene. Then he turned his horse and cantered along the river toward the cabin where the battle had taken place.
When he reached it, he found Cully waiting on the porch. The deputy returned Flint's grin and said, "From the looks of it, you must have caught up to Easton."
"So did Talmage," Flint replied. "He and Angus and the others are taking Easton back to jail right now."
"Talmage!" a voice exclaimed from the doorway. "What the devil was he doing out here? Is he all right, Marshal?"
Flint watched Quincy O’Sullivan step out of the cabin, supported on one side by Leslie Garrison and the other by Ellie Barlow. Oliver was right behind them, a huge smile on his face.
"He's fine, Quincy," Flint answered the prizefighter's question. "Except for a goose egg on his jaw, that is. I reckon you know how that got there."
O’Sullivan grinned sheepishly. "I suppose I do, Marshal. You think Sam will forgive me?"
"I expect he will."
A broad bandage was wrapped around O’Sullivan's midsection. Cully had fashioned it from Ellie's petticoat after cleaning the wound with a bottle of whiskey he found in the cabin. Like Flint, he had enough experience with gunshot wounds to do some temporary doctoring. And like Flint, he had been able to see that O’Sullivan's injury was messy but not fatal. The slug had ripped through the flesh of his side, missing all the vital organs. It would leave another ugly scar to add to his growing collection.
"What happened to Easton?" O’Sullivan asked as Flint dismounted.
"Funny thing about that," Flint said dryly. "He decided that he wanted to tell Talmage about all the bad things he and Dane Savage have been doing. He's going to give Talmage a full confession, and he's going to testify against Savage back in Chicago, since you won't be able to."
O’Sullivan frowned in puzzlement. "Since I won't be able to? I don't understand, Marshal. Cully said this wound wasn't that bad."
"Oh, it's bad enough. You're dead, Quincy, you just don't know it yet."
Cully chuckled, having an idea of what Flint was talking about. As the others stared, Flint explained the ruse he had used to get Easton to confess. As the marshal talked, O’Sullivan's frown gradually faded, and he finally let out a great booming laugh.
"And Sam thought you frontier lawmen weren't very smart!" he said between guffaws. Leslie and Ellie had to warn him to be careful, or his amusement might start the wound bleeding again.
"I reckon anybody can make a mistake," Cully said. "Even an inspector!"
Brushing tears of laughter and relief from his eyes, O’Sullivan then wiped his hand on his pants and extended it to Flint. "Thank you, Marshal," he said. "I've got an idea what you have in mind, and I think I'm going to enjoy being dead!"
14
Another week had passed, and a wintry wind blew through Abilene. But the warm, happy group that had gathered in the Kansas Pacific station to say goodbye didn’t notice the cold.
Quincy O’Sullivan had his arm around Ellie's shoulders—Ellie O’Sullivan now, since the Reverend Joshua Markham had married them in a private ceremony the day before. The radiant bride had never looked more beautiful, O’Sullivan thought as he glanced down at her. But then, he had that same thought every time he saw her.
Oliver and Netta stood beside them, dressed in traveling clothes that O’Sullivan had bought. All four of them would be heading west as soon as the next train came in. They had decided that they would find a place to start over, a place to call their own, where prizefights, killers, and grief would be only memories.
Lucas Flint's quick thinking had given them this chance, and O’Sullivan would be eternally grateful to the marshal for it. Shaking Flint's hand for perhaps the hundredth time, O’Sullivan said as much, then went on to ask, "You'll be sure to let me know how the trial comes out, won't you?"
Flint nodded. "Talmage promised to wire me as soon as the verdicts were read. When you, Ellie, and the youngsters are settled, get in touch with me and I'll let you know. Don't reckon you've got anything to worry about, though. Savage and Easton will both hang, I'm sure of that."
"They deserve to," Leslie Garrison commented. He had taken part of the day off from school to bid farewell to his friend, despite Emery Thornbury's displeasure at the idea.
O’Sullivan shook his head. "I don't care about that, and neither does Ellie. There's been enough killing. As long as Savage and Easton are put where they can't ever hurt anybody again, that's all that matters."
The others who were gathered there again congratulated the happy couple and bid them goodbye. Cully Markham, his brother Joshua, Rose Keller, and Angus MacQuarrie had all come to see the travelers off.
O’Sullivan and Talmage had had their reunion several days earlier, a reunion that was also a farewell. Neither man would admit it, but they had grown fond of each other. From the bed in Rose's office where he was recuperating, O’Sullivan reached up and grasped Talmage's hand.
"You be sure and get Easton back to Chicago," he admonished the detective. "And watch him, he's tricky."
"No need to worry about that," Talmage assured him. "He's a beaten man, Quincy. He's not going to give anyone any more trouble."
"I think I'll stay dead anyway, as far as everyone in Chicago is concerned, since you don't need my testimony anymore. But if you ever need me, I reckon Lucas Flint will know where to find me."
Talmage grinned. "You know, Quincy, you're even beginning to sound like a westerner."
"Not such bad folks after all, are they?" O’Sullivan asked.
No, he thought now, not such bad folks at all. In a way, he was going to miss Abilene and its people.
Flint pulled his watch from his pocket and looked at it. "Train ought to be here pretty soon," he commented.
At that moment, the telegrapher finished taking dow
n a message and handed it to the clerk behind the window at the ticket counter. The clerk read it, then leaned out of his enclosure to call, "Sorry, folks. The westbound is running late. Won't be here for another forty minutes or so."
O’Sullivan, Ellie, and Netta looked disappointed at the news. Despite this bittersweet departure, they were anxious to get on with their new lives. But Oliver Barlow suddenly grinned.
He looked up at his brother-in-law and said, "Quincy, do you think I'd have time to go down to the school for a few minutes, since the train's going to be late and all?"
O’Sullivan put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "I suppose you would." Understanding dawned on his face. "We've been so busy, you never got a chance to say goodbye to your friends, is that it?"
"Something like that," Oliver agreed noncommittally.
O’Sullivan looked at Ellie. She considered the question, then nodded. "It would be all right, I guess. Just don't get your new clothes dirty, Oliver."
"I won't," he promised. Quickly he left the depot.
O’Sullivan watched him go, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. If he remembered correctly, Oliver hadn’t had that many friends. The lad seemed awfully eager to pay one last visit to the school.
"I think I'll walk down there with Oliver," O’Sullivan decided. "Leslie, how about going with me?"
"Sure," the teacher agreed. "I really ought to get back to work, anyway."
Ellie reached up to kiss O’Sullivan's cheek. "Thank you for going and keeping an eye on him," she said. "Oliver has always let himself get pushed around. I'd hate for him to have trouble on his last day here in town."
O’Sullivan remembered the way Oliver had turned on Brett Easton, and a smile tugged at his wide mouth. "I'll watch out for the boy," he said dryly.
The others went about their business, leaving Ellie and Netta to wait at the station. O’Sullivan and Leslie strode toward the school, their long legs carrying them to the school yard shortly after Oliver had arrived. But as they neared it, the whoops and cheers of the students who had been outside at recess told O’Sullivan that they might be too late.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 136