As Sister Lorraine held out a hand to help him down from the coach, Patrick sought out Lucas Flint, who was just returning from having tied his saddle horse and packhorse to a hitching post by the neighboring tavern. With a mournful look, he beseeched, "Mr. Flint...?"
"I'm sorry, son," Flint said, shrugging his shoulders. "Between your sister, the good nun, and this here Dr. Keller, I'm afraid you and I are outgunned. You'd best take your medicine and save your energy for a battle you can win."
Patrick frowned and gave an overly dramatic sigh. Pointedly ignoring Sister Lorraine's outstretched hand, he climbed over the side of the wagon and dropped to the ground. Without waiting for either woman, he shuffled up the walk and onto the porch of the doctor's office, where he stood looking dejected as Flint and the two women followed.
Flint lifted the brass knocker and rapped on the door, then after a few moments knocked louder. On the third try they heard what sounded like hurried footsteps approaching. The door creaked open, and a tall woman wearing a white smock over her brown dress appeared in the doorway. She was far younger and more attractive than Flint had expected, with soft brown eyes and long brown hair pulled up in a sweep. A few strands had come loose and hung alongside her face, framing and accentuating her high cheekbones. She couldn’t be much older than thirty, and Flint wondered if she was Dr. Rose Keller or perhaps the physician's younger sister or even daughter.
"Yes...?" the woman asked as she peered out.
"It's the boy," Flint began, and Sister Lorraine prodded Patrick forward. The woman was already opening the door wider as Flint continued, "He took a blow to the temple from the barrel of a revolver. There's a nasty gash, maybe a concussion. Perhaps Dr. Gilmore could—"
"Dr. Gilmore is out on call. I'm Dr. Keller." The woman stepped out and gave the wound a cursory examination, then glanced over at Flint, as if trying to gauge his character. "A concussion, you say?" Her tone was somewhat dubious.
"He was knocked unconscious for a few minutes."
"Did you do this?" she asked him matter-of-factly.
"Saints, no!" Sister Lorraine proclaimed. "Mr. Flint came to Patrick's assistance. It was some local ruffians—"
"It doesn't matter," the woman said with a wave of her hand. "This needs attending to right away."
Grasping the boy's shoulder, she ushered him in but stopped just inside the doorway and looked down at him. For the first time she smiled, and her expression held a steady calmness that soothed the young boy's fears.
"My name is Dr. Keller. And you must be quite a tough young man, Patrick. After such a blow, most men would have to be carried here—and they'd probably need a bottle of whiskey and a host of stitches. But it looks like I'll only have to clean and dress the wound. No needles, no bitter medicine. Maybe just a lemon-drop or two...to put the smile back on your lips." She cuffed his chin, and he started to grin.
Turning to the others on the porch, she said, "If you'll come into the waiting room..."
She led them into a narrow room to the right of the front entryway. On the long right-hand wall were two windows that overlooked the front yard. Under the windows, a sofa and a pair of chairs faced three doors, the center one leading to the dispensary, the outer ones to the examining rooms.
The doctor motioned toward the sofa and chairs. "I think Patrick and I can take care of this on our own. Can't we, Patrick?"
He stood a little taller and nodded.
"Good. Then wait for me in that room on the right. I'm just finishing with a patient in the other examining room." She watched as Patrick entered the room. Then she turned to Flint and the other women. "Now, if you'll just wait out here while I see to my patients..." She turned, opened the door to the examining room on the left, and disappeared inside.
"Do you think he'll be all right?" Alice asked as she sat down on the sofa beside Sister Lorraine.
"Everything will be fine," the older woman assured her.
Lucas Flint sat for a few moments on one of the upholstered chairs, but then he stood and soon found himself pacing the room, holding his hat in his hand. He wasn’t sure what it was that was troubling him, but he sensed something disquieting in the air—something more than the unsettling odors of a doctor's office. Stepping to the door of the room the doctor had entered, he thought he heard a low moan and wondered what was going on inside.
Then suddenly he recognized what it was that was disturbing him—and indeed it was an odor, though not that of chemicals and medicine. It was the smell of sweat and horseflesh—the smell of a man who had been riding hard in the saddle. And though Flint had been on the trail for many a day, it wasn’t himself that he was smelling.
Flint heard a doorknob turn and a door swing open somewhere down the hall. Crossing to the waiting room entrance, he glanced down the hall and saw the doctor and her patient step through a side doorway that led directly from the examining room to the hall. His suspicion was confirmed. With Dr. Keller was the short, blond-haired man Flint had been forced to shoot in the arm. His right sleeve had been cut away, and a tight bandage circled his upper arm, which rested in a wide sling.
The man didn’t notice Flint standing in the waiting-room doorway. He nodded to the doctor as she gave him a few final instructions and then reentered the examining room, leaving him alone in the hall. Finally, the man turned to leave the office. It was then that he saw Lucas Flint stepping out into the hallway.
The man's eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak.
"Having a little trouble with that arm, Knowles?" Flint asked with a thin smile.
"I thought I told you to steer clear of Abilene," Knowles said coldly.
"I heard what you said. But it's not your town."
"The hell it ain't!" The man's right hand jerked as if going for the gun in his holster. But a spasm of pain must have shot through his upper arm, for he winced and grasped his elbow with his good left hand.
"You'd best let it rest up," Flint said mockingly.
"And you'd best get outta town." Knowles glanced around, as if feeling naked without his men to back him up. "Next time I won't be alone," he declared.
"Next time I won't aim at your arm."
The grim smile on Flint’s lips seemed to say that he was looking forward to it.
Knowles glowered at Flint a long moment and then abruptly turned and stormed out of the building, slamming the door behind him.
Flint stared at the closed door. His own hand instinctively reached for his right hip, seeking the cool comfort of gunmetal. Instead his hand touched denim, and suddenly he, too, felt very naked indeed.
When at last Dr. Keller and Patrick Hammond emerged from the examining room, Lucas Flint was again seated in the waiting room, and he and the women quickly stood.
"My, don't you look dashing!" the nun declared upon seeing the bandage above his left eye.
"Of course, he does," Alice agreed, swelling with pride. "He's my brother!" Her comment was met by an uneasy shrug from Patrick, who looked down in embarrassment.
"He'll be fine," the doctor assured them. "But I'd like him to get some rest in bed. If I could see him the morning after next..."
"We'd been planning to push on to Wichita," Sister Lorraine explained.
With a look of concern, Dr. Keller said, "I suggest putting that off for a couple of days. The cut is no problem, but the possible concussion—"
"Of course, we will," the nun interjected. "A few days in Abilene would do us all good."
"Patrick tells me you are traveling with seventeen children. Are the others outside?"
"Yes. In four wagons."
"I'd love to meet them. Perhaps when you bring Patrick back, I could give each a quick examination." Seeing Sister Lorraine's hesitant expression, she quickly added, "Of course there will be no charge. I'd just like you to know that all of Abilene is not like the men you encountered today."
"That's so gracious of you. I'd be delighted if you'd examine the children. But I insist on paying for Patrick—"
"We'll talk about that the day after tomorrow. About ten o'clock would be fine." She led the way into the hall and opened the front door, and the group stepped out onto the porch. As they were taking their leave, she called, "Do you know where you’ll be staying?"
"I suppose we'll head just beyond town and make camp."
"No, I'd like Patrick in a warm house and a real bed. Perhaps he should stay here, and—"
"We've imposed on you enough. I'll see to it he has a room at one of the hotels." Sister Lorraine glanced somewhat disparagingly at the dilapidated hotel next door. "Perhaps if you could recommend someplace suitable..."
All at once the doctor snapped her fingers and said, "Joshua Markham!" She nodded, as if agreeing with her own thought. "Yes, the Reverend Markham would be delighted to have you as guests. He’s a fine young man who is pastor of the Methodist church." Suddenly she turned to Sister Lorraine and looked her up and down, almost as if she hadn’t noticed the woman's garb before. "But of course, you're a Catholic. Perhaps you and the children would feel uncomfortable—"
"The children come from a variety of religious backgrounds. And like this Reverend Markham, I am a Christian first, a Catholic second."
Dr. Keller smiled. "Excellent. You'll find Joshua quite delightful, and he always opens his home to travelers." She stepped out onto the porch and led them down the walk to the street, where she pointed in the direction the wagons had been heading. "Just continue two blocks to Elm Street, then turn right across the tracks and stay on Elm until it jags around Mud Creek. You'll see the church on a slight rise to the left, with the parsonage at the back. It's quite large and can accommodate all of you. Just tell Joshua I sent you."
"You've been so kind." Sister Lorraine offered her hand.
"There's just one more thing," the doctor said, shaking the nun's hand. "I had almost forgotten, but Joshua's father was killed a few days ago. I'm certain he'd still want you to come, but I thought you should be aware of the situation."
"Thank you. I'll speak with him, and if it seems we'll be in the way, we'll find other accommodations." Sister Lorraine turned to Flint. "And thank you, as well, Mr. Flint. We are deeply indebted to you."
"I'll be glad to escort you to the church," Flint began, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.
"You've done more than enough. We'll be fine now."
Alice helped her brother up onto the seat of the lead wagon and then headed over to her own. As soon as Sister Lorraine had climbed aboard, Flint said, "I'm planning to ride on to Wichita in a day or two. Perhaps I could accompany you."
"It isn't necessary...but the children and I would certainly enjoy your company."
"Then I'll look in on you at the church." He tipped his hat.
"Thank you again," Sister Lorraine said, taking up the reins and releasing the brake. "Both of you."
With a slap of the reins, she started the wagon down Texas Street. Lucas Flint and Dr. Keller stood at the end of the walk, watching as the four wagons clattered down the road.
"Mr. Flint..." Dr. Keller said when the wagons had disappeared.
He turned to her. "Yes?"
"I want to apologize for what I said earlier. It was wrong to suggest you might have been the one who—"
"You had no way of knowing. I'm pleased you had the courage to speak as you did."
She gave a slight laugh. "Perhaps it's because there was a nun present. And you aren't wearing a gun."
"Then you should have realized I couldn't have hit the boy with the barrel of a revolver."
"I hadn't thought of that. Again, I'm sorry."
"Don't be, Dr. Keller."
"You must call me Rose, and you are . . .?”
“Lucas,” he answered with some reluctance.
“Then I’ll call you Lucas."
He hesitated but finally nodded and said, "Rose,” not saying one way or the other what she should call him.
"I hope to see you again before you leave for Wichita," Rose said.
Appearing a little uncomfortable, Flint replied, "That would be nice." He didn’t sound all that sincere about it. "Good evening, ma'am."
"That's Rose, Lucas," she corrected him.
"Yes, ma’am. Rose." He turned away.
"Lucas Flint..." she breathed. Her smile faded somewhat, as if the name had brought to mind some disquieting thought.
Unaware of her reaction, Flint walked to the nearby hitching post. As he was undoing the reins of the packhorse and tying them to the back of his saddle, he sensed someone approaching and turned to see that Rose had come closer.
"Lucas," she said, her eyes drifting to the rifle in the saddle scabbard. "Is that the gun that shot Bertram Knowles?" When he looked at her curiously, she added, "The man whose arm I just patched up. I removed a forty-four-caliber slug—the same one used by a Winchester."
"You know your weapons," he remarked.
"I've pulled enough lead out of men's bodies to be able to tell a forty-four from a thirty-eight. But, of course, the slug in Mr. Knowles's arm could have come from a Colt revolver as easily as a Winchester."
"But since I'm not wearing a revolver, you're assuming it was a Winchester."
"I don't mean to sound accusatory, but I thought I heard you two having words out in the hall after I left."
"You did," Flint admitted. "And you're right about me having shot Knowles."
Rose nodded, as if her fears had been confirmed. "I never believed it when he said it was an accident, but in Abilene one learns not to question such things too closely."
"You could report any suspicions to the town marshal," Flint suggested.
"To Hiram Perkins?" She gave a humorless laugh. "I'm afraid you haven't met the man. Believe me, it would be a waste of time. Better to patch them up and send them off to finish whatever they started.” She added with a bitter edge in her voice, “At least it keeps doctors and undertakers gainfully employed."
"I haven't heard of him. Has he been marshal long?"
"Only a few months. Since Donnelly returned."
"Willis Donnelly?" Flint asked in surprise.
"You've heard of the man?"
"Of course. But he's in prison over at—"
"He received a governor's pardon about six months ago."
Shaking his head, Flint muttered, "Politicians."
"Exactly. And ever since he's been back, things have gone downhill. Marshal Perkins speaks out against him but doesn't do anything about it. Either he's too young and inexperienced, or else Donnelly has him in his pocket."
Flint nodded in understanding. "And this Bertram Knowles is connected to Donnelly?"
"They met in prison. Knowles was released shortly after Donnelly and followed him here. He's been Donnelly's right-hand man ever since."
Flint’s expression hardened even more than it normally was. "I remember him now. Bert Knowles. He was working on a cattle drive and murdered his trail boss. Happened outside Wichita three years ago, just after I turned in my badge—" Suddenly he caught himself. He waited for her inevitable question, but when she remained silent, he said, "I was marshal of Wichita."
"Marshal Lucas Flint. Yes, I know. I came here two years ago—after you had left Wichita—but folks were talking about you. They still are. The infamous town-taming lawman called . . . the Rattler?"
His mouth quirked in a slight grimace. “Never cared much for the name. How long have you known?"
"Only since you mentioned your first name just now. Believe me, if I had known earlier, I wouldn't have accused you of hurting the boy. I would have realized Bertram Knowles or someone like him was the culprit."
"Actually, it was a man riding with Knowles. A big, dark-haired fellow named Jax—part Mexican, I think."
Rose shook her head. "I haven't heard of him, but I think I've seen someone like that hanging around the Black Dog Saloon on Railroad Street. That's Donnelly's place."
Flint nodded. For a long moment they stood looking at each other without speaking. Then finally Flint sai
d, "I suppose I should be moving along before all the good hotel rooms in town are taken. Thank you for your time."
"Not at all," she replied somewhat coolly.
Flint turned and untied the reins of his horse, then climbed into the saddle. Looking down at her, he said, "Rose, there's one other thing. You mentioned a man being killed—the father of the Methodist minister."
"Yes, Joshua's father, Lloyd."
"Lloyd Markham? Wasn't he the district attorney who prosecuted Willis Donnelly and sent him to prison?"
"Yes. He was later made circuit judge for the Abilene district. Three nights ago, he was shot in his office. The funeral was this morning."
"And you think there's a connection to Donnelly?"
"I suppose there are many people who hold a grudge against Judge Markham, but I'd have to put Willis Donnelly at the head of the list."
"Yes," Flint agreed. "Well, thanks again." He pulled the horse away from the hitching post.
"Lucas," Rose called, and he held up, "I've never approved of grown men walking around town with revolvers strapped to their waists or rifles under their arms. In fact, from what I've seen of lawmen out west, I can't say that I approve of many of them, either. The ones I've met tend to shoot first and ask questions later—leaving it to me and my colleagues to extract the bullets."
"You're saying you don't approve of me."
"I don't really know you. But I've heard the stories."
"Knowles had it coming."
"You did what you thought you must to protect others. My mother was a Quaker, and while I generally don't approve of gunplay for any purpose, I understand what you did."
"But you don't approve," Flint said.
"It is not for me to judge. But I must warn you: If you've made an enemy of Bertram Knowles, you may wish you were wearing something on your hip besides a pocket."
"I took off my gun three years ago. Got no desire to strap it back on."
"I'm glad to hear that. But please, be careful."
"I will." Flint turned his horse to head in the direction he had come. Holding up for a moment, he said, "One other thing, Rose. Are you a Quaker, also?"
She shook her head. "Only my mother."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 4
