Flint placed a hand on Cully's shoulder. "Come on," he said, and the two men turned and walked side by side back along the boardwalk.
15
After breakfast at the Red Top Cafe on Monday morning, Lucas Flint climbed up into the saddle of his brown gelding and started down the street. Two days had passed since the arrest of Willis Donnelly, who was being held at the local jail awaiting trial. He was being guarded by a force of a dozen men, working in two shifts, who had been deputized by the mayor as a temporary police force pending the appointment of a new town marshal.
As Flint rode along Texas Street, he saw Dr. Lewis Gilmore bending over beside a chair at the edge of the street in front of his office, struggling to lift what looked like the sign that usually hung on the post at the end of the walkway. Dismounting in front of the Grand Palace Hotel, Flint tied the reins to the hitch rail and approached.
"Oh, thank you," the doctor said as Flint came up and hoisted the sign for him. Flint held it in place under the perpendicular wrought-iron arm, while Dr. Gilmore climbed up onto the chair and attached the hooks at the top edge of the sign to the pair of short chains hanging from the arm.
"The wind knock it down?" Flint asked as the old man climbed off the chair.
Stepping back to admire his handiwork, Gilmore shook his head. "It's a new one. Ordered it on Friday." He raised his thumb like an artist to examine the proportions of the sign and determine whether or not it was hanging straight. Nodding in satisfaction, he continued, "It'll take a little getting used to, but I'd say it looks just about right."
As Flint moved back slightly to read the sign, he remembered that the former one had a smaller board hanging below on which Dr. Rose Keller's name had been painted. That was gone, and Flint assumed Dr. Gilmore had added her name to the main sign. Sure enough, there it was in simple, bold letters. He started to smile, and then suddenly he realized that hers was the only name listed and that her title now read Physician & Surgeon.
"Where's your name?" he asked in surprise.
"Where it ought to be...retired."
"Are you really giving up your practice?"
"I've been practicing so many years, I figure I must have gotten it right by now, so why not give another person a chance to make her own mistakes?"
From down the walkway, a woman said, "I hope you'll still be coming around to set me right when I do."
Flint looked over to see Rose approaching.
"Don't you worry about me," the elderly doctor told her. "I'll be nosing around enough to set you straight when you need it. And remember, I've got an investment in you."
Rose came up to where the two men were standing. Turning to Flint, she explained, "Dr. Gilmore will still be a partner, though he won't be working actively—unless, of course, I need to call on his services."
"I'm not talking about that kind of investment," Gilmore said gruffly. "I mean the twenty dollars you owe me." As Rose started to grin, he turned to Flint and added, "The lady stole my twenty-dollar gold piece and hammered it into some fool boy's head."
"I've offered to pay you back," she reminded him.
"It wouldn't be the same. That was my lucky coin, and I want the same one back."
"You'll have a long wait," Rose teased.
"I can outlive a young whippersnapper like Wesley Lillingston—and like you, too."
"It will be good to have you around," she replied.
Shaking his head, Dr. Gilmore picked up the chair and started up the walkway, calling back, "I'll just leave you young folks to your own devices. And take your time—I'm not officially retired until Friday!"
Rose and Flint watched the old man head up the steps and into the house. Then Rose turned to Flint and said, "I was just waiting for Sister Lorraine to bring Patrick over. I want to make sure his cut has healed properly before they set out for Wichita."
"I'll be sorry to see them go," Flint replied.
Rose nodded, then remembered that Flint had planned to accompany the orphans to Wichita. She was about to ask if his plans had changed when a young voice called their names. They turned as a large, two-seated buggy driven by Joshua Markham pulled up with Patrick at his side and Sister Lorraine and Alice Hammond in the rear seat. The nun was wearing her habit again, her face beaming with pleasure from under her wimple.
"How are you feeling?" Rose asked the boy as he climbed down.
"I feel great."
She gave his forehead a cursory examination. "There's really no need to go inside. I can already see that there's no infection." Reaching into the pocket of her white jacket, she produced a shiny penny. "This is for being such a good patient," she said, handing it to the boy.
"Why, thank you, ma'am," Patrick said, taking the coin and staring at it in surprise.
"That's so nice of you," Sister Lorraine told the doctor. Turning to Patrick, she said, "Would you like to go buy yourself some candy?"
"Maybe later," he replied, turning the penny over and over in his palm. He glanced at the Colt Peacemaker strapped to Lucas Flint's waist and thought, Only seventeen dollars and thirty-six cents to go!
Lucas Flint was helping Sister Lorraine down from the buggy when she asked the doctor, "Would you like me to bring Patrick back in a few days, just to be certain?"
Rose shook her head. "You needn't delay your journey any longer. You can always see a doctor in Wichita."
"What makes you think we're going to Wichita?"
"I don't understand..."
Joshua Markham was helping Alice down from the other side
of the buggy. He turned now and said, "Go on, Sister Lorraine, don't keep her in suspense."
"You tell her," the nun insisted. "After all, it's all your doing."
Coming around the buggy, Joshua said, "The credit really belongs to my congregation. At our business meeting last night, it was decided that we would offer Sister Lorraine our support in setting up an orphanage here in Abilene—provided she will run it."
"Won't that be something," Sister Lorraine declared, clasping her hands. "An orphanage run jointly by Catholics and Protestants—for children of any race or religion."
"We'll be using the parsonage," Alice put in.
"Delightful," Rose said. As she turned to Flint, her smile grew more bittersweet. "It looks as if you'll be going on to Wichita alone. We'll all miss you."
"Haven't you told her?" Sister Lorraine asked.
"I was about to when you rode up."
"Tell me what?" Rose pressed.
Flint reached into his pocket. "I was keeping this as a surprise." He opened his hand to reveal the silver badge of Abilene's town marshal.
Reaching out and touching its shiny surface with her finger, Rose muttered, "Do you mean...?"
"I accepted the job yesterday. I wasn’t sure I’m ready to be a lawman again, and to tell you the truth, I’m still not certain. But I like this town, and I want to do what I can to make it a better place to live."
Rose looked up at him and smiled.
"You're not upset, are you?" he asked. "I mean, given your concerns about lawmen, I wasn't sure—"
"In your case, I'll make an exception." She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "I'm delighted," she said, taking his hand in her own. Then she lifted the badge and pinned it to his shirt, as Patrick and Alice clapped.
"It looks mighty good on you," a new voice pronounced, and everyone turned to see Cully Markham sitting on his pinto beside the buggy. There was a bedroll slung behind the saddle and a pair of leather bags draped on either side. Cully continued, “The Rattler’s back on the job, packing a badge. Abilene may be tamed right now, but I’d bet a hat it won’t stay that way!”
“You know,” Flint said, “I never did care all that much for that name.”
“Well, that’s too bad, because I’d say you’re stuck with it.”
"Are you leaving already?" Alice asked Cully, her voice betraying her disappointment.
"Time to move along," he declared. He swung down from the saddle.
"Where will you go?" his brother asked.
"Wherever the road takes me."
"You've always got a home here."
"I know that, big brother. And thanks." He walked up to Joshua, and the two men embraced. Then Cully whispered, "And thanks for showing me that there are many kinds of courage. Father would've been proud of you."
"Of the both of us," Joshua corrected him.
"What will you do now?" Flint asked as Cully started back to his horse.
"I'll just head west and see what comes along."
"The way you've been going, the only thing that'll come along is another gunslick out to make a name for himself by killing Matthew Cully." Flint’s mouth tightened. “Take my word for it, I know what that’s like.”
"I'll have to handle that when it comes." Cully climbed up into the saddle and tipped his hat.
"Why not try being Cully Markham for a while?" Flint suggested. When Cully held up on the reins and looked down at him questioningly, Flint went on, "The road you're riding leads straight to the cemetery. And since all roads lead there eventually, anyhow, why not ride yours to uphold the law, rather than to skirt around it?" Approaching the pinto, Flint reached into his pocket and produced a second badge, engraved with the words: Deputy Marshal, Abilene, Kansas. He held it out to Cully. "It'll look just as good on you as this one does on me."
Cully stared down at the badge in Flint's hand, then looked over at his brother, who was smiling and nodding his approval. Hesitantly the young gunman reached down and took the badge. Holding it against his chest, he glanced over at Alice and said, "What do you think, pretty lady?"
Beaming with pleasure, Alice said, "It makes you look even more handsome, Deputy Markham."
"You can call me Cully," he replied, pinning the badge to his shirt. Leaning down from the saddle, he shook Flint's hand and said, "It'll be a pleasure to work with you, Marshal. But one thing confuses me."
"What's that?"
"How come it took you so long to ask? For a minute there, I thought you'd actually let me ride out of here."
"You wanted the job all the time?"
"Not the job. Just the shiny badge." Tapping the silver star on his chest, he turned to Alice Hammond and proclaimed, "It does make me look handsome, doesn't it?"
The reply came in a high-pitched screech as an eerily human voice called out, "Dinna be daft, man!"
All eyes turned to see Old Bailey perched atop the shoulder of Angus MacQuarrie, who stood at the edge of the boardwalk in front of his tavern. The burly Scotsman had his hands on his hips and was rumbling with laughter as the parrot fluttered its wings and squawked, "And may the Devil be damned!"
Deadeye
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
1
“You come back to see us, marshal," the pretty red-headed young woman in a waitress's apron said cheerfully as Lucas Flint stepped out the door of the Red Top Cafe.
"I will, Alice," the lawman called over his shoulder. "You can count on that."
In two easy strides Flint crossed the wide boardwalk and stood at its edge as he scanned Texas Street. The brightly-colored signs on the two- and three-story frame and clapboard buildings that lined the broad street sparkled in the morning sun. Flint had just finished an excellent breakfast of ham and hotcakes, washed down with plenty of strong coffee, and he now paused to relish the crisp spring air as he surveyed his town.
Lounging casually against one of the posts supporting the awning over the boardwalk, Flint appeared deceptively lazy. His tall, well-muscled frame was relaxed. Dressed in denim work clothes and calf-high riding boots, he looked like any cowpuncher; only the badge pinned to his tan vest spoke of his occupation. Under his hat, which was tipped down to shade the sun from his lean face, his eyes were alert and watchful. He wasn’t expecting trouble, but he was ready if it came.
Lucas Flint hadn’t been marshal of Abilene for long, but in that short time he had won the respect and trust of its citizens. Years before, he had served as the marshal of Wichita for quite some time and had earned his reputation as a tough, honest lawman who was widely known in Kansas. His speed with a gun had earned him a nickname—the Rattler—and caused badmen to think twice about crossing him.
But it was in Wichita that tragedy struck. A bullet meant for Flint wounded his beloved wife, Mary, and took them both back east. After years of wasting away despite the efforts of the finest physicians, his brave, joyful Mary died, leaving Flint alone and empty to make the painful journey back from his loss. He had hung up his walnut-handled Peacemaker in its well-worn leather gun belt, intending never to strap it on again. But events had changed his mind and brought him to this fine spring morning, to the bustling town he now called home.
Flint pushed his tan, flat-crowned hat back on his head, revealing the silver streaks that shot through his sandy hair at the temples. Even at this time of the morning, Abilene's main thoroughfare was alive with activity. Teamsters cracked their whips, and heavy draft horses pulled freight wagons loaded with canvas-covered, tied-down goods. Farmers drove buckboards up to the stores to pick up supplies. Several buggies rolled here and there carrying early-rising businessmen, and as always there were men on horseback—cowboys and drifters and probably even a few desperadoes, though they would keep a low profile while they were in Abilene. Word had gotten around that Lucas Flint was in charge now.
As the breeze shifted slightly, Flint caught a hint of the pungent aroma of the Great Western Cattle Company's stockyards on the eastern edge of town. The marshal smiled slightly. That odor was at the core of Abilene's existence—the great herds of longhorns moving up the trails from Texas to meet the tracks and terminals of the new Kansas Pacific Railroad that stretched across the country linking towns like Abilene to the great markets. Wealth and prosperity—and more than a little trouble—had come right along with this rapid growth on the Kansas plains.
Flint ran a thumb over his drooping brown mustache and nodded a greeting to a passing townsman. He looked beyond the man, his gaze following Texas Street to the east, and then his eyes narrowed.
Coming down the street, just passing the courthouse, was a small wagon driven by a stranger. In Abilene, such a sight wasn’t unusual, but Flint had the instincts of a good lawman, and he sensed impending trouble.
Flint watched the wagon as its driver pulled the two-horse team to a stop just before the intersection with Buckeye Street, more than two blocks away. Flint had sharp eyes, but at this distance he could make out little about the man other than his gray suit and the black derby perched on his head. As Flint watched, the driver hopped down and tied his team to the hitch rail. He went to the back of the wagon, opened a box sitting there, and took out a handful of papers.
Straightening, Flint saw the man start up the boardwalk, heading toward him. The stranger took out a small hammer that had been tucked behind his belt and, fishing out tacks from his pocket, began posting the sheets on the walls of the buildings and the boardwalk posts.
The man moved rather quickly, despite a pronounced limp. He worked his way up the street, crossed Spruce Street, and nailed up several of his posters on the wall of Kaczmarki’s Great Western Store.
With his rapid pace, the man had worked his way past the jail and was now directly opposite Flint. Even across the wide street, Flint could see clearly the gaudy colors and fancy lettering on the posters. As the man moved on, continuing with his work, Flint stepped out into the street.
As Flint waited for a moment to let several freight wagons pass, three men in range clothes staggered out of the Bull's Head Saloon a few doors away. From their loud voices and boisterous behavior, Fl
int guessed that they had probably been in the saloon all night, carousing and guzzling liquor—that being the favorite pastime of most cowboys passing through Abilene.
Flint shifted his attention away from the three young men, who would undoubtedly find a place to sleep off their binge. At the moment he was more interested in what the posters had to say.
He stepped onto the boardwalk and studied one of them, attached to a nearby post. His forehead creased in a frown as he took in the brightly colored drawing of a huge striped tent surrounded by exotic-looking animals. There were lions and tigers and elephants, camels and giraffes and apes. In addition to the animals, beautiful girls in scanty costumes did tricks on horseback, a bald-headed man wore an animal skin and bent a metal bar in his hands, several clowns engaged in foolishness, and a pretty girl in buckskins fired two Colts toward a target. The big letters at the top of the poster proclaimed SEE PROFESSOR HORACE HOUSER’S WORLD-RENOWNED TRAVELING CIRCUS AND EXTRAVAGANZA. Smaller letters at the bottom read: Thrills, Chills, Excitement and Fun for All Ages! Coming Soon to Your City!
Flint's frown turned to a look of amusement. The circus was coming to Abilene. That would provide some excitement for the town, all right. Most of the folks around Abilene had most likely never seen a circus.
The frown returned, however, as Flint began to remember stories he had heard about the disruptions such a traveling show could cause.
A loud bray of laughter snapped him out of his thoughts, and he looked up the block to see that the three drunken cowboys had also crossed the street and had paused to study one of the advertisements. Not content to leave it on the wall where the stranger had tacked it, they had ripped the poster down and were passing it from hand to hand, making coarse comments about the trick riders in spangled costumes.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 21
