"You shouldn't have followed me. This is no place—"
"It's my brother in there," Alice reminded him.
Cully stepped forward, a faint smile on his lips as he said, "So you're the lady in the red dress. You had me fooled. Donnelly, as well." As she blushed, he added, "But my brother is right. This is no place for a—"
"For a girl?" Alice cut in.
"I was going to say woman." Cully flashed a disarming smile.
Composing herself, she said, "I did all right last night. You said so yourself."
"Yes, but that was different. There wasn't the risk of gunplay. Today—"
"Wait a minute," Joshua interrupted. "She may have a point. You can't make your move until you know where Sister Lorraine and Patrick are being held. They could be in a back room or even upstairs under guard. You go in with guns blazing, and who knows what'll happen? They could be shot before you ever find them. No, we've got to find them first, then make sure they're out of danger."
"Aye, we know tha' already," Angus said impatiently.
"And I think I know a way Alice and I can help," Joshua pronounced.
"You're not talking about the two of you going in there, are you?" Flint said dubiously. "There are already too many civilians at risk."
"You're forgetting that you're a civilian, too," Joshua reminded him, adding, "We've got just as much at stake here as any of you."
Flint saw the unwavering look in the young minister's eyes, then turned to Alice and saw an even more determined light. He slowly nodded and said, "Perhaps you'd better tell us your plan."
Willis Donnelly closed the carpetbags containing the army payroll and eagerly clapped Hiram Perkins on the back. Nearby, the bartender stood beside the closed door of the office, in which another of Donnelly's men was guarding Sister Lorraine and Patrick. There were four other men in the main room—all hired guns—two standing opposite the bar at the far end of the room and two seated at a table near the large double doors that were closed against the batwings.
When someone started pounding on one of those doors, Donnelly signaled one of the men at the table to check the window. The man stood and glanced outside. "Looks like a minister and a girl," he said with a shrug.
Arching his eyebrows in surprise, Donnelly motioned the man to unlock the doors and let them in. Donnelly then placed the carpetbags on the floor and was moving away from the table when the doors swung open and Joshua came barging in, dragging behind him a young red-haired girl in a rather plain-looking brown dress. Closing the doors behind them, the two gunmen who had been at the front table took up positions in front of the doors, their weapons still holstered but their gun hands at the ready.
"Is she here?" Joshua blared, looking around impatiently as he circled the room, finally bringing the girl to an abrupt halt in front of Donnelly. "Where is she?"
"What are you talking about?" Donnelly asked.
"The woman," Joshua said flatly. "The one who calls herself Sister Lorraine—or Birdie Vogel—or whatever name she's using today." He roughly shook the girl's arm. "Tell him!" he demanded.
"I-I'm Al-Alice," she muttered in fear.
"Or Daisy or Darlene or whatever else suits your purpose," Joshua said with a sneer. He turned to Donnelly. "I've been duped, plain and simple."
Donnelly was about to speak, but he held his tongue, preferring to let the minister play his whole hand first.
"Go on, tell him!" Joshua repeated, again shaking the girl. "Tell him the way you and that phony nun came to my church and pretended you wanted to set up an orphanage—even had a few kids along to make it look good." Facing Donnelly again, he continued, "But they're just a bunch of swindlers. That so-called nun hoodwinked me out of five hundred dollars of the church's money. And then this young trollop here..."
Turning to Alice, Donnelly commented with a smirk, "You looked far more appealing in that red dress last night."
"She knows how to be appealing, all right," Joshua said bitterly.
"You speak from experience?" Donnelly asked with a touch of amusement in his eyes.
"You're damn right I do. And I was a fool. She knows how to slip into a man's bed—and slip all the money out of his wallet when he's not looking. I wouldn't put it past her to slip a knife in his back, if she had the chance!"
Donnelly's smile faded. "I know what you think of me," he said to Joshua. "You blame me for your father's death. So what are you doing here now?"
"That lady and this . . . this whore took my church for over five hundred dollars. And I expect you to pay."
"Me?" Donnelly asked incredulously. "You're mad."
"They work for you, don't they?" Suddenly he turned and slapped the young woman. "Tell him!"
Holding her stinging cheek, Alice fought her tears as she stammered, "I h-had to t-tell him, Mr. Donnelly. He—he beat me." She broke down sobbing.
Joshua let her go, and she buried her face in her hands. "She told me everything," he declared. "They're not here to open an orphanage but a whorehouse—and you're backing the whole operation. So I expect you to pay back every last penny the church lost. Call it a business expense."
"You've got to be crazy to ask me for money."
"You owe me!" Joshua raged, his eyes wide with anger.
Donnelly tried to read the message behind Joshua's words. It was clear that this was about more than just the money the woman had stolen—yet five hundred dollars was a small price to pay if it might also satisfy the minister regarding his father's death. But could there be any truth to what Joshua was saying? Donnelly didn’t think for a moment that the older woman was actually a nun, but now he was equally sure she was no madam. More likely she was a swindler, just as Joshua claimed. But what was her game?
Turning to the bartender, he said, "Bring her out here, Moran," adding, "The boy, too."
In the confusion, no one noticed that the gunman named Cully had entered the saloon through the still-unlocked front doors, leaving them slightly ajar. He caught Donnelly's eye and signaled that he had successfully completed his assignment. The saloon owner seemed preoccupied with the two intruders, so Cully circled the room to where Marshal Perkins was standing near the bar. "It's finished," he whispered to Perkins, who understood and smiled.
When Sister Lorraine and Patrick appeared at the office door, the young boy immediately recognized his sister and went running across the room into her arms.
"Now you're gonna tell us who you really are," Donnelly said to Sister Lorraine. "And what you really want."
"I already told you," she began, not realizing the story Joshua had made up. "I'm a Dominican—"
"Enough of that!" Donnelly shouted, losing his temper.
"But it's the truth," she insisted.
Joshua Markham rushed past Donnelly and shook a finger at the nun. "The truth is that you're a liar and a thief! Pretending to be a nun—taking advantage of our church!"
"What?" she gasped, her face whitening with shock.
Cully came forward from the bar now, his revolver held loosely in his hand. "I wouldn't trust any of them," he remarked. "Least of all this preacher man. The marshal, here, tells me you had him kill the man's father. Ain't that right, Hiram?" He glanced at Perkins, who looked both uncomfortable and angry that Cully had betrayed his confidence. Turning to Donnelly, Cully continued, "Who knows what a preacher with a grudge might do to get even?"
Donnelly was nodding, as if he had been having precisely that same thought.
"Give me five minutes alone with him—with all four of them—and I'll get the full story," Cully said confidently.
"Yes, I'd like that," Donnelly agreed, coming to a decision. "Take them in there." He motioned to the large back office. The man who had been inside guarding Sister Lorraine and Patrick came out now and moved over beside Moran at the bar. "Go with them," Donnelly ordered the marshal, who drew his revolver and approached from the bar.
Cully and Perkins herded Joshua, Patrick, and the women toward the open office door. When Sister
Lorraine started to protest and hold her ground, Cully shoved her roughly, and Alice took her arm and gently urged her to comply. As the four prisoners were ushered inside, the marshal started to move past Cully into the room, but Cully abruptly pulled the door shut, closing Sister Lorraine and the others in the room alone. Before anyone realized what was happening, Cully turned his gun on Perkins and shouted, "Drop it!"
Freezing in place, Perkins stared in bewilderment at the young gunman, his own gun pointed down at the floor. Across the room, the two men near the front doors were the first to realize what was happening, and they clawed for their guns. But the doors behind them burst open simultaneously, and a gruff voice with a Scottish brogue called out, "Dinna even try it!" His comment was punctuated by the sound of the Winchester in his hands being levered.
The two men stopped in place, their hands hovering over the butts of their guns. Donnelly's other men must have felt more confident about their positions, because the three gunmen drew their revolvers, while Moran leaped behind the bar to snatch up the shotgun that he kept there. As the two men across the room from the bar brought their weapons to bear on Angus MacQuarrie, one was met by a blast from the Winchester, which sent him sailing over one of the tables near the wall.
The second man was drawing a bead on Angus as the Scotsman levered the rifle, but before he had the squat tavernkeeper in his sights, a door in the corner behind him was kicked open, splintering the door and shattering the jamb. Lucas Flint fired his Colt Peacemaker from the alleyway beyond the door, catching the man in the back and knocking him off his feet. Immediately Flint burst into the room and was greeted by a shotgun blast, which peppered the shattered door with buckshot.
Seeing Flint roll and come up unharmed, Moran swung the shotgun and squeezed the trigger of the second barrel, but the shotgun jerked up in his hand and fired harmlessly at the ceiling as a slug from Cully's revolver tore through his neck. Moran dropped the shotgun and clawed at his neck, turning and staggering as blood sprayed across the mirror behind the bar. Gasping, he grabbed at the shelf in front of the mirror, his hand knocking off bottles as he fell to the floor.
One more man was foolish enough to make a play—the one who had been in the back room earlier and now was standing in front of the bar near Cully and Perkins. He had already drawn his weapon, but in the first few seconds of confusion he hadn’t known where to fire. Now, as Cully turned his revolver back on the marshal, the man by the bar swung his gun toward him. He was met by a blast from Flint's gun as the former lawman regained his feet. The bullet tore into the man's right shoulder, throwing him against the bar.
Flint kept his revolver trained on the man, who was trying to bring up his gun as he slid to the floor. Flint shook his head and started to say, "Don't," but when the man didn’t give it up, Flint was forced to pull the trigger again. This time the bullet centered the man's chest, killing him instantly.
It was over in less than five seconds. Perkins was still holding the revolver in his hand, while the two men in front of Angus had never even drawn their guns. Donnelly had retreated behind his usual chair but hadn’t risked going for the gun under his coat, preferring to rely on the derringer up his sleeve when the moment was right—or his political connections, if it came to a trial.
Angus stepped up behind the two men he was covering and snatched the revolvers from their holsters, tossing them across the floor. "I dinna let these two even raise a hand," he boasted as he prodded his prisoners toward the bar with the barrel of the Winchester. Glancing at the four bodies scattered around the room, he shook his head and declared, "'Tis a shame the same kinna be said f'ye, Lucas, nor f'ye, Cully, me lad."
Donnelly cautiously opened the flap of his coat and stood waiting to be disarmed. "A miraculous recovery," he said with a trace of a smile as Flint came over and snatched the short-barreled revolver from his shoulder holster. "Your death was staged for my benefit, no doubt."
"And my resurrection," Flint said coldly.
Nearby, Cully Markham stood holding his revolver on Perkins. The marshal still hadn’t dropped his gun, and Cully seemed in no hurry to demand that he do so. Suddenly Perkins realized that he was at risk of being shot, and he slowly knelt and placed the weapon on the floor. As he stood and held his empty palms open at his sides, he noticed that Cully's gun hand was shaking slightly, as if some force within him were struggling to pull the trigger. Perkins quickly raised his hands to show he had surrendered.
Sneering, Cully muttered, "You filthy bastard." As Perkins stared in terror at the gun in Cully's hand, Cully added, "You're the bastard that killed my father."
"Your f-father?" Perkins stammered. "I don't know—"
"I'm Cully Markham. My father's name was Lloyd," he said evenly. "You can carry that to your grave."
"Don't do it," someone urged from behind him. Cully didn’t have to turn to recognize the voice of his older brother, who had just emerged from the back office with the others. "Father would want a trial," Joshua told him.
"Father's dead."
"And you're about to put another bullet in him."
Cully's finger tightened on the trigger, and he raised the revolver until the barrel was pointing up the marshal's nose. Beads of sweat poured down Perkins's forehead, and his lips quivered as he begged, "P-Please...don't—"
Cully smiled and pulled the trigger. But there was no explosion, and the gun didn’t buck in his hand—only the metallic sound of the hammer dropping on an empty chamber. It was enough to make Perkins's knees buckle as he nearly fainted with fright.
Cully grinned as he holstered his gun and turned to face the others. "Just thought I'd let him know how it feels," he said, approaching his brother. There were tears in both men's eyes as they embraced.
As Flint led Willis Donnelly toward the bar, the saloon owner paused in front of Sister Lorraine and said in a surprisingly good-natured tone, "I must compliment you on your performance. I take it you are a Dominican?" When she nodded, he added, "A most resourceful order, I see." He smiled pleasantly, nodded, and continued over to Perkins, who was holding himself steady against a table. Grasping the marshal's arm, Donnelly helped him over to where Angus was guarding the other two men. His expression remained peaceful, as if he saw this incident as a minor setback that would soon enough be set right.
Marshal Perkins didn’t have any such illusions. Instead he saw himself hanging by the end of a rope—or spending the rest of his life in a rat-infested prison. Neither prospect was acceptable, and as Angus motioned the four prisoners toward the front doors, Perkins glanced through the windows at the gathering crowd outside and tried to think of a way out of this predicament. If only he had a weapon—perhaps he could take a hostage out there and make an escape. But it would have to be before they were brought to the jail and he was locked inside one of his own cells.
Perkins's legs went rubbery again, and Donnelly grasped his arm and yanked him upright. In so doing, Perkins felt something hard brush against his arm, and suddenly he remembered the derringer Donnelly always kept up his sleeve. He started to sweat even more profusely as he realized why the man seemed so relaxed.
Donnelly'll save his own hide, Perkins told himself, realizing that the outlaw leader would take no extra risks to help him. Now...I've gotta do something now.
It was when they were passing through the doors that Perkins made his move. Angus MacQuarrie was at the head of the group, with Flint and Cully bringing up the rear. As Perkins stepped out onto the boardwalk, he pretended that his legs were giving way beneath him, and when Donnelly propped him up, he grabbed the man's sleeve and yanked at the derringer hidden behind a leather wristband. Before anyone could react, Perkins had wrested away the small gun and was pointing it at Donnelly's head.
"I'll kill him!" Perkins shouted as he stepped behind Donnelly and grabbed hold of his collar, pressing the gun against the base of his skull. He pulled the big man back along the boardwalk, the crowd behind him scattering.
Angus pushed the other tw
o prisoners off to the side and covered them with the rifle, while Flint and Cully confronted Perkins, who was effectively using Donnelly as a shield. "Don't be a fool," Flint said, keeping his gun ready but making certain not to aim it directly at them.
"Put it down," Cully added, taking a step forward until Flint caught his sleeve to hold him back.
"I won't go to prison!" Perkins whined. "I won't hang!"
"No one's going to hang you," Flint tried to convince him, raising a hand to calm him down.
Willis Donnelly seemed more disgusted than afraid, and he shook his head and blared over his shoulder, "You idiot! You've got one damn bullet in there. What good'll it do? You think they care if you shoot me? And if you do, they'll just take you anyway, and you'll hang all the same. Put it down. I know a lawyer—"
"Shut up!" Perkins yelled, pressing the derringer more tightly against Donnelly's skull. His hand shook with fear as he looked over at Cully and said, "I...I d-didn't want to kill the old man. Donnelly made me do it."
"I know," Cully said as convincingly as he could manage.
"It's Donnelly's fault. I wouldn't have done any of it if it wasn't for him."
"I know that," Cully added. "Just put down the gun."
"I—I can't. I can't hang."
"Just put—"
Suddenly Perkins pushed Donnelly at Cully and Flint. By the time the big man had dropped to the boardwalk to get out of the line of fire, Perkins had the derringer pointed into his own mouth. Backing up along the boardwalk and waving his free hand to keep everyone away, he looked over at Cully, his eyes beseeching the other man for forgiveness. Then he pulled the trigger and blew away the back of his skull.
There were screams from the crowd, followed by the sound of several women sobbing. Cully and Flint walked over to where Perkins was lying on his back, his head cradled in a spreading pool of blood, his bulging, sightless eyes facing the boardwalk overhang above.
Kneeling, Cully closed Perkins's eyes. "I forgive you," he whispered, shaking his head as he stood and looked down at the man. "You damn fool."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 20
