"With that, I suppose?" Joshua nodded toward the gun on Cully's hip.
Placing a hand on the butt of the revolver, Cully replied, "With whatever it takes."
"You know I don't approve."
"You never did."
"And neither would Father," Joshua added.
"He died handling it his way. And I'm going to do something about it."
"Cully..." Joshua said in a gentle tone, placing the stack of books on the bench beside him. He reached out and touched his brother's arm. "Father spent his life upholding the law. He wouldn't want you taking it into your own hands in his name."
Cully pulled his arm away. "I don't suppose the so-called marshal in this town has made an arrest."
"He hasn't turned up any evidence."
"And he won't. But I promise you...Willis Donnelly won’t get away with it."
"Cully, let the law—"
"Donnelly is the law in this town. Look, I didn't come to argue with you, Joshua. I know where you stand, and you may not believe it, but I respect your decision."
"My inaction, you mean."
"You act, but in your own way, and I'm sure it's right for you. But don't try to change me."
"I gave up trying years ago. But I just lost my father. I don't want to lose my only brother, too."
Cully smiled. "No such luck." He turned to leave.
"Cully..." Joshua called after him, and his brother stopped and looked back, "don't stay a stranger."
Smiling, Cully put on his hat and headed for the door.
Huddling in the shadows behind the last row of benches, Patrick Hammond ducked even lower so that the man named Cully wouldn’t see him. Sure enough, Cully looked straight ahead as he came up the aisle and headed through the doors into the vestibule. The boy waited a moment, listening as Joshua Markham again picked up the books and began placing them along the front pew. Keeping down below the back of the benches, Patrick made his way over to the doors, pushed one open slightly, and slipped through. Turning left, he headed to the far end of the narrow vestibule, where a door led to the area between the church and parsonage.
Making his way outside, Patrick moved to the corner of the church so that he could catch another glimpse of the gunslinger with the pearl-handled revolver. Hiding behind a bush, he stuck his head around the edge of the building and saw the dark-haired man standing beside a spirited pinto. The black-and-white animal was as dashing as its owner, with a long white mane and sleek, muscular conformation. It was wearing a tooled, silver-studded saddle, with the butt of a Winchester protruding from a scabbard on one side. Slung behind the cantle was a pair of leather saddlebags, and completing the gear was a coiled lariat, despite the fact that the rider didn’t appear to be a cowpuncher.
The man named Cully was about to untie the reins when a voice called his name. Patrick could see someone walking up the drive, but it was not until the pinto shifted position that he was able to make out the figure of Lucas Flint. Patrick noticed at once that he was wearing a gun now, though it was a rather plain-looking one with walnut grips.
As the two men spoke, Patrick ventured around the front of the building to a closer position, keeping well hidden behind the bushes. Though he was unable to hear every word being said, the boy could make out enough to know that they had already met, though they didn’t seem overly friendly with each other. They were discussing a gunfight that had recently taken place, and Patrick risked moving even closer and listened with growing excitement. From what he could hear, one or both of them had gunned down the man named Bert Knowles and three of his men—perhaps the very ones who had attacked the wagon train earlier that week. Flint was just mentioning the role Willis Donnelly was playing in Abilene, when Cully, his voice firm with determination, cut in, "That's why I've come."
"To kill the man responsible for your father's death," Flint said flatly, and Cully nodded. "I'm not going to try to talk you out of it, but I believe you ought to think this through a little more clearly. If you just rush in there—"
"I've no intention of doing that. Killing him would be easy—but it's not enough. First I intend to prove that my father was right about him."
"And how will you do that?" Flint asked.
Cully slowly shook his head. "I'm not sure, but I'll figure out a way." He untied the reins, then turned to Flint. "Just what’s your interest in this?" he asked.
"A nun and some orphans traveling to Wichita ran into trouble with those fellows we shot, and I've been staying around to see them safely on their way."
"So you'll be leaving now?" Cully asked with an edge of impatience.
Flint shrugged his shoulders. "Not till I find one of the boys who ran off. I just learned he may be at a place called the Line Shack near the stockyards east of town. A bunch of the local toughs hangs out there, and I'm afraid they're caught up in some of Donnelly's operations."
"Kids?"
Flint nodded. "I've been asking around town, and it seems Donnelly is paying some of these kids to cause trouble to local businesses that won't pay for protection."
"Quite a scheme," Cully commented.
"An old and effective one, I'm afraid."
"And you think this orphan boy is involved?"
"Either he joined up with them or he ran afoul of them in some way."
"And was killed?"
"I won't know until I run them down. But even if I do, the boy's sixteen; I can't force him to return with me. And I doubt they'll admit being involved with Donnelly."
"Well, good luck," Cully said, climbing into the saddle.
"One thing," Flint said as the gunman prepared to ride off. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't do anything too final until I've had a chance to find this boy."
As Cully stared down at Flint, a cold light came into his eyes. "Then you'd better find him quickly. My father's been dead since Saturday. That's five days that Donnelly's been walking around without answering for his crime."
"Just don't do anything fool—"
"This isn't your affair," Cully cut in, "so I'd be grateful if you wouldn't tell me how to handle it. No one is gonna stand between me and Willis Donnelly. I'll do whatever it takes to prove him for the scoundrel he is—and then I plan to kill him." With a nod, Cully kneed the horse and took off at a trot down the drive, leaving Flint standing there shaking his head.
Patrick slipped deeper into the shrubbery and waited for Flint to start back to town. But instead the former marshal headed toward the parsonage, probably to speak with Sister Lorraine about the whereabouts of Christopher. As soon as Flint was out of sight, Patrick climbed out of the bushes and stood looking down the driveway, thinking about what the two men had said.
This Willis Donnelly was the villain in all that had happened, and apparently Christopher had stumbled upon the key to unmasking the man. Yet Flint himself doubted his ability to make the boys talk, while Cully was riding blindly into danger—perhaps to face a dozen guns alone. If only someone could get the evidence they needed. Then perhaps Flint and Cully would be able to get the law to help them bring down Donnelly and his followers.
Patrick frowned and kicked the ground. What could he do? He was only a boy, and Flint and Cully were up against very evil men. "No!" he suddenly proclaimed as he realized that some of Donnelly's men were actually boys like Christopher. And who better to find out what a bunch of boys were up to than another boy?
With only a glance at the parsonage, Patrick took off at a run down the driveway. He had to find that shack those boys had mentioned—The Line Shack, Flint had called it, somewhere down near the stockyards. He passed the spot where Christopher had been beaten up and raced on toward the center of town. I have to find it, he told himself. Before Flint barges in there and ruins everything!
After being directed to the stockyards, it took him little time to find the dilapidated building. It was already growing dark, and in the excitement of the moment he took no precautions as he ran toward the porch and called Christopher's name. He was greeted by the
front door banging open and a young man rushing out.
"Who are you?" the young man demanded.
Patrick came to an abrupt halt and stared up in some surprise at the fellow on the porch. He was far bigger than Patrick had expected—hardly a boy. Suddenly feeling very vulnerable, Patrick said with some trepidation, "I...uh, I'm looking for a friend."
"Christopher," the young man said matter-of-factly, and Patrick gave a hesitant nod. "Why'd you come here?"
"Where's Christopher?" Patrick asked, glancing beyond the bigger fellow and trying to see through the open front door.
"Why d'ya want to know?"
"I've, uh, got something to tell him."
"Like what?"
"It's important," Patrick said, his voice growing steadier. "Can I see him?"
The young man eyed Patrick for a long moment, then grinned slightly. "Sure thing, kid." He turned to the shack and called, "Christopher, come on out. A friend of yours is here to see you."
After a moment, Christopher appeared in the doorway, looking somewhat perturbed. "What're you doing here?" he asked, then petulantly added, "I'm not coming back."
"That's not why I came."
"Then why did you?"
"I...uh, it's j-just that..." Patrick stammered. Then abruptly he blurted, "I ran away."
"What?" Christopher said in surprise.
Patrick smiled and took a step closer. "Yes. I'm sick of being treated like a kid. I thought if I found you...maybe I could stay with you."
Standing nearby on the porch, the young man looked from Christopher to Patrick, then started to laugh. "You?" he asked, staring down at the younger boy. "You're just a kid."
"I'm thir— I'm nearly fourteen."
"Just a kid," the young man repeated. "Get on home."
"Tell him I'm your friend," Patrick implored, looking up at Christopher. "Tell him to let me stay."
Christopher glanced nervously at the older fellow, then turned to Patrick. Shaking his head, he said, "I can't, Patrick. Ray's right—you're too young. You don't belong here. You'd better get back."
Folding his arms, Patrick said defiantly, "I'm old enough to know what'll happen to you if you make me leave."
Ray came down off the porch and stepped menacingly toward Patrick. "Listen, kid, if you're thinking of causing us any trouble..."
"Not me," he replied. "But I know someone who is."
"Like who?"
"Can I stay?"
The young man eyed him closely, then asked Christopher, "Is this kid all right?"
Christopher nodded. "I trust him."
Ray turned back to Patrick. "So what is it?"
"Can I stay?" Patrick repeated.
"You tell me what you know, and I'll decide whether you stay or not."
Patrick considered his offer for a moment, then making up his mind, he said, "They found out about this place."
"Who?"
"Lucas Flint. He used to be marshal of Wichita."
"What's he want with us?"
"He's helping find Christopher."
"Is that right?" Ray asked Christopher.
"Could be. He's a friend of the nun I told you about."
"And he's on his way over here right now," Patrick continued. "I heard him over at the church. That's how I found out about this place."
The young man looked nervously in the direction of town. Suddenly he spun around and crossed over to the open front door. "We're getting out of here," he called inside. "Get your stuff together."
As the other boys started piling out, their few possessions in hand, the young leader told Patrick, "Thanks, kid. You'd better be getting home now."
"What? You said I could stay—"
"I didn't say nothing. You're too young."
Patrick glared at him defiantly. "I'll follow you."
The young man looked from him to Christopher, who nodded. Facing Patrick again, Ray said, "I bet you would."
"How about it?" Christopher asked, stepping down from the porch and standing beside his younger friend. "Can he come with us?"
"I ought to kick the pair of you out," Ray said, suppressing a smile. "But you've got spunk. Both of you."
"Then I can come?" Patrick asked.
"Sure, kid. Just don't get in the way." Turning to the others, he said, "Let's get out of here. We'll split up and meet by old Meeker's Warehouse." He broke the group into pairs and watched as they ran off in different directions. As soon as they were gone, he shook Patrick's hand and said, "My name's Ray."
"I'm Patrick," the boy replied.
"You got guts, kid," Ray declared as he reached over and patted Patrick on the belly. "I don't even need to punch you in the stomach to be sure." He winked at Christopher, who flinched slightly but then grinned in reply.
Cully Markham dismounted outside the Black Dog Saloon, tied his pinto to the hitching rack, and stood for a moment in the dark street, watching the activity through the large, right-hand window, the edges of which were smudged with putty. Apparently it had been broken recently—no doubt by a saloon brawl, Cully thought. The entertainment tonight was already in full cry, he noted, the sounds of raucous laughter and clinking glasses blending with the slightly off-key notes of a tinny piano.
Cully instinctively checked the set of the Colt .44 in his holster, then stepped up onto the boardwalk and strode through the batwings. No one paid him much attention as he stood scanning the room. There were at least a dozen tables—all of them occupied—with a good number of men standing around the poker games or lining the bar. The bartender was a bald, bearded man, and there was a half-dozen saloon girls working the tables, making sure no one was long without a drink. Cully would have thought it a reasonably respectable place if he hadn’t known Willis Donnelly was the proprietor.
It didn’t take long for Cully to decide that Donnelly had to be the big, well-dressed man holding court at a round table near the far end of the bar. Part of what gave him away was that he not only had his back to the wall but was seated in the only upholstered, high-backed chair in the room. Everything about him, from his impeccably tailored brown suit to his smug grin, spoke of a man in charge, with the impression reinforced by the deferential looks of the men seated around the table playing poker. The only part of his attire that seemed at all out of character was the gauze bandage wrapped around his right hand.
Bypassing the bar, Cully headed directly for the table and came to a halt just behind two of the players, from where he had a full view of the man in the plush chair. The man took no notice of Cully at first, and it wasn’t until he raked in the pot that he looked up and saw the newcomer standing there. He proceeded with his deal, but during the next few minutes he occasionally glanced up to confirm that the stranger in the black outfit was still there.
After a few more hands, the man turned over the deal to the player on his left, then took out a long cigar and slowly lit it. Drawing in deeply and exhaling the bluish smoke, he looked up at Cully and said, "You want in on this game, or you just come to watch?"
Cully tipped his hat back slightly and replied, "What I'm looking for is a man named Donnelly. They say he owns this saloon—and half of Abilene."
The man squinted his left eye slightly as he removed the cigar from his mouth. Turning it slowly between his fingers, he gave a slight grin. "Some folks say he owns all of Abilene."
Cully shook his head. "Not from what I saw today."
The area around the table grew quiet. The man took another puff, let it out, and said, "Just what do you mean?"
"It seems three of his friends were taken down by a single man with a gun. Donnelly sure doesn't own him."
A sudden murmur ran through the crowd, and then someone at the bar stepped over to the big man's left shoulder and whispered something, nodding all the while at Cully. The man's smile suddenly disappeared, and he seemed to be making a supreme effort to control himself as he snuffed out the cigar in the ashtray beside him.
Guessing what had been said, Cully stated what was alrea
dy being whispered by the people gathered around. "I'm the man who took down the fourth."
The man's voice grated as he asked, "Just what do you want here?"
"Are you Donnelly?"
After hesitating a moment, the man slowly nodded, then said, "I asked you a question, boy."
"The name's Cully," came the reply. Then using the name he had gone by ever since leaving home several years before, he added, "Matthew Cully." He knew that his reputation with a gun wasn’t yet so great that the name would be common knowledge in Abilene, but at least Matthew Cully wasn’t known to be the son of the late Lloyd Markham. And since Cully himself had never lived in Abilene, it was unlikely he would be recognized.
"Matthew Cully," Donnelly repeated slowly. "Seems I've heard that name before."
Nodding, Cully replied, "I'm the man who outdrew Josh Weaver in Dodge City."
"Yes!" exclaimed a little man beside the bar. "And Aaron Needleman down in Santa Fe." He started pulling the sleeve of the man beside him as he excitedly recounted having seen the gunfight.
Placing his palms on the table, Willis Donnelly stared up into Cully's dark eyes and said evenly, "And now you've come to try your luck against me."
Cully saw a couple of men moving closer on either side of Donnelly's chair. Each wore a low-slung gun, and Cully didn’t doubt they were practiced in their use. He looked at the big man in the high-backed chair and slowly shook his head.
"I don't want to kill you," he said in a steady, calm voice. "You're a businessman, not a gunman. I've come to do business with you." When Donnelly just sat looking curiously at him, Cully continued, "I didn't know that those men worked for you. And anyway, I've no use for four men who can't do a job that should only need one. They were amateurs. You'd do better to hire one man like me than four the likes of them."
"You're saying you want to work for me?"
"With four men dead, I figured you might need another gun," Cully replied. From the corner of his eye, he saw that the gunman to the right of Donnelly was looking increasingly edgy, his hand hovering just over his gun butt. Jabbing his left thumb in the man's direction, he said, "Especially if all you've got backing you is the likes of him."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 15
