Roland Stockbridge frowned at the name. "You have a female doctor?" he asked Flint.
"You won't find a better one, male or female, in all of Kansas," Flint declared. In the time he had been in Abilene, he had continued to be impressed by Rose Keller, her medical skill, her humanitarianism —and her beauty.
He led the way down the walk and into the house. As they entered, all four men were struck by harsh, pain-filled sobs coming from one of the examining rooms.
Several people were waiting in the front room, men and women and a few children with bloodstained bandages or rough splints marking their injuries. Flint's face tightened into a cold, angry mask at the sight of them. These people were strangers to him, yet he felt a surge of fury at the outlaws who had caused their pain. At that moment, his eyes were as merciless as those of the snake that had given him his nickname. If those train robbers had been in front of him right now, they would have felt the hot lead fangs of the Rattler.
Dr. Lewis Gilmore, a tall, spare man with gray hair and a neat beard, came out of one of the examining rooms, the room where the crying was coming from. Gilmore was rubbing his hands with a bloody cloth. As he looked up and saw Flint, he grunted.
"May have saved the man's life, but I had to take his leg off," Gilmore said. "Awful business, Marshal. I haven't seen so many hideous injuries since the war."
"I know, Doctor." Flint nodded. "Cully said he brought in the express messenger from the train. Do you think we could talk to him?"
"No reason not to." Gilmore indicated the hall that led out of the front room. "He's in the second room on the right. I looked him over, but I didn't have to do anything. Rose had him patched up just fine. Better see him now if you want any sensible answers to your questions. When I left him, he was sucking on a bottle of Angus's best anesthetic."
Despite the grimness of the situation, Flint smiled slightly at the old doctor's acerbic tone. With his gruff exterior Gilmore was hard to get to know, but Flint knew that the gruffness was a protective shell. Lewis Gilmore genuinely cared about the people he treated.
Nodding his thanks, Flint led the three men down the hall and rapped on the door of the room where the express messenger was resting. Without waiting for an answer, Flint swung the door open and stepped through.
A dark-haired young man with an honest, open face looked up from the bed. He was half sitting, propped up by several pillows. His torso was swathed with tight bandages. In his hand was a bottle of whiskey, and there was a bleary-eyed smile on his face.
"Howdy," he said. "You gentlemen come to have a drink?"
"No thanks, son," Flint replied. "You're the express messenger from the train?"
"That's right, Marshal. Elijah Hanson's the name. I'd offer to shake hands, but it hurts a little to raise my arms too much." Despite the half-empty bottle, the young man's voice was clear, and he had his wits about him.
"That's all right, Mr. Hanson. I'm Lucas Flint, the marshal of Abilene. This gentleman is Mr. Nicholas Stockbridge, the president of—"
"I know who Mr. Stockbridge is," Hanson cut in, turning pale. "I—I'm sorry, sir. We fought back as best we could..."
Stockbridge moved to the side of the bed. "I know you did, Hanson," he said sympathetically, "but the important thing now is what you can tell us about the bandits who committed this atrocity."
"I saw him plain," Hanson declared. "He was wearing a bandanna over his face, but it couldn't cover up that red beard. It was Roscoe Wolfe, all right."
"You're sure?" Roland Stockbridge asked curtly.
"I've seen plenty of wanted posters on him," Hanson replied. "It was Wolfe."
"Did they use dynamite on the tracks?" Flint asked.
Hanson nodded. "I can't be sure, of course, but that would be my guess. It sure was an awful blast, I know that. Bob Monroe never had a chance to stop."
Pannier spoke up. "Mr. Monroe was the engineer, is that correct?"
"Yes, sir. He survived the wreck, but he was killed in the fighting with the outlaws. I heard that Roscoe Wolfe himself shot him."
Flint shook his head. "Sounds like Wolfe. He's supposed to be pretty cold-blooded. Did you catch those bullets when they stormed the express car?"
"That's right. Wolfe and some of his men attacked the door, while some others chopped their way through the back wall with an ax. I...I tried to stop them."
"I'm sure you did all you could," Stockbridge said.
"What happened after they looted the express car?" Flint asked.
"Well, you've got to understand that I had passed out by that time. From what I've been told, the passengers started putting up a fight. Wolfe and his men hightailed it."
"Do you know what direction they were heading when they lit out?"
Hanson shook his head. "No, Marshal, I don't. I imagine they went west."
Flint patted the young man's shoulder and said, "Thanks, Hanson. You get some rest now, and don't go too heavy on that painkiller."
Hanson grinned and then winced as he lifted the bottle. "I won't, sir."
The four men left the room, filed down the hallway, and walked out of the house and into the sunshine. When they were back on the boardwalk outside, Stockbridge sighed heavily and said, "What do you suggest we do now, Marshal?"
"There's not much you can do except wait for those tracks to be repaired, Mr. Stockbridge, and then go on to San Francisco, like you planned. As bad as this holdup was, it could have been worse. At least you've still got that fifty thousand dollars of yours."
Roland Stockbridge spoke up. "I want to talk to you about that, Father," he said sharply. "I'd like to know why I wasn't informed of the change in plans. I had no idea that strongbox was being taken off the other train and held for ours."
"It was my decision, Roland," Stockbridge's voice was cold. "We originally decided to ship the money separately for security reasons. That's also why I changed the plan, just in case anyone had gotten wind of it."
"But I'm an executive vice-president of the Kansas Pacific," Roland protested. "Surely that decision didn't have to be kept a secret from me!"
Stockbridge turned toward his son with a frown. "This is hardly the place to be discussing company business," he snapped. He glanced at Flint standing nearby.
The marshal held up his hands. "Don’t mind me," he said. "I'll just take you down to the hotel," he added, gesturing toward the Grand Palace, which stood next to Rose Keller's office. The building didn’t quite live up to its name, but it was a comfortable enough place to stay.
As Flint turned away, he heard Nicholas Stockbridge saying to Roland, "There's no reason for you to get your feelings hurt. I didn't tell anyone about the change in plans, not even Pannier here. And he's my personal assistant, not to mention my future son-in-law. Your feelings aren't hurt, are they, Pannier?"
"No, sir," Pannier answered dutifully.
Flint shook his head as he started down the boardwalk. He wouldn’t want to trade places with either Roland Stockbridge or Elliott Pannier. From the sound of things, Nicholas Stockbridge was accustomed to getting his own way and having his decisions unquestioned. Flint wondered how he treated his daughters.
After Flint, Stockbridge, and the others had left for Dr. Keller's office, Cully turned in his saddle and spoke to the men who had come back with him. "You boys can head home now. There's nothing else you can do. Thanks for riding out there with me."
"Sure thing, Deputy," one of them replied. They nodded tiredly and turned their horses to disperse.
Cully slid from the saddle and with a practiced flick of the wrist wound his mount's reins around the hitching post next to the station building. He climbed the steps onto the platform and joined Angus MacQuarrie.
"I guess I'll collect the young ladies while you get their bags," Cully said to Angus.
"Aye, an' tha' decision dinna surprise me," Angus said, his tone mocking.
Cully grinned, the expression relieving the naturally grim cast of his features. A faint, jagged scar on his rig
ht cheek, the souvenir of a past battle, made him look dangerous. But with a smile lighting his face, the scar was a reminder of his brash youth.
"I just figured the young ladies would prefer being escorted by someone closer to their own age," he said smoothly.
"Aye," Angus muttered laconically, leaning the shotgun against his shoulder. But he was smiling as he turned toward the train.
Cully walked into the station building, the spurs on his boots jingling musically. He immediately spotted the two young women sitting on one of the benches.
The deputy's hand went to his dusty black hat and swept it off his head. With the smile still on his face, he said, "Howdy, ladies. I'm Deputy Cully Markham, and Marshal Flint told me to make sure you got over to the hotel all right."
His eyes scanned the young women in appreciation. The older of the two, the one with lush black curls, returned his smile and lifted her hand, extending it to him. "I'm Elizabeth Stockbridge," she purred smoothly, "and I'm very pleased to meet you, Deputy Markham."
"Call me Cully," he said, taking her gloved hand. He wondered for an instant if he was supposed to kiss it, but he decided to shake it instead. That seemed to satisfy Elizabeth Stockbridge.
"And this is my sister, Hannah," Elizabeth completed the introductions.
"Ma'am," he greeted Hannah.
"Hello, Deputy," she replied, with a slight nod.
Hannah met Cully's eyes with a forthright gaze. He imagined that she had spent most of her life in her charming older sister's shadow. But she was different from her sister and an appealing young woman in her own right. He found himself liking both of them right away.
Elizabeth stood up, twirling her closed parasol in her fingers. "I suppose we should proceed to this hotel of yours, Cully. I would like to freshen up. It seems as if we've been waiting in this dusty old station for hours."
"Yes, ma'am." Cully glanced over his shoulder and saw Angus entering the station. His arms were loaded with bags, and his shotgun was tucked under one arm.
"I kinna carry all o' the valises," he announced, "but I can come back later f'the rest o' them."
"That's, fine," Cully said. He offered his arm to Elizabeth Stockbridge, hoping he didn’t smell too bad after the long ride he had just finished. "Ladies? If you'll come along with me?"
Elizabeth took his arm, and Hannah fell in behind them. Angus, struggling with the baggage, brought up the rear.
Following the same route Flint and the others had taken, they walked down Cedar Street toward Texas Street, Abilene's main thoroughfare. G. B. Seely's General Store and the Northcraft Drug Store were on the opposite side of the street. As they proceeded down the boardwalk on this side, they passed the town's public well.
Gesturing at the well, Cully said to Elizabeth, "You've heard of Wild Bill Hickok? A few years ago, right there at that well, he and a gambler, Phil Coe, finally had it out. The bullets were flying that night, from what I've heard."
"How thrilling!" Elizabeth said excitedly. "It must have been a really magnificent fray!"
"So magnificent that Marshal Hickok accidentally shot one of his own deputies," Hannah put in from behind them. "I read all about it in the newspaper accounts back home."
"Oh, Hannah, you're making that up," Elizabeth said accusingly. "I've heard all about Wild Bill Hickok. He was a hero. He wouldn't have shot one of his own men."
"Aye, he did," Angus said. "Twas 'afore Cully here came t' Abilene. Folks say Hickok could'na see too good by then, and poor Mike Williams came up behind him too fast." The tavern keeper shook his shaggy head. '"Twas a tragedy, all right."
"Well, I still think Wild Bill was a hero," Elizabeth said stubbornly. "I think it takes a brave man to wear a badge out here on this savage frontier." She squeezed Cully's arm meaningfully.
Cully's weariness had fled. It would catch up to him later, he knew, but for the time being, the presence of the Stockbridge sisters—especially Elizabeth—had revitalized him.
Texas Street bustled with a fair amount of traffic. Wagons, buckboards, and men on horseback all moved past, some of the riders nodding to Cully. A few of the pedestrians greeted him, too. Cully maintained a firm grip on Elizabeth's arm as he led her across the street to the boardwalk on the other side and continued west to the hotel.
Elizabeth looked up at the sign on the building they were passing. "The Old Fruit Saloon," she read. "What a colorful name!"
"It's a pretty colorful place, too," Cully said. "Of course, a lady like you wouldn't be interested in what goes on in a saloon."
"Oh, I wouldn't know about that," Elizabeth murmured.
Cully saw motion out of the corner of his eye as they passed the batwings, and he suddenly threw himself backward, pulling Elizabeth with him. She gasped as a shape hurtled from the saloon, sailed across the boardwalk, and landed heavily in the dusty street.
The man who had been thrown from the saloon rolled over, groggily shaking his head. His big Stetson had come off and lay in the street beside him, and he wore filthy range clothes. Cully recognized him as one of the cowboys who regularly brought herds up the trail from Texas.
Another man swaggered through the batwings and onto the sidewalk in front of Cully and Elizabeth. He laughed harshly and said, "That'll be a lesson to you, Emil. Stay the hell outa saloons where real men are drinkin'."
The cowboy in the street got onto his hands and knees and then surged to his feet. As he did so, he unleashed a stream of foul language. Elizabeth Stockbridge gasped again and tightened her grasp on Cully's arm.
Cully gently disengaged his arm and stepped forward, his face hard and angry. He moved between the two cowboys and said sharply, "Here now! There's no call for fighting or cussing like that!"
The man on the boardwalk cast a rather disinterested look his way. He was a cowhand, too, but a little older than the man in the street, in his early thirties perhaps. His clothes and gear were a little better as well, indicating that he probably rode for a different outfit than the first man.
"You'd better stay out of what don't concern you, sonny," the older cowboy drawled. "This's between me and that piece of trash in the street there."
"Who you callin' trash, Jayce?" the young man named Emil demanded in a howl.
Before Jayce, the older cowboy, could answer, Cully said sharply, "This does concern me. I'm the deputy marshal here in Abilene. If you don't break this up and move along, you're both going to wind up in jail."
Jayce turned toward Cully, his eyes narrowed. He shifted the toothpick he was chewing from one side of his mouth to the other and said around the sliver of wood, "Star-packer, eh? I always did hate a man who hid behind a badge."
Cully felt his anger flaring, but he made a concerted effort to control it. He was a lawman now, not the desperado he had almost become before meeting Lucas Flint. He couldn’t go around starting fights with obnoxious cowhands. He would make one more try at settling things peaceably. "Look, I'm warning you—" he started to say.
With another growled curse, Jayce swung a meaty fist at Cully's head. At the same time, Emil yelled, "Stay out of it, you varmint!" and flung himself at Cully's knees.
Emil tackled Cully, upsetting him and knocking him backward, causing Jayce's punch to miss. Elizabeth Stockbridge screamed as the fight started. She was going to see a real frontier fracas firsthand.
Cully sent a punch at Emil's head, the fist cracking against the cowboy's jaw and knocking loose his grip around Cully's knees. The deputy rolled away from him and started to his feet, but Jayce lunged forward, wrapping his arms around Cully.
"We'll finish our fight later," Jayce grunted to Emil. "Right now, let's teach this pup a lesson!"
Emil came to his feet and drove a fist at Cully's stomach. The breath puffed out of Cully's lungs as the blow thudded into his belly.
Hannah Stockbridge turned to Angus with an anxious look on her face and said, "Shouldn't you try to stop them?"
"Aye, I will," Angus answered with a grin. "When an' if the lad need
s me to."
Struggling in Jayce's bear hug, Cully lifted a booted foot with the spur fastened on it and raked backward. The rowel dug into Jayce's upper calf, just above the top of his boot. The man howled in pain and loosened his grip on Cully for a moment.
That was the opening Cully needed. He rammed an elbow into Jayce's middle and twisted out of his grasp, jerking his head to the side to avoid another punch from Emil. Cully's arm hooked forward, the fist sinking into Emil's belly. The cowboy's whiskey-laden breath gusted into Cully's face. The deputy grimaced and threw a hard right cross that caught the point of Emil's chin.
Cully barely noticed Emil's eyes as they rolled up in his head. By the time the cowboy fell to the boardwalk, Cully was already spinning to meet a renewed charge from Jayce. The older puncher was the more dangerous of the two, Cully realized, himself a hardened veteran of countless barroom brawls.
Cully flung up an arm and blocked Jayce's punch, feeling the impact all the way to his shoulder. He threw a blow of his own, but Jayce was able to slip it off. For a long minute, the two men stood toe to toe and traded punches, most of them missing. The ones that did connect were glancing blows that didn’t do much damage.
Jayce then tried a new tactic. Ducking inside one of Cully's punches, he lifted his knee and tried to drive it into Cully's groin. The deputy twisted desperately, taking the knee on his thigh. Cully's hand flashed down and grasped Jayce's leg. He heaved up and to the side, upending the cowboy.
Jayce let out a yell as he flew backward. The cry was cut off abruptly as he landed heavily on his back, the planks of the boardwalk clattering as he crashed onto them. He landed at Elizabeth Stockbridge's feet. She had both hands pressed to her mouth, and her eyes were wide and shining with excitement.
Muttering a curse, Jayce sat up and reached for his gun.
"I would'na do tha' if I was ye, laddie," Angus rumbled. He leaned forward and prodded Jayce in the shoulder with the shotgun.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 42
