At the top of the staircase was a small landing and a single door. A neatly lettered shingle read Leonard Bosworth—attorney-at-law. Flint knocked on the door, then tried the knob. When it turned easily, he shrugged and stepped inside.
A man was sitting at the desk with his arms propped on the desktop between neat piles of paper and his chin resting in his hands. There was a look of weariness and despair on his face as he stared down at the papers that were piled so high they threatened to overwhelm him. He heaved a heartfelt sigh, then glanced up at Flint. "What can I do for you, mister?" he asked in a voice noticeably lacking in enthusiasm.
"Are you Leonard Bosworth?" Flint asked.
"That's right."
The marshal strode to the desk and extended his hand. "My name is Lucas Flint. I'm Rachel Coleman's brother-in-law."
Bosworth stood up hurriedly and shook Flint's hand. "Well, Mr. Flint," he said with a smile, "it's good to meet you. I know Rachel has been looking forward to your arrival. Have you talked to her yet?"
"I have," Flint replied grimly. "She told me about what happened with Yeager and her trial."
Bosworth wagged his head. "A nasty business, thoroughly unpleasant."
The lawyer was a small man with graying brown hair, a neat mustache, and spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. His coat was off, but he wore a vest and tie. A large bookcase lined with leather-bound legal volumes occupied most of one wall. Except for the paper-cluttered desk, the office was as fastidious as Bosworth himself appeared to be.
"I've come to talk about the case," Flint said, "and to see if we can come up with anything new on it, Mr. Bosworth. Is that all right with you?"
"Of course, of course." Bosworth waved at the chair in front of the desk. "Have a seat, Mr. Flint. Or should I call you Marshal Flint?"
"Make it Lucas," Flint said as he sat down. He wasn’t particularly impressed with Bosworth, but he didn’t want to alienate him. He had a feeling he was going to need all the allies he could find in Cheyenne.
"All right, Lucas. What can I tell you about the case that Rachel hasn't?"
"How strong was the evidence against her?"
Bosworth sighed. "Strong enough for the jury to convict her. There was no doubt that she bought the rat poison. Several reliable witnesses testified to the purchase, and for that matter, Rachel never denied it."
"What happened to the poison?" the marshal asked. "Wasn't Rachel able to account for it?"
"She had already used it," Bosworth replied, shaking his head. "The way it was spread around the newspaper office, there was no way to tell if any of it had been used for...other purposes."
"Like murder," Flint said bleakly.
"Yes," Bosworth sighed. "Exactly. I tried to point out to the jury that the burden of proof was on the prosecution. While I couldn’t prove that Rachel didn't use the poison on Yeager, the prosecution couldn’t prove that she had." The lawyer sighed again. "Obviously, I didn't do a good enough job to convince them."
"What about the other folks who might have wanted Yeager dead?" Flint asked. "Did you point them out?"
"I tried to, but the prosecutor objected that such a line of speculation was irrelevant to this case. The judge sustained the objections every time. He said that Rachel was on trial, not anyone else."
Bosworth's mouth twisted in contempt. "Meaning Lance McGill, of course."
Flint nodded. "Then you thought about him, too."
"Certainly. Any time a man dies under mysterious circumstances, you have to suspect his business partner. I said as much to Sheriff Dedrick. Evidently, he had already questioned McGill, because he said he had a solid alibi." Bosworth shook his head. "I'm sorry, Lucas. I did everything I know how to do for Rachel. It just wasn't enough."
The regret in Bosworth's voice was genuine, Flint sensed, and the feeling was mirrored in the man's eyes. Nor did he doubt his honesty or sincerity, and from the sound of things, his competence wasn’t in question, either. He realized that visiting Judge Stephens and going over the transcript would waste time—
valuable time he didn’t have. The deck had just been stacked too heavily against Rachel. Now it was up to Flint to find out who had done the stacking.
"What now?" he asked. "Do you have any plans to try to stop this hanging?"
"I've sent a wire to the territorial governor appealing to him for clemency or at least a stay of execution. I haven't received a reply yet, but I don't expect much help from that source. Rachel's editorials were very critical of the governor. I'm sure calling him a tool of the big ranchers didn't endear her to him." Bosworth gave a short, bitter laugh.
Flint got to his feet. "I don't intend to let her hang, no matter what she wrote," he said flatly.
"But...what can you do? You're a lawman, you know you can't stop a legal execution."
That question had already begun to nag at Flint. He had spent years upholding the law. Even though he was completely convinced of Rachel's innocence, if he were unable to prove it in time, what could he do? Would he be capable of pulling off a jailbreak to rescue her? That would mean going on the run, leaving behind his job and all his friends in Abilene.
Maybe it won't come to that, he thought. "I've got a few days. We'll see what I can come up with in that time."
"I hope it's enough, Lucas. I pray that it is." Bosworth stood up and moved from behind the desk to shake hands with Flint again. "If there's anything I can do to help, please let me know."
"I will." Flint gave in to his curiosity and asked, "You're not from around here, are you?"
Bosworth smiled. "I'm originally from Connecticut. My doctor in Hartford advised me to come west for my health. The fresh air would do me good, he said. I have to admit he was right. Until this business with Rachel came along, I was feeling like a new man."
Flint nodded. "The frontier is better for most folks than they expect it will be. I'll see you around." He paused in the doorway and looked back at Bosworth. "Where is Rachel's newspaper office?"
"One street over and a block west," Bosworth told him. "You'll see the sign. It's called the Cheyenne Eagle."
"That's a good name for her paper," Flint said with a grin. "The eagle is a good fighter. So is Rachel."
She would need to be, he thought, considering the trouble she was in.
He picked up his bag and left Leonard Bosworth's office. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Flint paused for a moment, then went to the door of the bakery. Maybe something to eat would stimulate my brain and start me thinking more clearly, he decided. A few moments later, he emerged from the establishment taking bites from the soft, fresh doughnut in his hand.
As he followed Bosworth's directions and walked toward the newspaper office, he studied the people who passed him on the street. They were generally a little rougher looking than the citizens of Abilene, but that was to be expected since Cheyenne was farther west and had been settled more recently. He was sure it would be a fine place to live eventually, but for the time being, it was still a little raw around the edges.
Flint spotted the office of the Cheyenne Eagle in a one-story frame building wedged between a saddle shop and a dry-goods store. A painted sign on the overhang above the boardwalk depicted an eagle in flight above a mountain peak. The words of the newspaper's name flanked the majestic bird on each side. It's a striking sign, Flint thought.
As he crossed the street toward the newspaper office, he could see activity inside through the big plate glass windows on either side of the open door. Through the doorway floated the clanking sound of machinery, and Flint realized as he stepped onto the boardwalk that the press was running. Despite the fact that its editor was in jail, the Eagle was still being printed.
Flint paused in the doorway and looked the place over. The strong smell of ink permeated the air. Several tables littered with paper were scattered around the big room. In the rear stood the massive press, making its loud, insistent racket. Beside it were big rolls of paper.
The two men in the
office wore ink-stained aprons. One of them turned the crank on the press while the other stood by watching the printed sheets come out. The one who was overseeing the printing operation must have sensed Flint's presence, because he turned around to see who had entered the office. Since he was standing next to the clattering press, there was no way he could have heard Flint's footsteps.
The man smiled and came toward Flint. Raising his voice to be heard over the din, he called, "Hello! Is there something I can do for you?"
He was young, no more than twenty-five, with a shock of sandy hair and a bit of a lantern jaw. His eyes were brown, and the gaze they fastened on Flint was intelligent. He was handsome in a rawboned way.
"You must be Thatcher Horrigan," Flint said.
"That's right." The young man wiped his hand on his apron and then thrust it toward Flint. "Have we met?"
"No. My name is Lucas Flint. I'm Rachel Coleman's brother-in-law."
Horrigan pumped Flint's hand. "Lucas Flint!" he exclaimed. "The legendary Rattler! This is quite an honor. Rachel told me all about your exploits as a lawman."
Uncomfortable with Horrigan's enthusiasm, the marshal shook his head. "I just try to do my job," he said. "But I'm not here as a lawman now; I'm just somebody who's worried about Rachel."
Horrigan nodded, and a solemn expression replaced the grin. "We're all worried," he said. "It doesn't seem possible that she's going to be...well, it's just not right. Rachel never tried to hurt anybody."
"That's the way I figure it," Flint agreed. "I don't know who killed this Mayor Yeager, but I'm sure it wasn't Rachel."
The young newspaperman nodded. He turned to the press and called to the man operating it, "You're doing a fine job, Elijah. You just go right ahead. This gentleman and I will be in the office."
The man at the press nodded and kept cranking. He was even younger than Horrigan, Flint noticed, a stocky youth who was barely out of his teens.
Horrigan led the way around the press to a door that opened into a small office. A cluttered old desk and a couple of wooden chairs were the only furnishings in the tiny room except for a bookcase, the shelves of which bulged with volumes. Flint glanced at the titles and saw everything from the classics to a book of stories by a writer from back east named Poe. Flint had read some of the man's work in a book that Rose Keller loaned to him, and although they had been a little strange for his taste, he felt sure that Rachel would like them. She always enjoyed things that were out of the ordinary; that trait was probably what led her into newspaper work.
Horrigan sat down behind the desk and waved Flint into the other chair. "What can I do for you, Marshal?" he asked. "If you're here to help Rachel, I'm completely at your disposal. If she's executed, it will be a hideous miscarriage of justice."
"That's the way I feel," Flint agreed. "Who do you think really killed Mayor Yeager?"
The young man shook his head. "I don't have any idea. All I know is that Rachel didn't. Hell, Yeager had enemies all over the territory."
Flint cocked a booted foot on his knee. "Most men in these parts settle their disputes out in the open," he said. "They use a gun or a knife or their fists. You won't find many men who'll use poison."
"That's true enough." Horrigan shook his head. "Just in the relatively short time I've been out here, I've seen probably half a dozen gunfights. Why, just a few months ago Charlie Harrison and Jim Levy shot it out in front of Frenchy's Saloon. It made quite a story for the paper."
"I've heard of Levy. Gunman from Nevada, isn't he?"
"That's right." Horrigan nodded. "And Charlie came from back east somewhere. He had killed several men himself, but he won't put any more in their graves. He's there himself now."
"What about Yeager?" Flint asked. "Anybody ever try to call him out?"
Horrigan shook his head again. "Mayor Yeager wasn’t skilled with a gun, and everyone knew it. He never even carried one. Now, his partner Lance McGill is a different story. I've never seen him in action, but he's fast, or so I've been told."
"He doesn't sound like the kind of man who would use poison on his partner."
"Not at all. Besides, I always thought McGill and Yeager got along better than most partners. I can't imagine McGill trying to kill the mayor."
"Maybe not. But I've got to start somewhere. I intend to find the real killer."
"You've only got five days to do it," Horrigan warned grimly. "Less than that, really, since the judge set the time of the hanging for nine o'clock in the morning."
Flint grimaced. He was all too aware of the time limit.
Suddenly he realized that the clanging had stopped, and the press had gone silent. A moment later there was a soft knock on the office door. Horrigan called, "Come in," and the young man who had been operating the press stuck his head inside.
"It's all done, Mr. Horrigan," he said. "Do you want to come check on the papers?"
"I'm sure they're fine, Elijah. We'll let them dry, then get them out on the street, all right?"
"Sure, Mr. Horrigan." The young man bobbed his head. He glanced shyly and curiously at Flint.
"Marshal Flint, this is Elijah Jones," Horrigan said. "Elijah has been helping Rachel and me around here. He's just learned to run the press, haven't you, Elijah?"
The youth nodded again and grinned. "That's right, Mr. Horrigan," he said happily. Flint sensed that he was a little simpleminded, but he seemed pleasant enough and eager to please. Elijah went on, "I'm glad to meet you, Marshal."
Flint stood up and shook hands with him. "Same here, Elijah. I'm Miss Coleman's brother-in-law, and I appreciate you pitching in here at the paper." He glanced at Horrigan. "I imagine Rachel insisted that you keep publishing the paper."
Horrigan laughed. "You know her pretty well, don't you? That was one of the first things she said to me after she was arrested. 'I don't want you missing a single issue,' she said, and she meant it. So, Elijah and I have been trying to live up to her expectations. Elijah, get one of the papers for the marshal."
Elijah ducked into the outer room and came back waving one of the printed sheets. The ink was still a little wet. Flint took it and said, "Thanks. I've got to go find a place to stay, so I'll take the paper with me." He reached into his pocket for a coin and handed it to Horrigan over the young man's objections. "This paper's still a going concern," Flint insisted. "Rachel will want it to stay that way until this mess is cleared up."
"Do you honestly think it will be, Marshal?" Horrigan asked anxiously. "Is there a chance we can still save her?"
"There's always a chance," Flint declared. "As long as I'm alive, Rachel Coleman's not going to hang."
5
Lucas Flint found a pleasant, decent hotel a couple of blocks from the town square and checked in. He requested and received a room on the second floor overlooking the street. The Ewers Hotel wasn’t fancy, but the bed in his room seemed comfortable when Flint sat down on it for a moment. It certainly beat a blanket roll on the trail.
He didn’t take the time to unpack. Instead, he stowed his bag in the room, locked the door behind him, pocketed the key, and went down to the lobby. Once there he strode to the desk and asked the clerk, "Where would I find Mayor Yeager's house?"
The man behind the desk looked startled. He glanced at the register to remind himself of the guest's name, then said, "Why, Mr. Flint, I'm sorry to tell you this, but Mayor Yeager has passed away. I hope you didn't have business with him."
Flint shook his head. "No, and I wasn't his friend. Never met the man. But I assume his daughter still lives in the same place."
"That's right. It's over on Grantham Street." The clerk quickly told Flint how to find the late mayor's house, then asked, "Do you have business with Miss Anabel, Mr. Flint?"
"I just need to talk to her for a few minutes," Flint replied. Nodding his thanks to the clerk, he went out to the boardwalk and turned west as the man had directed.
As Flint walked down the street, he wondered if the clerk would tell Sheriff Dedrick o
f his request. He had a feeling that the sheriff kept a pretty close eye on what happened in his town.
Flint passed the square on his way to the house that now belonged to Anabel Yeager. He noticed K. W. Newcomb coming out of the courthouse, accompanied by several men in work clothes. A wagon loaded with timbers and planks stood in the street nearby.
The sight made Flint grimace. He knew that Newcomb and the workmen were about to begin construction of the gallows. He vowed to himself that the apparatus wouldn’t get any use.
He easily found the Yeager house. Surrounded by a manicured lawn, the large, whitewashed frame structure sat on a slight rise. A long veranda swept around the front of the house, and several spired cupolas adorned the steep roof above the second floor. It was an impressive house, the kind of place where a wealthy, influential man would live.
Flint opened the gate in the wrought-iron fence that enclosed the lawn, followed the stone walk to the porch, and climbed the steps. Rapping sharply on the door, he stepped back to wait, and a moment later he heard the patter of footsteps inside. As the door swung open, he reached up and swept off his hat.
A slender young woman looked up at him. She was in her early twenties, Flint judged. Her thick, cornsilk blonde hair fell to her shoulders and framed a face that was undeniably lovely. She appraised him with flashing blue eyes.
"Yes?" she asked. "Can I do something for you?"
"Are you Miss Yeager, ma'am?" he asked.
"That's right. I'm Anabel Yeager."
"My name is Lucas Flint, Miss Yeager. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes if I might."
"Does this concern a business matter?"
"More of a personal matter," Flint replied.
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 101
