Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  "It's a good thing I'm in this game strictly for the practice, boys," he said. "Otherwise you'd be borrowing against your wages for the next five years."

  "Luck doesn't sit on one man's shoulder for too long at a time," Cully said as he studied the dwindling stack of chips in front of him. "It's as changeable as a woman."

  Gallagher laughed again. "Luck's got nothing to do with it, Deputy. I'm talking about skill."

  The Alamo's batwings swung open, and two men entered. Cully did a double take as they crossed the floor toward the bar. An alarm sounded in his mind.

  The men, who wore work shirts, overalls, and shoes, were vaguely familiar, and after a moment's thought Cully was able to identify them. They had been on the wagon train that had come through Abilene earlier that week and were part of the group of settlers from Georgia.

  The noise in the saloon dwindled once the other patrons realized who the two newcomers were. Looking straight ahead, the pair of settlers went to the bar, not meeting the glares of the saloon's customers. The two cowhands at Cully's table shifted uneasily in their chairs.

  As Gallagher looked at the settlers out of the corner of his eye, he muttered, "Uh-oh, hope there's no trouble."

  "Why should there be?" Cully asked casually, yet he watched the men intently as they ordered drinks from the surly bartender.

  One of the cowboys at the table spoke up. "Hell, Cully, you know why them boys aren't welcome in here. They're farmers."

  "There have always been farmers around here," Cully replied.

  The other cowpuncher shook his head. "Not like them. Those other sodbusters have been here awhile. They know where they're supposed to stay. They ain't plowin' up land that's always been open range."

  "And they're not from Georgia either, are they?" Cully snapped.

  "That's part of it," the first cowboy said. "My daddy fought in the war on the Union side. I ain't got no use for Rebels."

  Cully sighed but didn’t bother to reply. Lucas Flint had been right when he had said that words wouldn’t change the way anybody felt.

  The two settlers had gotten their drinks and were finishing them now. Cully was thankful that they were minding their own business and causing no trouble. As the patrons in the saloon began to relax once more, the sounds of talking and laughter resumed and grew louder. Music tinkled from the player piano. Other than an exchange of some hard glances, there had been no trouble, and Cully hoped it would stay that way.

  The deputy breathed a sigh of relief when the two farmers turned away from the bar and started for the door. Then a cowhand who was dancing with a painted woman swooped toward them, whirling the woman in his arms. She yelped as she banged into one of the settlers.

  The settler stepped back and muttered, "Careful, cowboy." The collision had been a minor one, and no harm had been done. The farmer and his companion started to move past the cowpuncher and the painted lady in the spangled dress.

  Abruptly, the cowhand grabbed the farmer's overalls and yanked the man toward him. "What the hell did you say to me, sodbuster?" he demanded in a loud, angry voice.

  The farmer shook loose from the grip. "I said for you to be careful, mister," he replied, his own face flushing with anger. "You should watch where you and that harlot are dancin'."

  The young woman looked up at the cowboy and whined, "You gonna let him get away with insultin' me like that, Cade?"

  "Damn right I'm not!" Cade sneered. He seized the farmer's overalls again. "Take that back and apologize to the lady!"

  At the table, Gallagher's eyes rolled up. "Oh, no!" he said.

  Cully was already in motion, scraping his chair back and rising to his feet. "Hold—" he began, but he was too late.

  The farmer's knobby fist lashed out and smashed into Cade's unshaven jaw.

  The young woman screamed as the cowboy staggered from the blow, but he quickly caught his balance and lunged at the settler. Both men began throwing punches. Then the second farmer jumped into the fracas, bear-hugging Cade from behind while the other man pounded fists into his belly. Another cowboy scooped up a beer bottle from a table and launched it at the head of the second farmer.

  "Hold it!" Cully yelled once more.

  The words had no effect. The two cowpunchers who had been playing poker with Cully and Gallagher leaped up and hurried to help their friends. Within moments, the struggling men battling in front of the bar were joined by all the other cowhands who had been drinking in the saloon. Outnumbered and overwhelmed, the two farmers went down in a welter of flying fists and boots.

  Cully ran to the bar and yelled at the bartender, "Give me the shotgun!"

  The bartender backed away, shaking his head. "I ain't goin' to let the place get shot up over some damn sodbusters!" he answered. "Let 'em beat those farmers down into the ground, Deputy!"

  Enraged, Cully cursed, and in a flash, he drew his Colt, training it on the bartender. Then, fixing the man with a fierce scowl, he placed his other hand on the bar and vaulted over it. As his boots hit the plank flooring behind it, he reached down to pluck a sawed-off shotgun from the shelf where it was usually kept. Still glaring at the bartender, Cully holstered his pistol and pointed the shotgun's muzzle at the ceiling.

  He touched off one of the barrels, and the blast was a deafening roar in the close confines of the saloon. Plaster rained down on the fighting men as the load of buckshot blew a hole in the ceiling above them. Stunned, the combatants froze as Cully trained the shotgun on them.

  "Stop it right now!" Cully demanded sharply. "Next man who throws a punch is going to be dodging buckshot. Now back off."

  Slowly, the cluster of cowboys battering the two farmers backed away. The settlers huddled on the floor, their faces bruised and bloody but rage still apparent in their truculent expressions.

  Still pointing the shotgun at the cowboys, Cully said, "There'll be no more fighting in here. Cade, you started this ruckus. I say it's fair you pay for the hole in the ceiling."

  "The hell I will!" Cade roared. "That sodbuster threw the first punch!"

  "You pushed him to it," Cully replied coldly. "I was sitting right over there, remember? I saw the whole thing, and it looked to me like you were going to keep pushing until this man pushed back."

  "I ain't payin' nothin'!" the cowboy insisted.

  "All right," Cully said with a nod. "If you feel that way about it, you can march right over to the jail and take your chances with Marshal Flint. He'll probably charge you with assault or disturbing the peace and keep you in a cell to cool your heels for a while. My way, you're just out a little money."

  Cade took a deep breath, let it out between clenched teeth, and then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a coin and tossed it to the bartender. "That's all I got on me," he growled. "I'll have to pay you the rest later."

  The bartender nodded. "See that you do."

  Cully looked at the two farmers, who were still sprawled on the floor. "You men get out of here," he said.

  "We just came in here for a drink," one of the settlers snapped. "We got a right to do that."

  "You do," Cully agreed, "but now it's time to move on."

  Grudgingly, the farmers struggled to their feet and stumbled to the doorway, casting belligerent glances over their shoulders at the saloon patrons as they pushed through the batwings.

  Cully sighed and handed the shotgun back to the bartender. "Sorry about the hole in the ceiling," he said, "but it looked like those two farmers were going to get stomped to death if I didn't do something."

  "No great loss," the bartender muttered.

  Cully stepped out from behind the bar. The pleasant game of poker had been ruined, and he decided to go to the marshal's office and see if Flint had anything for him to do. As the cowboys in the saloon gradually returned to their tables, picking up their drinks and cards and pulling the saloon girls onto their laps, Cully stalked toward the door.

  The batwings burst open before he reached them. A man wearing a store clerk's apron ran into the
saloon, yelling, "Somebody help! They're tearing the place down!"

  Cully recognized the man as a clerk from Karatofsky's Great Western Store, which fronted Texas Street around the corner from the Alamo. From somewhere outside he heard yelling and crashing. Catching the clerk's arm, he snapped, "What is it? What the devil's happening?"

  The man pointed a quivering finger. "It's a riot!" he exclaimed. "Around the corner in the store!"

  The commotion was growing louder. Cully shoved the man aside and ran out of the Alamo, drawing his gun as he went.

  The deputy raced down the boardwalk to the intersection of Texas and Cedar streets and careened around the corner. As he spotted the mass of struggling figures that spilled from the double doors of Karatofsky's Store and into the street, he slowed to a walk. A cloud of dust had already been stirred up and hung over the combatants.

  Cully wasn’t surprised when he saw that there were almost as many farmers as cowboys, though the cowpunchers seemed to be getting the better of the battle. Judging from the crashing and banging that came from inside the mercantile, the fracas was boiling in there, too.

  Cully glanced down Texas Street and saw Lucas Flint running down the boardwalk toward the riot, gripping his Winchester. When he reached Cully, Flint stopped and asked angrily, "What the devil...?"

  Cully smiled in spite of himself. "At least they're not trying to shoot each other," he said. "Maybe they won't do too much damage with fists."

  Exasperated, Flint glanced at his deputy. "I heard a shotgun blast a few minutes ago and was about to check on it when this ruckus broke out. You know anything about that?"

  "It was me," Cully admitted. "I broke up a fight in the Alamo between a bunch of cowboys and two of those Georgia sodbusters. The odds were just too uneven." He stepped aside as a cowboy with a battered nose reeled down the boardwalk. "You think we should make this bunch behave themselves, Marshal?"

  Flint sighed. At least two dozen men were slugging each other in the street, and no one knew how many more were battling inside the store. Women and children had scurried out of the way and were now standing at a safe distance across Texas Street, gawking at the melee. One of the store windows was broken; the shattered glass crunched under the booted feet of the combatants. As he stood watching, Flint heard another particularly loud crash inside Karatofsky's.

  "We'd better restore some law and order here," Flint said grimly. He pointed the Winchester toward the sky and squeezed the trigger. Levering shells into the chamber, Flint fired three more shots as fast as he could.

  The rolling thunder of the shots froze the struggling men in their tracks. Farmer and cowboy alike turned surprised faces toward the two lawmen on the boardwalk.

  In the silence that followed on the street, Flint could hear the racket coming from inside the store. "Put a stop to that ruckus in there, Cully," he ordered. Then he turned to the men in the street and shouted, "This fight's over! I'll haul the whole lot of you to jail if I have to!"

  Cully stepped into the store, his Colt drawn and ready in case somebody decided to take a shot at him. He stopped just inside the doorway and glanced around. He couldn’t believe the chaos he saw.

  Piles of merchandise had been knocked over and lay in tatters and smashed heaps in the aisles. A pickle barrel had been overturned, creating a sour-smelling lake next to the big main counter. Several groups of men were still throwing punches at each other.

  The deputy blasted a shot into the ceiling and then dropped the muzzle of his gun to cover the brawling men, who froze at the sound of the shot. "Outside, all of you!" Cully snapped.

  He herded the men into the street, where they joined their companions. Flint had ordered the two groups to separate, and now the cowboys stood to the right of the store's porch, the farmers to the left. From his position in the center of the porch, Flint glared at all of them.

  "What in blue blazes happened here?" he demanded as Cully stepped up beside him. Scanning the crowd, Flint spotted Tom Powell. "Get up here, Tom!" he ordered.

  Tom came forward with his face set in sullen lines. "It wasn't our fault, Marshal," he muttered. "It was those other fellows who started it."

  "He's lyin', Marshal!" a cowboy called out. "We was just mindin' our own business when them sod-busters jumped on us."

  "You weren't doing anything to provoke them?" Flint asked sarcastically.

  The cowboy shuffled his booted feet in the dust of the street. "Well, we mighta been funnin' 'em a mite…"

  Flint nodded. "I figured as much. So, somebody took exception to what you said and threw a punch. That was all it took to start this brawl." Flint looked at Tom Powell again and asked, "Where's your pa? Did he come in with the rest of you?"

  Before Tom could answer, Ira Powell’s deep voice called from a distance, "I'm right here, Marshal."

  Flint and Cully looked down the boardwalk to see Ira emerging from the doorway of an apothecary's shop down the block. Behind him, peering around the door, were several of the settlers' women and children.

  "I figured I'd best get the women and the youngsters out of harm's way when that fighting started," Ira said as he reached Flint and Cully. He waved a gnarled hand at the angry men standing in the street. "I was afraid someone would get hurt."

  Flint rested the barrel of the Winchester against his shoulder. "Did the whole bunch of you come into town today?" he asked.

  "We needed supplies," Ira answered. "We thought it might be safer to ride in together."

  Flint took a deep breath. "Somebody's going to have to pay for the damages here, Mr. Powell. I think the only fair thing to do is split it down the middle."

  "But...but we don't have any money, Marshal."

  "You go inside and talk to Mr. Karatofsky," Flint instructed him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the storekeeper peeking cautiously through the broken front window. "You work it out with him. He's a reasonable man." Turning to the group of cowhands, Flint continued, "You cowboys get up here and dig in your pockets. I want your whiskey and tobacco money and whatever else you've got on you. Toss it in Deputy Markham's hat and then be on your way."

  Cully grinned as he swept off his black, flat-crowned hat and turned it over to collect the money. "I feel a little like a banker," he joked as the coins clinked against each other in the headgear. The cowboys muttered curses as they parted with their free cash and headed for their horses.

  "Cully, keep an eye on things here," Flint said. "Mr. Powell, you and your people get the supplies you need and load them on your wagons. Then you come down to my office. I want to talk to you for a few minutes."

  "All right, Marshal," Ira agreed. He seemed shaken by the violence he had witnessed.

  As the crowd dispersed, Flint turned and strode toward his office. Cully remained on the boardwalk, collecting money from the remaining cowboys and watching for more trouble. The settlers dusted themselves off and went into the mercantile to gather up their supplies. As Tom passed by him, Cully said, "You might help Mr. Karatofsky straighten up his store. Might make the marshal feel a little less angry at you folks."

  Tom grunted in agreement.

  Saturday afternoon in Abilene, Cully thought, had never been quite like this.

  During his trek down Texas Street, Lucas Flint barely contained his fury. Once he arrived at the jail, he stormed into the office, slammed the door, hurled himself into his desk chair, and raged silently at the walls for several minutes. When the door opened a few moments later, he had regained his composure. He glanced up sharply, expecting to see Ira Powell and ready to deliver the lecture he had just formulated. Instead, Rose Keller stepped into the office. Flint pushed his chair back and got to his feet.

  Rose shook her head and waved him into his chair. "Don't bother with formalities, Lucas," she said. "Just tell me what happened. It sounded as if the Civil War were being waged all over again."

  Flint grimaced. "That's about what it amounted to. A bunch of cowboys and those settlers from Copeland's place got into a brawl at Kara
tofsky's."

  Rose moved to one of the chairs in front of the desk and sat down. "Was anyone hurt badly?" she asked.

  "I don't think so," Flint replied, shaking his head. "Cully and I broke it up pretty quickly. I saw plenty of cuts, bruises, and bloody noses, but I don't think there was anything worse than that."

  "I saw the settlers earlier when they arrived in town. It looked as if all of them came along, even though they didn't bring all of the wagons."

  "That's what Ira Powell told me," Flint said. "They thought it would be safer that way, but it backfired on them."

  "What are you going to do about this situation, Lucas? It's liable to get dangerous." Rose's deep brown eyes clearly expressed her worry and concern.

  "It already is," Flint replied.

  At that moment, the office door opened, and a nervous Ira Powell stepped tentatively into the office. When he saw Rose, he tugged off his hat and nodded to her. "We're about ready to pull out, Marshal," he said. "You wanted to talk to me?"

  "That's right, Mr. Powell."

  "Ira."

  Flint shrugged. "All right, Ira. You know as well as I do that the cowboys don't want you and your people here. It's only going to stir them up when they see a whole bunch of you coming into town."

  "Are you saying we shouldn't come to Abilene, Marshal?"

  "No, I'm not saying that at all—"

  "Because we've got a right to come and buy supplies. You know that."

  With a frustrated nod, Flint said, "I know. But I'm just telling you to be reasonable. You can't go around trying to start trouble."

  Ira's features had lost their diffident expression, and an angry frown spread across his lean face. "Those cowboys started that fight," he said. "If you'd heard some of the things they said to our women, you'd know that." He glanced at Rose, and his expression softened. "Pardon me, ma'am."

  "That's all right, Mr. Powell," Rose replied. "I can well imagine what some of those cowboys had to say."

  Flint pushed back his chair and stood up. "I'm sorry about that, but it doesn't change the facts. I don't want to see more than four or five of you in Abilene at one time, you understand?"