Flint swung his own right then, holding nothing back. He caught Jax on the tip of the chin, and there was a bone-jarring crack as Jax's head was knocked back. This time Jax's knees gave way, and he dropped to the floor. He lay there on his back for several seconds, unmoving, while the crowd cried out for him to stand. He opened one eye, tried to lift himself onto an elbow, and fell back down. A couple of men standing nearby grabbed his arms and helped him to his feet, and he stood there, propped up, trying to shake away the dancing lights in his head.
When it looked as if the men were going to push Jax back into the fight, a booming voice shouted, "Hold up! That's enough, now!"
The crowd parted, and a burly, black-haired man stepped through. He was as big as Jax, as powerful looking as the man named Angus, but dressed in the tailored brown suit of a businessman. Flint recognized Willis Donnelly.
"Rattler Flint, isn't it?" Donnelly said with an insincere smile. "I haven't seen you in...what is it? Four or five years?"
"And I hadn't expected to see you in at least another seventeen. Isn't that about right?"
Donnelly's smile hardened. "I served my time. The governor was satisfied with three years. Who was I to argue?"
"And now you're back."
"I'm a businessman." With a sweep of his hand he took in the room. "I've a business to run, and you and this fellow here"—he pointed at Jax, who was finally standing under his own power, swaying slightly on his feet—"are disrupting it. And causing quite a bit of damage in the process, I might add."
"I'll be glad to pay for the—"
"You already have, Flint," Donnelly said, patting his pocket. "I'm one of the few who bet on you." He paused, then added, "The next fight, however, the odds may change."
"I'm not looking for any more fighting," Flint said. "As one of your associates pointed out, this isn't my town. But I do have some friends here, and their wellbeing is my concern."
"You're speaking of the nun and her flock." Donnelly chuckled. "This is a rough land for the meek. What they need to inherit around here is some backbone. But don't worry about the orphans. I've put the word out, and there won't be any more such...indiscretions." He glanced over his shoulder. "Isn't that right, boys?" His question was greeted with silence. Turning to Flint, he continued, "There, now. That ought to put this thing to rest."
Flint looked at him closely. "I hope it does. Those children and I are planning to move on to Wichita in a day or two. I'd hate to be delayed here in Abilene."
"Nobody wants that. I'm certain your friends in Wichita are looking forward to seeing their beloved Marshal Flint come home. So you let me handle these hotheads. I'm certain they won't get out of line again."
Flint started toward the door. Coming abreast of the man named Angus, he said, "I appreciate what you did."
As Flint headed through the swinging doors, Donnelly turned to Angus and said, "You might as well join your friend. I'd say our own business is concluded."
Angus merely glowered at him, then turned and pushed through the batwings. As they swung shut behind him, he started down the boardwalk, calling, "Mr. Flint. Wait up."
Flint waited for the shorter man to catch up. "The name's Lucas," he said as Angus approached.
"Aye, 'n' we have'na been properly introduced. I'm Angus MacQuarrie, a Scotsman born 'n' bred, by God."
Flint smiled. "Somehow I had that idea." He shook Angus's hand and noted that his grip was exceedingly firm.
"An' tell me, Lucas, from where hails the Flint clan?"
"Our family came over before the Revolution. I'm sorry to have to tell a Scotsman, but we're originally English."
"Surely a misfortune o' birth, but once overcome, a badge o' character. Like tha' tin star ye used t'wear."
"That was a long time ago," Flint said thoughtfully.
"Aye, but the Rattler is still talked about in these parts."
"And best left to rest." Wishing to change the subject, Flint glanced over at the Black Dog and said, "I hope I didn't cause you any trouble back there."
"Wi' Willis Donnelly?" Angus turned and spat into the street. "Damned Irishman! No, there's nothing more t'be said a'tween the likes o' him 'n' me." Stroking his beard, his eyes suddenly lit up, and he declared, "Eno' talk of Irishmen. Instead, I'm ginna treat ye to a drink o' the only real Scotch whisky in Abilene!"
"And where might we find that?" Flint asked as Angus clapped him on the back and led the way down the boardwalk.
"Why, dinna be daft, man! At Angus's Tavern, by God!"
5
The four wagons clattered along Elm Street, a hard-packed dirt road containing only a smattering of darkened buildings, to where the road jogged around a bend in a fairly wide creek on the left. Mud Creek, Dr. Keller had called it, and though it was too dark to see more than the faint outline of the creek's banks, Sister Lorraine's sense of smell was evidence enough that it was as murky as its name.
Sister Lorraine led the wagons up the street to where a small hill separated the road from the creek. At the top of the rise stood an imposing white church with a square, flat-topped bell tower. Set back and to the right was a smaller two-story parsonage in matching white clapboard. Farther to the right, a long, low-roofed carriage house with six bays faced the side of the church, so that a large parking area was framed on three sides by the buildings.
The lead wagon turned up the long drive, which curved past the church door before entering the parking area. Sister Lorraine pulled the mules to a halt in front of the parsonage, then signaled the other wagons to head over to the carriage bays. Handing the reins to Patrick, she said, "Park this with the others while I meet with the minister." Then she climbed down and approached the front door.
The lantern outside the door wasn’t lit. Sister Lorraine could see a faint glow through the windows to the left of the door, so she raised the brass knocker and rapped three times. She waited a few moments, but there was no response. Standing on tiptoe, she peered through the small octagonal window centered fairly high on the door and saw that it opened into a hallway, with rooms to the right and left and more at the back. On the right side of the hall, a fairly wide, bannistered stairway led to the second floor. The entire house seemed dark except for the light that spilled through the partially open door on the left.
Sister Lorraine knocked several more times and waited, again without response. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that the children were talking to one another in the open lot, while Patrick, Alice, and the other two drivers were backing their wagons into the bays. She turned back to the door, banged the knocker a final time, then tried the knob. It was unlocked, and she cautiously pushed the door open.
"Hello?" she called tentatively. "Reverend Markham? Are you home?"
There was no reply. Hiking her black skirt slightly, she stepped over the threshold and entered the hall. Leaving the front door slightly ajar, she approached the door on the left and rapped on it lightly.
"Reverend Markham? I'm a friend of Dr. Keller's."
The only sound was a slight creaking as she swung the door wide and looked into what appeared to be the parlor. It was bathed in the soft, flickering light of a kerosene lamp, which sat on a stand between two plush chairs that faced the fireplace on the far wall. The room appeared empty until she noticed the shadow cast by the lamp on the right-hand wall. It was a profile of one of the chairs, seated in which was the shadow of a man. Then she noticed an arm hanging off the left side of the chair.
Something about the way the hand was dangling sent a shudder through Sister Lorraine. She hurried to the chair, praying the minister was merely asleep, fearful that, like his father, he was dead.
As soon as she came around the chair, she realized that neither was the case. His head was hanging to the side, his chest gently rising and falling, his mouth open wide. His right hand was in his lap, clutching a bottle of amber-colored liquid, some of which had spilled on his starched but wrinkled shirtfront. He was snoring, and each gusting breath reeked of alcohol.
"Drunk as a piper!" she declared, folding her arms and shaking her head sadly.
"Sister Lorraine?" a soft voice called, and the nun looked over to see Alice Hammond in the front hallway.
Hurrying out to the hall, Sister Lorraine pulled the parlor door closed behind her. "Yes? What is it?"
"I thought you might need some help. Is the reverend at home?"
"W-why, uh, yes," she stammered. "I was just speaking to him. I'm afraid he isn't feeling too well."
"Because of his father?" Alice asked, remembering what Dr. Keller had said.
"Yes, I'm certain that's it."
"The children were wondering if we'll be staying—"
"Yes, we can stay the night." She ushered Alice outside and stood blocking the front doorway. "Have the boys unhitch the mules and tie them in the vacant stalls. And make certain they are watered and fed. Meanwhile, I'll see to our accommodations."
Alice stood trying to look beyond Sister Lorraine, as if she sensed something was wrong.
"Well...?" the older woman finally said.
"I'll see to it at once," Alice replied, then turned and headed to where the other children were waiting.
Sister Lorraine closed the front door and engaged the locking bolt. With her back leaning against the door, she turned toward the parlor and sighed. "Good Lord," she muttered. "The man is as polluted as Mud Creek!"
While the mules were unhitched and bedded down, Sister Lorraine made a complete inspection of the parsonage. It was quite large, with four cavernous rooms upstairs that seemed unused. Three of the rooms each had several stripped beds and empty dressers, while the fourth had but a single bed and a nightstand. Each room had a kerosene lamp, which she lit. Downstairs the house boasted a large kitchen and adjoining formal dining area. Across the hall from the parlor was a larger living room, and beyond it was a fair-sized room, which the minister apparently used as a bedroom. While the room wasn’t untidy, the bed hadn’t been made, and some of the minister's clothes were tossed over the back of one of the chairs.
Sister Lorraine unlocked a back door leading outside from the kitchen, then headed down the hall and exited through the front door. She called the children over, and as they gathered around, she told them, "Tonight we have a real treat. We will be staying upstairs in the parsonage—and the girls will have the chance to sleep on real beds."
"The girls? Again?" complained one of the older boys, who had been driving the far wagon. "They had the beds last time." He shot a glare at one of the older girls, who was grinning smugly at him.
"That was weeks ago, Christopher," Sister Lorraine replied. "I should think that you and the other boys would be gallant enough to insist they get the mattresses."
The boy frowned and looked down at the ground.
Sister Lorraine turned to the girl who had been teasing Christopher and said, "Isabelle, I'd like you and the other older girls to double up with the young ones."
Paying no attention to Isabelle's petulant expression, she started walking toward the carriage house, waving for the children to follow. At the wagons, she helped the children gather bedding, bedclothes, and clean outfits for the next morning, as well as necessary toiletries. She cautioned them that the minister was quite ill and just now was resting in the front parlor. Then with an admonition to be as quiet as possible, she led them around the building to the back door and brought them to a narrow back stairway hidden behind a door in the far corner of the kitchen.
"Use these stairs if you need to visit the outhouse out back," she whispered as the children filed past her.
Following them up, she divided them among the rooms, placing the older boys in a front room that looked out on the carriage house. It had the single bed which Patrick would use because of his head injury. The girls and younger children took the three rooms with the beds and dressers. Once the beds were ready, she assigned each of the younger children to one of the older girls and supervised them as they went downstairs in pairs to use the outhouse and wash up in the kitchen, which had a pump in the sink.
It took more than half an hour to get everyone settled down for the night. Once the lights were out, Sister Lorraine stood alone in the tiny hall between the rooms and listened to make certain the children were going to sleep. Finally, she headed down the front stairs and entered the parlor.
Joshua Markham hadn’t moved since Sister Lorraine had left him. His right hand still clutched the bottle on his lap, and she had to pry open each finger to get it out of his grip. She gave the liquid a sniff and muttered, "Whiskey." Searching around, she saw a small cabinet with one door slightly ajar. Inside was a set of four glasses, which the minister hadn’t bothered using. The cork stopper was sitting atop the cabinet. She forced it into the neck of the bottle, then placed the whiskey inside the cabinet and shut the door.
Returning to the easy chair in which the young man was slumped, she stood wondering what to do. He wasn’t heavy but seemed quite tall; she was certain she couldn’t lift him alone. His face was youthful and pleasant enough, though just now it might be the whiskey that gave him such a peaceful demeanor. His hair was a sun-bleached brown, and he wore a pair of black wire-rimmed spectacles that gave him a slightly more mature look. Still, he couldn’t yet be thirty, she estimated, though certainly old enough to know better where whiskey was concerned.
Sister Lorraine shook her head sadly as she recalled Dr. Keller saying that the man's father had been killed recently. She found herself wondering if it had been an accident or murder, and suddenly she realized how lonely it must be for a young minister, alone in the world, to lose his father. Men like Joshua Markham were comforters, leaders of the flock, and often no one was there for them when they needed comforting. And so he had sought solace in a bottle. She only hoped that this wasn’t his usual response to the loneliness of his calling.
Kneeling beside the chair, Sister Lorraine took the young man's hands in her own and rubbed them. "Joshua," she said softly. She continued rubbing and whispering his name, but his only reaction was when his head lolled to the opposite side. Finally, she stood and patted his cheeks, calling his name louder. This time his eyes fluttered, and he moaned slightly. Then his head sank down, and he resumed snoring.
The nun jumped with a start at the sound of a creaking door and looked up to see Alice Hammond standing in the doorway. The seventeen-year-old girl had a blue robe over her nightgown, and her red hair fell loosely to her shoulders. The soft lamplight danced in her large green eyes, highlighting her soft, round features. Sister Lorraine stared at her, speechless, suddenly realizing that Alice was no longer a child and that what once had been baby fat were now the curves of a woman.
"I knew you'd need help with the minister," Alice said matter-of-factly.
"I...uh..." the older woman stammered, stepping away from the chair slightly.
"I heard him snoring when I came in earlier," Alice explained. "I figured he wasn't just sleeping."
Sister Lorraine shrugged and sighed. "You may as well give me a hand. We'll see if we can get him to bed."
Alice came across the room and circled the chair. She wasn’t sure what to expect, and when she saw the tall minister slouched in the seat, half smiling and oblivious to the world, she let out a giggle.
"This is serious business we're about," the nun gently reprimanded her. "And not a word to the others. The poor man's lost his father; he should be allowed some liberties."
"I'm not making fun. But he looks so...so cute."
Sister Lorraine shuddered slightly at the thought of the first of her orphans becoming an adult. "He won't look so cute in the morning," she said abruptly. "He'll look like a rumpled mattress, and he'll feel a whole lot lumpier. All we can do is get him to bed and let time do the rest."
She directed Alice to the opposite side of the chair, and then each woman grasped the man under the arm and lifted him from the seat. He came up with surprising ease, but then his legs turned to rubber and he began to sink. The women had to lift his
arms over their shoulders and prop him up on either side to keep him from slipping to the floor.
The young minister began to hum, almost as if he was about to sing, and his head lolled back and forth. Once, his eyes opened slightly, and Alice could see that they were an unusually pale blue. He smiled at the young woman under his arm and whispered something that sounded like "Ah, Mama," and then his eyes fluttered closed again.
"He thinks you're his mother," Sister Lorraine commented.
"I thought he said Mona."
"Never you mind. Let's just get him to bed."
The women half dragged, half carried the young man out of the parlor and down the hall to his room, where they eased him to a sitting position on the bed. As soon as they let go of his arms, he flopped backward and lay sprawled on top of the covers, his legs dangling over the side.
Sister Lorraine lit the lamp on the dresser, then stooped down beside the bed and said, "His shoes." She untied and removed the right one while Alice took care of the left.
"What about his clothing?" Alice asked somewhat eagerly as she stood again.
"He can bloody well sleep in it," the older woman replied somewhat testily.
"Let me at least loosen his collar," Alice insisted, kneeling on the bed to undo the top few buttons.
When Alice had opened the second button and was reaching for the third, Sister Lorraine reached out and pulled her arm. "Enough of that, now. Let's cover him up."
Working together, the women got him turned around and lifted his feet up onto the bed. With some effort they pulled the blankets out from underneath him and covered him with them. A contented smile immediately formed on the young minister's face, and he rolled sideways and curled up under the blanket, sound asleep.
"There, that should do it," Sister Lorraine declared as she lowered the lamp. She led the way into the hall, which was dimly illuminated by the light spilling from the parlor.
Turning to look through the door at the shadowed figure on the bed, Alice asked, "Do you suppose one of us should stay here and—?"
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 6
