Somehow, it bothered Flint anyway.
It was obvious that Pendleton had drunk himself to death, but something else nagged at Flint during the rest of the day. He listened to Cully complaining about having to walk back to the office after Joshua had swiped not only the new girl in town but the borrowed wagon as well. Normally Cully's grousing would have provoked a chuckle from the marshal, but today Flint had other things on his mind.
If Alfred Pendleton's body had simply given out on him, why did the man have such an agonized look on his face? If he had died from too much drinking, it seemed more likely that he would have fallen down and gone to sleep peacefully.
Cyril Warren had examined the body and determined that there were no signs of foul play—nothing to warrant an inquest. As the county coroner, Warren declared that Pendleton's death was due to natural causes. That should have been the end of the matter.
But that evening Lucas Flint found himself heading for the west end of town where Pendleton had done his drinking. More than half a dozen dingy saloons were in this area, most of them without names. They were housed in ramshackle frame structures that had seen better days and served cheap, home-brewed whiskey rather than the top-quality liquor available in the better taverns like Angus's. Over their doors were signs that read simply saloon or whiskey. Occasionally, one of them might boast a scarred, out-of-tune piano, but none of these places offered anything in the way of entertainment. A few prostitutes worked this neighborhood, drifting from dive to dive.
Flint would have liked to close most of the bars down, but they stayed within the law these days. When he first came to Abilene, this part of town had been rife with thievery and murder. But its denizens quickly learned that the new marshal wouldn’t put up with that. Flint had had to kill a couple of men in one of the saloons when he tried to arrest the pair for robbery and assault, and they resisted. After that, the word spread rapidly.
Now, the saloonkeepers tried their best to keep lawlessness out of their establishments, and the patrons usually minded their own business.
Flint had no idea which saloons Alfred Pendleton had frequented, so he decided to check each one. Silence fell as he stepped into the first one, and the men who were standing at the bar watched him out of the corners of their eyes. When he went straight to the bar and motioned to the bartender, they returned to their drinking and quiet conversation.
"Evenin', Marshal," the dirty-aproned barman said with an insincere smile. "What brings you down here?"
Flint placed his hands on the bar. "Have you heard about Alfred Pendleton, Clint?" he asked.
The bartender nodded, a wary yet solemn expression coming over his face. "Sure did, Marshal. It's a damned shame, Pendleton dyin' like that."
"Did he do much drinking in here?"
"Not much," the bartender replied with a shrug. "Enough so I knew who he was, but that's about all."
"Was he in here last night?" Flint asked.
The bartender shook his head. "I hadn't seen him in a little over a week, Marshal. He got mad the last time he was in here because I wouldn't give him any credit. Man's got to fork over before he gets a drink."
Flint watched the man as he answered, and as far as he could tell, the bartender was being truthful. "Where's he been doing his drinking since then?"
Again, the bartender shrugged. "I wouldn't know. There's plenty of places around here. Doubt if Pendleton could've gotten credit in any of them. He probably did some odd jobs and scraped a few coins together, but he didn't come back in here, because he was still mad at me."
Flint mulled that over. The fact that Pendleton had had a run-in with this man was interesting, but it didn’t really add anything important to what Flint already knew. Even if he suspected foul play, the bartender certainly had no motive for wanting Pendleton dead.
Maybe Pendleton had quarreled with somebody else, though, somebody who had decided to get rid of him—
Flint had to come back to the fact that the body had no marks, no wounds of any kind. Was he seeing a crime where one didn’t exist? Lifting a hand in farewell, he drifted out of the saloon and headed toward the next one.
He couldn’t have said what he hoped to find. All he knew was that he wanted to talk to someone who had seen Pendleton last night before he died.
His next two stops yielded the same lack of results. The bartenders knew Pendleton, all right, but claimed that he hadn’t been in their places recently. Flint had no choice but to believe the men. They had no reason to lie, as far as he could see.
The fourth saloon he dropped in on was probably the worst of the lot. It was a soddy—an earthen structure similar to those that poor farmers built out on the prairie. The cabin had been there for twenty years or so, dating from the time when Abilene had been a tiny village of squalid huts.
Flint pushed aside the canvas covering the soddy's entrance and grimaced. The dimly lit room was dismal. The bar consisted of planks laid across empty barrels. A few rickety tables and chairs were scattered around the room on the hard-packed earthen floor.
The marshal noticed four farmers standing at the bar tossing back shots of whiskey from dirty glasses. One of the tables was occupied by a shaggy, shapeless lump that Flint recognized as Leander Bullfinch, a former buffalo hunter. Leander always wore a heavy buffalo-hide coat, rain or shine, hot or cold, and now his equally shaggy head was lying on the rough surface of the table. Passed out from too much rotgut, Flint decided as he glanced bleakly toward the drunken man. Leander was a regular in the jail, and that was a shame. From the stories Flint had heard about his buffalo-hunting exploits, Leander had been quite a man in his time.
The bartender was a burly man with a fringe of red hair circling his balding, freckled scalp. He was called Buster; Flint had never heard his last name. He glared at Flint as the lawman walked toward the makeshift bar.
"Hello, Buster," Flint said with a nod.
"Marshal," the bartender rasped, his voice flat and unfriendly.
"You mind if I ask you a couple of questions?"
"I might," Buster snapped. "I thought you generally kept your nose out of our business in this part of town. We been keepin' things pretty law-abidin'."
"I realize that, Buster. I just wanted to know if you were acquainted with a man named Pendleton."
"Pendleton?" Buster jerked his blunt chin up and down. "I know the son of a bitch. What did he do now?"
Flint saw that the other men at the bar were watching him while trying to appear not to. For their benefit as well as Buster's, he raised his voice and said, "He died."
That got a frown from Buster. "Pendleton's dead? He was just in here last night. What the hell happened? He pass out in front of somebody's wagon and get trampled?"
Flint shook his head. "According to the coroner, he just up and died." His voice got colder as he went on, "Too much of that rotgut of yours, I'd say that was the cause."
Buster's florid face tightened. "You got no call to say that, Marshal! It ain't my fault the bastard's dead."
"You admitted that he was drinking in here last night," Flint pointed out.
Buster gave a harsh laugh. "Pendleton was drinkin' somewhere every night for the last ten years, Marshal. Just because the last time happened to be here don't make it my fault."
"How much did he have to drink?"
"Hell, I don't know," Buster growled. "I poured a few shots for him, don't remember just how many. Then he bought a bottle and sat down at a table to kill it."
"He finished off a whole bottle by himself?"
The bartender nodded. "Yeah, he was alone, and when he was done with that one, he bought another to take with him. That cleaned him out. He'd gotten a few dollars from old man Shelton to fix some rain gutters, and he spent the whole wad in here last night."
"So, he took a bottle with him." Flint remembered the whiskey bottle he had found near Pendleton's body the night before. That agreed with what Buster just told him.
"No law says I can't sell him a bottle li
ke that," Buster objected. He squinted angrily at the marshal. "By God, if you're tryin' to railroad me into somethin', Flint—"
"Take it easy," Flint cut in. "Nobody's trying to blame you for anything, mister."
"Damn well better not. I just sell the booze. Man's got to take responsibility for his own drinkin', I say."
Flint pointed a finger at him. "Maybe so, but it wouldn't hurt for you to keep an eye on your customers in the future, Buster. If you see a man's had too much, send him on his way without a bottle next time. I don't want anybody else dying on the street like Alfred Pendleton did."
Behind Flint, a chair scraped suddenly, and then a deep voice rumbled, "Alfred? Alfred's dead?"
Flint turned to see Leander Bullfinch looming up out of his chair. The former buffalo hunter's long hair and bushy beard were tangled and matted, and in the coat, he almost looked like one of the massive beasts that had once roamed these plains in huge herds.
Blinking his red-rimmed eyes, Leander cocked his head to one side and gave it a little shake. "Alfred's dead?" he repeated.
"I'm afraid so, Leander," Flint said. "Did you know him?"
"He...he was my bes' friend," Leander stammered in a choked voice. Then he roared, "Who done it?"
Leander was still drunk, Flint knew. He had come out of his stupor long enough to hear Pendleton's death mentioned, and that had jolted him awake. But the big man's brain was obviously besotted with whiskey.
"Take it easy, Leander," Flint said, his voice steady and calm. "Nobody killed your friend, as far as we can tell. He just died from drinking too much for too long."
Leander shook his head. "Naw, not Alfred. He wouldn't'a done that. Somebody must'a killed him, Marshal." Leander stumbled as he tried to move from behind the table. "Marshal...killed him...killed Alfred." His eyes widened, and he glared at Flint. "You killed him, Marshal! You killed my friend!" he cried.
"Now hold on, Leander," Flint grated. "You're getting all confused. I found Pendleton's body, all right—"
"I knew you done it!" Leander howled. His huge hands clenched into fists, and he staggered toward the bar. "I'll kill you for doin' that, Marshal!"
Suddenly the other customers stampeded toward the soddy's door. All of them had seen a boozed-up Leander Bullfinch on the rampage before, and none of them wanted to be around if it was about to happen again.
Flint stood his ground as Leander lurched toward him. A few months earlier, he and Cully had arrested Leander after the big man shot up Texas Street with his Sharps rifle and his old Dragoon Colt in a drunken spree. Flint confiscated Leander's weapons and didn’t return them, so there was a good chance Leander didn’t have any firearms now. But he might have a Bowie knife under that buffalo coat. He could have anything short of a cannon under there, Flint thought grimly as Leander advanced.
Flint's back was to the bar. Behind him, he heard Buster mutter, "Stand aside, Marshal. I've got a shotgun back here. I'll teach that monster a lesson."
"No," Flint said, "I don't want him hurt."
Leander steadied himself and then lurched at Flint with a guttural yell.
Flint darted aside, hoping that Buster would follow his order and not start blasting with that shotgun. Leander thundered past him and crashed into the bar, overturning the whiskey barrels, and sending the planks flying. Buster, still clutching the shotgun, dove for cover.
Leander somehow kept his balance and turned to charge at Flint again. The marshal slipped his Colt Peacemaker out of its holster. "Stop it, Leander!" he barked.
Leander ignored the warning and lunged. Once more, Flint was able to get out of his way, and the big man trampled one of the tables instead, reducing it to kindling. With surprising speed, he twisted around and lashed a long arm at Flint. Blunt, filthy fingers grabbed the lawman's coat.
Flint grimaced as Leander jerked him forward. He would have to smash Leander's head with the gun barrel and hope he didn’t hit him hard enough to do any permanent damage. He was just lifting his arm when he saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.
Behind the wrecked bar, Buster had regained his feet and was lifting the scattergun. Flint read the deadly intent on the bartender's face. Instantly he knew the story that Buster would tell. Leander Bullfinch had been on one of his rampages, Buster would say, and he had only been trying to stop the big buffalo hunter from killing the marshal. It was just bad luck that Flint had gotten in the way of the shotgun blast. With Flint gone, the saloonkeepers in this part of town could return to their old lawless ways.
Those thoughts flashed through Flint's mind in the instant it took him to shift his gun barrel and squeeze the trigger. The Colt cracked. The slug whined past Buster's ear and thudded into the sod wall behind him. He paled and dropped the shotgun as Flint eared back the Peacemaker's hammer for another shot. Buster's hands flew into the air, and he staggered back against the wall. With that threat removed, Flint still had to deal with Leander Bullfinch. As Leander engulfed him in a bear hug, Flint gulped down a deep breath. Once the big man's arms folded around him, he might need all the air he could get in his lungs before this was over. He raised the Colt to strike at Leander's head.
Before the weapon could fall, Leander suddenly stopped squeezing Flint's midsection. Instead, he stood still, and Flint saw his eyes beginning to glaze. The marshal pushed against Leander's broad chest, but even though the big man was no longer trying to crush the life out of him, his arms seemed locked in place. Then Leander started to sway.
Flint knew what was about to happen. Leander, the liquor catching up to him again, had passed out on his feet. But if he collapsed on top of Flint, that would be just as dangerous as any bear hug.
Flint kicked out behind him, driving his foot against one of the tables. That motion was enough to throw Leander off balance; the big man fell backward, taking Flint with him. Sunk in his stupor, he crashed to the earthen floor, but the impact loosened his grip. Flint jerked free, rolled away, and came up still holding his gun.
"Damn!" Buster exclaimed. "I thought he was goin' to kill you for sure, Marshal!"
"He tried hard enough," Flint panted, trying to catch his breath. Looking meaningfully at Buster, he went on, "Sorry my gun went off like that. Somebody could have gotten hurt if they were careless."
Buster swallowed nervously. "Yeah," he ventured. Then he pointed at Leander and asked, "What are you goin' to do with him?"
"Haul him to jail, as usual," Flint replied. "If I can round up enough men to help me, that is."
"What about the damage he did to my place?"
Flint shrugged, bent over, and rummaged around in the odorous buffalo coat until he found several coins. He flipped them to Buster, who caught them deftly. "Reckon that'll be a start on what he owes you," Flint observed dryly. "You'll have to settle with him after he gets out of jail, though."
Buster, nodding grudgingly, said, "You know none of this would've happened if you hadn't come in here askin' a bunch of damn-fool questions, Marshal."
Flint's eyes narrowed. "Maybe so, but you remember what I told you about Pendleton and folks who have had too much to drink."
Buster just grunted.
Flint shook his head and went to look for somebody to help him drag Leander Bullfinch to jail.
4
The next evening in the better part of Abilene, Angus MacQuarrie, the burly, redheaded owner of Angus's Tavern, lifted a glass of his finest Scotch whisky and grinned. "To ye health, me dear."
Sitting across the table from him was an attractive blonde. She tapped her glass against his with a tiny clink, then returned his smile and said, "And to yours as well, Angus."
The brilliant green parrot perched behind the bar squawked and added in its raucous voice, "Drink hearty, me lads and lassies!"
Angus glanced at the bird and shook his head. "I dinna know how tha' creature always seems t' know wha' t' say."
"He probably had a good teacher," the blonde replied with a laugh. "After all, you're about the smoothest talker
I've ever met, Mr. MacQuarrie."
Angus's face turned almost the same shade as his hair and shaggy beard. "Go on wi' ye, Jessica. Ye be the smooth talker, not I."
Jessica Partin laughed again, and Angus MacQuarrie thought, not for the first time, how glad he was that she had wandered into his bar one evening a week ago.
He had seen her around Abilene a few times before that, and she had caught his eye, as she would that of any healthy male. She was in her thirties and tall, and her full figure, which would have been considered lush on a smaller woman, was statuesque. Her honey blonde hair fell in thick waves around a face that combined beauty and character. She dressed well and expensively, and it came as no surprise to Angus that Jessica was one of the best gamblers he had ever seen. She handled a deck of cards with a deftness that spoke of years of practice. Her quick mind and unreadable features made her a deadly opponent across a poker table.
Not that Angus intended to waste any time playing poker with Jessica. They shared too many other things in common, such as the fine whiskey they were sipping now.
"I'm glad I decided not to work tonight," Jessica declared. "The Alamo and the Bull's Head are fine for gambling, but a girl has to relax every now and then. For that, I prefer a cozier place—like this one."
"Aye," Angus agreed. "Tisn’t fancy, but 'tis mine."
The desire to find a quiet place to have a drink was what had brought Jessica into Angus's Tavern in the first place. She had been frequenting the larger saloons; that was where the money was. Any games that went on in Angus's were likely to be penny-ante affairs.
The tavern was long and narrow, with a bar running the length of the right side and tables scattered around the room on the sawdust-covered floor. The functional lanterns that lit it and the backbar with its well-stocked shelves could be found in hundreds of frontier saloons. The squawking comments of Old Bailey, the parrot, who paced back and forth on his perch behind the bar, were the only form of entertainment.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 141