Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  He glanced at Frank and saw that his neighbor's eyes were sparkling as the vision Ira had shared caught fire in him, too.

  He clapped Ira on the shoulder and said, "It sounds good to me. We'll go see those folks in Atlanta, all right. You think they can find us some land to farm out there on the frontier?"

  "I'm sure they can," Ira replied. "I've heard there's plenty of room in the West." For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, a smile touched his lips. "Some place like Kansas, maybe..."

  1

  Standing behind the mahogany bar in the immaculately clean tavern that bore his name, Angus MacQuarrie placed his large hands on the cool hardwood and leaned across its expanse to catch a little of the soft breeze that blew through the batwing doors. The air in the shadowy, low-ceilinged tavern was still and damp. Outside the midday sun beat mercilessly on the hard-packed earth of Texas Street. Abilene, Kansas, was suffering through an unseasonably hot late-spring day, and the heat punished the broad-shouldered, heavyset Angus cruelly.

  Shaking his head and scowling at his discomfort, the burly Scotsman turned and glanced around his tavern at his customers. His gaze rested on a group of five cowhands playing poker and drinking beer at a table in the back of the room, and his scowl deepened into a frown. This sort of muggy day made some men irritable and prompted them to do things they shouldn’t, and the men back there were the kind to look for trouble, Angus thought.

  At the table, a slender, sandy-haired young man named Billy Day fanned out his cards and grinned broadly at his four companions. "Three pretty ladies," he crowed as he stretched his lean arms out and reached for the pile of coins and bills scattered in the center of the table.

  The other cowboys muttered disgustedly as Billy raked in the money. "Reckon you're about the luckiest man I ever played cards with, Billy," one of them said.

  "It's skill, not luck," Billy boasted. His tawny eyes narrowed slyly at the cowhand. "Hell, anybody could win playing against you boys."

  The other cowhands furtively exchanged irritated glances, which Billy either didn’t see or chose to ignore. He knew perfectly well that no matter what they thought, these men wouldn’t get too upset over losing a few hands of poker to him—not as long as they were working for the Rafter D. Houston Day, Billy's father, was the owner of the Rafter D, one of the biggest ranches in Kansas.

  "You think your pa's goin' to be mad 'cause we didn't finish roundin' up them strays?" one of the men asked Billy.

  Billy laughed and started to shuffle the deck of cards. "Those cows will still be there tomorrow. It's too damn hot to work today. A day like this was made for shade and cold beer." He swiftly dealt the next hand, expertly flipping the cards around the table.

  Billy was dressed like the other men at the table, but his range clothes were newer and better kept, lacking the patches, frayed cuffs, and heavy stains of the other men's outfits. While Houston Day expected Billy to pull his weight and work hard on the Rafter D, no one would ever mistake him for any hard-scrabble, run-of-the-mill cowpuncher.

  As the poker game continued, Angus moved up and down the bar, serving a few midday customers, mostly townsmen who had stopped in for a quick drink after lunch before going back to their own businesses. But Angus kept a wary eye on the five idle cowhands. Peals of laughter rang from the table where they sat, loud and genuine from Billy Day, a trifle forced from the other men.

  Angus knew that Billy had been thrown out of most of the saloons in Abilene for starting fights. Houston Day always paid for the damages, and the saloonkeepers usually relented and let Billy return. The young cowboy had never caused any problems in Angus's Tavern, but the Scotsman knew there was always a first time and was alert for any trouble. He hoped that the other Rafter D hands would keep Billy in line.

  A tall, dark-haired young man pushed through the batwings and strode to the bar. A deputy's badge was pinned to his shirt, and a pearl-handled Colt rode easily in the well-oiled holster on his hip. The faint knife scar running down his cheek gave his handsome, lean face a forbidding, dangerous appearance, but a quick, friendly grin softened the impression. He placed a booted foot on the brass rail and leaned on the bar.

  "Howdy, Angus," Deputy Cully Markham said. "Hot enough for you?"

  Angus's green eyes flashed, and his lips, almost hidden in his full grayish-red beard, twisted in an impatient scowl. "Aye, lad, tha' it is. And I wish I had a nickel f’everyone who's asked me tha' question today."

  Cully laughed heartily at his friend, then asked genially, "How about a beer?" As Angus bent to fill a mug from one of the kegs kept under the bar, Cully turned to scan the room, his gaze passing lightly over the patrons and pausing to linger on the five men engaged in the poker game. When he turned back to Angus, his dark eyes had narrowed in a speculative frown. He leaned toward the tavern keeper and dropped his voice. "Isn't that Billy Day back there?"

  Angus shot Cully a glance that clearly expressed his unfavorable opinion of Billy Day. "Aye," he muttered.

  "Figured Houston Day would have him and those punchers out working."

  Angus leaned closer to Cully and said in a hoarse whisper, "'Tis plain the lad does as he pleases, and those others go along wi' him."

  "He causing you any trouble? I heard he got tossed out of the Bull's Head last week."

  Angus shook his head. "No trouble. And I'm hoping it stays tha' way."

  Cully lounged against the bar and sipped his beer appreciatively. Angus's place wasn’t large or fancy, but it served the coldest beer in Abilene.

  When he had emptied the mug, Cully set it on the bar with a satisfied sigh and slid a coin across the counter to Angus. "Reckon I'll head on back to the marshal's office," he said. "It's too hot for anybody to start a ruckus today."

  "We kin hope," Angus muttered dubiously. As Cully ambled through the doors, Angus picked up a fresh towel and mopped the beads of perspiration from his forehead, then turned to look at the men in the back of the room.

  At the table, Billy Day won another hand. Angus could see that his companions were becoming increasingly frustrated, but they appeared to be keeping their irritation in check. Billy neatly stacked the coins and bills in front of him, and once satisfied with his handiwork, he picked up his mug and drained it. Thumping the empty mug on the table, he called out, "Hey, Angus! We need some more beer over here!"

  "Aye," Angus replied. He filled a pitcher from one of the kegs, carried it over to the table, and placed it in front of Billy. As he did, the thunder of a rapidly approaching horse pounded along Texas Street, drawing the attention of all the men in the tavern. Whoever was riding up was coming fast. The sound of hoofbeats stopped just outside the tavern, and a moment later bootheels rang on the planks of the boardwalk.

  A dusty young cowhand slapped the batwings aside and strode quickly into the tavern. Removing his hat, he beat it against his clothes, raising a small cloud of trail dust. His eyes were wide, and he was visibly excited as he looked around the dimly lit tavern. When he spotted Billy Day and the other men seated at the table, he hurried over to them.

  "Howdy, Billy," he said breathlessly. "Wait'll you hear what I just saw."

  Billy, apparently in no hurry to respond to the new arrival, lifted the pitcher and poured himself a brimming mugful of fresh beer. Lounging back in his chair, he raised the mug and slowly drank it down. Then he turned his tawny eyes to the new man and said lazily, "You look a mite worked up, Morgan. What did Pa have you doing today?"

  "Mr. Day sent me over east of town with a bull he sold to the Rockin' M." The cowboy called Morgan pulled out a chair and sank into it. "I was on my way back when I crossed the trail from Junction City. There was a whole wagon train full of settlers out there, Billy!"

  Billy leaned forward and peered at Morgan, a rare look of interest lighting his handsome face. "A wagon train? What are you talking about, Morgan? There haven't been any wagon trains coming through here in a long time, not since the railroad was finished."

  The other cowboys
began to ask questions, too, but Billy cut through the chatter with a sharp gesture. He pushed the pitcher of beer across the table to Morgan, who picked it up and drank directly from it. "Thanks, Billy," the young puncher said, licking his lips and wiping his mouth with his shirt sleeve. "That sure cuts the dust and makes talkin' easier."

  "So, talk," Billy said curtly. "Did you find out who those people were?"

  "Sure," Morgan replied with a grin. "There was some gals ridin' on those wagons, so naturally I stopped and asked who they were and where they were headin'."

  "And?" Billy's features twisted in an impatient frown.

  "Sodbusters. They was farmers, Billy, and they're headin' for Doug Copeland's spread."

  Billy's frown deepened. "Copeland's place? Why the devil would they be going to Copeland's?"

  "The way the old man who seemed to be in charge was tellin' it, they're goin' to tenant-farm on Copeland's ranch. You ever hear the like, Billy?"

  Billy didn’t respond. He slipped into a brooding silence and considered the news as the other men started asking questions again. He knew Doug Copeland was the owner of a good-sized cattle spread west of Abilene. Copeland's D Slash C was adjacent to the Rafter D. In fact, Doug Copeland, along with Houston Day, had been one of the first ranchers to raise cattle in this part of Kansas.

  Slowly, Billy's frown disappeared, and a mischievous grin spread over his face as an idea took hold. He didn’t care why the wagon train of settlers was heading for Copeland's spread. What was important was the golden opportunity it presented to break up the boredom of a hot day.

  "So, we've got some new citizens coming in, do we?" he said loudly, effectively stopping the conversations among the other men. "Well, we'll just have to give those squatters a good ol’ Kansas welcome, won't we, boys?"

  His grin was infectious. No cowboy worth his salt had any use for sodbusters. The men laughed and nodded in agreement as they pushed back their chairs and stood up.

  As he sauntered past Angus, who now stood behind the bar, Billy dug in the pocket of his pants and drew out a double eagle, which he tossed to the Scotsman. Angus caught the coin deftly and watched with a worried look on his face as Billy and the ranch hands strode from the tavern. His frown deepened as he heard them mount up and gallop down Texas Street.

  Turning to the young man who worked part-time for him, Angus said, "Keep an eye on the place, Percy." He quickly untied his apron and slipped hastily from behind the bar.

  Pushing through the batwing doors and walking onto the awning-covered boardwalk, Angus gasped as the full force of the heat struck him. He moved past the Red Top Café with its gaily curtained windows and beyond to the Bull's Head Saloon, which he knew was decorated with gaudy paintings of plump nudes. Then stepping off the boardwalk and into the wide dusty street, he quickly crossed Texas Street and ducked back into the shade of the awnings. Only one carriage and two wagons moved along the street in the scorching sunshine, though normally it was a bustling thoroughfare at this time of day. Clearly, anyone who could was staying out of the heat.

  With his destination steps away, Angus drew a clean handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the perspiration that once more drenched his face and beard. He stuffed the damp cloth into his pocket and pushed through the door of the marshal's office and jail.

  As he entered, he saw that Marshal Lucas Flint was in an uncharacteristically negligent pose. Flint's chair was tilted against the wall, and his booted feet were crossed at the ankles and propped on the desk in front of him. Through the open cellblock door, Angus could see Cully Markham reclining on a bunk in one of the empty cells, his black hat tilted down over his eyes.

  Angus, grinning broadly at the two men, put his hands on his hips and said, "Aye, 'tis a magnificent sight. The valiant guardians o' law and order, hard at work."

  Flint looked up and returned the grin. He was a handsome, lean-featured man with sandy brown hair that was touched with gray at the temples, and a mustache that drooped slightly over his generous mouth. He asked, "What can we do for you, Angus?"

  "Billy Day and some o' his friends just left me place. They rode out o' town heading east, toward Junction City."

  "He cause trouble in your place first?" Flint asked, his eyes brightening as his interest grew.

  Angus shook his head no. Then his broad face twisted into a worried scowl. "He was ginna ride out t'meet a wagon train o' settlers coming this way."

  Flint took his feet off the desk and let the front legs of his chair thump to the floor. "What wagon train?" He wasn’t grinning now.

  In the cellblock, Cully shifted onto one elbow and pushed his hat onto the back of his head.

  "According t' the lad who brought the news, 'tis a group o' farmers heading for Doug Copeland's ranch."

  "Farmers!" Cully exclaimed. He sat up and swung his legs off the bunk. "What would bring farmers to Copeland's place?"

  "I dinna know," Angus replied. "But 'twas plain t'me tha' Billy intended t'cause trouble for them."

  Cully snorted as he stepped from the cell into the office. "Billy Day is full of hot air. I've never seen him start anything unless he had plenty of help and was certain all the odds were in his favor."

  Flint stood up, his tall, well-muscled frame towering over the Scotsman. "Maybe so, but from what I've seen of Billy, he's liable to figure that a bunch of farmers would make a good target for some of his horseplay." He reached behind him and grasped the well-worn shell belt and holster that hung on a peg on the wall. The walnut-handled butt of his Colt Peacemaker protruded from the holster. "We'd better take a ride out there, Cully, just to make sure things don't get out of hand."

  Cully mopped beads of perspiration from his forehead. "On a day like today, Marshal? How much mischief can Billy cause, anyway?"

  "We'll find out," Flint replied drily. "Like Angus says, we are the guardians of law and order." The marshal grabbed his tan, flat-crowned hat from the rack next to the door and walked out of the office.

  "Thanks," Cully muttered to Angus as he stalked past the Scotsman.

  2

  Three miles east of Abilene, a long line of twenty rickety wagons crawled slowly, steadily across the scorching Kansas prairie toward the town. The canvas canopies covering the wagon beds were ragged and torn, showing the telltale signs of a long, arduous journey. A few of the vehicles were pulled by oxen, but most were drawn by teams of mules or horses. A handful of shabbily dressed men rode on horseback alongside the wagons.

  Driving the lead wagon was a lantern-jawed, haggard man with gray stubble on his cheeks. He wore a floppy-brimmed felt hat, patched work clothes, and shoes that were threatening to come apart. Despite the weariness that drew deep furrows in his forehead and cheeks, his blue eyes flashed with interest as they scanned the dusty prairie intently.

  Ira Powell had led this band of exhausted people hundreds of miles across the country in search of a new home. Now that they were close to their final destination, excitement and anticipation began to grow in him. It would feel good to be home again—even a new home.

  Ira's eyes narrowed as he spotted a dusty, hazy cloud moving toward them. The broad Kansas prairie was fairly flat, and he watched the cloud approach for quite some time before it resolved clearly into six men on horseback. As the riders drew nearer, one of the horsemen accompanying the wagon train galloped up beside Ira's wagon.

  "Somebody comin', Pa," the tall, rawboned young man announced.

  "I know, Tom," Ira replied with a nod. "I saw them."

  Tom Powell leaned forward in his saddle. "Who do you reckon they are?" A Southern twang colored his voice.

  Ira's gaunt face creased in a smile. "A welcoming committee from Abilene, maybe?" he suggested to his son.

  Tom laughed, but there was no real humor in the sound. "How many folks have been glad to see us since we left Georgia, Pa?" he asked cynically.

  "Not many, I'll admit," Ira agreed over the creaking of the wagon wheels. He tried to make his next words sound optimistic. "But I'
m hoping it'll be different here in Kansas, boy. This is the frontier, the place where people can make a new start, build new lives for themselves."

  "Yeah," Tom Powell grunted sourly.

  Taking his eyes off the approaching riders, Ira shot a worried glance at his son. He was keenly aware of the bitterness in Tom, a bitterness that had been planted long before Hattie was shot down. The Northern carpetbaggers had made life a living hell for the conquered Southerners. Not content to vent their smug anger on the big plantation owners, the carpetbaggers had pillaged and looted the common folks, folks who had never owned slaves and never desired to. Farmers who had wanted only to be left alone to work their land...

  Ira grimaced as a similar feeling of bitterness passed unbidden through him. White trash, that was what the carpetbaggers called them. Poor white trash.

  But no longer, Ira thought, defiantly refusing to yield to the ugly feeling, not out here on the frontier. They were in the West now, where every man had a second chance. Maybe those men up ahead had come to welcome them.

  The sudden blast of shots, the puffs of smoke and sparks of flame that flared from the guns in the hands of the riders tore that hopeful notion from his mind.

  "Dammit!" Tom exclaimed, instinctively hunching over in his saddle to make himself a smaller target. "They're shootin' at us, Pa!"

  Ira hauled on the lines in his hand and wrestled the mule team to a halt. Behind him, he heard muttered curses as the other drivers did the same. Dropping the reins and scrambling to stand on the seat, he peered over the canvas top of his wagon and shouted to the people in the wagons behind his, "Take cover! Take cover!"

  Tom drew his skittish mount closer to his father's wagon. "Give me the rifle, Pa!" he demanded desperately. "I'll teach 'em—"

  "No!" Ira snapped angrily. "You'll just get yourself killed, Tom." He looked at the shooting riders and went on, "They're not trying to hit us. Look!"