Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  If anyone in town knew where Flint was, it would be Angus MacQuarrie. Rose left her buggy tied in front of Flint's office and hurried across the street. Her quick steps rang on the boardwalk as she went to Angus's Tavern. Passing her own office, she turned in the tavern entrance and pushed through the batwings.

  Standing just inside the doors, Rose saw that several men were clustered around one of the tables, shouting encouragement and exchanging bets on an arm-wrestling match. On opposite sides of the table sat Angus MacQuarrie and Leslie Garrison, their sleeves rolled up, their elbows placed firmly on its top, their hands locked together. Each man's muscles strained as he strove to pin the other.

  Rose had spoken to Garrison several times since the night of the dance. They had become friends. The big schoolteacher shared many interests with the doctor. Garrison and Angus were also good friends, and Rose knew that the two evenly matched men regularly enjoyed arm-wrestling competitions.

  Tonight, Angus was getting the better of it. Garrison's hand was slowly dipping toward the tabletop. With a mighty groan, Angus threw the last of his strength into the effort, the muscles in his back and shoulders rippling as he drove Garrison's arm to the side. The teacher's hand thumped on the table.

  The Scotsman laughed wearily. "Winner and champeen...again!" he proclaimed.

  "For tonight," Garrison replied, smiling as he rubbed his arm. "Tomorrow night may be a different story." At that moment, he glanced toward the doorway and noticed the doctor standing there. "Rose!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

  The men standing around the table grabbed their hats as Rose strode across the saloon. Angus and Garrison stood up, and the tavern keeper said, "Good evening, lass. Wha' kin we do f'ye?"

  "I'm sorry to intrude, Angus," Rose said. "I know you gentlemen like your privacy. But I'm looking for Lucas or Cully. Have you seen either of them this evening?"

  "No' for several hours," Angus replied. "Might there be some trouble?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "Would it ha' anything t'do wi' young Tom Powell?"

  Rose frowned and shook her head. "Not that I know of. Why?"

  "The lad came in here earlier looking f’ye. I dinna know where t' find ye, though."

  Rose had no idea why Tom would have been looking for her unless her medical services were required at the farm. What else was going to happen on this warm, pleasant spring evening?

  With a deep sigh, she began to tell the men about Max Fontenot's beating and Joshua's reaction to it. "He wanted to go to G. W. Ramsey's camp," she said, "but I thought I had persuaded him not to. Perhaps, after going to Day's, he went there anyway."

  "Aye, tha' sounds like something tha' the reverend would do," Angus agreed.

  "I don't know much about this G. W. Ramsey fellow," Garrison said, "but he sounds like a rough character. The pastor could get into quite a bit of trouble if he went there alone."

  "That's what I'm afraid of," Rose said.

  Angus nodded. "I think I'd best round up a few o' the lads and pay a visit t' yon camp—just t' make sure tha' Joshua's all right, mind ye."

  "You can find the place?" Rose asked.

  "Aye. Lucas told me 'twas on Day's land, near the creeks leading into the Solomon. 'Twill no' be hard t'find."

  "I'll go with you, Angus," Garrison said as he rolled down his shirt sleeve and buttoned the cuff.

  "And so will I," Rose declared.

  Angus glanced at her sharply and shook his head. "'Tis no place for a woman."

  "I'm a doctor first, Angus," Rose said firmly. "If there's been trouble, my services may be needed."

  "She has a point, Angus," Garrison observed.

  The Scotsman shrugged. "So be it."

  15

  The wind tearing at Tom Powell’s grief-stricken face caught the tears welling from his eyes and flung them into the night before they could roll down his cheeks. The young man's emotions were in raging turmoil: anger, hatred, most of all grief. He hadn’t always agreed with his father, but he had loved him dearly.

  Now Ira was gone, struck down by the same evil men who had brought such terror to the new settlement. The need for vengeance filled Tom, vengeance not only for his father but for Guy Yarbrough and all the others who had been hurt by Ramsey and his hired guns.

  He had only a vague idea of where G. W. Ramsey's camp was as he galloped over the moonlit, rolling countryside. Suddenly he glimpsed the flickering glow of a fire in a screen of trees along a creek.

  Tom reacted without really thinking. He had no plan, no idea what he would do once he found Ramsey and his men. He turned his horse toward the campfire. Guiding the running animal through the trees, he pressed his cheek against its neck. The old rifle was in the saddle boot, but he didn’t reach for it.

  A man clutching a rifle leaped into his path from behind a tree. "Hold it!" the sentry yelled.

  Tom kicked his horse, and the animal lunged, its shoulder slamming into the guard and knocking him out of the way. As the man spun backward, his rifle blasted, but the bullet went wild. In a flash, Tom was past him. The young man thundered into the camp, his eyes dry now and darting from side to side in search of G. W. Ramsey.

  In the bright firelight, men were rolling out of their bedding and stumbling from the tents. Most held guns, but confused by what was happening, they hadn’t begun to fire. Tom spotted a burly, bearded figure emerging from the largest tent, and he knew that he had found Ramsey. As the man stared at the onrushing rider, Tom recognized the burning eyes that he had seen on the night of the dance. This man led that raid and all the others, he thought.

  Yelling hoarsely, Tom flung himself at the man from the back of the running horse.

  Ramsey tried to jerk his gun up, but he reacted too slowly. Tom slammed into him, and both men crashed into the tent, collapsing it. Tom was on top of Ramsey, trying desperately to get his hands on the bearded man's throat.

  Tom's fingers finally closed on Ramsey's thick neck, and the young man squeezed with all his strength. Ramsey, gasping and choking, slashed at Tom with the gun that was still in his hand.

  The barrel of the pistol thudded into Tom's skull. His head jerked to the side as bright lights pinwheeled behind his eyes. Then something slammed into his back, and hands caught his shirt and yanked him up and off Ramsey.

  Gasping hoarsely, the bearded man sat up. He watched balefully as his men gathered around Tom Powell, swinging fists and clubs, their booted feet smacking into the young man's sides. Ramsey, lifting a big hand to massage his sore throat, rasped furiously, "Kill him! Kill the bastard!"

  Tom groaned and huddled on the ground, trying to draw himself up into a smaller target. But he couldn’t escape the vicious boots, clubs, and fists.

  Ramsey climbed slowly to his feet, rubbing his throat while he watched the brutal display. He slid his gun into its holster and growled, "Finish him!"

  One of Ramsey's men held a thick, gnarled branch. As he lifted it, he shouted, "Stand back!" He stepped forward to bring the club crashing down on Tom's head.

  A gun cracked, the slug punching through the shoulder of the man with the heavy club. The impact drove him to his knees and sent the branch spinning from his hands. He clutched his bloody, shattered shoulder and shrieked in pain, while the other men standing around Tom whirled to face the new threat.

  Lucas Flint and Cully Markham walked their horses into the camp, their guns out and ready. Gunsmoke curled from the muzzle of Flint's Colt.

  "Hold it!" the marshal snapped. "I'll kill the next man who moves."

  The crew of hardcases stood motionless. All of them had holstered their guns to concentrate on beating Tom Powell. Flint and Cully were heavily outnumbered, but they had the element of surprise on their side—and their guns were drawn. For the moment, the two lawmen were in control of the precarious situation.

  Ramsey glared at Flint. "Mighty big talk, Marshal," he snarled. "You know damn well you and that deputy can't take all of us. You start shooting, and we'll cut you to ribbo
ns."

  "I imagine your men will," Flint said coolly. "But you won't live to see it, Ramsey. I'm putting my first bullet right in your head."

  After a tense silence, Ramsey abruptly threw back his head and laughed. "Damned if I don't think you'd do it!" he said.

  "You know I would." Flint kept his gun leveled at the big man. The time for that showdown had finally come, and both of them knew it. "Ramsey, I'm placing you under arrest for the murder of Ira Powell."

  A perplexed frown appeared on Ramsey's face. "Powell murdered? What the hell are you talking about, Marshal? I haven't killed anybody."

  Tom was still lying on the ground, hugging his aching middle. At Ramsey's words, he forced himself to sit up. "You gunned him down, you son of a bitch!" he shouted at Ramsey.

  "We found Ira's body between here and Copeland's place," Flint said coldly. "As far as I'm concerned, you're guilty, Ramsey, and you're going to hang for it."

  Ramsey stared at the marshal, then exploded, "You're crazy! I didn't kill the old coot, and damned if I'll swing for something I haven't done!" He leveled a finger at Tom. "There's the man you ought to arrest. He stormed in here and attacked me for no reason."

  Cully spoke up. "I think he had a reason. You killed his father."

  "I tell you I didn't—" Ramsey broke off his denial and glared at the lawmen. He said, "I'm damned sick and tired of this. You want me, Marshal, you just go ahead and try to take me in."

  Flint glanced around the camp, his face grim but showing no fear. He saw the angry looks on the faces of Ramsey's men and knew they would like nothing better than to go for their guns.

  He looked at Cully. The deputy's features were stony, the knife scar gleaming in the firelight. The barrel of his Colt didn’t move even the slightest fraction of an inch. Through tight lips, Cully said, "I never did like backing down, Marshal. Especially not to trash like this."

  A bleak smile pulled at Flint's lips. "Me either, Cully." He met G. W. Ramsey's burning gaze and said slowly, "All right, Ramsey. If that's the way you want it."

  A grin broke out on Ramsey's face. His hand started toward his gun—and froze a split second later, as the sound of many rifles being levered crackled in the darkness around the camp.

  As Flint and Cully stared at Ramsey and his men, knowing it would be deadly to let their attention stray, they heard several horses walking into the camp behind them.

  "Appears the two o' ye could use a wee bit o' help, Lucas. Think we'll do?" Angus MacQuarrie's voice boomed.

  Flint glanced over his shoulder and saw the big Scotsman sitting on his horse. The Winchester in his hands was leveled at Ramsey's men. Flanking Angus were Leslie Garrison and several other men from Abilene, every one of them armed with rifles and obviously ready to use them.

  "A dozen more men are in the trees, Marshal," Garrison said. "The odds are a little more even now, so the next move should be up to you."

  Flint grinned at the burly schoolteacher. "Thanks, Garrison," he said.

  "You should thank Dr. Keller," the schoolmaster replied without taking his eyes off the men he was covering with his rifle. "She's the one who got us to come out here looking for Joshua Markham."

  Rose, a worried frown on her face, slipped from the trees. Concerned for her safety, Flint glanced at Ramsey and his men, but the hardcases stood still, well aware of the danger that threatened them. They knew they would be cut down if they went for their guns.

  "Hello, Rose," Flint said. "I should have known you'd have something to do with this."

  "Have you seen Joshua, Lucas? I think he may have come here." Rose's voice was taut with worry.

  "He's at the Powell place," Flint answered. "I know he was here first, though, because he got a bad beating. Ramsey's men dumped him on Ira's doorstep."

  "My God!" Rose breathed. "I've got to go see about him."

  "That's not the worst of it, Rose. They killed Ira Powell."

  "I told you, we didn't kill him!" Ramsey exploded. His face was flushed with impotent anger as he glared at the armed men surrounding his camp. He went on, "We took care of that preacher, all right—taught him a lesson he won't soon forget. But I haven't even seen Ira Powell tonight."

  "You're a liar!" Tom shouted as he climbed painfully to his feet. "You and your men have been hidin' behind those masks and makin' life hell for all of us!"

  "All right!" Ramsey flared at him. "Why not? You and the rest of that Southern trash don't deserve any better. We tried to run you off, but you were just too damned dumb to go!"

  Tom clenched his fists and started toward Ramsey, but Flint's voice stopped him. "Hold it, Tom!" the marshal snapped. "This is a job for the law."

  With an effort Tom held himself in check.

  Flint met Ramsey's intense gaze and said, "All right, mister. You were saying something about me taking you in."

  As Ramsey stared at Flint, the men who had been standing with him began to back away nervously.

  Angus called, "Ye'd best be dropping those guns, lads."

  Most of Ramsey's men complied, carefully unbuckling their gun belts, and letting them slide to the ground. They stepped away from the weapons and kept their hands raised. Only two men stood with Ramsey, a wiry man with buckteeth and a stocky, redheaded hardcase.

  A reckless grin suddenly appeared on Cully's lean face. "Three against two," he said. "Those are better odds, aren't they, Marshal?"

  "They are," Flint agreed.

  "Then why don't we settle this with fists instead of guns?"

  Flint grinned broadly. For once he had to agree with his hotheaded deputy. He had been aching for the chance to smash a fist into G. W. Ramsey.

  "How about it, Ramsey?" Flint asked. "That sound fair to you?"

  Ramsey nodded. "I'll enjoy it," he said with a wolfish grin.

  "Drop your guns," Flint commanded. While Ramsey and his two men did, Flint and Cully holstered their own weapons and unbuckled their belts. Angus walked his horse to the two lawmen and took their belts and holsters. When they were unarmed, they started to swing down from their saddles.

  Ramsey and his men leaped forward the instant that Flint's and Cully's boots touched the ground.

  Ramsey slammed into Flint, knocking the marshal against Angus's horse. The Scotsman hauled on the reins and pulled the animal out of the way. Flint staggered to the side. Ramsey followed him and smashed a fist into Flint's midsection.

  The two other men hurtled at Cully. The deputy avoided the first man's lunge, but when he dodged to the side, he ran right into the second man's fist. The blow knocked him backward, and his feet tangled in one of the bedrolls spread on the ground. Cully lost his balance and went down.

  As Cully saw the two men leaping toward him, he lashed out with a foot. The kick knocked one man aside, but the other landed on top of Cully. He gouged at the deputy's eyes with one hand while trying to get the other on Cully's throat. Cully whipped his head from side to side to avoid the clawing fingers and brought his knee up into the other man's groin. The man howled in pain as Cully's knee smashed into its target. After he had grabbed the man's shoulders and thrust him away, the deputy rolled to the side and leaped lithely onto his feet.

  Ramsey was about ready to send another punch into Flint's stomach when the marshal caught the outlaw off guard and threw one of his own. His fist caught Ramsey in the jaw, but the big man shook his head and shrugged it off. A vicious hook drove into Flint's solar plexus and knocked the air out of him. As Ramsey bore in, Flint lowered his head, lunged under a wild swing, and butted Ramsey. Ramsey's feet were not planted, and he fell backward at the force of Flint's tackle.

  Ramsey twisted as he fell, and somehow Flint lay beneath him. His bearded face contorted with rage, Ramsey battered Flint's face with his fists, snarling as he did so.

  The man Cully had kicked had recovered his balance. He snatched up the club that had nearly been used to smash Tom Powell and swung it at the deputy. As the weapon whipped toward his head, Cully dodged desperately. Before the othe
r man could swing the thick branch again, the deputy stepped in and peppered his face with short, sharp punches, setting him up for a haymaker, which Cully brought up nearly from the ground. His fist crashed into the man's jaw and sent him flying through the air.

  The man landed on G. W. Ramsey, knocking the bearded man away from Flint. Just as Ramsey struggled to his feet, the marshal scrambled onto his knees and launched himself across the few feet that separated them. The impact of his fist striking Ramsey's jaw sent pain all the way up Flint's arm to his shoulder. Ramsey's eyes rolled in his head as he fell. Flint sprawled next to Ramsey's stunned form.

  That left one man to deal with, the buck-toothed hardcase whom Cully had kneed a moment earlier. The man had rolled close to the campfire, and even as he clutched at himself with one hand, he used the other to scoop up a burning brand and fling it at the deputy. Cully ducked, letting the torch go over his head, but as he did so the man lunged toward one of the discarded gun belts on the ground nearby, his fingers closing over the butt of the pistol and yanking it out of the holster. He twisted around on the ground and started to raise the gun.

  Lucas Flint pushed himself onto his hands and knees and dove forward. He caught the man's gun hand and forced it down just as the man jerked the trigger. The gun blasted, and the man screamed. He stared in horror at his bloody boot. The gun slipped from his fingers, and he slumped back in a dead faint.

  Cully extended a hand to Flint as the marshal got to his feet. The rest of Ramsey's men hadn’t moved. They, along with the townspeople from Abilene, had watched the brutal battle. Now Flint stepped over to Ramsey's body and prodded the big man with his boot. Ramsey groaned and slowly moved his head from side to side.

  "Get up, Ramsey," Flint said hoarsely. "It's over. You're going to jail, where you belong." The marshal turned to Angus. "You and some of the other men get these three on their feet and take them back to town. Toss 'em in jail, and don't worry about being too gentle with them."