Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  "What are you doing here?" he asked abruptly, not caring that he didn’t sound very polite.

  "I'm sorry, Deputy. I was just about to knock when you opened the door."

  That explained her wide-eyed look, but not the reason she was standing in front of the marshal's office this late on a cold night. She had on a fur-lined jacket, and a small hat was perched on top of her brown curls.

  Cully didn’t reply but simply stared at her until she went on nervously, "I wanted to know if you had found Joshua. I...I thought he might come to the hotel to see me, but the clerk says he hasn't been there."

  Cully shook his head, his concern for Joshua returning. "He hasn't turned up," he said. "I reckon he's all right, though. Joshua knows how to take care of himself."

  At least he does when he hasn't been drinking, Cully added silently.

  "I feel as if this is all my fault," Augusta said mournfully.

  Cully didn’t admit that he agreed with her. Instead, he stepped back and said, "Why don't you come on in for a minute, maybe have some coffee and warm up? Then I'll walk you back to the hotel."

  Augusta hesitated, then nodded. "That sounds nice," she mumbled, stepping into the office. Cully closed the door behind her. She looked over at Flint and nodded nervously. "Marshal."

  "Miss Hall," Flint greeted her noncommittally. He had his hat and coat on and was ready to make his rounds, so he moved past Cully and Augusta toward the door. To Cully, he said, "I'll go ahead and take a turn around town."

  "All right, Marshal."

  Before Flint had opened the door, a moan came from the cellblock. The pained sound was plainly audible over the rumble of Leander's snoring. Flint glanced at Cully and said, "Stockton or Downing must be having trouble."

  "I'll check on them," Cully offered, tossing his hat on a peg as he went to the cellblock door. He stepped inside and saw Stockton reclining on the bunk, his head in his hands. Downing sat on the cold stone floor, his head sagging between his knees. He looked up as Cully entered the cellblock, and Stockton moaned again.

  "He drank too much cheap rotgut," Downing drawled. "Says his head's like to bust. You got any coffee out there, Deputy?"

  "Sure," Cully replied. "I'll fetch some for both of you."

  Flint appeared in the cellblock doorway. "Are they all right?" he asked.

  "Too much booze, that's all," Cully answered. "I told them they could have some coffee."

  Flint nodded. "Good idea. Both of them could use sobering up."

  As the lawmen stepped back into the office, Cully noticed that Augusta Hall was standing beside the stove. Two extra cups normally sat on the shelf above the stove, and she had taken them down and was pouring coffee into them. "I overheard," she called. "I'm pouring coffee for those two poor men."

  "Those 'two poor men' caused the ruckus that broke up your meeting earlier," Cully told her. "They're cowpokes called Stockton and Downing."

  "That's perfect," replied Augusta. "This will give me another chance to get my message across to them."

  Flint and Cully exchanged a glance, and the marshal said, "I've got rounds to make. You can handle this, Cully." Despite his serious tone, his eyes were twinkling humorously.

  "Sure, Marshal," Cully replied, rolling his own eyes. He wasn’t looking forward to another round with Augusta, but at least Stockton and Downing were behind bars and couldn’t cause trouble if she started lecturing them.

  Flint left the office. Augusta had picked up both cups of hot coffee and was walking carefully toward the cellblock. Cully stepped out of her way.

  Downing, who was still sitting on the floor, glanced up as she stepped into the cellblock. An expression of amazement came over his face when he saw the pretty young woman. "You're that temperance gal!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

  "I thought you might like some coffee," Augusta said, her voice pleasant and cheerful.

  "Yes, ma'am, we surely would," Downing agreed. He scrambled up from the floor and came to the cell door to take the cup she handed to him through the bars. "Hey, Stockton, look at this!"

  Stockton, glaring angrily, swung his feet off the bunk and sat up. When he saw Augusta, his expression shifted from anger to shock. But he stood up and came to the bars, reaching for the other cup. "Thanks," he grunted.

  "I want you men to know that I bear you no ill will," Augusta told them. "Even though you were rude and abusive to me earlier, I realize that you were simply under the influence of alcohol. No man can think straight when he has been imbibing."

  "I told you, lady, we wasn't drunk," Stockton growled. "We didn't do hardly any drinkin' until later,

  after your stupid meetin' was over. We appreciate the coffee, but if you aim to preach at us, you might as well leave—" He swayed as he broke off, and his face grew pale.

  "Bucket's under the bunk if your stomach starts acting up," Cully called. "Come on, Miss Hall. We'd best let them drink their coffee in peace."

  "But...I want to talk to these men..."

  Stockton snarled, "There ain't nothin' you can say that'll mean a damn thing, lady. Now leave us be."

  Cully took Augusta's arm and steered her gently toward the door. She protested again, but the deputy was adamant. "I promised you a cup of coffee, too," he insisted. "Come on and I'll get it for you."

  With a sigh, Augusta gave up her struggle and let Cully guide her out of the cellblock. But as they moved into the office, she cast an angry glance over her shoulder at Stockton and Downing, who were drinking the coffee she had brought them. "I suppose some people just won't allow anyone to help them," she muttered.

  Cully shut the cellblock door and led Augusta to a chair. He went to the stove and lifted the pot, then frowned. "Shoot, the prisoners must've gotten the last two cups. I can put some more on, though."

  Augusta waved off the offer. "Please, don't bother, Deputy. I'm not really in the mood anymore. I'd rather just sit here for a few minutes and rest. This evening has been...rather tiring."

  Cully could understand that. First, there had been the play and the problems that Joshua had caused, then the fracas afterward, and now Joshua's puzzling and worrying disappearance. Cully was getting pretty tired himself. He sat down and waited for Augusta to say something else, but instead she was silent—a silence that stretched out and became awkward. And Cully couldn’t think of anything to say to her; she seemed to take offense at so many things.

  Flint came in a few minutes later and looked a bit surprised to find Augusta still there. He glanced at Cully and asked, "Any trouble?"

  Cully shook his head. "Stockton jawed a bit, but Miss Hall listened to reason and decided to leave them alone. I haven't heard a sound for the last ten minutes, except for Leander, so the other two may have gone to sleep."

  Flint nodded and hung up his hat and coat. As he turned, he inclined his head toward Augusta's back and arched an eyebrow quizzically. Cully lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug to indicate he wasn’t sure what was going on, either.

  Someone in the cellblock screamed.

  Augusta jumped out of her chair, wide-eyed, a hand pressed to her mouth. Flint exclaimed, "What the devil!" and started toward the cellblock door. Cully bounded up and reached it at the same instant.

  They hurried into the big room and stopped short as they surveyed the scene. On the floor, Downing was clutching at his stomach and writhing as he shrieked again, a long, agonized scream that seemed to be wrenched from his very core. Stockton was lying on the bunk. Sweat covered his face, which was twisted with pain. He was shaking and clawing at his belly.

  "Damn," Flint grated. "I'll get Rose!" He turned and ran from the cellblock.

  Cully felt a hand grasp his arm and looked down to see that Augusta had followed them into the cellblock. "My God," she whispered, her face pale. "What's wrong with them?"

  "Something bad," Cully mumbled. He looked back at Stockton and Downing. Stockton howled again, but the cry seemed to be weaker.

  In the next cell, Leander Bullfinch snorte
d, rolled over on the bunk, and almost fell out. He slowly sat up and thumped his big-booted feet on the floor. "Wha' in blue blazes...?" he growled. "Wha's all the ruckus about?" Then his bleary eyes focused on the two groaning, sick men in the next cell. He stood up too quickly and had to slap a callused palm against the wall to catch his balance. Blinking at Cully, he went on, "Wha' the hell's wrong with them two, Deppity?"

  "Don't know, Leander," Cully replied, his voice tight. "But the doctor's on the way."

  Downing was whimpering now. Stockton's feet suddenly beat a rapid tattoo against the wall. His head jerked back, his torso arched up off the thin mattress. An awful rattle came from his throat, and then he slumped on the bunk. Downing screamed once more, and then he, too, lay still and quiet.

  Cully was turning to get the cell door keys when Augusta's fingers dug into his arm. "Are they...are they dead?"

  Cully nodded slowly. "I reckon so."

  Augusta sobbed and pressed her face against Cully's shoulder. Under other circumstances, her closeness would have been a pleasure, but at the moment, Cully could only feel cold and sick. He was accustomed to the sight of violent death, but he had never seen men howl and writhe like this. He stared at the bodies while Augusta sobbed, and Leander wrenched his battered felt hat off his shaggy head in a gesture of drunken respect.

  Cully heard the front door of the office slam and then Lucas Flint was saying, "Looks like we're too late." The deputy turned and saw the marshal just inside the cellblock doorway with Rose Keller at his side.

  Abilene's physician hurried forward. "Unlock that door for me, Cully," she ordered. "There may still be a chance—"

  Gently pushing Augusta away, Cully grabbed the key ring from the wall and unlocked the cell door. Rose stepped inside and went to Downing first, kneeling beside him and feeling for a pulse at his throat. After a moment, she shook her head and straightened, then went to the bunk and checked Stockton's body, with the same result. Both men were dead.

  As Rose turned away from the two bodies, her expression was grim. She was tall for a woman, with thick brunette hair and a beauty that only enhanced her intelligence and strength of character. She asked quietly, "What happened here?"

  "We arrested those two for being drunk and causing a fight," Flint told her. "They seemed all right when we brought them in."

  "When did they get sick?"

  "Well, they were feeling the whiskey they had put away," Cully replied, "but they didn't really seem to be in bad shape until just a few minutes ago."

  Rose nodded and picked up her medical bag, which she had placed on the floor next to Downing's body. "I want to do a more thorough examination," she said. "Cully, why don't you take Miss Hall outside?"

  "That's a good idea. Come on, Miss Hall." Cully steered the young woman out of the cellblock. A silent Augusta didn’t protest, evidently relieved to get away from the place where two men had died so hideously.

  "What a terrible thing to happen," Augusta murmured once Cully had led her out of the office and they were standing on the boardwalk.

  "It was pretty bad, all right, even for a couple of no-accounts like Stockton and Downing." He took her arm again. "I'd better see you back to your hotel."

  Augusta nodded. "That would be fine," she said softly and then was silent for most of the walk to the Grand Palace Hotel. But when they neared the place, she asked, "You're going to keep looking for Joshua, aren't you?"

  "Of course, I am. He's my brother. I want to make sure nothing has happened to him."

  She hesitated a moment, then said softly, "He was drinking during the play, you know."

  Cully sighed heavily. "I figured as much. I could see he was having a lot of trouble."

  "Why would he do such a thing?" Augusta asked plaintively. "Of all the people to...to give in to temptation! I never would have thought that he could be like that."

  "You don't know all there is to know about Joshua, Miss Hall," Cully said quietly. "He went through a rough time a couple of years ago with whiskey."

  "Joshua? You can't be serious! He's such a fine man."

  "He is a fine man. But he's got weaknesses just like anybody else. He beat the liquor craving once before, though, so I reckon he can do it again."

  Augusta shook her head. "I just never would have believed it if you hadn't told me, Deputy."

  "It's true. But maybe we can find him before he has a chance to hurt himself too badly."

  "I hope so. If there's anything I can do to help..." Augusta offered, stopping at the front door of the hotel and turning toward him.

  "I'll let you know," Cully replied. He touched the brim of his hat and wished her goodnight, leaving unsaid the thought that had come to him when she offered to help. The way he saw it, Augusta had already done more than enough.

  Rose Keller snapped her medical bag shut and wearily ran a hand over her eyes. Flint watched grimly as she straightened from her work and came out of the cell. In the next cell, Leander had retreated to his bunk and gone back to sleep.

  "What do you think?" Flint asked, following her into the office.

  "They were poisoned, both of them," she declared. "I'm sure of it, given the condition of the bodies and what you and Cully have told me of their symptoms."

  "How the devil did that happen?"

  "You said they were drunk. The most obvious explanation is that they got hold of some bad whiskey."

  Flint nodded thoughtfully, then looked at her sharply as something occurred to him. "You remember Alfred Pendleton?" he asked.

  "The man who died a couple of weeks ago? I remember your telling me about him. I don't think I ever treated him or even met him."

  "When I found him, he had the same look on his face that Stockton and Downing have, and he had been drinking in the same saloon these boys were in tonight." Flint rubbed his chin and stared at Rose intently. "What are the chances that he was poisoned, too?"

  The doctor shook her head. "I have no way of knowing, Lucas. What did Cyril Warren say?"

  "He listed the death as natural causes. We just figured that Pendleton finally drank himself to death after years of heavy drinking." Flint gestured toward the cellblock. "But neither of those boys was twenty-five. They haven't had time for liquor to wear out their bodies. We know they were poisoned, and now it seems to me Pendleton might've been, too."

  "That sounds like a logical conclusion," Rose agreed.

  Flint's face was bleak. "I think we've got some bad whiskey floating around," he declared.

  "What are you going to do?"

  The marshal reached for his hat. "I'm going to try to track it down and find out where it's coming from." He took a deep breath. "If I can't, we're liable to have a lot more folks dying."

  8

  The next day was Sunday, and since Joshua Markham was still missing, one of the elders of the Calvary Methodist Church was pressed into service to deliver the morning sermon. As usual, Lucas Flint attended church and, after the service was over, assured the worried members of the congregation that he was making every effort to locate the minister.

  Then Flint turned his attention to the question of the bad whiskey. He had returned to Buster's saloon the night before after walking Rose to the boardinghouse where she rented a room, intending to ask the saloonkeeper where his supply of whiskey had come from. But when he arrived, the dingy saloon was dark and empty, the canvas over the door fastened shut. Flint supposed that Buster had shut down until he had a chance to clean the place up; it was only eleven o'clock, much too early for an Abilene tavern to close on a Saturday night. Not knowing where Buster lived, the marshal decided to wait until morning to question him, and went in search of Cyril Warren to have him remove Stockton's and Downing's bodies from the jail.

  On this bright autumn Sunday as he rode from the church toward downtown, he swung into the old west end to go by Buster's saloon. As he approached the soddy he heard noises inside and noticed the canvas flap over the doorway had been pushed back. Reining in, Flint dismounted and
stood at the entrance, peering into the seedy tavern.

  Buster was sweeping debris from the earthen floor in front of the bar. Across the room another man, a stranger to Flint, was picking up pieces of splintered wood that had been a table. As the lawman's big frame blocked the daylight at the doorway, Buster glanced up and, when he saw who was entering, glared at him. "Come to give me the money for the damages, Marshal?" he snarled.

  "I told you that would have to wait until those prisoners had had a hearing," Flint replied. "Now it looks like there won't be one."

  "What?" Buster exclaimed, so startled he dropped his broom. He took a step toward Flint, his face flushing angrily. "You didn't let those damn cowhands go, did you? They were supposed to pay for what they done here!"

  Flint had anticipated the man's reaction. He took several bills from his pocket and held them out. "That's what they had on them," he said flatly. "I figure you're lucky to get that much."

  Buster snatched the money and quickly counted it.

  "This won't pay for hardly half what they done! What'll I do about the rest of the damage?"

  "Like I said, be glad you got that much," Flint said with a shrug. "The county could have taken that for the burial expenses."

  The saloonkeeper opened his mouth to protest, then as the meaning of Flint's words sunk in, he gaped at the marshal. Finally, he recovered his wits and muttered, "Burial expenses?"

  Flint's eyes narrowed, and he looked coldly at Buster. "Both of them got sick and died after we took them to jail last night. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Buster?"

  "What are you tryin' to blame me for, Marshal?" demanded Buster defensively. "I didn't see those boys after you hauled 'em out of here."

  "I didn't say you did," Flint pointed out calmly. "But under the circumstances, I reckon it'd be the wise thing for you to answer a few questions."

  Ever since Flint had entered the dive, he had been aware that the other man was watching him. The stranger pretended to be going about his work, but Flint could tell that he was listening to the conversation with great interest. When the marshal finished speaking, he came over and said, "Howdy, Marshal. I may be sticking my nose in where it's not wanted, but don't you think you're being a little rough on Buster?"