Cooper nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds like it might work," he admitted.
"You could do the job easily with a couple of your friends."
"What would you get out of this?" Cooper asked.
Parker smiled. "Satisfaction...and a fourth of the loot."
Cooper pulled the makings from his vest pocket and started to roll a cigarette as he thought over the proposition. He was always willing to make some easy money, and the job Parker was suggesting sounded simple enough.
There was also the chance that if there was any gunplay, some stray bullets might find their way to that fancy pants Jemma Richardson and that hotshot marshal and deputy. He might be able to settle several scores in one night.
"I'll do it," Cooper said with an abrupt nod.
"Good!" Parker's eyes were fierce as he said it.
Cooper scratched a match into life on his thumbnail and lit the cigarette. As he blew out the first lungful of smoke, he commented, "I'm surprised you want to cause trouble for those folks, Parker. After all, that ringmaster feller gave you a job after you got hurt."
Parker's eyes glazed over momentarily, as if he were looking deep within himself. He said tonelessly, "I don't care about me. I knew the risks. I knew I was pushing myself. But after my fall, that bastard should have made the rest of them use a net. He let his own wife go up there without any protection—and now she's dead." Parker's voice broke, and his eyes closed. "And now she'll never know how I felt about her."
Cooper shifted in his seat, slightly uncomfortable at hearing the revelation.
Parker opened his eyes again, blinked rapidly for a second, and composed himself. He reached over and picked up his mug of beer. "Shall we drink to success?" he asked.
"Sure, soon as I get some more whiskey over here." Cooper caught the bartender's eye and jerked his head to bring over a bottle.
Shot glass and beer mug clinked together a moment later. "To the ultimate fate of Professor Horace Houser's Traveling Circus and Extravaganza," Asa Parker whispered.
Cooper recognized the expression on the man's face as he drank. It was the look of a man who lived for revenge. He had seen it a few times himself...in a mirror.
12
As promised, Flint and Cully were on hang that night for the circus's performance. Both lawmen remained alert during the show, but nothing went wrong. The crowd was almost as big as the one for the opening performance, and as Houser had stated, most of the acts had new tricks to try out, along with new wrinkles on the old ones. Everyone in attendance seemed to have a good time.
After the performance Cully was on hand at Jemma Richardson's wagon when the trick shooter returned to the vehicle. She smiled when she saw him waiting.
"What did you think of that new trick?" she asked immediately.
Cully grinned. "If I was Grady, I couldn't just stand there and let you shoot a cigarette out of my mouth. I'm not that brave."
"You're brave enough," Jemma said. "Help me put this stuff away."
She was holding several targets, and Cully took them from her and carried them into the wagon. He was acutely aware that the two of them were alone, but he was surprised by the eagerness with which Jemma came into his arms once he had put the targets down.
He kissed her for a long moment, then said, "I wasn't sure what would happen when I came to see you tonight."
"I was sure," Jemma whispered.
Cully's hands strayed down to the gun belt around Jemma's waist. Carefully he undid the buckle and lifted the belt and holsters free. Reaching behind him with one hand, he placed them on the floor. That was a switch, he thought wryly as his lips found hers again. Usually it was the woman taking his gun belt off...
"You look pleased with yourself this morning," Flint said as Cully strolled into the office the next day.
"I'm just pleased with the whole world," Cully said. He went to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee.
"Didn't see you around after the circus's performance last night," the marshal observed.
"Oh, I was around. I was keeping an eye on some of the performers."
Flint didn’t say anything for a moment, and that gave Cully the uneasy feeling that the marshal knew exactly what he had been doing. But he wasn’t going to explain or apologize. He felt a genuine affection for Jemma Richardson, not to mention his admiration for her sharpshooting skills.
Finally, Flint said, "I talked to Houser after the show. He said they're going to put on two more performances, then pull out the day after tomorrow. That'll give them time to repair their wagons and get some of the horses reshod, the ones that need it. I'll be glad to see them go."
"Yeah," Cully said, his voice sounding slightly hollow. "They have brought a lot of trouble to town."
"Seen Cooper around since that brawl yesterday?"
Cully touched his bruised face. The pain was less severe today, although the bruise was turning an ugly shade of yellow. "He's probably holed up somewhere. Maybe he's had enough."
Flint shook his head. "Not Cooper. You're underestimating him, Cully. Whenever he makes a move again, I hope it's still here in Abilene. I don't want him following the circus when they leave. There's some lonely country out there, some places where they couldn't get any help at all."
Cully frowned. He hadn’t considered that possibility. "Maybe we ought to throw Cooper in jail for a while."
"On what charge?"
"How about disturbing the peace or attacking an officer of the law? That ruckus yesterday ought to qualify."
"I'll think about it." Flint nodded.
Behind Cully the door opened, and he glanced over his shoulder as Emery Thornbury came into the office. The schoolteacher was wearing his usual dark suit and string tie, but his face was red with anger.
"Marshal, you've got to do something!" he declared.
Flint picked up his cup of coffee from the desk and sipped. "Shouldn't you be in school at this time of day, Mr. Thornbury?" he said.
"I was," Thornbury snapped. "I endured the taunts of the town ruffians and lay-abouts on my way to the schoolhouse, but I simply cannot teach a class with them congregating just outside, laughing and carousing!"
Flint pushed his chair back and stood up. "What's this all about?"
"It's...it's that damned horse!" Thornbury sputtered. "They're calling me a pony-killer!"
Cully almost choked on his coffee as he laughed. "Word of that got out, did it?"
Thornbury spun toward him. "I don't doubt that you spread the story," he accused. "That's the kind of venomous thing you'd do, Deputy."
"Now just hold on," Flint said. "Cully, did you tell anybody about what happened here?"
Cully shook his head. "Nope. But I'm not surprised folks found out about it. It's hard to keep it a secret when you've got a hardened criminal like Mr. Thornbury here in your midst."
Flint gave his deputy a warning look and then said to Thornbury, "I'll make sure folks understand that you weren't arrested."
Thornbury pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his face. "See that you do. It's gotten so bad that some of my students are referring to me as a jailbird!"
Cully laughed again in spite of his resolve not to. It was good to see a pompous ass like Thornbury taken down a notch or two.
Thornbury glared murderously at him for a moment, then spun on his heel and stalked out of the office.
Still chuckling, Cully asked Flint, "Did he ever bring you that hundred dollars for the horse?"
Flint nodded. "I gave it to Houser. And I was hoping that would be the end of it. Did you tell anybody about it, Cully?"
"I swear I didn't, Marshal. But the way it sounds to me, Thornbury's getting what he deserves."
"Well, no matter how it sounds to you, I want you to go down to the school and get rid of those fellows who are bothering him. Tell them to go back to the saloons, or I'll throw them in jail for unlawful assembly."
Cully reached for his hat. "Sure thing, Marshal." He was still grinning as h
e left the office.
When he reached the schoolhouse, he found a half dozen of the loafers who usually hung out in the Alamo Saloon. They were passing a bottle back and forth and telling lewd stories, most of which had Emery Thornbury in leading roles. Their voices were loud enough to carry clearly into the school.
"Howdy, boys," Cully said to them.
"Mornin', Deputy," one of the men replied. He had the bottle in his hand at the moment, and he extended it toward Cully. "You need a little of this?"
Cully shook his head. "No, thanks. The marshal sent me down here to tell you boys to move along. Seems you're disrupting the youngsters' schooling in there."
"Hell, we was just havin' some fun," another man said. "That there schoolteacher thinks he's so high and mighty—"
"I know, I know," Cully said, nodding. "But I reckon it'd be best if you move along anyway."
Grumbling, the men started back toward Texas Street. Cully had a feeling they might be back, but at least he had done his job and followed Flint's orders.
Cully had made a date for that afternoon with Jemma, and shortly after noon, he went to the livery stable and rented a buggy. When he drove up to the circus camp and found Jemma waiting at her wagon, she smiled up at him in surprise. Cully lifted a wicker basket from the floorboard of the buggy. The basket was covered with a clean white cloth, and several delicious aromas drifted from it.
"How long's it been since you went on a picnic?" He grinned.
Jemma clapped her hands in delight. "What a wonderful idea! Let me get my bonnet."
Cully watched her with admiration as she went into the wagon. She was wearing a simple cotton dress today, light blue with white ruffles at the wrists and bosom. For the first time since Cully had known her, she looked like a simple farm girl rather than an experienced circus trouper. He liked this look as much as he had all her others.
Jemma came back with a blue bonnet fastened over her long hair. Cully hopped down from the seat of the buggy and helped her up.
They drove away from the camp, heading west. Cully, familiar with the territory, knew that a mile or so away was a small creek that wound between wooded, rolling hills. The first wildflowers of the spring were starting to bloom, and Jemma exclaimed at their beauty.
Cully easily found the creek, picked a shady spot under a tree, and spread the blanket he had brought along. They sat down to delve into the basket of food Cully had ordered from the cafe—fried chicken, mashed potatoes, peas, biscuits, and a tin of deep-dish apple pie.
Leaning against the tree trunk, Cully slowly ate one of the drumsticks. A fresh breeze riffled the flowers and the tall grass, and the sound of the creek bubbling close by was plainly audible. Cully felt a sense of peace and contentment stealing over him.
He lifted one of the bottles of beer that had been in the basket, tilted it to his lips, and swallowed thirstily. Then he drew a deep breath and in a hoarse whisper said, "I wish you didn't have to go, Jemma."
She didn’t look up to meet his intent gaze. "There's a part of me that wishes the same thing, Cully," she said softly. "But the circus is my life. It has been for a long time now. I was really still a child when I left home to go with Professor Houser. I don't know anything else."
Cully grimaced and looked off in the distance, studying the fluffy white clouds that wafted through the deep-blue Kansas sky. "How'd you wind up being a trick-shot artist, anyway?"
Jemma smiled as she answered. "I had a father and five older brothers, and all of them were hunters. I knew how to fire a gun almost before I could walk. It's just a natural talent, I suppose."
"But you've worked hard at it."
"Damn right I have. I know a lady's not supposed to talk that way, but it's the way I feel. I'm proud of what I've done. I've entertained a lot of people, and because of that I've been able to help my folks back in Illinois pay the bills." Now her eyes looked into his as she went on. "You don't seem to mind that I'm good with a gun."
Cully shook his head. "No reason I should. We all try to do what we're best at. Guns or not, you're about the best-looking woman I've ever seen—and the nicest."
Her face flushed with pleasure at the compliment. "Thank you. I think you're special, too."
Cully looked at the picnic basket and swallowed. "You think this food will keep a while longer?"
Jemma smiled again. "I think it will," she said as Cully moved closer and took her in his arms.
Music came from the big top, the happy sound of the circus band's accompaniment for one of the clown acts. Professor Horace Houser's Traveling Circus and Extravaganza had been under way for almost a quarter of an hour. At the ticket booth the steady stream of customers had dried up as soon as the performance had begun.
The door at the rear of the small ticket booth opened, and a white-haired man carrying a canvas bag came out of the little building. He headed for a tent several yards away.
From the shadows between two wagons, three figures watched the white-haired man. Ned Cooper, Gage Stauck, and Heck Dawson all wore long dusters and had bandannas over their faces. Cooper nudged Gage and whispered, "That must be the bookkeeper."
"Yeah," Gage replied. "And that must be the money. Let's go get it!"
"Hold on," Dawson cautioned. "Wait until he's in the tent, like Ned planned."
"That's right," Cooper said. He had decided to let Stauck and Dawson think that he had planned this job. They didn’t have to know about Parker's part in it until it was time to split the money. They wouldn’t kick too much about giving up a fourth of the loot; they were too much under Cooper's thumb to complain for long.
The bookkeeper pushed through the tent's entrance, and a moment later there was a flare of light inside the tent as the man lit a lantern.
Cooper slipped his right-hand Colt from its holster. "Let's go," he said.
The sideshows were on the other side of the big top, so they didn’t have to worry about being spotted from there. The area on this side of the tent was used primarily for work and storage. Many of the plain wagons, as opposed to the brightly painted ones in which the performers traveled, were parked over here. The trio, led by Cooper, catfooted its way through the shadows and approached the bookkeeping tent.
"All right," Cooper hissed as they paused just outside the entrance. "The old man won't give us any trouble. Let's just get in and out as quick as we can."
The other two nodded their understanding.
Cooper's left arm swept aside the canvas flap over the entrance, and brandishing the gun, he burst into the tent, Stauck and Dawson at his heels. The white-haired man was sitting at a table with folding money and coins spread out in front of him. His head jerked up, and he stared in shock at the armed, masked apparitions confronting him.
"Don't move, old man!" Cooper barked. "Keep those hands in sight!"
The bookkeeper kept his hands on the tabletop. He quavered, "What...what is this?"
"What the hell does it look like?" Cooper demanded. "It's a robbery, you old fool! Now get that money gathered up and put it in that box." Cooper gestured with his gun barrel toward the open metal box on the table.
Slowly the bookkeeper shook his head. A stubborn look crept onto his face. "You can't do this," he declared. "You can't get away with it."
"The hell we can't!" Gage Stauck blustered, stepping forward and waving his gun in the old man's face. "Do what we tell you, or I'll put a bullet in you, you old bastard!"
The bookkeeper's face turned crimson with rage. "You little thief!" he snapped. "I'll teach all three of you a lesson—"
He lunged up from his chair, moving with surprising speed, and reached out to grab Stauck's gun.
"Look out!" Dawson cried.
Cooper cursed. The whole plan was falling apart right in front of his eyes. But he wasn’t going to allow that to happen. He grabbed Stauck's shoulder and shoved him aside, opening a clear path to the bookkeeper.
Cooper lashed out with the revolver in his hand. The barrel thudded against the bookkeeper
's head, staggering him. Rage gripped Cooper, and he swung twice more, slashing the weapon across the old man's face, ripping his flesh, and knocking teeth from his mouth. With a moan the bookkeeper put his hands to his bloody features and fell forward across the table, rolling off to sprawl motionlessly on the ground.
"Damn, Ned," Heck Dawson breathed, "you killed him!"
Cooper grated, "Who cares? Grab that money, you idiots!"
Dawson and Stauck went to their knees and began rapidly gathering the money that the bookkeeper's collapse had scattered. In a matter of moments, they had the night's receipts stuffed into the small metal box. Cooper jerked his head toward the tent's entrance and said, "Come on!"
He had taken one step toward the flap, his gun still in his hand, when it was shoved aside, and a tall, bald man in a leopard-skin costume blocked the opening.
Bruno Waldman's mouth dropped open in surprise as he confronted Cooper and the others. His eyes darted around the interior of the tent, taking in the scene. A growl rose in his throat as he spotted the bookkeeper's body.
Letting out a bellow, Bruno lunged forward, one arm whipping around and backhanding Gage Stauck across the face. Stauck's chin seemed to slide out of place as his jaw was smashed by the blow. He was thrown back against the side of the tent.
Dawson's hands still held the metal box containing the loot. That left it up to Cooper. Faced with the raging strong man, Cooper took the only course he saw open. He jerked his Colt up and triggered a shot.
The bullet caught Bruno in the left shoulder, punching through muscle and knocking him backward. Bruno grunted in pain as he fell half in and half out of the tent. Clutching his shoulder with his right hand, he tried to get back to his feet, but the effort and shock of being shot were too much for him. With a groan he fell back, out cold.
Cooper spun to face the stunned Dawson. Heck was standing with his mouth open, while Stauck writhed and whimpered in pain on the ground nearby. "Dammit, come on," Cooper rasped, jamming his gun back in its holster. "Grab Gage, and let's get the hell out of here!"
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 36
