"You're making fun of me," she accused.
"No, ma'am, not really. I'm just telling you the truth."
Augusta half turned as he took a step toward her. "Don't come any closer!" she warned shrilly. "I'll shoot anyone who interferes with me."
"Now, you don't want to hurt anybody," Cully said soothingly, watching her intently. There was something ludicrous about such a small woman threatening people with a big shotgun, but the buckshot would be just as deadly no matter who fired it. Maybe if he could keep her talking, she would get tired and drop that very heavy weapon.
But she was drawing strength from her beliefs, he realized as he saw how the shotgun's double barrels never wavered. And she gave no sign that she could be talked out of the dangerous turn her crusade had taken.
"I don't want to hurt anyone," Augusta cried. "That's why all of you have to leave now!"
Several customers started to move, edging nervously past her, heading for the door. One cowboy said, "Sure, lady, if that's what you want. There's plenty of other places around where a man can get a drink."
A slight smile played over Augusta's face. "Soon there won't be," she promised. "When I'm done, liquor and its evil will be driven out of this town!"
One of the bartenders spoke up. "Look, lady, you want us to close down, we'll close down. All right? Just stop waving that scattergun around."
"Not yet," Augusta said grimly. "You'll forgive me if I don't trust you, sir, considering the business you're in."
"I don't care who you trust, miss," the owner of the saloon called from where he stood at the end of the bar. "But you can't come in here and threaten my customers like this. Deputy, I demand that you arrest this woman."
"Take it easy," Cully advised the saloonkeeper. Several people were filing past him toward the door, and he used their movements as cover while he edged closer to Augusta. He went on, "Just what is it you want, Miss Hall?"
"You know quite well what I want, Deputy. I want all the saloons in Abilene closed permanently."
"Will you settle for just this one tonight?"
Augusta hesitated. "I suppose I might—on the condition that you promise it will remain closed from now on."
Cully shook his head. "I can't promise that. But I can tell you that there won't be any more drinks sold here tonight. How about that?"
"Cully!" the outraged saloon owner exclaimed. "You don't know what you're saying—"
"You'd rather have a few holes blown in your place?" Cully snapped. "Some folks hurt, maybe?" He waited as the red-faced saloonkeeper sputtered into silence, then he turned back to Augusta. "What about it, Miss Hall? Are you willing to accept that deal?"
"Are you going to arrest me?" she asked.
Before Cully replied, he shot a fast, hard glance at the saloon owner, warning the man to keep his mouth shut. "I don't think there's any reason to do that," Cully said. "There hasn't been any damage so far. As long as we keep it that way..."
"What about the business this crazy woman has run off?" the saloonkeeper demanded, ignoring Cully's warning look.
"Count yourself lucky it's not worse," Cully replied tersely. "Like I said, this is liable to increase your business in the long run."
"All right, that makes sense." The man looked at Augusta. "You're getting off lucky, young woman. You'd better grab this opportunity while you've got it."
For a split second, Cully thought Augusta was going to unload both barrels at the saloonkeeper's arrogant expression. He tensed reflexively, preparing to leap forward to spoil her aim and save her from a murder charge. But abruptly she relaxed.
"The Bible preaches forgiveness, sir, so I shall forgive you for your insults." She took a deep breath and lowered the scattergun.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Cully stepped forward, his right hand reaching for the weapon. His fingers closed over the cold metal, and he twisted the gun out of Augusta's grasp. Turning to the remaining customers, he said, "You heard the deal, folks. You'll have to find someplace else to do your drinking tonight. The Bull's Head is closed."
Now that the danger appeared to be over, a few customers grumbled in protest, but they began to clear out. Within minutes, the place was empty except for Cully, Augusta, the owner, and the two bartenders.
"Satisfied now?" Cully asked the young woman.
"No, but I suppose this will have to do." Augusta turned to glare at the tavern keeper. "I warn you, sir, this isn't over. I shall continue to oppose your evil and that of the other saloons in Abilene."
Cully took her arm and steered her toward the door before the target of her wrath could respond. "Come on," he told her firmly. "There's been enough excitement for one night."
Still glaring, Augusta allowed Cully to lead her out of the saloon. When they reached the boardwalk and the door was closed behind them, the deputy paused and broke the shotgun open. He grunted in surprise as he peered into the empty barrels.
"No shells," he commented and then narrowed his eyes at her. "You couldn't have done much damage with this scattergun, Miss Hall. But I suppose you knew that."
"Of course," Augusta snapped. "I didn't come to Abilene to hurt anyone, Deputy. I came to save people from harm."
"Hard to stop folks from doing something they're bound and determined to do." Cully closed the shotgun. "And waving a gun around sure isn't the way to do it. Where'd you get this thing, anyway?"
"It was behind the counter in the hotel. The clerk was nowhere around—"
"So you helped yourself." Cully shook his head and went on, "Well, maybe he'll agree not to charge you with theft. I'll have a talk with him. In the meantime, you'd better go back to your room and stay out of trouble."
Augusta's features tightened with indignation. "Stay out of trouble?" she echoed. "You don't seem to understand, Deputy. I'd fly in the face of Hell itself to end the evil of alcohol! I'd do anything?"
The passionate fervor rang in her voice and glowed on her face. Augusta believed so deeply in what she was doing that she would take all kinds of foolish chances. If he hadn’t moved quickly tonight, she might have gotten herself shot by bursting into a saloon with a cocked shotgun.
"I know you think you're doing the right thing," he began, attempting once more to reason with her, "but there're other ways to go about it."
"Ways that don't work," Augusta shot back scornfully. "You can talk to a person until you're blue in the face and try to show them where they're wrong, but when they've been drinking, it's no good. They just keep guzzling that awful stuff until it's too late...until they're...they're..." Her voice trailed off, and a sudden sob wracked her small frame.
Cully stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do. His first impulse was to put the shotgun down and take her into his arms, but considering her moral rectitude, he was afraid she would misinterpret the gesture. So he stayed where he was, waiting in silence as Augusta's crying ended in a flurry of sniffles.
She took a deep breath and said, "I-I'm sorry you had to witness such an emotional display, Deputy. You just can't know how difficult this fight has been. I've tried so hard, and it seems everything I do backfires. The morality play just caused trouble for the town and for your...your poor brother."
"Joshua's got to take the responsibility for his own problems," Cully said, trying not to sound harsh. In reality he was more than a little resentful that Augusta had roped Joshua into something that had turned out badly for him. But dwelling on that wouldn’t do any good now.
"Have you seen him or talked to him since...?"
Cully shook his head. "Nope, he's holed up somewhere, I imagine."
"Drinking, probably."
"Could be," Cully admitted.
"And it's my fault." Augusta shuddered. "Ever since Saturday night, I've been sitting in my hotel room, thinking about everything that has gone wrong. I simply couldn't take it anymore. I had to get out and do something, try to atone for my mistakes and get the crusade back on the right path."
"I reckon you'd do just about anything if yo
u thought it would help stop folks from drinking, wouldn't you?"
She nodded solemnly. "That's right. I would."
Cully lightly touched her arm. "Well, now I want you to go back to your room and get some rest. And try not to brood about things. That'll just make them worse."
"I suppose you're right," she murmured, but she didn’t sound convinced.
When Cully and Augusta entered the lobby, the clerk was behind the desk, and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw the shotgun in the deputy's hand. Cully strode over to the desk and thrust the weapon at the startled man. "Here you go," he said. "Thanks for the loan of the shotgun."
"What—"
"The marshal and I appreciate it."
"Well...sure, Cully, anytime." The man shook his head, content to remain puzzled. Evidently, he hadn’t noticed that the shotgun was gone.
Cully escorted Augusta to the foot of the stairs. "Good night, Miss Hall," he said. "Try to get some rest."
"I will. And you'll let me know if you hear anything about Joshua, won't you?"
"Sure." Cully nodded. "Don't worry about him, though. He'll be all right."
"I'll pray that's true, Deputy."
Cully waited until she had climbed the stairs and disappeared down the hall before he left the hotel. As he stepped onto the boardwalk, he thought that if he were the praying kind, he would say a few words on Joshua's behalf, too. Augusta was probably better at that sort of thing; maybe she could take up the slack for him.
But if Joshua didn’t show up soon, Cully would have to try praying himself.
Cully tossed sleeplessly for most of the night in the little room at the marshal's office. Something that he had seen or heard in the last few days nagged at him like an annoying fly buzzing in his head. He watched the shadows dancing on the ceiling, trying to force the idea into focus. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pin it down. Added to his concern over Joshua was this new worry—whatever it was—and both kept him awake until dawn began to lighten the eastern sky.
He finally dozed off, only to be awakened by the elusive idea a half hour later. Dragging himself wearily out of his bunk, he swung his bare feet onto the cold stone floor, shuddered as a chill ran up his spine, and trudged into the office to start a fire in the stove and put water on to heat for coffee. Then, still half asleep, he pulled on his pants, boots, and shirt and went to the front door.
As he stepped onto the boardwalk for some fresh air that he hoped would clear his muddled thoughts, he noticed that his breath puffed out in a plume of steam. The sun was just rising, and the morning was crisp and cool. Normally he enjoyed autumn mornings like this one; he just wished he had gotten more sleep.
By the time Lucas Flint arrived an hour later, Cully felt somewhat better. He had downed several cups of strong black coffee, then strolled to the Red Top Café and eaten a big breakfast of flapjacks and bacon. When Flint pushed open the office door, Cully was sitting at the desk, methodically cleaning the rifles from the rack behind him.
"Everything quiet this morning?" the marshal asked as he hung his hat on a peg.
"Quiet as can be," Cully replied. He put down his rag and turned in the chair to replace the last of the rifles in the rack. Standing up, he went on, "You need me for anything this morning?"
Flint shook his head. "Nothing that I know about right now. Why? You have something in mind?"
"I thought I'd ride out to the orphanage and see if Sister Lorraine has heard anything from Joshua. I figure he'd get in touch with me if he was going to talk to anybody, but you never know."
"No," Flint said, "you don't."
Cully reached for his hat and jacket. "I'll see you later, Marshal."
Within a few minutes, the old-timer who ran the livery stable had Cully's horse saddled and ready to go. The deputy mounted the pinto and headed west down Texas Street toward the church and orphanage, which were seven blocks away.
When he reached Elm Street, he saw the children from the orphanage walking to school, bundled up in warm clothing. All of them waved at him as he rode by, and Cully returned their greetings with a smile. He had always enjoyed the children, and the sight of their eager faces on this worrisome morning cheered him. As he drew even with Patrick Hammond, the impish redhead called, "Hi, Cully. Where're you going?"
"To church," Cully replied, then grinned as he saw the surprised look on Patrick's freckled face. It was a little unusual for him to be going to church, he supposed.
He tethered his horse at the iron rail in front of the church and then, on the off chance that Joshua had returned, went inside. Pushing the heavy wooden doors open, Cully stepped into the white, high-ceilinged room, his footsteps echoing in the empty sanctuary. Everything appeared normal—except that Joshua wasn’t there.
Brushing aside his disappointment, Cully walked to the parsonage. He found Sister Lorraine seated on the floor in the big, sun-drenched parlor with the children who were too young to go to school surrounding her. She looked up from the game they were playing as Cully paused in the doorway, and her bright blue eyes quickened with interest. "You're doing very well, children," she told the little ones cheerfully. "Please go on without me for just a moment." Then she rose and threaded her way among the seated youngsters toward Cully.
Before she reached him, however, he shook his head. "I can tell by looking at you that you're about to ask the same question I was going to ask you," he said softly.
"You haven't seen your brother, either?"
"I'm afraid not."
Sister Lorraine sighed. "I've been praying for Joshua," she said anxiously. "I'm very afraid for him, Cully."
"So am I, Sister. But there's still no sign of him." He glanced at the children. "How are you getting along out here without him to help? Do you need anything?"
"We're all right," the nun assured him. "The children miss Joshua, of course, but they're doing fine. Alice and I have told them that he had to go away for a while and that he will be back soon. The younger ones can accept that quite easily; the older ones have a bit more trouble with it, especially when they hear things about him at school." She sighed again. "I'm afraid your brother has caused quite a scandal in some circles. As uncharitable as it is for me to say it, I almost wish that young woman had never come to Abilene."
"You and me both, Sister," Cully agreed. "I reckon most of the folks in town feel the same way." Quickly he told her what had happened the night before in the Bull's Head.
Sister Lorraine shook her head and clucked her tongue. "Miss Hall has good intentions," she said, "but she has a great deal to learn about people. However, she's still young. Perhaps in time she will learn to temper her passion with reason."
"I wouldn't count on it," Cully muttered disgustedly. "She went into that saloon last night looking like she had a blood score to settle—" He stopped suddenly and frowned. The elusive idea that had bothered him all night was trying to push itself from the recesses of his mind.
"Cully? Is something wrong?"
Cully blinked and peered at Sister Lorraine. "I reckon there could be," he said quietly. "I may have just figured something out."
"About Joshua?"
Cully shook his head. "Nope, I still don't have a clue about where he's gone. But there's something else I need to check." He started toward the door, then turned to say, "Listen, if you need a hand out here while Joshua's gone, just let me know. I'll do what I can."
"Thank you. I'm sure we'll be fine, though."
Cully nodded, put his hat on, and went out quickly to his horse.
As he rode back toward town, he examined the theory that had suddenly formed from the nebulous worries that had rankled him. He didn’t want to believe it, but some of the facts fit. And he was going to check on some others that might fill in the gaps.
He rode straight to the Kansas Pacific depot. The Western Union office was located inside the big, red brick building, and that was Cully's destination. He took a message pad and a stubby pencil from the telegraph operator who
was on duty, and quickly printed out a message. When he handed it back to the telegrapher, the man scanned the words and raised his eyebrows. "The Christian Ladies Temperance Society, huh?" he said. "Fixing to join, are you, Cully?"
"It's official business," Cully snapped. "Just send it, all right?"
"Sure, sure," the operator mumbled. Pulling his key in front of him on the desk, he began tapping out the message.
When he was done, Cully asked, "How long will it take to get a reply?"
The man shrugged. "Hard to say, probably at least an hour."
"I'll be back."
Cully left the depot and rode around the corner to the marshal's office. Flint, who was seated at his desk, glanced up and frowned as Cully strode into the room.
"Why didn't you tell me about what happened over at the Bull's Head last night?" the marshal asked sharply. "I had to find out about it in the café."
Cully grimaced. "There really wasn't much to it. I was able to head things off before there was any real trouble. Besides, that shotgun wasn't even loaded. She just had it for show."
"That kind of show could have gotten somebody hurt."
"That's what I told her," Cully said. "I don't think she'll be pulling any more stunts like that, Marshal."
"I hope not," Flint grunted. "Seems to me Miss Hall has worn out her welcome in Abilene. Beulah Grantham was waiting for me when I got back from breakfast."
Cully frowned. "Mrs. Grantham? What did she want?"
"She'd heard about the trouble at the Bull's Head, too. She wanted to assure me that her society didn't have anything to do with it. In fact, they're withdrawing all their support from Miss Hall. According to Mrs. Grantham, the girl's just hurting their efforts to curb drinking in town with her tendency toward violence. The society wants her to leave."
Cully nodded, not surprised. He wondered if Augusta knew about the change in the local temperance society's attitude. She would view it as another setback in her mission, which was rapidly turning into a one-woman crusade. Augusta would be better off if she just got on the train and returned to Philadelphia, he mused.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 151