"So you're the one gunned down Lucas Flint," Perkins said animatedly. "I wish I'd seen it."
Cully stood looking between Perkins and Donnelly. As if sensing his discomfort, Donnelly explained, "Marshal Perkins will be with you at the bank tomorrow."
"The marshal? You're kidding," Cully said, not trying to conceal his surprise.
"Who better?" Donnelly asked. "This way you don't have to worry about the law breathing down your neck—unless he leans over your back while you two are opening the treasure box." Donnelly chuckled.
"But a marshal...?"
Perkins looked a bit put out by Cully's attitude, and Donnelly immediately tried to smooth the situation, saying, "Hiram, here, has been very reliable in the past."
"That's right," Perkins interjected, his tone somewhat agitated. "That's why I'm marshal around here."
Cully looked him up and down again but decided not to comment. Instead he turned to Donnelly and said, "You're calling the shots. If Marshal Perkins is all right with you, he's fine with me." He forced a grin, which seemed to put Perkins at ease.
"Then it's decided." Donnelly stood again and clasped his hands. "You two will meet at the jail in the morning and head over to the bank before the train arrives at nine."
"We'll be there, Mr. Donnelly," Perkins promised.
Donnelly crossed to the door, and as he was showing the two men out, one of his bodyguards approached and said, "Mr. Donnelly, there's a pair of women who insist on seeing you."
"Who are they?" Donnelly asked, glancing beyond the bodyguard into the main room of the saloon.
"Never seen 'em before. And these two I would've remembered."
"Where are they?"
The bodyguard backed from the doorway and waved an arm toward the bar. Entering the main room, Donnelly looked over and caught fleeting glimpses of glimmering red through the press of men that had gathered around the bar. There was some high-pitched laughter, followed by the raucous cheers of several of the men. Donnelly looked at his bodyguard, who nodded that those were the women in question.
"Tell them I'm busy. Have them come back tomorrow afternoon," Donnelly told the man, who started toward the bar. Turning to Cully, Donnelly said, "It'd be best not to hang around here until after the job. The marshal can fill you in on any remaining details." He nodded at the two men, then started back to his office.
As Donnelly was opening the office door, a woman with a stern, commanding voice called, "Mr. Donnelly! I must speak with you now!" He turned to see a somewhat matronly—though apparently once quite attractive—woman pushing her way through the crowd. The woman, whose unusually short hair had been feathered to delicately frame her face, carried a closed parasol and was dressed in a slightly provocative blue dress, hemmed in black lace, which seemed designed for someone in her twenties. Yet it was quite appealing on this woman, who Donnelly guessed to be in her forties, though the subtle use of powder and rouge made her look a good ten years younger. The dress was buttoned in front and corseted to highlight her trim waist and ample bosom—one of Donnelly's preferences in a woman, though he guessed from the lay of the material on her hips that her legs were a bit too ample for his tastes.
The woman sashayed over and came to a halt a few feet away. Planting the tip of the parasol firmly at her feet, she rested her hands on the handle, grinned broadly, and said, "You are Mr. Donnelly, are you not?"
"Yes," he replied cautiously. "What can I do for you?"
"Not for me but for my girls," the woman said. Turning and raising her right hand, she called, "Daisy..."
There was a stirring at the bar, then the crowd parted enough to let the woman in red pass. She wore a revealingly low-cut dress made from a shimmering red material that clung to her as she moved, accenting each curve of her figure. As she came forward partway, Donnelly found himself mesmerized by her captivating beauty. Her youthful face, set in auburn waves of hair that cascaded around her bare shoulders, glowed like the sun setting in a brilliant wash of reds and oranges. Though her bosom was not yet abundant, her ripening breasts swelled gently as she breathed, like a pair of buds eager to burst forth. He could tell from her finely turned ankles that her legs were long and muscular. And though her features were still rounded with a trace of girlish fat, her delicate arms and narrow waist indicated that she was growing into a sleek, beautifully proportioned woman.
"Daisy is just one of my girls," the older woman said, interrupting his reverie. "The others will be arriving by train as soon as I send for them."
"Others?" he asked somewhat absently, pulling his eyes from the younger woman and turning to her older companion.
"Yes. There are six all told. Enough for a good start, wouldn't you say?"
"I'm not sure I understand, Miss...?"
"Vogel. Birdie Vogel at your service." She held out her hand and gave Donnelly's a firm shake. "And service is my business." She winked.
Donnelly narrowed his eyes slightly. "Do you mean—?"
"Precisely. Until two months ago I ran a profitable sporting house in Boston, but of course you've heard of the problems we've had with the revival movement in that town."
Not wanting to seem uninformed, Donnelly nodded that he was well aware of the situation, though in reality he had never heard any such thing.
"When the politicians and the police heeled under to the religious fanatics and started shutting us down every few nights, I decided I'd had enough of Eastern society. It was time to see a land where men are men, not hypocrites." She waved an arm toward the young woman. "So I packed my bags, picked one of my most delightful and nubile young women, and set out to discover if Abilene really is a place where men are men." She turned to the crowd gathered behind the younger woman. "There are real men in Abilene, aren't there?" The response was a chorus of raucous cheers.
Willis Donnelly found himself grinning. As the noise subsided and Birdie Vogel turned back to him, he said, "That doesn't explain why you've come to the Black Dog."
"I like a modest man," she replied with a grin. "The fact is that I've had my fill of politicians and lawmen, and I've been told that you are the person to see if I want a smooth-running house."
"You're in need of an investor?" he asked with the wariness that always came when he considered spending money.
"A partner," she corrected him. "A full partner. I'll put up half the money and provide the girls and expertise, while you put up the other half and provide the protection, so to speak. And of course, I'll expect your personal endorsement to ensure our success."
Donnelly's lips curled with anticipation as he glanced over Birdie's shoulder at the young woman in the red dress. "I couldn't endorse anything I hadn't sampled myself."
"Of course not," she assured him. "And as a partner, you'd never be charged for sampling what you already own."
Donnelly's smile broadened. "Birdie Vogel," he pronounced, "I think you and I can do business." He began to shake her hand again, but instead she bent her wrist and gave a delicate curtsy. This was met by a rousing cheer from the future customers of what was already being dubbed Birdie's Sporting House. With the business at hand apparently concluded to their satisfaction, the patrons eagerly took up their drinks and excitedly began to converse about the promised pleasures to come.
Donnelly released Birdie's hand. "If you'll return tomorrow—around two—we can have a late lunch in my office and arrange the particulars."
"I'd be delighted," she replied and curtsied again. She started to turn to leave, but then she looked back and said, "Might I ask a small favor?"
Donnelly raised an eyebrow in caution. "What is it?"
Lowering her voice, she said, "Daisy and I are staying at a hotel until my other girls get here. I've already found a house I'm considering purchasing, and I'd like to have it ready by the time they arrive. Before I settle on a price with the owner, however, I could use the services of a few teenaged boys to help me rearrange some things on the premises."
"That should be no problem. Certa
inly, the hotel could provide—"
"Ah, but you see, my intention is not to make improvements to the property in advance of purchase. In fact, I was hoping for some discreet boys who might be encouraged to do quite the opposite."
Donnelly shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't fully understand..."
"There are many things in that house for which I have little use—fixtures and the like—since I'll be installing accoutrements in the finest French decor. But the owner does not know that since he has no idea of the purpose for which I plan to use the house. And if those unneeded items were discovered to have been vandalized—and you know how irresponsible teenagers are these days..." She grinned slyly. "Well, that certainly would help me secure a more favorable purchase price."
Donnelly's smile returned. "Yes, Birdie, I am certain we can do business together. And I have an idea of just the right boys to do the job."
"I must meet with them as early as possible tomorrow, since I have to close the deal later in the day."
"I'll have one of my men arrange the meeting. Where can he find you?"
"How about at the Red Top Cafe just after breakfast? Nine o'clock, perhaps?"
Realizing the bank heist would be taking place then, Donnelly was about to suggest a different arrangement, but then he decided that he would rather not draw attention to the time. Instead he nodded and said, "That will be fine. I'll send my bartender around for you at nine."
Birdie glanced at the bar to identify the bald, bearded man, then nodded. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Donnelly."
"The pleasure is mine," he said grandly.
Turning on her heels, the woman walked over to her companion and took her by the arm. Leading the way through the press of men, she could feel the younger woman's body trembling, and she whispered, "It's all right." Though she could feel her own heart racing, she was certain that no one—Willis Donnelly included—would ever suspect that a well-dressed sporting-house madam was in reality a Dominican nun or that the young prostitute was her orphan charge.
As they approached the swinging doors, Sister Lorraine suppressed a sigh of relief. She knew the danger wouldn’t be over until she met with the teenagers, retrieved Patrick and Christopher, and got the orphans as far from Abilene as possible. But at least in a few minutes she would be able to get out of her younger sister's constricting dress, which she had kept in her trunk ever since her sister had died two years previously. She wondered if Alice would so willingly remove the more daring outfit Sister Lorraine had borrowed for her from one of the local saloons by claiming it was for a church play. As soon as she had seen her in it, she knew that Alice was no longer a child and that it had been right to allow her to help find her younger brother. Sister Lorraine only hoped that she hadn’t been too hasty in launching this desperate plan without informing anyone else.
Still, Lucas Flint has been unable to find the boys, she reassured herself as they reached the batwings. And I simply cannot wait any longer—until perhaps it's too late.
Standing partway in front of the swinging doors was a tall, dark-haired man with a low-slung holster and a faint white scar down his right cheek, whom Sister Lorraine thought she had seen coming out of the office with the marshal and Willis Donnelly a few minutes before. The young man reached back and pulled open the right-hand batwing, and Sister Lorraine smiled at him and motioned the younger woman toward the boardwalk. But suddenly Alice halted, her body growing rigid as she looked up at the man. It was as if she had seen him somewhere before, but though he smiled politely at her, he gave no indication that they were acquainted.
"Come along, dear," Sister Lorraine urged as she pulled the young woman along, feigning a smile as Alice at last allowed herself to be ushered through the doorway.
As Alice was dragged along, she twisted her head toward the saloon, and Sister Lorraine had to yank her arm to get her to turn around. The older woman risked a glance over her shoulder and saw the young man looking at them over the top of the batwings. He tipped his hat and turned away.
"What was that all about?" she asked as they headed down the street.
"It was him," Alice murmured dreamily.
"Who?" she asked in confusion.
"The man I told you about."
"You don't mean Reverend Markham's brother, do you?" she asked, and the young woman nodded and gave a slight sigh. "My God," Sister Lorraine muttered, shaking her head and frowning. "A gunslinger—and right there in Donnelly's office, no less. Thick as thieves, no doubt."
Her eyes half closed, Alice whispered, "Isn't he beautiful?"
It was Sister Lorraine's turn to sigh as she gripped the young woman's arm all the more tightly and fairly hauled her away from the Black Dog.
Rose Keller jumped with a start at the sound of a loud rapping on the door that led from the examination room to the rear hallway. Straightening the bloody sheet that covered Lucas Flint's body, she stepped to the door and called softly, "Who is it?"
"'Tis me—Angus," came the reply, and she pulled open the door. The tavernkeeper entered, and she closed the door behind him and stood leaning against it, watching him circle the table on which Flint was lying.
"Look wha' they done t'ye," Angus muttered, stroking his chin and shaking his head as he halted beside Flint's head. Rose came up beside him and placed a hand on Angus's shoulder. She was a good two inches taller than the squat, burly Scotsman, who glanced up at her and said, "Wha' a bloody mess. An' ye think tha' because I'm his friend ye kin get me t'clean it all up?"
"You're damn right!" a gruff voice called from beneath the sheet.
"Dinna be daft, man!" Angus replied, pulling back the sheet and unveiling a grinning face. "Clean up ye own mess, Mr. Lucas Flint." He pulled the sheet lower to reveal the bloody shirtfront. "An' wha' a mess ye made of it, indeed. Ruined a good shirt, no less."
Flint chuckled as he sat up and unbuttoned the shirt. Underneath, a flat rubber bag hung directly in front of his heart, suspended around his neck by leather thongs. It had a jagged tear in the front, and when Flint pressed it, some more red liquid oozed out between his fingers.
"Very effective," Angus said. "A little trick ye hatched when cleaning up the streets of Wichita?"
Flint shook his head. "It was Dr. Keller's idea," he explained, smiling up at her. "All it took was this bag of chicken blood and a small surgical blade hidden in my hand."
"Don't forget the blanks in Cully's gun," Rose put in.
"Aye," Angus agreed with a nod. "Without them, it'd be a real pickle ye'd be in and a real mess I'd be cleaning. How'd the lad do?"
"Perfect," Flint replied as Rose removed the rubber bag. "It couldn't have looked more real if we'd have used real bullets." He rebuttoned the bloodstained shirt.
"Do ye think Donnelly'll go for it?"
Flint nodded. "He will—because he wants to so badly. We'll know for sure soon enough. I arranged with Cully to meet at his brother's church later tonight—provided he can get away from Donnelly and his men."
"He will," Rose said. "He's got a good head on his shoulders. He proved that when he came to you with Donnelly's offer to let him in the gang if he killed you."
"Aye, but the lad seems a mite hotheaded t'me," Angus remarked. "Look at the way he barged in on Donnelly in the first place."
"I seem to remember you doing a little arm twisting with Donnelly yourself," Flint reminded him.
"Tha' was different. I had a grudge t'set right, 'n' I only put me arm at risk."
"Cully has an even bigger score to settle--the murder of his father," Flint replied. "I'd expect him to take a bigger risk."
Rose nodded in agreement. "I only hope it wasn't too great a risk."
"We'll find out when he gets to the church."
"We'd best get ye o'er there, then." Angus moved toward the rear door. "The coffin's on a wagon out back. A plain wooden one, I'm afraid." He gave a mischievous wink. "I'd have brought a fancy brass-fitted one, but in Abilene we dinna let lawmen be buried in style."
"W
ell, you'd better carry me out there before half the town arrives to pay their last respects."
"Dinna be daft, man! 'Tis plenty dark outside for a corpse t'load itself without risk o' being seen. I'm too old t'be lugging around the likes o' ye."
Flint clapped the Scotsman on the back. "Come along, Charon—it's time to ferry me across the river Styx."
Angus looked up at him crookedly. "The name's Angus, 'n' there's nary a river in Abilene." With a disdainful shake of the head, he muttered, "Ye Englishers surely are a pompous lot."
"I'm an American," Flint declared, "born and bred."
"But it was buttered in England," Angus replied somewhat quizzically. He folded his arms and grinned smugly at their curious expressions, as if his comment had ended any need for further discussion.
Realizing that arguing with the Scotsman was useless, Flint shrugged and turned away, choosing instead to thank Rose for her assistance in the elaborate ruse that he and Cully had set up earlier in the day.
"It was nothing," Rose insisted, blushing slightly as Flint took her hands. "I only wish that the victims of every gunfight were patched up so easily."
Flint looked into her soft brown eyes for a long moment, then impulsively leaned closer and lightly kissed her cheek. Letting go of her hands, he turned and followed Angus into the hall.
Standing alone in the doorway of the examination room, Rose watched the two men head down the hall and disappear through a back door into the darkness of the yard. She followed and stood at the window beside the door. She could faintly see the shadowed form of Flint as he climbed onto the wagon bed and into an open coffin. Stepping up behind him, Angus closed the coffin lid. Then he made his way forward to the driver's seat and picked up the reins, clucking at the horses and leading them around the back of the building and down the alley alongside Angus's Tavern.
Rose touched her cheek where Lucas Flint had kissed her. As the sound of the creaking wagon faded into the night, she pressed her fingers to her own lips and smiled.
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Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 17
