Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  "I'll definitely have a talk with him," Newcomb said sternly. Then he went on. "The sheriff said your brother-in-law paid you a visit earlier. Has he had any luck in his investigation?"

  "I'm...not sure. Lucas was rather closemouthed this morning, but he seemed excited about something. He said he had to make a short trip but that I shouldn't worry. He would be back before Friday morning."

  Newcomb frowned, surprised that Flint would be leaving Cheyenne at this time. He supposed Flint had a good reason, but it was still puzzling. "Did he say where he was going?"

  "No, just that he had turned up something he wanted to look at more closely." For the first time, Newcomb heard the iron control in Rachel's voice slip as she continued. "I wish he hadn't left. I know he's just trying to help me, but it seemed to make me feel better, just knowing he was here."

  Newcomb felt his chest tighten, and he suddenly wished Rachel were expressing those sentiments about him.

  He took her hand again. "I'm sure Lucas is doing the right thing. I got to know him pretty well during the train trip out here, you know, and he struck me as a very competent man. He's going to do anything he sets his mind to. And in the meantime, I'm going over to talk to Judge Stephens today, just as soon as—" He broke off abruptly, catching himself before he could finish the sentence.

  "As soon as you finish my gallows, you started to say," said Rachel, finishing it for him. That cool smile of hers curved her lips. "Don't worry, Mr. Newcomb. I don't harbor any ill feeling toward you. As you told me, you're just doing your job."

  Newcomb said nothing. But as he looked at her, he knew that for the first time in his career, just doing his job wouldn’t answer the questions that were plaguing him.

  And also, for the first time, he knew that when the moment arrived, he might not be able to pull that fatal lever.

  Lucas Flint had been tempted to start for Laramie the night before, rather than waiting until morning, but Jordy West had convinced him it would be better to wait. Both West's horse and Flint's rented mount were tired from the trip to Cue Ball.

  Flint then began to think of other ways of getting there. He checked with the desk clerk and found that the next train bound for Laramie didn’t pass through Cheyenne until Wednesday night, and there was no stagecoach until Friday. Horseback was the only way to reach Laramie and possibly make it back to Cheyenne by nine o'clock Friday morning.

  Flint slept very little on Tuesday night, and he was up and ready to pull out by dawn. Jordy West appeared at the livery stable where they had agreed to meet a little after six. All that was left for Flint to do was pick up some jerky and biscuits for the trip. He hated to leave Rachel at a time like this, but if he were successful in exposing McGill's part in the rustling ring, that might mean more to her than anything he could do in Cheyenne.

  By the time the dark clouds scudded away to the east, Flint and West were several miles west of town. Both men kept an eye on the storm, knowing that it could slow them down. But the clouds moved on and then broke up, and the two men found themselves riding through a glorious sunlit morning with a cool breeze fanning their cheeks.

  "I've been thinking, Marshal," Jordy West mused. "It strikes me as strange that Trident would have been losing stock right along if McGill and Yeager were behind the rustling."

  Flint shook his head. "Nothing strange about that. McGill's no fool, Jordy. He knows that if his ranch isn't hit by the thieves the same as everybody else's, he'd be under suspicion right away. Chances are he just has Ladell haze off some Trident cattle every now and then to make things look good."

  "Reckon it could work that way, all right. I'd sure like to prove that McGill's mixed up in all this."

  The marshal glanced over at the young cowhand and saw the intensity on his face. West was proving to be a valuable ally. Even though his motives were different from Flint's, they were both working toward the same goal. Flint would have been willing to bet that West's reasons for joining him had something to do with Anabel Yeager. The marshal could understand that. Anabel was a lovely young woman with a lot of spirit. She was probably pretty spoiled, but with the right man pulling in double harness with her, she would be all right.

  The two men kept their horses moving at a fast walk, a ground-eating gait that wouldn’t tire them too much or too quickly. Flint had to keep a grip on his impatience. He knew how important this journey to Laramie was. He had not been able to find any other leads that might save Rachel's life, and this trip would take up all the time remaining to her. The results of this mission would either save her—or Flint would have failed abysmally.

  As they rode, West asked questions about Kansas, and Flint told him about life in Abilene. West commented that it sounded like a good place to live. "It is," Flint agreed, "and we do everything we can to keep it that way."

  Since the road was broad and fairly level, it was easy to make good time. Flint and West paused for lunch at a café in a small settlement about a quarter of the way between Cheyenne and Laramie. They also watered their horses and let the animals rest for a while, and they were back on the trail fairly quickly.

  Flint had always thought that spending time with a man on the trail was the best way to get to know him. During the afternoon, Jordy West told him about growing up on the Texas frontier and learning to fight Kiowas and Comanches before he was a dozen years old. He was also taught early how to ride a horse, use a rope, and persuade stubborn cattle to go where he wanted. When the great trail drives began after the Civil War, it seemed perfectly natural to West to be a part of them.

  "Never made it into Abilene," he said. "The men I rode for always took their herds into Caldwell or Newton or Dodge. I kept hearing about Wyoming, and when I decided it was time to drift, this was where I headed. I haven't regretted it yet."

  "It is pretty country," Flint agreed, looking toward the mountains.

  "It's a land where a man can really make something for himself," West said fervently. "If he's got the right woman, and if the big ranchers will give him a chance, there's no limit to what he can do."

  "You sound like you've got some plans."

  West grinned. "Most men do. Some just aren't willing to work as hard for them as I am."

  Flint could believe that. West struck him as a young man who wouldn’t give up until he had what he wanted out of life.

  They ate a light supper on the trail, pausing only long enough to rest the horses. Flint didn’t mind the jerky and the hard biscuits. He was too acutely aware of the passage of time to care about what he ate.

  The sun sank behind the mountains, and still the two men rode on. West estimated that they would reach Laramie sometime after ten. First thing in the morning, they would hunt for the Great Plains Cattle Company's offices and find out if what they suspected was true. Then there would be the long hard ride back to Cheyenne. With any luck they would return several hours before the hanging.

  That was trusting an awful lot to luck, Flint thought grimly. But there was nothing else he could do, short of trying to rescue Rachel by force. And he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to do that. Upholding the law was an ideal deeply ingrained in him.

  The night was clear and bright, with the moon and stars providing enough light to allow them to see the road. From time to time a few wispy clouds floated in front of the moon and blocked its light, but overall, the sky was clear. Even though it was summer, the wind picked up, and the night became colder. The crisp bite in the air reminded them that they were on the edge of the high country.

  After hours of riding through the darkness, Flint spotted the lights of Laramie ahead. He wanted to urge his horse to a trot, but he knew that insisting on such a pace would be cruel to both exhausted animals. And there was really no reason to rush at this hour. It was unlikely they would find anyone who could give them any information.

  The saloons were still open and doing a good business as Flint and West rode down Laramie's main street. At this hour they were the only establishments still open. Flint pe
ered through the moonlight and studied the names of the businesses they passed. They had gone several blocks when he suddenly pointed and said, "There."

  The great plains cattle company, the letters arranged in an arch, was painted on one of the storefront windows. The narrow single-story building was wedged between a barber shop and a mercantile. The office was dark inside, but the light coming from the saloon across the street shone on the sign on the window. The noises coming from the saloon—tinny music, the stomping of boots on the floor, and laughter from both men and women—were all too familiar.

  Flint and West reined in their horses in front of the cattle company and exchanged a glance. "We won't have any trouble finding it in the morning," Flint said. He inclined his head toward the saloon. "You want a drink?"

  "I'd rather have some sleep," West said. "The last couple of days have been pretty busy."

  "That they have," Flint agreed. He felt weariness overtaking him. "Let's go find a stable for the horses and a hotel for us."

  West grinned. "Sounds good."

  As the two men rode down the street, both of them wondered just what the morning would bring.

  12

  There was no chance of rain Thursday morning, K. W. Newcomb saw as he walked to the courthouse. It was a beautiful day except for the heat. The cool breezes of the day before were gone, leaving behind a warmth that soon threatened to grow oppressive.

  It would be even hotter inside the jail, Newcomb knew. The single window in Rachel Coleman's cell wouldn’t allow much air into that small space.

  Newcomb paused on the edge of the wide lawn in front of the courthouse. The gallows stood starkly framed against the bright blue sky, the harsh sunlight casting its clearly defined shadow on the ground. Quite a few people were standing around the courthouse square, gaping at the gallows and muttering amongst themselves. A feeling of excitement and anticipation filled the air.

  The hangman had seen the same thing many times before. A hanging brought people into town from miles around. Some folks thought nothing of riding a hundred miles to witness an execution. That said something about the loneliness and grinding boredom of life on much of the frontier. In this case, with the added novelty of an attractive woman being involved, it was likely that scores of people would pour into Cheyenne today, camping out overnight so as to have a good spot in the morning.

  Newcomb had never cared for the carnival atmosphere that went with this part of his job. He liked a good joke as much as anybody else—even more than most folks, he thought—but when it came down to the actual executions, those were serious business. Anyway, he had not felt much like joking since he had arrived in Cheyenne and met Rachel Coleman. No, this wasn’t a laughing matter at all.

  A man wearing a deputy's badge was standing near the base of the gallows, a rifle cradled loosely in his arms. Sheriff Dedrick had deputized several of the townsmen and given them the job of guarding the gallows, more to keep mischievous children from bothering it than from any worry about sabotage. Newcomb walked up to the deputy now on duty and nodded a greeting to him. "Any trouble?" he asked.

  "No, sir, Mr. Newcomb," the man replied. He had also been one of the laborers who had constructed the scaffold under Newcomb's supervision. "There's been plenty of folks takin' a gander at this here gallows, but ain't nobody tried to bother it."

  "Good," Newcomb grunted. He went over to the steps—thirteen of them, of course—and climbed up to the platform. From here he could look out over the town and see the wagons and horses streaming through the streets, bringing in the curious to witness tomorrow's hanging.

  He put his hand on the trapdoor lever, sighing as he rested it there. Everything had gone well during the final stages of the gallows' construction the day before. The lever and the bars that it controlled worked perfectly, assuring that the opening of the trapdoor would be smooth. Later Newcomb would test it again one more time, just to be sure, but he knew it wasn’t really necessary. Rachel Coleman wouldn’t cheat the gallows because of mechanical failure.

  Nor could Newcomb do anything from the legal end. He had spent long hours the day before with Judge Theodore Stephens, studying the records of the trial. After he completed his careful review, Newcomb had to agree with the judge and Sheriff Dedrick: The trial had seemed fair, the testimony complete.

  As he let his gaze rove over the town, Newcomb spotted the office of the Cheyenne Eagle a couple of blocks away. Its sign, with its distinctive likeness of an eagle in flight, was hard to miss. Seeing it reminded him of his promise to Rachel to speak to her assistant, Thatcher Horrigan. Thinking of that made Newcomb's face set in stern lines. He didn’t know Horrigan, but the young man should have come by the jail to see Rachel. He shouldn’t have turned his back on her in her time of trouble, no matter how upset he was by the situation.

  Newcomb nodded to himself. He had been too busy the day before, but he would pay a visit to Horrigan right now.

  "You what?" The angry voice cracked through the newspaper office. "Dammit, Elijah, whatever possessed you to do that?"

  Elijah Jones shuffled his feet uneasily and rubbed his eyebrows, staring at the floor as he listened to Thatcher Horrigan's sharp words. Horrigan stood opposite the young man and glared at him, his eyes glittering with rage.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Horrigan," Elijah finally summoned up the courage to say. "I...I just thought it might be a good idea to clean up around here. You know how Miss Rachel always says the newspaper business is messy enough as it is, that you oughtn't to have any more clutter around than you have to. When I found them papers behind the drawer in the desk, I just figured I'd better get rid of 'em. I meant to tell you before now, but I guess I sort of forgot."

  Horrigan took a deep breath and made an obvious effort to control his temper. "I know Miss Rachel said that, Elijah, but that doesn't give you the right to go through the office and dispose of things yourself."

  "But I didn't throw nothing away!" Elijah protested. "I just took them papers back to Miss Anabel, since they belonged to her daddy."

  "Those documents didn't belong to Yeager anymore." Horrigan's self-control deserted him as his anger flared again. "Didn't you stop to think that they were there for a reason, you stupid fool?"

  Horrigan's voice was loud now, and he didn’t hear the door of the office opening. Elijah's eyes were still downcast.

  The first hint either of them had that a third person was in the room was the sound of someone clearing his throat. "Ah, excuse me," a deep voice said. "I'm looking for Thatcher Horrigan."

  "I'm Horrigan," he said, swinging around, instantly composed. He saw a burly figure in a derby and a suit standing just inside the doorway and watching them with a cool gaze. Horrigan went on, "What can I do for you?"

  "I have a message for you, Mr. Horrigan," K. W. Newcomb said, "from Miss Rachel Coleman."

  Horrigan's manner changed even more. He swept a stack of newsprint off a chair next to a desk and thrust it into Elijah's arms, then turned the chair to face Newcomb. "Please, come in and have a seat, sir," he said. "Are you a friend of Rachel's?"

  "You might say that," Newcomb replied as he settled into the chair. "My name is K. W. Newcomb."

  Horrigan frowned. "Newcomb, Newcomb," he mused. "That name seems familiar..." He stiffened as he recalled where he had heard the name. The friendliness he had shown a moment earlier vanished as he growled, "What the hell do you want here, Newcomb? Don't you have any sense of decency?"

  "I like to think I do," Newcomb said, keeping a tight rein on his own emotions. "You obviously know who I am, Mr. Horrigan, so I won't bother trying to explain. But Miss Coleman did send me over to see you, and you could confirm that yourself if you'd just pay her a visit."

  Horrigan flushed at Newcomb's scolding tone. He looked up and saw Elijah watching them, his mouth slightly open. Waving his arm impatiently, Horrigan snapped, "Go on, Elijah. Take that newsprint back to the storeroom. We don't need it right now." When the young man was gone, Horrigan looked back at Newcomb and
went on. "All right, mister, if you've got something to say, you say it and then get out of here."

  "All right," Newcomb replied stiffly. Quickly, he conveyed the concerns about the paper that Rachel had mentioned to him. Horrigan became angrier as he listened, but when Newcomb had finished, Horrigan put his hands on his hips, drew a deep breath, and heaved a sigh.

  "Rachel's right," he said wearily. "I should have gone to see her more often, and I should have been paying more attention to the details here at the paper. I've just been so damned upset about this whole thing—" He broke off and shook his head. "But I don't guess you'd understand that, would you?"

  "As a matter of fact, I do," Newcomb replied, his own voice more friendly now. "You see, Mr. Horrigan, I don't believe that Rachel is guilty, either." He hesitated a moment. "In fact, I've grown rather fond of her. So you can understand the dilemma I find myself in now."

  "Of course." Horrigan sank down in the chair behind the desk opposite Newcomb. "It's complete lunacy to think that Rachel could kill anyone. But the evidence is so overwhelming. What can anybody do?" Resignation was plain in his voice and on his face.

  "I happen to know that Lucas Flint is trying to find some way of clearing Rachel's name," Newcomb said.

  Horrigan nodded. "Flint came by here a couple of days ago and talked to me. I didn't know what I could tell him that would help. In fact, I haven't seen him since then."

  "I'm sure he's doing his best. That's all any of us can do." Newcomb put his hands on his knees and stood up. He paused, then nodded toward the door of the storeroom where Elijah had disappeared. "Speaking of that, weren't you being a little hard on that young man when I came in? I don't know what he did, and it's none of my business, but he doesn't seem the type to deserve such a dressing-down."

  Horrigan smiled sheepishly. "You're right. I guess I did fly off the handle. Elijah just got a little carried away with some cleaning up around here and got rid of something he shouldn't have."