Something seemed odd about the man, though, and then abruptly Sister Lorraine realized that he wasn’t wearing a holstered revolver.
The man sat quite tall in the saddle as he expertly controlled the animal with his legs, his hands cradling the rifle in a nonthreatening but ready manner. He seemed totally unconcerned about the four revolvers that were being held on him. Rather, he took his time as he lifted his head and eyed the big, dark-haired man on the nearest horse and then the other three men bunched in a group beside the lead wagon.
That movement gave Sister Lorraine her first good look at the newcomer’s eyes. She drew in a sharp breath. The man’s gaze was flat, hard, and cold. Her mind flashed back to a time, years earlier, when she had come unexpectedly upon a snake and found herself with an all-too-close look at it.
This stranger’s eyes had the same aura that said he could strike swiftly—and fatally.
After it became clear that the unknown rifleman wasn’t going to speak first, Knowles lowered his gun, leaned on his pommel, and said, "Hello, stranger." His lips pulled into a thin, cautious smile.
The rifleman stared at the short, blond-haired man a long moment without reply. Finally, he gave another glance at Jax, who was the closest threat, then turned to Sister Lorraine.
"What's the trouble, Sister?" His voice was as flat as his eyes, the words bitten off short.
Sister Lorraine stood up and brushed off her skirt, using the movement to slip her right hand casually into her pocket. Struggling to steady her voice, she replied, "These...gentlemen...were thinking to have a little sport—at our expense."
"Anyone else hurt?" he asked, nodding toward the boy, who was already rising to a sitting position.
As the nun shook her head, Knowles cut in, "We didn't hurt no one. Fool kid run in front of Jax's horse, is all."
The rifleman eyed Jax closely, then said, "A big man like you ought to watch where you're going...and who you're laying your filthy hands on."
Jax's hand tensed. His finger tightened on the trigger. But he held back and glanced uncertainly at Knowles, confirming that it was the shorter blond man who was in charge. When Jax again looked over at the rifleman, the Winchester was leveled at his chest.
Knowles leaned forward in the saddle. "And who're you to be talkin' to us like that?" he demanded.
"The name's Lucas Flint, but some call me Rattler," he announced, his eyes holding steady on the big man named Jax, who seemed unnerved upon hearing the name. "And I'd be right appreciative if you boys left peaceably."
There was a mutter of recognition between the two riders who sat their horses just beyond the blond-haired man. He, too, seemed aware of the name, for he sat up straighter in the saddle and slowly nodded, all the while resting his revolver on the pommel, its barrel pointed away from the rifleman.
"Abilene ain't your town, Flint," he finally said. "And this ain't none of your affair."
"Let's just say I'm making it my business. Now ride on out of here—or answer to this Winchester." Flint paused. “Doesn’t really matter to me, one way or the other.”
Knowles noted that Jax had lowered his revolver and was shifting nervously in the saddle. He couldn’t see the two men behind him, but from their mutterings he had no doubt that they were just as apprehensive as Jax.
Forcing a smile, Knowles said, "We sure don't want none of the young'uns hurt." Twisting toward the two men behind him, he added, "Maybe we'd best be movin' along, boys."
Turning in the saddle, Knowles drew back his hand to holster his revolver. At the last instant, he whipped the gun up to fire. Even more quickly, Flint swung his Winchester to the left and pulled the trigger. The two shots were almost simultaneous, though Knowles's bullet flew harmlessly into the air as the rifle slug tore through his upper arm and his revolver went sailing out of his hand.
Before Jax or the others could react, Flint had levered another cartridge into the chamber and was again pointing the Winchester at Jax's chest. "You'll be next," Flint declared.
Jax again looked to Knowles for direction, but the shorter man was busy clutching his bleeding arm and trying to steady his horse as he muttered a string of oaths. Jax turned then to the other men, who seemed just as uncertain—and just as unwilling to go up against Lucas Flint's Winchester. After a moment's hesitation, Jax slowly holstered his revolver, with the other men following suit.
"Let's get out of here," he muttered, turning his horse to ride away.
Having regained control of his horse, Knowles struggled to calm his anger as he scowled at his men. It was clear that they didn’t have the stomach to back him—at least not here and now. Deciding to leave things as they were for the moment, he glowered at Flint and said, "I told you that Abilene ain't your town, Flint. You'd do best to keep on ridin' to Wichita, where you still got a few friends."
With that he wheeled the horse in a half circle and galloped away, his men close behind him as they headed back the way they had come, thoughts of riding to Junction City all but forgotten.
As the dust cleared, Sister Lorraine helped Patrick to his feet, while Alice ran to the rear of the wagon and retrieved a small cooking pot, which she filled from one of the water barrels strapped to the side.
"Are you all right?" the nun asked as she led Patrick toward the wagon.
The boy was shaking his head groggily and trying to smile, but his faltering steps indicated that he was still quite dizzy.
"Let's get you up on the seat so I can wash that cut," she told him, inspecting the gash at his left temple.
"I'm f-fine," he managed to mutter, then his smile faded, and he added, "I'm...sorry."
Sister Lorraine pulled the boy close and patted the back of his head. "You were so brave," she whispered. "You put us all to shame."
Patrick pulled his head away and looked up into the older woman's clear blue eyes. His smile slowly returned.
"Now, let's get you up on that wagon," Sister Lorraine continued, and the boy nodded. But when he reached for the side of the wagon, he started to swoon and had to stop and breathe deeply for a moment.
A shadow passed over Patrick, and he looked up to see the tall, sandy-haired rifleman standing over him.
"You'd best take it easy for a while, son," Flint said. "That's quite a blow you took. It would've put me down for a week."
Now that Flint wasn’t facing the gunmen anymore, his voice wasn’t quite so cold and ominous. He reached forward, took hold of the boy under the arms, and effortlessly hoisted him up onto the seat.
"Thank you, Mr...Flint, is it?" Sister Lorraine asked.
"Lucas Flint, ma'am...uh, Sister."
"Sister is fine," she assured him as she climbed up beside Patrick and started cleaning his wound using the water and a piece of cloth brought by Alice. "Or ma'am if you prefer. Just not madam, because I intend to open a house of healthy repute. Actually, I'm on my way to Wichita to found an orphanage."
"It's a beautiful city."
"So I've been told, which is why I decided to bring the children there."
"Then you've never been to Wichita?" Flint asked.
"No. But I'm a Dominican, and our order has long wanted to expand our work in Kansas. At least that's what my superiors in Boston told me. I personally suspect it was just a plot to keep me far away and out of trouble."
Flint nodded. "Trouble does seem to have a way of tracking you down."
Sister Lorraine dipped the cloth into the pot of water and looked west across the prairie. "You mean those four?" She frowned. "I've handled worse. But I never doubted that God would pull us through once again." Suddenly she looked with concern at Flint. "I don't mean to discount what you did for us. It's just that God has a way of making these things work out—like bringing you along right when he did."
Flint walked over to where his horse was standing and took up the trailing reins. As he led the animal to the wagon, he remarked, "They say that God works in mysterious ways . . . and I might be the strangest instrument of His will you’ll ever
come across. And if there is a God—and I don't mean to speak poorly of your chosen calling...it's just that I'm not sure I understand what His purpose in all this might be."
Sister Lorraine looked at him a long moment, trying to read the sorrow that was evident in his eyes. Finally, she lifted the wet cloth from the pan of water and continued wiping Patrick's face.
"I'm sorry if I sound bitter, ma'am," Flint said, placing his boot in the stirrup and lifting himself into the saddle. "But it was the recent death of my wife—not divine providence—that led me to be riding along this road today."
"I'm so sorry. If there's anything I can do..."
"It wasn't unexpected. At least she's at peace." He waved his hand as if warding off painful memories. "I'll be fine. But I would be grateful if you'd let me accompany you into Abilene."
"You don't have to trouble yourself, Mr. Flint," Sister Lorraine insisted. "I'm sure they won't try anything more. Certainly not in town."
"You'd be doing me a favor. The road gets awfully lonesome and being around all these bright young faces will keep me from dwelling on the past."
Sister Lorraine didn’t for a moment think that Lucas Flint was making the offer out of concern for his own peace of mind. But though she was convinced the four gunmen wouldn’t try such a foolish stunt again, she had to admit that she would feel safer with Flint riding alongside. And it would certainly calm the children's fears.
"We'd be glad to have you along," she said, placing the pot of water in Patrick's lap and taking up the reins.
"I left a packhorse beyond the last wagon. I'll go get it and then take the lead." He pulled on the reins and started to turn his horse.
Alice had been standing alongside the wagon all this time, and now she stepped forward and raised a hand to stop the rider. "I...I want to thank you," she said.
Flint touched a finger to the brim of his hat.
"Mr. Flint," Patrick suddenly called out, and Flint turned in the saddle to face him. "How come you're not wearing a gun?" the boy asked.
Flint patted the butt of the Winchester in the saddle scabbard. "This is all the protection I need right here."
"But what about a revolver?"
"I used to wear one. But that was a long time ago."
"In Wichita?" Alice put in. "Those men said something about you being from Wichita."
"I lived there once. But that was another lifetime."
"Did you shoot anyone back then, too?" Patrick asked, his eyes eager with anticipation.
"Patrick!" Sister Lorraine exclaimed. She turned to Flint. "I'm so sorry—"
"It's all right," he said. "I didn't wear a gun to shoot people, Patrick. I wore it to keep them from shooting each other. And, yes, sometimes I had to do some shooting myself. But I wore a badge."
"A sheriff?" Patrick said excitedly.
"I was town marshal of Wichita." Flint stared off into the distance. "But as I said, that was a long time ago." He let up on the reins and kneed the horse forward. "A very long time ago." Kicking the animal harder, he rode off toward the rear of the train.
3
As the four wagons moved across the prairie under the final rays of the setting sun, droning mosquitoes and millions of tiny black gnats were drawn to the white canvas covers. The insects, in turn, attracted a disorganized legion of small hungry bats, which swooped across the backs of the mules and dove at the canvas, only to veer away inches before impact. From inside the wagons, the children could hear the flutter of wings and at times could make out a faint shadow bobbing across the surface of the cloth. The boys and girls huddled together, not in fear but in awe of how massive and endless the great American prairie had proven to be.
The clomp of hooves, clatter of wheels, and incessant flapping of wings was broken by the deep voice of the rifleman—the marshal of Wichita, some of the older boys were saying—as he rode to the opening at the back of each wagon and announced that Abilene was in sight on the horizon. The children quickly gathered behind the driver's seats and peered across the darkening landscape to the twinkling lights in the distance.
For fifteen minutes they watched the lights grow brighter, the buildings more distinct. This was a fair-sized city, they could tell, smaller than Topeka but larger than Ogden or Moonlight or a number of other trail towns through which they had passed. The children hoped it would mean a longer stay—perhaps a day or two—and a chance to play on the hard earth for a while. For certain it meant a visit to the local general store, where each child would be allowed three cents' worth of candy.
As the city grew larger, the hovering insects and swooping bats—even the sparkling city lights—were replaced by a spectacularly colorful mental array of horehound mints, jelly beans, and licorice sticks, which danced in front of the children's eyes—all the children except Patrick Hammond, that is.
Ever since leaving Philadelphia, he had sacrificed the candy so he could hoard the pennies they were given in each major city. One day he would have enough money to buy himself a pearl-handled Colt Peacemaker revolver like the one he had seen advertised in the Godfrey Arms Catalogue, the picture from which he kept tucked in the bottom of his suitcase. As far as Patrick was concerned, this journey could go on forever—or at least until they had passed through enough cities to provide him with the twenty dollars he would need for his purchase.
The dirt road widened and grew better defined as it passed alongside the freestanding buildings at the outskirts of town. Most were clapboard single-story structures that appeared to be private dwellings, though several were brick or stone two-story buildings. There were no streetlamps as yet, the only light spilling from the houses along the way. The taller buildings invariably were dark, undoubtedly warehouses or businesses that already had closed for the evening.
The wagons rolled deeper into town, where the buildings began to be clustered in twos and threes, occasionally with a wide porch or wooden boardwalk connecting them. Soon most of the gaps filled in, until there was a nearly unbroken line of one- and two-story buildings that resembled a crosscut saw with a few of the teeth missing.
Ahead on the right was an open lot with a substantial brick building centered on the lawn. "The courthouse," Flint told Sister Lorraine as they passed. Just beyond the next intersection, the street was lit with lamps, indicating the heart of the business district. As the wagons crossed into the light, a pair of smartly-painted signs at the corner identified the crossroad as Buckeye Street and the one on which they had been riding as Texas Street.
Here Abilene's main street proved to be a bustling thoroughfare, filled this Tuesday night with carriages, horses, and pedestrians. Most buildings were two or even three stories high, with several boasting lantern-lit signs proclaiming such establishments as the Great Western Store and the Old Fruit Saloon. The wide-plank boardwalk, several blocks long on both sides of the street, was well planned and maintained, providing easy and level passage between buildings. Covered for much of its length, it was a welcome relief from the usual arrangement where each business had its own porch, often forcing people to step down into the muddy street between buildings.
As the wagons headed through the business district, Lucas Flint reined in and asked a passerby for directions to the nearest doctor's office. It was located on the left side of the street beside the Grand Palace Hotel, he was told. Just after crossing the intersection of Mulberry Street, Flint saw the hotel's rickety sign—which fronted an establishment that was neither grand nor palatial—and he signaled Sister Lorraine to pull the wagons in front of the building just beyond the hotel.
The office was a small two-story cottage, a curious contrast to the rest of the street. Rather than sitting up against the boardwalk cheek by jowl with the other buildings, it was set back about fifteen yards, with flower beds lining a brick walk that led directly to the street. There was a break in the boardwalk for the length of the yard, and the house even boasted a grass alleyway on either side, which in daytime would allow some light to penetrate alongside the hotel
to the left and Angus's Tavern to the right.
While the other lamps along Texas Street were attached to the edge of the boardwalk canopy, the one in front of the doctor's office sat atop a post at the end of the walk. Suspended from a wrought-iron arm that hung out from the post was a neatly lettered black-and-white sign that in bold letters proclaimed: Dr. Lewis Gilmore, Physician & Surgeon. A smaller sign had been added below the main one and in far smaller lettering read: Dr. Rose Keller, Physician.
"A woman..." Flint muttered in surprise.
"Yes! Isn't it delightful?" Sister Lorraine declared as she climbed down from the driver's seat.
"But I feel fine," Patrick insisted, embarrassed by the attention that had been showered on him following the run-in with the man named Knowles and his three followers. "I don't need a doctor." He held the cloth compress away from his forehead to show that the wound was no longer bleeding.
"We'll let Dr. Gilmore or Dr. Keller decide about that," Sister Lorraine replied.
Patrick looked around uncomfortably and saw his sister, Alice, approaching after having halted and put on the brake of the second wagon in line. "Tell Sister Lorraine I'm fine," he pleaded with her. "I don't need a doctor."
Alice frowned slightly. "But you do, Patrick. You took quite a wallop, and that cut needs proper attention."
Squirming and looking for some other excuse, Patrick noticed the lower sign on the nearby post. "But that one's not a real doctor. She's a woman."
Placing her hands on her hips, the nun tilted her head and squinted, her lips drawing into a tight, humorless smile. "I suppose women don't know anything about healing? If that's the case, then we've come to the right place. No one better than a quack to put an end to your clucking!"
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 3
