Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Sister Lorraine stepped out of the Red Top Cafe at precisely five minutes before nine on Saturday morning and stood waiting on the boardwalk, looking fairly inconspicuous though possibly a bit overdressed in her sister's dark-blue dress. She looked up and down Texas Street but didn’t see the bartender of the Black Dog Saloon anywhere in sight.

  After leaving the saloon the night before, she and Alice had returned to the dilapidated hotel next to Dr. Keller's office, where earlier Sister Lorraine had obtained a room so that they could put on their outfits. As soon as Alice had changed back into her regular clothes, Sister Lorraine had sent her to the church with an admonition not to tell anyone where they had gone. Alice would take charge of the children and pretend the next day that the nun had returned late at night and had gone back out early in the morning. Meanwhile, Sister Lorraine would spend the night at the hotel so that she would have no trouble keeping her appointment with Willis Donnelly's bartender.

  Sister Lorraine waited a few more minutes, smiling and casually greeting the women who passed along the boardwalk, realizing full well that each was wondering the identity of this new woman in town. A church bell rang in the distance, and Sister Lorraine knew that it was the appointed hour. It was followed a few minutes later by the piercing wail of a steam whistle and the sound of the westbound train chugging in at the depot several blocks away.

  Sister Lorraine grew more impatient as the minutes continued to pass with no sign of Donnelly's man. Then suddenly, as she stood looking down the street, a deep voice called, "Miss Vogel?" and she turned to see the bald, bearded bartender smiling behind her.

  "Goodness, where did you come from?" she asked.

  "I was inside the cafe eating breakfast," he replied.

  "But I was in there, and I didn't see—"

  "I know. I was in the far corner with my back to you." His smug expression made it clear that he took great pleasure in having been able to observe her undetected—and Sister Lorraine didn’t doubt that his boss had encouraged him to do precisely that. "My name's Moran. Shall we go?" he asked, and she nodded and followed him down the boardwalk.

  They headed east along Texas Street to a less-developed district just south of the stockyards. The neighborhood was undergoing change and was a curious mix of new buildings going up and old ones ready to come down. The bartender turned right onto an unidentified street, and half a block down he stopped in front of a free-standing brick building that looked abandoned. It was fronted by an enormous pair of doors, capable of allowing entry to the largest of wagons, with the words Meeker's Warehouse painted across the front of them in peeling shades of red and blue.

  At the right corner of the building was a normal-sized door with a large padlock set in the clasp. Disregarding the lock, the bartender turned the knob and shoved with his shoulder. A second shove forced the door open, and the man turned to Sister Lorraine and said, "Right this way."

  As she crossed the threshold, Sister Lorraine noted that the padlock hadn’t been forced. Rather, the clasp had been disconnected from the door but left attached to the jamb, so that when the door was shut it appeared to be locked. Stepping into the fairly dark interior, she followed the man through what once had been an office and into the open, cavernous warehouse. At the far end of the two-story-high room was a matching pair of loading doors, with a wooden staircase to their right leading up to a loft. Along the left and right walls were high windows—four on each side—through which eight shafts of light spilled onto the hard-packed dirt floor. The dust that swirled in the light beams was so thick that it reminded Sister Lorraine of fog rolling across Boston Harbor.

  "Ray!" the bartender called. "It's me, Moran!"

  Sister Lorraine heard the creak of boards overhead and looked up to see cakes of dust falling from the planks of the loft as someone made his way to the staircase. A moment later, a young man came down the steps and started across the room. Sister Lorraine guessed that he could be no older than seventeen or eighteen. A second boy appeared at the top of the stairs, came down partway, and stood watching the scene.

  "Donnelly's got a job for you," Moran explained as the youth named Ray came up.

  "With her?" Ray asked warily.

  "She works with Donnelly now."

  "What kind of work?"

  Forcing a smile, Sister Lorraine said, "My name is Birdie Vogel. There's a house that I want vandalized. Can you and your friends handle it?"

  "Sure thing. But why?"

  "That don't concern you," Moran put in. "Just do what the lady asks, and Donnelly'll make it worth your while."

  Ray shrugged. "Just tell me where and when."

  "It will have to be today—in the daytime. Is that a problem?" Sister Lorraine asked, and he shook his head. "How many friends do you have?" she added.

  "Enough. They're upstairs."

  "I'd like to meet them. Then I'll take you past the house. All right?"

  Ray shrugged again and turned toward the staircase. "Jimmy," he called to the youth on the stairs, "have the boys come down. All of them."

  Sister Lorraine turned to the bartender. "Thank you so much. I can handle things now."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Certain. You've been so kind." She moved casually toward the office, subtly leading him from the room.

  "If I can be of any further help..."

  "I'll tell Mr. Donnelly how helpful you've been." She stood smiling as he entered the office, crossed to the street door, yanked it open, and disappeared outside, closing it behind him.

  Turning from the office, Sister Lorraine kept to the shadows as she approached where Ray was assembling the boys, who were still coming down the stairs. There were eight of them, and when she saw the last two in line, her heart started to race, and she had to force herself not to call out Patrick's and Christopher's names.

  Sister Lorraine's mind whirled as she tried to figure a way to get the two boys alone and find out if they were there voluntarily or against their will. In either case, she was determined to bring them back to the church—and then as far from Abilene as possible. Just as she was deciding what she would do, the two boys looked up at her. Their expressions shifted rapidly from curiosity to uncertainty to shock as they realized who she was.

  The nun frowned and tried to communicate with her eyes that they should remain quiet. She had hoped her disguise would be more convincing, and now she could only pray that they wouldn’t reveal her true identity. She saw a glint of awareness in Patrick's eyes, and he nodded slightly, as if signaling that he understood her intentions. But just as he leaned toward Christopher to whisper something, the older boy stepped forward and asked, "What are you doing here?"

  Patrick tried to grab his friend's arm, but the boy pulled away and came halfway to where Sister Lorraine was standing. "I'm not going back!" he declared indignantly as the woman raised her hand, urging him to be quiet. "I'm old enough to lead my own life."

  "What's going on?" Ray demanded.

  "It's Sister Lorraine—from the orphanage," Christopher explained, while Patrick pulled at his sleeve and told him to shut up.

  "A nun?" Ray said in disbelief, staring at the well-dressed woman. Suddenly he realized they had been duped, and he turned to the other boys and shouted, "Take them!"

  "But I'm part of the gang!" Christopher protested as the boys surrounded him and Patrick and took hold of their arms. "I'm the one who told you who she is!"

  Ray paid no attention. Instead he pulled a knife from his boot and started toward the woman, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  Realizing that her plan had come apart, Sister Lorraine resorted to more persuasive means. She slipped her right hand through a small opening she had made in one of the seams of the dress and grasped the butt of the Smith & Wesson .38 that was holstered to her thigh. As Ray advanced, knife in hand, Sister Lorraine drew out the weapon, cocked it, and said calmly, "Put that thing down."

  Ray came to an abrupt halt and stood gaping at the revolver in her hand.

  "I
said put it down," she repeated, and he hesitantly complied, letting the knife drop to the ground. "Let them go," she added, waggling the gun toward the boys who were holding Christopher and Patrick. It took no further prodding.

  "What kind of nun are you?" Ray muttered. "You're bluffing. You wouldn't—"

  "Yes, she would," Patrick cut in, edging closer. "She once shot a dog for barking during Sunday services."

  "A nun?" Ray said, unconvinced. "You're crazy."

  "Sure," Patrick continued. "Stuff like that is all through the Bible. Don't forget Abraham sacrificing his own son and Solomon cutting that baby in two."

  "Enough," Sister Lorraine said, secretly pleased at Patrick's spunk. "Let's get out of here." Patrick quickly came forward, but Christopher held back. "Come on, Christopher. You don't want to stay here, do you?" she asked as the older boy looked from the nun to the other boys. "Friends wouldn't have turned on you," she pointed out.

  Christopher glanced at Ray a final time but saw no sympathy in the young man's eyes. Looking down in dismay and embarrassment, he came forward to where Sister Lorraine and Patrick were standing.

  "Let's get out of here," she said, backing toward the office door.

  "Not so fast," a voice called from behind her, and she whirled around to see the bartender standing in the doorway with a revolver aimed at her. "Drop it," he demanded.

  Sister Lorraine had moved the barrel of her gun away from Ray when she turned, and now there was nothing she could do but comply. With a frustrated sigh, she carefully released the hammer and placed the revolver on the ground beside her.

  Moran came over, picked up the gun, and stuffed it behind his belt, then called to Ray, "You shouldn't have let her get the drop on you. You can't trust anyone—least of all a woman. That's why I waited outside." Smirking, he turned to Sister Lorraine and said, "We'll let Mr. Donnelly straighten this whole thing out."

  "Let the boys go," she said firmly, placing a hand on each boy's shoulder. "They've done nothing."

  "Donnelly will decide that. Now move." He waggled the gun and forced Sister Lorraine and the two boys through the office and out into the street. As he led them down the secluded road, he gripped Patrick's collar with his left hand and kept the gun pressed against his back, warning all of them that he would kill anyone who tried to get away.

  The bartender kept to the back streets and alleys as he led his prisoners toward the Black Dog Saloon. They were coming up an alley between Texas and Railroad streets, approaching the rear entrance of the saloon, when without warning Patrick swung his arm and dropped to his knees, knocking aside the gun as he yanked his collar out of the man's hand. With a curse Moran swung the gun back, but before he could bring it to play, Patrick spun around and leaped at the man's knees, knocking him onto his back.

  "Run!" Patrick shouted at the others as he crawled up over the man and scrambled for his gun hand. He heard the click of a hammer being cocked and found himself looking down the barrel of the gun.

  "Don't shoot!" Sister Lorraine cried with a gasp, reaching to help Patrick off the man, who stared up at the boy in fury, his finger whitening on the trigger. "Please don't shoot him," she begged, and slowly the man's finger relaxed, and he lowered the hammer.

  As the bartender clambered to his feet and dusted himself off, he looked around and suddenly realized that only the woman and the younger boy were present. "Where is he?" he demanded, turning in place, and looking both ways down the alley for some sign of Christopher. When Sister Lorraine merely shrugged, Moran grunted and waved the gun at her and Patrick. "Get moving!" he ordered, jabbing at the air with the gun barrel and motioning them forward. "Mr. Donnelly'll have more than a few questions for you."

  Wrapping her arm around Patrick, Sister Lorraine gave him a reassuring squeeze, and together they continued down the alley toward the rear entrance of the Black Dog.

  A few blocks away, on Mulberry Street between Texas and Second, Cully Markham and Marshal Hiram Perkins stood on the porch in front of Haslet's General Store, sharing a smoke and discussing the relative merits of Cully's pinto and Perkins's big gray gelding, which were saddled and tied to the hitch rail in front of the store. To any store patron or casual passerby, it sounded as if they had met outside town that morning, had challenged each other to an impromptu race to Abilene, and now were debating which animal had performed the best. In truth they were making up the whole thing as they focused their real attention on the Abilene Agricultural Bank, across the street and halfway down the block.

  The bank was closed this Saturday morning, but there was a flurry of activity inside the brick building. Fifteen minutes after the westbound train had pulled into Abilene, a wagon with four men on board had appeared, flanked by four heavily armed horsemen. The wagon had been empty save for one large wooden box, which had been lifted off and carried inside under the direction of the bank president, who was on hand to supervise the transfer of the army payroll. Now two of the horsemen stood on guard at the door while the others deposited the funds in the bank vault.

  A few minutes later, the guards emerged from the bank. Four of them climbed into the empty wagon, while the others mounted their horses and started up the street. The driver turned the wagon in a tight circle, and the procession headed back the way it had come.

  Marshal Perkins smiled and nodded as the riders passed, muttering under his breath, "Pinkertons."

  "I'll be glad to see them gone," Cully replied just as quietly, referring to the fact that the Pinkerton guards were scheduled to return to Chicago within the hour on the eastbound train.

  The two men switched their conversation to the weather as they waited for the bank president to leave. Five minutes later, he emerged from the building, locked the front door, and headed up the street.

  "Morning, Mr. Campbell," Perkins said casually as the man walked past.

  Nodding, Campbell said somewhat curtly, "Marshal."

  "Everything go smoothly?"

  Campbell allowed a faint smile. "All's secure until the army arrives next week."

  "Good. Then I guess I can get back to my other work." Perkins tipped his hat slightly.

  The bank president nodded perfunctorily and continued up the road. As soon as he had rounded the corner of Texas Street, Perkins and Cully untied the reins of their horses and led them down the street past the bank. At the next corner, they turned right, then doubled back along an alley that ran behind the bank. Partway down the alley, they tied the horses near a pile of trash behind one of the buildings and pushed aside a couple of wooden crates to reveal a pair of carpetbags they had hidden there earlier. Each taking one in hand, they continued down the alley on foot.

  "There he is." Cully nodded toward a small man at the rear of the Agricultural Bank.

  "Hello, Glenn," Perkins said as they came up to the young man, who could not have been much over twenty.

  Glenn silently nodded, his eyes darting nervously between the marshal and Cully and then up and down the alley. Finally, he turned to the rear door and fumbled in his pants pocket, his hands shaking noticeably as he withdrew a key. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, then inserted the key in the lock and turned it to the left, unlocking the door. Turning the knob, he shouldered open the door and waved the men inside.

  Carrying the carpetbags, the two men followed Glenn through the bank to the closed walk-in vault, which had a six-foot-high iron door with a large tumbler lock.

  "You got the combination?" Perkins asked, and again Glenn fumbled in his pocket, this time withdrawing a slip of paper with several numbers on it. "Where'd you get it?" the marshal inquired as Glenn gingerly took hold of the lock and began to spin it to the right.

  "Campbell's daughter," the young man replied, looking over his shoulder. For the first time a trace of humor touched his eyes.

  "She just up and gave it to you?" Perkins asked.

  "She gave it to me, all right—but not the combination." Glenn smirked, then went back to his work. "Gave it to me good one weekend
when her folks were away. After we was done about the third or fourth time and she was sleeping, I slipped into the old man's library and found it in his desk drawer—along with the key. I traced a picture of the key real good and later filed myself a copy. That's when I come to Mr. Donnelly."

  "You did right, boy," Perkins said, clapping him on the back. "You'll earn a lot more from Donnelly than that Campbell fellow will ever pay you."

  "Too bad Mr. Donnelly don't have a daughter, too," Glenn said mischievously.

  "You just mind your work," Perkins replied, adopting what passed for a stern tone.

  After a final spin of the tumbler to the right, Glenn grasped the handle beside the lock and pulled it to the left. There was a loud click, and then the door swung free.

  "Good work," Perkins declared, pulling the door open wide and stepping inside. "You keep watch," he added to Glenn as Cully followed into the vault.

  The two men placed their carpetbags beside the wooden strongbox, which sat on the floor to the right of the door. As Perkins opened one of the bags and withdrew a small crowbar, Cully checked the strongbox and discovered that the bank president was so confident of his vault that he hadn’t bothered to lock the box after examining the contents. Waving away the crowbar, Cully pulled off the open padlock and lifted the lid.

  The box was filled with federal notes—at least thirty or forty thousand dollars, by Cully's estimate—and for a few seconds the two men just stood looking down at them. Then they grinned at each other and went to work emptying the money and replacing it with blank, bill-size stacks of paper from inside the carpetbags. Once the real money was loaded into the bags and replaced with worthless paper, they closed the strongbox and picked up the carpetbags.

  Glenn appeared at the open vault door, grinning as he took one of the bags from Perkins, who followed him out. "Got it all?" he asked eagerly, and Perkins nodded.

  Cully was coming out with the second bag when he heard what sounded like a door closing. The other two men heard it at the same time, and they all looked out into the main room of the bank just as a man locked the front door behind him and turned to face them. It wasn’t the bank president but a younger man—perhaps in his forties.