Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  None of that mattered. Unless something happened, he was going to be dead in a few minutes, and a twisted leg and a nicked arm would be meaningless.

  Hanson saw the outlaw leader galloping alongside the train and angled his pistol toward the man. If he could bring the criminal down, he thought, his death wouldn’t be in vain.

  Something crashed into the other wall of the car. As Hanson rolled over and jerked his head around, he saw an ax head split the heavy wood. Bitterly, he realized that the outlaws had been keeping him busy while some of their companions chopped their way into the car from the other side. Within seconds, the bandits had hacked a fist-sized hole in the wall.

  Hanson fired toward it, his aim good. The bullets went through the hole and at least spooked somebody on the other side. He heard a man yelp.

  He had neglected the original threat, though. One of the outlaws rode close to the shattered door of the car and emptied his six-gun through it. Two of the slugs punched through Elijah's back, driving him facedown on the floor. He jerked for a moment, then lay still, his gun slipping from his fingers. A big bloodstain blossomed on his white shirt.

  The second group of outlaws, led by two men with axes, burst through the wall just as Wolfe and several of his men climbed into the car through the door.

  Wolfe frowned at the sprawled body of the express messenger. "Should've been at least a couple of guards," he growled. "Something's wrong here."

  As Wolfe snapped orders, his men began ransacking the car. Quite a few packages were strewn around the inside of the car, packages that had been neatly stacked until the grinding collision. Wolfe's men tore through them, casting aside the smaller ones.

  "Dammit!" Wolfe roared when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to find what he was looking for. "That strongbox was supposed to be here!"

  One of his men looked out the door of the express car and then hurried over to Wolfe. "Looks like trouble, boss," he said anxiously. There was no mistaking the worried expression in his eyes.

  "What is it?" Wolfe barked.

  "The passengers and what's left of the crew are putting up more of a fight than we expected. Some of our men are dead out there."

  Tightly gripping his pistol, Wolfe turned the muzzle toward Elijah Hanson's body. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of pumping more rounds into the young man, for no other reason than to vent his rage. Then, instead, he rammed his gun back into its holster.

  "We've been double-crossed," he said coldly. "And somebody's going to pay for it." He turned to another of his men. "Grab that express sack. There's bound to be a few hundred dollars in it." His voice was filled with bitterness at such a small payoff.

  The sounds of the fighting were growing louder. As Wolfe leaped down from the express car and ran to his horse, he saw the conductor and several passengers crouching behind some of the wreckage and shooting at the gang. Wolfe swung into the saddle, sent a couple of slugs whistling toward the passengers, and then spurred his mount into a gallop.

  "Let's get out of here!" he yelled to his men.

  The outlaws who were already mounted abruptly halted their attack and peeled away from the train. The others hurried to their horses and quickly mounted. Within moments the bandits were lost in the cloud of dust kicked up by their horses. They left their dead behind, the bloody, motionless bodies sprawled on the ground.

  The conductor and the passengers fired a few more rounds at the retreating outlaws. The bald conductor, his cap gone, his uniform bloody and torn, glared and cursed, knowing that the shots wouldn’t reach their targets.

  Then he turned and ran toward the ruined express car. As he reached the door, he spotted the express messenger's body and cried, "Hanson!"

  Incredibly, the young man stirred. A cough wracked him, and he moaned as he slumped back to the floor. The conductor hopped into the car, hurried to the injured man's side, and gently turned him over. From the look of the wounds, the bullets had gone right through him.

  "It'll be all right, Hanson," the conductor said as the express messenger's eyes fluttered open.

  "I...I saw him," Hanson gasped. "It was..

  .R-Roscoe Wolfe."

  "Yeah, I saw him, too," the conductor said. "It was that redheaded louse, all right." He patted Hanson on the shoulder. "You rest easy, son. I'll try to get some help for you as soon as I've checked on the passengers. We've got a lot of people hurt."

  Hanson clutched at the conductor's sleeve as the man started to stand up. "Good thing we got word...

  to unload that strongbox back in...in Abilene. Wolfe must've heard..."

  "Reckon he must have," the conductor agreed grimly, thinking of the fifty thousand dollars sitting in the Abilene depot.

  When the conductor returned to the express car with a doctor, he found to his surprise that Elijah Hanson appeared to be stronger. The youth had lifted himself into a sitting position and had one shoulder propped against the wall of the car.

  The doctor had been a passenger and had survived the crash with only a gash on his forehead. He had been tending to the broken arm of another passenger when the conductor located him.

  As the doctor began to tend to his wounds, Hanson frowned. "Looks like they got the express sack," he said. "Couple of hundred dollars, maybe. Couldn't have been much more than that."

  The conductor grunted. "Not much money to wreck a train and kill fourteen people for, is it?"

  Hanson closed his eyes for a moment, wincing in pain at the doctor's probing fingers and at horror of the news brought by the conductor. "Fourteen people dead?" he said weakly.

  "So far. Probably some more of them won't make it."

  "Monroe and Hayes?"

  The conductor shook his head.

  Hanson muttered a heartfelt curse. He had known and liked both the railroad veterans.

  The conductor knelt beside him. Hanson bit his lip and paled as the doctor poured disinfectant on his wounds and then began to bandage them.

  "Those are clean wounds," the doctor said wearily.

  "Right straight through, both of them. You were lucky that they didn't hit anything vital. You ought to live, son, if the holes don't get infected, but you'll be off your feet for a long time."

  "So will this railroad," the conductor said. "We're going to have to move this train and replace a good long section of track. There's not a repair train this side of Kansas City that I know of. It's going to take days, maybe more than a week, before the railroad can use this stretch of track again."

  "This young man is going to be disabled a lot longer than that," the doctor snapped.

  "It's all right, Doc," Hanson said. He looked up at the conductor. "Wolfe was after that money, wasn't he?"

  The conductor nodded slowly. "And now it's going to have to stay where it is for a while." His lips pulled back from his teeth in a humorless smile. "I wouldn't want to be the law in Abilene about now."

  1

  On the day after the train wreck, just before noon, Marshal Lucas Flint stood calmly waiting on the platform of the Kansas Pacific depot in Abilene. A tall man with a drooping, brown mustache, Flint had tilted his tan, flat-crowned hat to shield his eyes from the sun. His lean, muscular frame was clothed in denim, and the walnut butt of the Colt on his hip was well-worn. Flint's prowess with a gun was almost legendary in this part of the country. Even before he’d pinned on a badge, some folks had dubbed him the Rattler, because he was as swift and deadly as one of those scaly varmints—and almost as cold-blooded when he had to be.

  Years earlier, while serving as the marshal in Wichita, he had gained a reputation as a town-taming lawman. Then tragedy had struck and put him on the drift for a while, uncertain if he would ever settle down again. Fate had led him to Abilene, and once again he had pinned on a star. The friendship of the people here had filled some of the emptiness inside him and healed some of the pain. Now, once again, he was every inch the self-possessed, competent lawman that he appeared to be.

  The poised marshal contrasted sharpl
y with the anxious little man who paced up and down the platform near him. The man, wearing a brown suit and a string tie, was sweating in spite of the pleasant coolness of the morning air. He mopped drops of moisture from his forehead with a handkerchief and then nervously stuffed the cloth back in his pocket. Pulling a watch from his vest pocket, he frowned as he looked at it and said, "They should have been here by now."

  "Take it easy, Oliver," Flint told him. "There's no hurry. That train's not going any farther until they get the tracks repaired."

  "You don't understand, Marshal," said Oliver Brewer, Abilene's stationmaster. "This is Mr. Stockbridge's private train. He's going to be furious when he finds out that the track up ahead is closed." He stared along the tracks to the east as if his doom were scheduled to arrive at any moment.

  News of the derailment and the robbery had reached Abilene in the hours just before dawn. A passing cowboy had discovered the wreck and had ridden hard through the night to bring the town news of the tragedy. He had found Deputy Cully Markham at work in the marshal's office. Cully had awakened Flint to pass along the news, and Flint had carried the word to Brewer. The stationmaster had immediately tried to wire back up the line to alert the special westbound express, but it was too late: Nicholas Stockbridge's train had already pulled out and was on its way to Abilene.

  Since then, Brewer had worked himself into such a nervous state that Flint wondered if the man was going to fall apart completely.

  Now, as they waited for the train bearing the president and chief stockholder of the Kansas Pacific Railroad, Brewer again wiped his forehead and said for the twelfth time, "I'm just glad they unloaded that strongbox here instead of taking it on with them."

  Flint glanced over his shoulder toward the station building. Hours earlier, during their first conversation, Brewer had shown him the strongbox. It was securely locked up in the station's safe, and Flint had deputized his friend, Angus MacQuarrie, to guard it.

  "What do you suppose is in it?" Flint had asked an already frantic Brewer.

  "I have no idea," the stationmaster answered. "Money is the most likely possibility, of course. The telegram ordering us to take it off the train and hold it here was signed by Mr. Stockbridge himself. He said he would pick it up when his train came through Abilene on the way to San Francisco."

  That train was due now, was in fact a little late, as Brewer said. But the faint sound of a shrill whistle suddenly came to the ears of the two men waiting on the platform.

  "That's it," Brewer declared.

  Flint straightened and moved to the edge of the platform. Peering down the tracks to the east, he focused on the small black dot that quickly resolved itself into an oncoming locomotive. The train eased its way past the Great Western Cattle Company stockyards on the edge of town. As it slowly rolled into the station, the engineer gave another blast on the whistle.

  Flint had known it was a private train and had expected that it would be different from the long cattle or passenger trains that moved through Abilene. Nevertheless, he was surprised by its appearance. This train consisted only of an engine, a coal car, and a single passenger car, which was elaborately decorated with panels of rich wood on its sides and gleaming gilt scrollwork around the windows. It was clearly the vehicle of a wealthy, powerful man.

  As the train came to a halt with a squeal of brakes and the hiss of steam, a man in a spotless, carefully creased conductor's uniform hopped down from the platform at the rear of the passenger car. He carried a wooden step, which he placed on the station platform to help the passengers disembark. Swallowing audibly, Oliver Brewer walked to the step, nervously glancing over his shoulder to confirm that Flint was following him.

  The first passenger off the train was an elegant man in his mid-fifties wearing an expensive suit and a gray homburg hat. He carried a silver-headed stick in his left hand, but his tall, well-knit frame showed no evidence of needing support in walking. His thick, salt-and-pepper hair and mustache were impeccably groomed, and his dark eyes were alert and intense. There was an air about him that said here was a man who got things done. Without a doubt, he was Nicholas Stockbridge.

  Following closely behind him was another man, whose lean face resembled Stockbridge's although he was only half the age of the railroad president. His features were more handsome than Stockbridge's, and his smooth hair was blond. As he gazed around the station platform, his blue eyes showed the same piercing interest.

  Oliver Brewer extended his hand to the older man and said, "This is quite an honor, Mr. Stockbridge. I'm Oliver Brewer. I run the station here in Abilene."

  Nicholas Stockbridge gave Brewer a brief handshake. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Brewer. Obviously, you knew I was coming."

  "Oh, yes, sir. I got your telegram regarding the, ah, item you were concerned about. I handled that matter myself."

  Stockbridge nodded in satisfaction. "Good, good."

  He turned slightly to indicate the younger man. "This is my son, Roland."

  Roland Stockbridge smiled and thrust out his hand to the stationmaster. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Brewer," he said heartily. "We've had good reports on your work back at the main office."

  "Thank you, sir." Brewer was trying to keep the quaver out of his voice and wasn’t succeeding very well.

  Nicholas Stockbridge peered shrewdly at the sweating man and said, "Something seems to be bothering you, Mr. Brewer. Is there a problem?"

  Brewer nodded jerkily. "This is Marshal Flint," he said, nodding toward the lawman.

  Flint shook hands with Stockbridge, noting the railroad executive's firm grip. Stockbridge's hand didn’t feel as though it belonged to a man who spent all his working hours behind a desk. "Hello," Flint said, keeping his tone neutral. "Afraid we've got some bad news for you, Mr. Stockbridge."

  Stockbridge frowned quickly and looked back at Brewer. "What is it?" he asked, his voice sharper now. "Spit it out, man."

  "There was a holdup west of here, Mr. Stockbridge. Outlaws blew up the track and derailed the westbound train. They robbed the express car and shot up the train."

  Stockbridge's nostrils flared as he drew in a quick breath of surprise. Beside him, his son appeared equally shocked. "How much did they get?" Roland asked.

  "A few hundred dollars from the express sack, I imagine." Brewer passed a hand over his face. "But that was all the train was carrying, as far as I know. I haven't talked to the messenger or the conductor yet. We sent out a mounted rescue party at dawn, to help the survivors, but they haven't returned yet."

  Stockbridge's jaw was tightly clamped, and a small muscle jumped under the skin. Anger flared in his eyes. "What about the passengers?" he asked. "How many were hurt?"

  "I...I don't know. The man who brought word to us said that there were more than a dozen people dead out there."

  Stockbridge paled, and his hands clenched into fists. "Damn," he said softly, obviously shaken by the news. He took a deep breath. "I suppose it's a good thing I wired ahead about the strongbox."

  Roland put a hand on his father's arm. "What about the strongbox, Father? Didn't the bandits get it, too?"

  "It wasn't on the train," Stockbridge snapped. He hesitated, then said, "I sent a telegram instructing Brewer to have it removed from the train and placed in the safe here. We're going to take it with us when we leave."

  "That's the other thing, Mr. Stockbridge," Brewer went on. "It's going to be several days, maybe as long as a week before the track will be repaired. I'm afraid you'll have to move your train onto the siding and wait here in Abilene."

  Stockbridge's face flushed a dull brick-red as he scowled in anger. "Wait for a week?" he thundered. "My business associates are waiting for me in San Francisco, Brewer. More importantly, they're waiting for that fifty thousand dollars!"

  "Hold on a minute," Flint cut in coolly. "Did you say fifty thousand?"

  "That's right. It's in that strongbox, and we need it to close a right-of-way deal in San Francisco, Marshal." Stockbridge swung back to face B
rewer. "There must be some way to speed things up or get around the damaged track."

  Brewer shook his head. "I...I wired Kansas City to send a work train immediately. That's all I know to do, Mr. Stockbridge."

  "This is incredible," Stockbridge fumed. He switched his gaze to Flint. "Has anything been done about apprehending these criminals, Marshal?"

  "That's out of my jurisdiction, Mr. Stockbridge," Flint said. "But I wired the U.S. marshal's office in Dodge City to let them know about the robbery. Since the mail in the express sack was taken, the federal authorities have jurisdiction over the case."

  Stockbridge nodded. "Yes, yes, I suppose you're right. But you're much closer to the scene. Couldn't you have gotten up a posse to go after the bandits?"

  Flint squared his shoulders. The harsh tone of Stockbridge's words rubbed him the wrong way, but he bit back the angry retort that sprang to his lips. Instead, he said, "By the time we learned about the robbery, those bandits could have ridden fifty miles or more in any direction. Chasing them would have been a waste of time."

  "Listen here, Flint," Roland Stockbridge said angrily. "It sounds to me like you just didn't want to be bothered."

  "Roland!" Nicholas Stockbridge snapped. "That's enough of that. We won't get anywhere harassing the local authorities."

  "Yes, sir," Roland said dutifully, but he continued to glare at Flint.

  Suddenly the tense conversation was interrupted by a sweet voice from the rear platform of the railroad car. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but is this some sort of business meeting? Or are women allowed to join in?"

  Flint looked up and saw a beautiful young woman standing on the platform and smiling down at them. She wore a stylish deep-green traveling suit and had a matching green hat with a rakish feather perched on her midnight-dark curls. She held a parasol to shield her fair skin from the sun. Flint guessed that she was a couple of years younger than Roland Stockbridge, and her features strongly resembled his. Then he saw another woman move onto the platform behind her. She was younger still, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with blonde hair that was cut short and no hat. While not as classically beautiful as the older woman, she was very attractive in a coltish way.