As Cully expected, the man went for his gun. But before his hand had even closed around the butt, Cully had his own gun out and trained on the man's chest. He didn’t pull the trigger but stood watching the man's shocked expression. As the man slowly moved his hand away from his gun, Cully holstered his own and said, "This time I'm letting you live. I wouldn't want to spoil Mr. Donnelly's card game."
Donnelly began to nod as he looked Cully up and down. "Why don't we step into my office?" he said, rising and walking to the door near the table. Opening it wide, he waited for Cully to enter, then motioned his men to remain outside. Following Cully in, he closed the door and circled the ornately carved desk that dominated the room.
"A cigar?" he offered, opening an ivory box atop the desk. When Cully shook his head, Donnelly closed the box and waved his hand toward one of the chairs. "Please, sit down," he said as he sat in his own swivel chair and leaned back. "It's clear you didn't know what you were walking in on this afternoon, Mr. Cully, and I hold no grudge," he began when Cully was seated. "But you've put me in a difficult spot. You see, I have a job coming up that could be quite lucrative for everyone involved. However, there's a man who's been nosing around too much and may get in the way."
"Lucas Flint," Cully stated.
"Yes. The very man whose life you saved today. So you see my predicament. And now, with Flint on the alert, it won't be so easy to get rid of him."
"I saw him in action this afternoon, and he's fast," Cully put in. "Faster than any of your men."
"But not faster than you?" Donnelly said, as much a statement as a question.
"No. Not faster than me."
"Then perhaps there's a way we both could profit," Donnelly continued, and Cully raised an eyebrow. "If you take care of my little problem with Lucas Flint, I'm certain there'd be a place in my organization for you. A place that would net you, say, a couple of thousand dollars just for this upcoming job alone—and another thousand for taking care of this Flint situation."
Cully stared across the desk at the man responsible for the death of his father. Now he was offering a substantial sum to remove another problem—Lucas Flint. While Cully had no desire to kill an innocent man, he knew that if he agreed he would be given a place within the organization—and the opportunity to unmask the man Donnelly had paid to pull the trigger on his father. And then Cully could kill them both. He would have to go along with Donnelly's offer—at least for the time being—and try to find a way to stall for time.
"When do you need the job done?" Cully finally said.
"By tomorrow night the latest," Donnelly replied. "It's essential that Lucas Flint be out of the picture before the westbound train arrives the day after tomorrow."
Nodding, Cully stood and shook hands with Donnelly. He was about to leave, but then he reached over, opened the top of the ivory box, and removed one of the cigars. With a smile, he stuffed it in his shirt pocket and walked out of the room.
12
"The steak's as delicious as you promised," Lucas Flint declared as he cut another slice from the huge portion that had been served up at the Red Top Cafe. "And it's so tender, I hardly need a knife."
Seated across from him, Rose Keller smiled with pleasure. "Then you'll be able to give that arm of yours a rest," she said, nodding at his wounded left arm, which just now was holding the fork as he cut with his right hand.
Glancing down at his shoulder, Flint shook his head. "It doesn't hurt at all." He lifted his left hand and moved his arm in a circular motion.
Lowering her voice so that the other restaurant patrons wouldn’t hear, Rose said, "The shooting was just yesterday. You should rest it for a few more days."
"Anything the doctor says."
Rose took another bite of the chicken she had ordered, washing it down with some cool spring water. Putting down the glass, she looked up at Flint and said, "You didn't have any luck today, did you?"
"You mean about the boy?" he asked, and she nodded. "It was dark when I got to The Line Shack last night and found it empty, so I gave it a closer inspection today. People have definitely been staying there, though I suppose it could be no more than an occasional vagrant. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if those kids were tipped off and abandoned the place."
"But how would they have found out?"
"It's possible they heard I've been asking questions around town and decided they'd best find a new place. And Abilene is a big town, with plenty of places to hide."
"You still think Christopher is with them?"
"I hope so."
She looked at him curiously as he picked up his fork and stabbed another piece of meat. Then she realized that what Flint had left unsaid was that if Christopher hadn’t willingly joined the gang, he might have been killed in some sort of confrontation with them.
"There's another thing," he said, putting down his fork. "Patrick Hammond has disappeared, as well."
"Patrick?" she exclaimed. "When?"
"Apparently last night. There was a late prayer meeting at the church, and Sister Lorraine was so busy helping the minister that she didn't even realize Patrick was gone until this morning."
"The poor woman must be beside herself with worry."
"I'm afraid so. She says that Patrick is different from Christopher—that he would never run off on his own like this, unless..."
"Unless what?" she pressed, leaning forward and touching his hand.
"Unless he got it in his head to find Christopher himself."
"Oh, dear." Rose sat back in her chair and folded her hands on the table in front of her, nervously clenching and opening her fingers.
Flint forced a smile. "I'm sure they'll turn up. Now let's get on with this wonderful dinner. We've both got a long night ahead of us."
Rose picked up her fork and poked at her chicken, but after a moment she put it down and pushed away the plate. Flint watched her but said nothing as he ate a few more bites of steak and then pushed his own plate away, as well.
"You should eat more," she said absently, as though her thoughts were distracted. "You must regain your strength."
"I'm all right. And so are Patrick and Christopher. You'll see."
Her lips quivered, and as she nodded, her eyes began to glisten with moisture. "I'm worried," she whispered.
"I know," he replied, giving her a reassuring smile. "So am I. But you'll be fine. Trust me."
Slipping her hand from his, she picked up her cloth napkin and gently dabbed at her eyes with a clean corner. "I know I will," she said at last. "I'm just worried."
"The best way to deal with fear is to face it straight on—like when you operated on Wesley. Can you do that?"
She gave a slight smile. "Yes, I can."
"Then let's get started."
Taking his hat from the back of the chair, Flint rose and held out his arm. As Rose stood and slipped her hand through his arm, he took a couple of coins from his pocket and placed them on the table. Then he led her among the tables and out the door. It was growing dark outside, and the lamps had been lit along the boardwalks on both sides of Texas Street. A few people were walking along the block, but the area seemed unusually quiet for a Friday night.
"Lucas Flint," a voice called as Flint and Rose stepped off the boardwalk and started across the street.
Seeing a dark figure at the edge of the road across the way, silhouetted from behind by a lantern, Flint held up and stared intently at the shadowed face. As the man lifted a thin cigar to his mouth and drew in a puff, the glowing tip reflected in his dark eyes and highlighted a jagged white scar along his right cheek.
Flint grew more accustomed to the lamplight, and he saw the man's right hand hovering near the butt of his holster. Flint's own hand moved instinctively toward the Colt Peacemaker at his hip. "Cully?" Flint asked. "If you've come for that drink I offered—"
"I don't drink with lawmen," came the abrupt reply. There was a brief pause, and then Cully said, "That's what you are, isn't it?"
"I
don't wear a badge anymore, but I used to be marshal of Wichita."
"Yes, I've heard of you. I just didn't make the connection yesterday afternoon. Didn’t realize you were the Rattler.” Cully chuckled, but the sound held no humor. “And like I said, I don't drink with lawmen—or with men who used to be lawmen."
"I don't understand—"
"You don't have to," Cully cut him off. "Let's just say I've had my own encounters with lawmen—enough to know I don't count them among my friends."
Flint nodded slowly. "You've a right to pick your friends. But I meant it when I thanked you yesterday."
"If I'd have known who you were, I wouldn't have stepped in like that. Still, I suppose it gives me the pleasure of finishing what those fools were unable to accomplish." There was a long pause as the two men eyed each other in the faint lamplight, then Cully continued, "You'd best ask your lady friend to move out of the way."
Rose looked back and forth in confusion between the two men. Flint gently removed her hand from his arm and said, "Do as the man says."
"But I—"
"I'll be fine," he insisted, pushing her away slightly.
Rose backed away, shaking her head in shocked surprise. Suddenly she turned, saw several people who had gathered on the boardwalk nearby, and started toward them. "Do something. Please. Get the marshal," she implored, repeating it until one of the men nodded and went running down the boardwalk in the direction of the jail.
Across the street, Cully tossed the burning cigar to the ground and walked forward a few paces. Flint, in turn, circled to his left so that the two men would face each other lengthwise along the street, thus reducing the risk to people along the boardwalk or in nearby buildings.
"Don't make this mistake, son," Flint said as he took his stance in front of the young gunfighter.
"They say you're fast. I saw you yesterday, and they're right. But I'm faster—and now I'm gonna prove it."
"You don't have to do this—"
His words were cut off by the movement of Cully's hand toward the butt of his gun. Instantly Flint went for his own gun, cocking it with his thumb as it came up in his hand. The two weapons fired simultaneously, and a woman screamed as Flint staggered slightly. His legs buckled, and he dropped his revolver and went down on one knee and pawed at his chest. He stared in surprise at the young gunfighter, who stood holding his smoking gun. Then Flint looked down and saw the blood spreading across his white shirt. There was another scream, and Flint turned in its direction and brought up his bloody hand, palm forward, as if in supplication. Then he fell face-forward in the dirt.
Screaming again, Rose Keller came running down the road to where Flint was lying. Dropping beside him, she rolled him onto his back, her hands holding his cheeks as she called his name over and over. Frantically she looked around and yelled for assistance, and as several townsmen came hurrying over, she wiped at her tears and haltingly directed them to carry Flint to her nearby office. While two of the men were lifting him from the ground, Rose stood and glanced back down the road, but already the man named Cully had disappeared into the night. "Hurry!" she ordered the men as she led the way toward her office.
Ten minutes later, Marshal Hiram Perkins appeared in the waiting room at the doctor's office. There were several townsmen standing around, and as Perkins entered, one of them nodded at the closed door of one of the examining rooms, indicating that the doctor was inside.
"I came as soon as I could," Perkins explained, his breath tinged with alcohol, his entire demeanor giving the impression that he had just been roused from a deep sleep.
Just then the door opened, and Rose Keller appeared. Her shoulders were hunched, her eyes swollen with tears. The marshal started forward, then halted as she looked up at him and sadly shook her head.
"Can I see him?" Perkins asked, removing his hat and crumpling it in his hands.
She nodded, then moved mechanically toward the table, on which lay a body covered from head to toe with a white sheet that was stained red over the chest. Closing her eyes, Rose pulled back the edge of the cloth, revealing Flint's head and upper chest. Directly over the heart, his shirt was soaked with blood, and he wasn’t breathing. His eyes were closed, his expression almost serene.
"I'm sorry," Perkins said as Rose draped the cloth over the body and started toward the door. He followed her out into the waiting room.
"The name of the man who did this was Cully," Rose said woodenly as she closed the examining room door.
"Yes, I know. Matthew Cully, I'm told. A young man who's been making a name for himself with a gun."
"Have you arrested him?"
"I, uh, can't."
She cocked her head slightly. "Did he get away?"
"It's not that. It's just—"
"What?" she pressed.
"There were a lot of witnesses, and they all say Flint agreed to the challenge and that it was a fair fight."
"A fair fight?" she said incredulously. "My God, that cur confronted Flint and forced him into it."
"Now, let's calm down, Miss Keller," Perkins said, reaching awkwardly as if to touch her arm.
"I'll calm down when you've brought that killer to justice."
"I'm sorry, but I can't do that—"
"What can you do?" she blared. "What good are you in this town, anyway?"
"Look, you've got no call—"
"Get out of here!" she demanded, pointing to the door.
One of the other men gingerly stepped forward, hat in hand. "It's like the marshal said, Dr. Keller. It was a fair fight."
She stared in amazement from one man to the next. Most turned away or looked at the floor. "Get out of here," she said coldly. "All of you. Just get out." She turned away, trying to fight the tears.
The men looked nervously at Perkins, who nodded that they should leave. As they filed out, the marshal turned back a final time as if to speak, but Dr. Keller had sat down in a chair and was holding her head in her hands, sobbing. He shrugged, clapped his hat on his head, and headed out the front door.
Willis Donnelly looked up from his desk as Cully Markham was ushered into the office. Glancing up at the man he knew as Matthew Cully, Donnelly grinned broadly and waved away the bodyguard who had shown Cully in.
"Excellent," Donnelly declared as soon as the door closed and the two men were alone. "A job well done."
"Lucas Flint made the mistake of underestimating me," Cully said dryly, sitting across from the burly saloon owner.
"I'll be careful not to make the same mistake," Donnelly replied with a thin smile as he opened the cigar box and held it forth. Cully took one of the long, thick cigars and then leaned across the desk to accept a light from an engraved silver lighter that Donnelly produced from his vest pocket. For a while the two men enjoyed their cigars, gauging each other like a pair of animals trying to determine whether to attack or join forces. Finally, Donnelly rested his cigar in a glass ashtray, opened the top drawer of his desk, and removed a long, white envelope. Sliding it across the desk, he said, "You'll find one thousand dollars in there—a token of appreciation for handling that Flint affair."
Without looking inside, Cully tucked the envelope behind his gun belt.
"I said there might be another two thousand in it for you," Donnelly continued. "Are you still interested?"
"Who do you want killed?" Cully asked coldly.
"Not this time. Tomorrow morning, there's an army payroll coming through Abilene. It'll be under heavy guard on the westbound train and will be transferred to the Abilene Agricultural Bank. It'll sit there till later in the week, when an army patrol will pick it up. I intend to remove the funds before they arrive."
"And where do I fit in?" Cully asked.
"You'll take Knowles's place at the bank," Donnelly replied without hesitation. "The bank is closed Saturdays, so the place will be empty once the money is transferred and the bank president locks up and leaves. As soon as he's gone, you and another of my men will be let into the back of the buil
ding by a young bank officer on my payroll. He'll open the safe, and you two will empty the treasure box and replace the funds with blank paper."
"And then we bring the money back here," Cully said.
"Precisely. Next week, the army will discover the fraud, and the bank president will be accused of embezzling the funds himself. The young bank officer will serve as a witness against his boss, and the man's fate will be sealed when a portion of the funds turns up at his home."
"Planted there by you," Cully said, and Donnelly grinned smugly. "But why him?" Cully asked.
Donnelly's smile faded. "Because it serves my purpose. He'll take the fall—and he'll pay."
"I don't understand—" Cully began, but Donnelly cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"He was one of the witnesses who sent me to prison three years ago," Donnelly explained. His smile slowly returned, and he calmly folded his hands on top of the desk. The right one was no longer bandaged, though the burned flesh was clearly visible. "He can sweat away in prison while I take his bank out from under him." He gave a slight chuckle, then added, "You'll soon learn that it doesn't pay to underestimate me, either."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Cully started to rise, but Donnelly waved him back down, saying, "Just a minute. I want you to meet someone."
Donnelly stood, circled the desk, and went over to the door. Opening it slightly, he whispered something to the man outside, then shut the door and returned to his seat. A moment later the door opened, and a man Cully's age entered. Though on the short side, he seemed muscular and fit, despite his disheveled hair and a couple of days' growth of beard. His clothing was rumpled and his features bland and colorless. The only distinctive thing about him was the six-pointed star pinned to his faded leather vest.
"This is Marshal Hiram Perkins," Donnelly said to Cully, then turned to Perkins and added, "and this is the man I was telling you about."
The young marshal smiled and thrust forth his hand. Somewhat numbly, Cully stood and shook hands with the man.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 16
