Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  His feet hurt from running. And every time they hit the ground; the top of his head felt as if it were going to fly off. But he kept moving. Despite what she had done to him, he didn’t want Augusta to go to jail.

  He reached the warehouse, turned, and ran alongside it. As he whipped around the rear corner, he spotted Augusta, standing near one of the few windows in the building. The glass was shattered, and the coal oil can was lying at her feet. Instantly Cully knew that she had broken the window and then poured the coal oil inside the warehouse. All it would take now was something to light it.

  Augusta held a match in her hand.

  She cried out as she saw Cully, then hurriedly rasped the match into life against the rough stone wall. Stretching up on her toes, she thrust it at the broken window.

  Cully yelled, "No!" and then dove at her. He wasn’t in the habit of tackling women, but this was no time for manners. His shoulder slammed into Augusta. His fingers closed around her wrist, jerking her hand back. She screamed as they both fell. Cully tried to twist in midair, so that he wouldn’t land on her with his full weight. The breath heaved out of his lungs as he crashed to the hard ground with Augusta coming down on top of him. Enraged, she was shrieking and fighting, clawing at him with her fingernails. Cully gasped for air and pushed her away. Then he saw the match lying on the ground a couple of feet away, the flame at its tip still flickering. He reached over and swatted it out.

  Augusta had stopped fighting. She lay huddled on the ground, sobbing. Cully rolled over, pulled himself up on his knees, and crouched beside her. "Augusta?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

  "Wh-why?" she gulped. "Why did you stop m-me?" Her red-rimmed eyes were filled with tears.

  Anger welled up inside him. "Why did I stop you?" he echoed. "To keep you from going to jail, you little fool! It's against the law to burn down buildings."

  "It has to be done!" Augusta wailed. "I have to stop people from drinking—"

  Cully grasped her shoulders and pulled her to a sitting position. "Not this way!" he grated. "I know that what happened to your brother hurt you. I know you want folks to quit drinking, and you're probably right about that. But not like this! You can't force people to think the way you do, Augusta."

  Pain and confusion flickered in her eyes as she stared at him, trying to grasp the meaning of his intensely spoken words. Suddenly, her face crumpled, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she began to sob brokenheartedly. Like a lifeless, broken doll, she sagged in his arms. He folded them tightly around her, cradling her as she cried.

  "I'm so sorry," she mumbled a minute later. Gently she pulled away from his embrace and swallowed hard, trying to compose herself. "Are you all right? I...I didn't mean to hit you so hard. I just wasn't thinking..."

  Cully smiled slightly and tried to ignore the painful lump throbbing on the side of his head. "That was a pretty good wallop," he said lightly. "But I'll be fine."

  "Are...are you going to arrest me for hitting you?"

  He shook his head. "Nope. I reckon you just got carried away."

  "I was insane, just as you said. When you made that comment about burning down the saloons, I thought you had figured out what I was planning. I thought it would be better to go ahead and admit it and try to take you by surprise."

  "You did that, all right."

  "But I never meant to hurt you. You've got to believe me, Cully," she wailed, and tears began to well up in her eyes.

  "I do," he told her gently, hoping to soothe her. "You just take it easy now. My head's plenty hard. And you haven't done any real damage to this building. You can pay to have this window replaced and for cleaning up whatever mess that coal oil made inside. That'll be the end of it. Uh...there is just one more thing."

  She turned her tear-streaked face to him. "What is it?"

  "It might be a good idea if you left Abilene pretty soon, the way you were planning to anyway. I don't like to see a pretty girl leave town, but..."

  "But I've worn out my welcome," she finished for him.

  "Some folks might think so," Cully admitted.

  Augusta sighed and nodded wearily. "All right, I will. I did want to be sure that Joshua was all right before I left, but I'll give you an address where you can reach me. Please, let me know when you find him."

  "I will," Cully promised. He stood up and then helped her to her feet. "Come on, now. I'll walk you back to your hotel, and you can start packing."

  As they moved around the warehouse and started down the street toward the heart of town, Cully went on, "You didn't really think you could burn down a warehouse in broad daylight and get away with it, did you?"

  "I was planning on doing it tonight," Augusta confessed. "But then you saw that I had the coal oil, and I panicked. I thought I had to do it now or give up the idea."

  "That would've been the best thing to do."

  "I can see that now—"

  Augusta broke off abruptly, and Cully's head jerked up. Gunshots were echoing through the streets. "What the devil?" he muttered.

  "Someone's shooting!" Augusta cried, whirling around in panic.

  "And doing a lot of it," Cully added. His eyes narrowed as he assessed where the gunshots were coming from. When they noticed the gunfire, they had just reached the intersection of Fifth and Cedar; they were standing exposed in the open. Cully realized the shots were coming from the north, but behind them. "Sounds like it's getting closer!"

  Slipping his left arm around Augusta's shoulders, he tightened it protectively and pulled her up against the nearest building. Then he rested his right hand on the butt of his Colt and peered out toward the noise.

  Suddenly a pair of wagons flashed by, careening down Walnut Street, crossing Fifth two blocks west of Cully and Augusta. Two men were crouched among barrels in the wagon beds firing rifles behind them. Seconds later men on horseback galloped through the intersection, and the riders were shooting as fast as they could at the wagons.

  It was a running battle, headed right for Texas Street and downtown Abilene.

  "Stay here!" Cully hissed to Augusta and began to pull away from the building.

  "What are you going to do?" she cried, clutching at the sleeve of his jacket.

  "Innocent folks are going to get hurt if that shooting keeps up," he replied. "I don't know what's going on, but the marshal and I have to stop it!"

  Then he broke away from her and started to run, leaving her behind.

  For a day that had started out peacefully, Cully thought fleetingly as he hurtled toward Texas Street, this one was sure going to hell in a hurry.

  As Cully Markham disappeared toward the heart of town, the man who had been watching from the doorway of a closed store emerged and hurried across the street toward the warehouse. From where he had been crouching, he couldn’t tell what was causing the uproar that distracted the deputy, but that didn’t matter. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.

  He had seen Augusta Hall carry the can of coal oil toward the back of the building, and it hadn’t taken a genius to figure out what she was planning.

  The idea had been very pleasing to him.

  But evidently that blasted deputy had shown up in time to stop her. If he hadn’t, the warehouse would be in flames by now.

  Maybe the situation could be still be saved. The man trotted down the alley beside the warehouse and turned behind it. He immediately spotted the broken window and saw the oil can lying on the ground nearby. Picking it up, he shook it and then grinned—nearly empty. He put his nose to the window and sniffed, catching the odor of the coal oil just inside. His grin widened.

  He knew a big stock of liquor was stored inside the building. If anything happened to it, the owners of the town's saloons would have no choice but to replace it as quickly as possible; otherwise their businesses would be crippled.

  And he would be in the right place at the right time to sell them plenty of whiskey. Everything was working out perfectly. His chief competitors, the Barrows, would be out of business bef
ore the morning was over—not just out of business, in fact, but dead. With the liquor in this warehouse gone as well, the Wagon Wheel Distillery would reap a tremendous profit. In reality, the company consisted only of himself—the whiskey he sold was bought on the cheap from moonshiners in Missouri.

  The broad grin still on his face, Phillip G. Walton fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a match, and scratched it to life on the rough wall. He made sure it was burning vigorously, then dropped it inside the broken window.

  The spilled coal oil ignited with a satisfying whoosh! Walton hurried away, anxious to put some distance between himself and the warehouse before the flames reached the stored liquor.

  He could still hear quite a bit of shooting coming from downtown and decided that he would go see what was causing it. Whatever the fuss was, it was going to be overshadowed in a few minutes by a blast that would rock Abilene to its foundations.

  Marshal Lucas Flint was sitting at his desk in the office when footsteps pounding on the boardwalk just outside told him that something was wrong. He was on his feet and heading toward the door just as it burst open.

  "Marshal!" yelled the townsman who stumbled in.

  "What is it?" Flint demanded sharply.

  "Sounds like a war coming!" exclaimed the man breathlessly. "Somebody's coming toward town and shooting!"

  Flint could hear the gunshots now, drifting in through the open door. His Colt was in its holster strapped around his hips. Spinning, he pulled one of the unloaded Winchesters off the rack, grabbed a handful of cartridges from his desk drawer, and began sliding them into the magazine.

  The way the gunfire was exploding, it sounded as if a bunch of wild Texas cowboys were on a tear. But the shots were coming from the wrong direction, and of course this was the wrong time of year. This was some new threat, Flint thought as he ran out of the office, the rifle gripped tightly in his hands.

  Once outside he saw the pedestrians along Texas Street scurrying for cover. He wondered where Cully was. The deputy hadn’t come back from visiting Augusta Hall. Flint noticed Angus MacQuarrie emerging from his tavern with a shotgun in his hand. Catching Angus's eye, Flint motioned for him to find some cover; then the marshal ducked to crouch behind a rain barrel at the edge of the boardwalk.

  The shots were very close now, coming from the west, so Flint looked to his right down Texas Street. Suddenly he spotted a pair of wagons drawn by mule teams appear at Walnut Street, a block and a half away, and make a sliding turn onto Texas Street, heading toward him. The mules were moving faster than Flint had ever seen such animals run. The careening wagons swayed wildly as they turned, almost toppling over. But when Flint peered through the dust raised by the mules' hooves, he saw that the vehicles were tightly loaded with barrels of some sort. That weight was probably all that prevented them from tipping over. In the bed of each wagon was a man, facing backward and firing a rifle.

  Rounding the corner after the wagons were close to a dozen men on horseback, who were peppering their quarry with rifle and pistol shots. The marshal muttered a curse and tried to figure out which side in the fight he ought to support. Then the wagons thundered by him, and he recognized the drivers—the Barrow twins.

  But regardless of who they were, Flint saw they were heavily outnumbered, and the pursuers seemed bent on killing them. Flint made up his mind; he would put a stop to this fight and then sort it out later.

  Raising the Winchester to his shoulder, he fired and sent a slug over the heads of the riders. Down the street, Angus followed his lead, the booming blast of the shotgun joining with the cacophony of hoofbeats. The men on horseback slowed abruptly as they realized that they were riding into a crossfire.

  But they were still shooting. Suddenly a stray bullet slammed into the head of one of the lead mules pulling the first wagon. The animal pitched forward, its feet tangling in the leather traces, and the other mules in the team toppled with it. The wagon jackknifed, its axles snapping with loud pops. The other wagon was following so closely that it had no chance to avoid overturning, even though its driver tried desperately to swerve around the wreckage. That team trampled into the first wagon and toppled with a grinding crash. Barrels and men were flung from the vehicles and flew through the air. In the whirling debris Flint caught a glimpse of Harley Barrow flailing his arms and legs and screaming as he sailed above the street.

  Within seconds, the street was utter chaos. The barrels split and shattered when they hit the ground, spilling hundreds of gallons of whiskey. Injured mules thrashed and shrieked, and guns were still cracking.

  Several of the men who had chased the wagons into town began to flee, but the rest kept trying to kill the Barrows. Out of the corner of his eye, Flint saw Harley Barrow pull himself to his feet and scramble after his fallen rifle that lay a dozen feet from him. Harley had almost reached it when a bullet slammed into his body, spinning him around and doubling him over. He fell into one of the rapidly forming pools of whiskey with a splash.

  Flint couldn’t tell if the other Barrows had been hurt in the crash, nor had he time to check. He fired at the remaining riders who were shooting wildly around them. Suddenly, someone was beside him, holding a six-gun and firing at a steady, deadly clip. The marshal glanced over and saw Cully crouching next to him.

  Other citizens besides Angus were joining in the fight now. The rest of the men on horseback tried to make a break for it, but they were pinned in. Most of them threw down their guns and raised their hands as bullets flew around them. But one man kept firing. He must have been the leader, Flint thought as one of the man's slugs chewed splinters out of the rain barrel between Cully and him. Flint fired coolly, and the last gunman pitched from his saddle and tumbled bonelessly to the street.

  Now that the battle was over Flint straightened his tall frame and glanced at Cully. "You all right?" he asked.

  The deputy nodded. "I'm fine. They were throwing a lot of lead around, but it didn't hit much."

  Flint jerked his head toward the riders who had surrendered and said, "You'd better go take charge of the prisoners."

  As Cully strode toward the gunmen, Flint approached Harley Barrow's body. He saw that the other three Barrows were gathered around the sprawled figure. Dennis had a long, bloody scratch on his face, and one of the twins was cradling a bloody arm that was probably broken. But that appeared to be the extent of their injuries. They had been lucky, considering the violent wreck.

  They had rolled Harley over to get him out of the pool of whiskey. A large red stain was blossoming on his shirt, and his eyes were closed. Dennis looked up, saw the marshal coming, and wailed despondently, "They killed Harley! They killed him!"

  Flint looked up and noticed that the townspeople had begun to gather now that the shooting had stopped. Catching the eye of a curious bystander, he barked, "Go get Dr. Keller." The man nodded and broke into a run. Flint knew that Rose, drawn by the shooting, would appear at any moment, but the man could see to it that she came to check on Harley first.

  "Now," Flint said sternly to the Barrows, "what the devil was all this about?"

  Before any of them could answer, a huge explosion shook the ground and sent women and children running for cover again. Flint whirled around, instinctively bringing the Winchester up, but he saw nothing to shoot at. Instead, a few blocks north, a column of black smoke was billowing into the air, and flames flickered over the rooftops between Texas Street and the site of the blast. Whatever had exploded over there had become an instant inferno. Even though his ears had been stunned by the blast, he could hear the popping, crackling blaze.

  Flint saw Cully leave the prisoners in charge of Angus and a half dozen gun-toting citizens and run toward the boardwalk. Augusta Hall was standing there, and Cully grasped her shoulders fiercely and spoke angrily to her. Flint hurried over and reached them in time to hear Augusta crying, "I promise you, Cully, I didn't! I swear it! I came right here after you left me!"

  Behind Flint, the Barrows had picked up Harley's body and we
re carrying it toward the boardwalk.

  Flint caught Cully's arm and asked, "Do you know what that is?"

  Before Cully could answer, a new voice babbled, "It's that liquor warehouse up on Fifth Street! I saw it explode, Marshal. It's going up like you wouldn't believe!"

  Flint believed it. Now he understood why the explosion had been so violent. And trying to put out a fire in a warehouse with so much fuel in it would be futile. The fire would have to burn itself out. But the town's fire wagon would need to go to the scene to make certain the conflagration didn’t spread.

  The marshal looked at the man who had spoken and recognized Phil Walton, the whiskey drummer. His business would probably be booming in the next few days, Flint thought wearily. He was about to tell Cully to organize the fire-fighting effort when a commotion erupted behind him.

  "It's him!" somebody howled. "Lemme up, dammit! I'm goin' to kill the son of a bitch!"

  Flint turned to see Harley Barrow, half sitting and struggling in the grip of his brother and cousins. Evidently Harley had just regained consciousness, but something had galvanized him and given him the strength to momentarily throw off the effects of his bullet wound. His wild, hate-filled eyes stared past Flint.

  The marshal turned to see whom Harley was trying to go after and noticed that Phil Walton, his normally florid face pale, was slowly backing away.

  Flint flicked his gaze back to Harley. "What are you talking about, Barrow?" he demanded.

  Harley leveled a shaky finger at Walton. "I heard his voice just now, and I tell you it's him! He's the one who double-crossed us! It was his idea to put that extra strychnine in the whiskey, Marshal, not mine. It'd make folks a mite sick, he said, but he never said nothin' about it killin' 'em!"

  Suddenly, Harley let out a groan and sagged. He would have fallen if the others hadn’t been holding him up. Flint glanced at Cully and saw that the deputy was just as puzzled as he was, but one thing was clear—they would have to have a long talk with Phillip G. Walton. Flint took a step toward Walton and said, "Hold on a minute, mister."