Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  "I know," Cully said quietly. "I suppose most of us thought it didn't even bother you."

  "It did." Hannah's voice was so soft that Cully could barely hear the words.

  He said nothing more, content for the moment just to sit beside her and eat. Then, as the shadows deepened, an abrupt movement startled him. He turned to see Hannah slumping toward him, her eyes closed. Her head fell against his shoulder, and in her sleep, she instinctively nestled a little closer to him.

  Cully smiled warmly. The rigors of the pursuit had finally caught up with her.

  He stayed there without moving, letting Hannah sleep peacefully with her head resting on his shoulder. Finally, as he listened to her gentle, rhythmic breathing, he dozed a little himself.

  Cully was unsure of how much time had passed when his eyes suddenly snapped open. The little grove of trees where the posse had stopped was draped in deep shadows, but as Cully glanced toward the west, he saw that a pink glow still tinged the horizon. The sun had been down for less than hour.

  He didn’t move. Hannah's head was still resting against his arm, her breathing deep and regular. Cully glanced around the camp and saw that all the other posse members seemed to be asleep as well. Even the dark shape that Cully was fairly sure was Tom Brennan was unmoving.

  He wondered what woke him. Some instinct alerted him that something was wrong. But what? The answer came suddenly in the thunder of hooves, the shouts of men, and the sharp crack of gunfire.

  Cully leaped to his feet, his hand reaching for his gun. As he pulled the Colt, he scanned the shadows, searching for the attackers. All around him other startled members of the posse were leaping up and yelling questions.

  Beside him Hannah was struggling to her feet and frantically clutching at his arm. "What is it?" she cried.

  Cully saw darting shapes at the edge of the camp. The posse's horses suddenly stampeded wildly through the scrubby woods and into the scattered group of half-awake men, causing their owners to fling themselves desperately out of the way. Behind the animals, men on horseback, yelling and shooting, rode toward the heart of the camp. The night was lit by the flashes of their weapons.

  Pushing Hannah behind him, Cully fired at the attacking men. He felt the Colt buck in his hand every time a shadowy figure loomed before him.

  The ambushed posse slowly began to fight back. Double flashes of gunfire coming from twin Colts identified a nearby shadow as Tom Brennan, and the shotgun blast that blew one of the marauders out of the saddle came, Cully knew, from the bulky shape of Angus MacQuarrie. Several other men from Abilene got their guns out and started firing.

  The darkness and the confusion limited their effectiveness. It was hard to know which figures to shoot at or even how many of the attackers there were.

  "Wolfe's men?" Hannah asked Cully during a lull in the deafening explosions, after the riders had stormed on through the camp.

  Cully shook his head. "More likely some other owlhoots out to get the money." He crouched beside the tree where he and Hannah had dozed, peering into the shadows. Judging by the sounds that came to his ears, the riders were turning their horses out in the darkness, no doubt regrouping for another charge.

  "Cully!" Brennan's soft call came floating over from a nearby tree. "You all right?"

  "For now," Cully replied. "How about you?"

  "I'm fine. But they ran off the horses!" Brennan's voice shook with anger. "They'll be coming back in a minute."

  "I know. Angus, you there?"

  The burly Scotsman rumbled, "Aye, lad."

  Quickly, Cully called out to each of the other men. Everyone answered, including Elliott Pannier and Roland Stockbridge. Pannier and Roland sound frightened, but then, so do the rest of them, Cully thought. They were in a bad spot.

  He bent down and felt around on the wet ground until he found the saddlebags he had dropped earlier. He reached inside for a box of shells, and as his fingers found the bullets, he wondered if he might not be able to make better use of them by doing something other than simply firing them from his gun.

  As the idea took shape, he moved rapidly. Desperately he yanked the bandanna from his neck and spread it over one hand, while with the other he opened the box of shells and began twisting the lead bullets from their casings with his teeth. The slow work seemed to take forever, but gradually he built up a good-sized pile of black powder on the bandanna.

  Hannah frowned at him, saying, "Cully, what are you doing?" He was sure his actions made no sense to her, but he had no time to explain. Hoofbeats told him that the attackers were on their way back.

  He raced into the small clearing through which the outlaws had charged earlier. The attackers were close now, their guns blasting. A bullet sang by Cully's head.

  He threw the bandanna to the ground, and yelled, "Brennan! Angus! Close your eyes!" He hoped that the other posse members would hear and understand. The attackers would be not able to distinguish his words over the thunder of their horses' hooves.

  Cully's hand darted into his pocket and brought out a sulfur match. Flicking the lucifer into life with his thumbnail, he dropped the flame into the pile of black powder, then lunged away as one of the outlaws nearly rode him down.

  The powder ignited with a whoosh and a brilliant glare. The marauders' horses reared frantically away from it, and Cully knew that any man who had been looking was momentarily blinded. He rolled as he landed in the mud and came up firing.

  The blasts from Brennan's guns and Angus's shotgun told him they had heard and understood his hastily shouted order. Other members of the posse were firing, too, and this time their shots were having an effect. Now it was the attackers who were confused and disoriented.

  The intense heat of the blazing powder had started a small fire in the damp brush. In its light, Cully could see that Roland Stockbridge and Elliott Pannier had found handguns and were firing at the outlaws. Roland was on one knee, calmly squeezing off shot after shot. Pannier stood beside him, using both hands to fire. As Cully watched, each of them downed an outlaw.

  The attack had been blunted, its back broken. Shouting curses, the remaining attackers wheeled their horses and fled. Cully fired at their retreating shadows as Brennan ran up beside him with both guns blasting. The shooting gradually died away once the shadowy attackers were gone.

  Looking around the chaotic camp, Brennan snapped, "Anybody hurt?"

  A quick check showed a few men had received bullet burns and one man a messy but not serious wound in his arm. Angus began binding it up in the light of the still-burning brush.

  Cully turned to Brennan and asked, "You don't think that was Wolfe, do you?"

  Brennan shook his head. "Wolfe doesn't have any reason to attack us like that. No, it was another bunch of hardcases who want that money for themselves and don't want anybody else to get it. I'm a little surprised we haven't been hit more often now that we're in Indian Territory."

  "What do we do now?"

  Brennan's face was bleak as he said, "We start trying to round up our horses. No telling how far they ran after those outlaws stampeded them."

  "This is going to slow us down."

  "Nothing we can do about it."

  Cully nodded. Brennan was right. He thumbed fresh shells from his belt into his gun and sighed. They had just lost the element of surprise.

  12

  The driving rain that had drenched Roscoe Wolfe and his men all afternoon continued as they approached Elysium at the end of the day. Wolfe heard the grumbling and complaints of the riders but paid no attention. He wasn’t going to worry about a little rain when he had fifty thousand dollars in his saddlebags and, riding beside him, a pretty little ticket for that much more. Wolfe had been in a good mood ever since Hodges, the man who had delivered the instructions for the ransom payoff to the posse, had returned from his errand. The outlaw leader could almost taste that extra fifty grand.

  As the rain began to slacken around dusk, Wolfe looked appraisingly at Elizabeth Stockbridge and said wi
th a grin, "For a wet rat, you look pretty damned good, girl."

  Elizabeth, removing the hat Wolfe had ordered one of the men to give her, shook the raindrops from her thick black hair, which the dampness had caused to curl into a mass of dark ringlets. She looked haughtily at Wolfe and snapped, "If you had any consideration, you'd have found some shelter and let us stop when that storm came along."

  "You don't reckon that posse back there stopped, do you? If that white-haired bastard Hodges told us about is who I think he is, a little rain's not going to slow him down."

  The gang pushed on, and as the dusky shadows deepened, they climbed a hogback ridge. When they reached the top of the slope, Wolfe reined in and pointed a blunt finger at a small dot of light across a valley, several miles away.

  "That's Elysium," he said. "I told the old man who looks after the place for me to keep an eye out for us. Looks like he left a light in the window."

  As thunder from the retreating storm rumbled in the distance, Elizabeth said, "What a ridiculous name for a town out here in the middle of this wilderness! What sort of place is it, anyway?"

  "It's deserted now," Wolfe answered. He shifted in his saddle and spoke to the dozen or more men in his gang who sat waiting for his orders. "We'll push on. No point in stoppin' when we're this close."

  One of the men said, "That's all right with us, Roscoe. We'd all like to get dried off and warmed up."

  Wolfe spurred his horse forward and picked his way down the slope. He held the reins of Elizabeth's horse, so it had no choice but to follow. Elizabeth's hands were untied. There had been no need to bind her once they were away from Abilene, for out here she could go nowhere without Wolfe and his men finding her rapidly.

  As he rode, the outlaw said, "The way I heard the story, there was some sort of sickness hit Elysium. Smallpox, some folks said. All I know is that it wiped out more than half the town, and them that was left decided they didn't want to live there no more. Can't say as I blame 'em. So they up and left. I come along a year or so later, needin' a place to hide out over here in Indian Territory. Seemed like a good place to me."

  Elizabeth shuddered. "I would think you'd be worried about contagion."

  Wolfe shook his head. "Shoot, anything in that town that'd make folks sick is probably gone by now. I left an old-timer who used to ride with me there to watch it, and he ain't been sick a day, far as I know."

  "It still doesn't seem like a good name for such a place."

  "Hell, gal, I don't even know what the name means. I suppose you do."

  Elizabeth lifted her chin. "Indeed, I do. Elysium is a name from classical mythology. It refers to the abode of the blessed dead—Heaven if you will. We didn’t neglect the classics at Miss Sinclair's Finishing School."

  "'The abode of the blessed dead,'" Wolfe echoed with a laugh. "Don’t know how blessed they was, but there was plenty of folks dead." His tone took on a dangerous edge as he continued. "Could be there will be again, if that posse tries anything stupid."

  Less than an hour later a weary, bruised Elizabeth was led into Elysium. The once-beautiful dress she wore was now a soggy, soiled ruin. She shuddered in the chill night breeze that blew against her damp clothes and skin. Her initial terror of the burly redheaded Wolfe and his rough men had faded to be replaced by outrage, but during the long ride her angry demands had brought only laughter and ridicule. At last, too tired to struggle with the impossible situation, she had resigned herself haughtily to make the best of it.

  Now, as she followed Wolfe out of the endless wilderness and into the town, she began to take in her surroundings. The pinpoint of light she had seen from across the valley was cast by several lanterns burning inside a large two-story building that stood in the middle of the abandoned settlement. Other structures lining the broad main street were dark, and she could just make them out as she rode past them. Those that once had housed the town's businesses seemed in fairly good shape, but the private homes were shabby, and it looked as though their walls and roofs were starting to collapse.

  The riders passed one or two narrow cross streets before Wolfe led them to the front of the large building. As Elizabeth drew closer to the brightly lit structure, she saw a big, dilapidated sign on the front that read The Addleman Hotel, Theodore Addleman, Prop. She wondered what had become of Theodore Addleman but didn’t dare ask Wolfe. He would only offer some gruesome explanation she just didn’t want to hear.

  Elizabeth saw a man push through the double doors of the hotel and move onto the porch. He was holding a lantern high above his head, so that his bald pate shone in its light. A bushy beard covered most of his face. He wore a storekeeper's apron and carried a rifle in the other hand.

  "Howdy, Roscoe," he greeted the outlaw leader as the gang halted in front of the hotel.

  "You let it rain some, didn't you, Storen?" Wolfe replied with a grin.

  "Don’t blame that on me," the old man shot back. "You get what you were after up there in Kansas?"

  Elizabeth cringed as his eyes played curiously over her.

  "And more besides," Wolfe said as he dismounted. "Come on, gal."

  Awkwardly Elizabeth got down from her horse. The long days of riding had been pure agony, especially at first. She had never been on horseback before and had no idea how to go about lessening the bruising and chafing she received from the animal. Wolfe had not provided her with a sidesaddle, of course, so she had had no choice but to pull up her skirts and ride astride, leaving her calves shamefully exposed to the lustful glances of the outlaws. Elizabeth wasn’t bothered by the lustful glances—she was accustomed to them—but the pain had been very bad. No matter what happened here in Elysium, she was relieved they had reached their destination.

  Wolfe roughly grasped her arm and led her onto the hotel porch. With a shove, he turned her over to Storen and said, "Keep an eye on her."

  "Glad to, Roscoe," Storen replied. He licked his lips.

  "And keep those paws of yours off her," Wolfe snapped. "Take her into the lobby."

  Warily Elizabeth followed Storen into the hotel. She remained near the still-open glass doors, listening carefully as Roscoe Wolfe issued orders to his men.

  "All right, you know what to do," Wolfe said. "Get those horses in the stable and take good care of them. I don't want to have to ride out of here in a hurry on wore-out animals. Once you've got that done, some of you can come back here for a drink and some sleep." He pointed to four of the men. "You boys will stand guard, two at each end of the street. Maybe that posse will bring the ransom money and send it into town like they're supposed to—or they may hit us and try to take the girl. Either way, we've got to know when they're coming. Got that?"

  "Sure, Roscoe. We understand," one of the men answered.

  "You'll be relieved later. Now get moving."

  The heavy pounding of booted feet told Elizabeth that Wolfe had finished with his men and was now crossing the wide plank boardwalk toward the hotel. Instinctively she drew away from the doors toward the center of the lobby, then glanced apprehensively at Storen, who was leaning against the counter where guests had once signed in. The bald old man was leering at her, and she realized that her damp dinner dress clung revealingly to her body. She quickly looked around the lobby to conceal her revulsion.

  The departed Theodore Addleman had worked to make his hotel attractive. On the floor of the lobby lay a thick rug that had probably been beautiful once, though now it was stained and the edges tattered. The shattered remains of once-elegant crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and big urns that had held potted plants now stood empty in the corners.

  Elizabeth turned to see that Wolfe, his Winchester on his shoulder, was inside the lobby. "You got rooms ready for us, Storen?" he asked, closing the doors noisily.

  "Sure. Best in the house," the old man cackled. "You want me to call a boy to fetch your baggage?"

  Wolfe patted the saddlebags slung over his shoulder and then took Elizabeth's arm. "Reckon this is all the baggage I'v
e got that means anything," he said with a grin.

  He led Elizabeth across the lobby and through an arched entranceway into what had been the hotel's barroom. Storen followed them and went behind the mahogany bar, which ran along the back wall and was now scarred from hard use.

  Several tables were scattered around the room, but only one of them had chairs around it. Pulling out a chair with his booted foot, Wolfe said with mock courtesy, "Have a seat, ma'am."

  Elizabeth eased herself into the crude ladderback chair while Wolfe sat down across from her, laying the Winchester on the table and placing the saddlebags beside it. Elizabeth frowned at him and said, "I thought once we got to town I'd be allowed to get out of these wet clothes."

  "Another few minutes won't hurt you," Wolfe told her. "Storen, bring a bottle over here."

  The bald man reached behind the bar and brought out an amber bottle. He carried the whiskey over to the table and set it down. "Sorry we don't have any fancy glasses for the lady, Roscoe," he said.

  "Doesn't matter." Elizabeth stared with revulsion as Wolfe scooped up the bottle, pulled the cork with his teeth, and spat it out. He raised the bottle to his lips, his throat working as he took a long swallow of the fiery liquor. He set it down and shoved it across the table toward Elizabeth. "There. That'll warm you up, wet clothes or not."

  Elizabeth hesitated, then abruptly picked up the bottle and tilted it to her mouth. She drank, flinching only slightly. Then she replaced the whiskey bottle on the table.

  "Feel better now?" Wolfe asked.

  Elizabeth nodded. Her throat seemed to be on fire, and there was a raging inferno inside her belly, but for the moment she was able to take comfort from the sensations.

  The clumping of boots and the jingle of spurs made her turn her head and look toward the lobby. The members of Wolfe's gang, with the exception of the four men assigned to keep a lookout, had entered the hotel and were approaching the barroom.