Rose nodded, her smile fading as a look of professional concern replaced it. "I was wondering the same thing. I've heard some talk around town about you, Mr. O’Sullivan. I understood that you were a pugilist, not a gunfighter."
O’Sullivan wasn’t smiling now. "I think these holes are my business, Marshal. No offense, but like I said, it happened three weeks ago, before I ever came to Abilene."
"It's my business if there's a chance somebody might try to put some more in you while you're in my town," Flint replied coolly.
"That won't happen, Marshal," Talmage assured him quickly. "It's true, we did have some trouble before we left Chicago, but that's all over. All we're interested in now is getting ready for Quincy's next fight."
"Not any time soon, I hope," Rose advised. "Those wounds won't take too much abuse before they open up again, as you found out tonight."
Talmage nodded. "I know. And this may put us behind schedule. But I can promise you that Quincy will be fully healed in time for the bout."
"It's none of my business," Rose said with a shake of her head. "But I don't like to see anyone hurt needlessly."
"Neither do I, Doctor," Talmage assured her. "I hope this won't have any effect on our plans to get together."
Rose smiled. "Of course not. But please be careful, both of you."
"Don't worry about us, ma'am," O’Sullivan grunted. "We can take care of ourselves."
"I'm sure," Rose said dryly, picking his bloody shirt up off the floor.
Frowning, O’Sullivan took it from her and eased into it with Talmage's assistance. Talmage said to Flint, "You're sure about taking Dr. Keller's fee out of the fine?"
Flint nodded. "You two had best get back to your place and get some rest. And from now on, keep an eye out for Price. I'll hold him tonight, but he'll be on the streets again soon, and he's the type who'll want to settle the score."
"I understand, Marshal," Talmage said grimly. "Come on, Quincy."
"Need any help?"
"We can make it," Talmage assured him.
With Talmage supporting him, O’Sullivan walked stiffly out of the small house and turned at the boardwalk toward their rooming house. Once they were beyond earshot of the doctor's office, O’Sullivan grinned through his pain and commented, "You seemed mighty impressed with that lady, Sam. I thought you said these frontier doctors weren't good for much, just like the lawmen."
"I could have been mistaken about Dr. Keller," Talmage said archly. "She seemed very competent and professional."
O’Sullivan chuckled. "And damned pretty, too."
"Come on," Talmage grated.
Flint and Rose stood on the boardwalk in front of her office and watched the two figures move awkwardly away. "What did you really think about those bullet wounds, Lucas?" Rose asked.
"I think those two are lying about why they're here," Flint declared. "They're up to something besides getting ready for some prizefight. I'm going to keep a closer watch on them from now on."
Rose shook her head. "They don't seem to be the type to cause trouble. Besides, Mr. O’Sullivan is an old friend of Leslie Garrison's, isn't he?"
"That's right. But Leslie says he never heard of Talmage, knew nothing about him until he showed up here with O’Sullivan. Talmage is the one who strikes me as fishy."
"I thought he was very nice," Rose said. "He seemed genuinely concerned about his friend."
Flint glanced at Rose. She had been so animated when she and Talmage talked about Chicago, he recalled. So big cities excited her, did they? Before tonight he had believed Abilene was big enough for her, had thought she was content to live here, happy with the people she knew.
You're jealous, Lucas, Flint told himself. He might not want to admit it, but he knew it was true. And it was another good reason to keep an eye on Quincy O’Sullivan and the smooth-talking Mr. Sam Talmage.
6
Quincy O’Sullivan was stiff and sore the next morning from the blows he had taken in the fight with Woodie Price. But as Rose Keller had predicted, he recovered fairly rapidly. His iron constitution and the years he had spent learning to absorb punishment and shake it off made him a quick healer. When Rose changed the dressings on his wounds that afternoon, she commented on how well they looked.
Sam Talmage had insisted on accompanying O’Sullivan to the doctor's office, which came as no surprise to O’Sullivan. Once again, the detective exchanged pleasantries with Rose, and they spent several minutes talking about Chicago. Talmage told her about attending the opera there, which did surprise O’Sullivan. Talmage had never struck him as the sort to enjoy three hours of caterwauling in some foreign language.
After several more days had passed, O’Sullivan felt very much like himself again. He would take it easy, as Rose had advised, but he was confident the wounds were going to heal just fine.
In the excitement of the saloon brawl, O’Sullivan had had no opportunity to ask Talmage if there had been any reply to the wire he had sent to Chicago. Now when he asked, he discovered that there had been—but the news wasn’t good. Dane Savage's lawyers had tried every stalling tactic and had been successful in getting their client's trial date pushed back several more weeks. What was even worse, Brett Easton hadn’t been captured. Speculation in underworld circles was that, knowing that a murder warrant had been issued for his arrest, he had fled Chicago.
"If he has left, you can bet that Savage got word to him first and ordered him to find you," Talmage said grimly. "Both of them know their only hope is to eliminate you."
"Well, he's not likely to find me out here in Abilene," O’Sullivan replied.
Talmage didn’t look convinced of that.
The detective's headache had gone away after a couple of days, and his blurred vision had cleared. Rose declared that he probably had only a minor concussion, but she advised him to continue being careful. Talmage promised faithfully he would.
They hadn’t resumed the training sessions yet, since Talmage wanted to take no chances with O’Sullivan's health, but the inactivity was making the big prizefighter nervous. On a bright November day, the two men were in the cozy parlor of Hettie Wilburn's boardinghouse. O’Sullivan, who was pacing the room like a caged animal, glanced at the grandfather's clock in the hall and said, "It's almost noon, Sam. I think I'll go down to the Red Top Café and get something to eat. Want to come along?"
Talmage was sitting at a small writing desk; a piece of paper lay in front of him, and he held a pencil in his hand. He was frowning as he concentrated on writing another message to his associate back in Chicago. The telegram had to be carefully worded so that anyone reading it wouldn’t be suspicious, but at the same time, it had to contain the coded phrases that would convey the actual message to the man for whom it was intended. Talmage licked his pencil point and absently shook his head.
"I'm busy with this," he muttered. "Can I trust you not to get into any trouble if you go by yourself?"
"I'm not a little kid, Sam," O’Sullivan protested. "I think I can walk a few blocks in broad daylight without anything happening to me."
Talmage sighed. "All right. It's against my better judgment, but I suppose I can't watch you twenty-four hours a day. Just keep a sharp eye out for anything suspicious."
Taking his hat from the hallstand, O’Sullivan pushed it on his head and grinned. "Sure, Sam. I'll do that." He quickly left the house before Talmage could change his mind.
It was a beautiful autumn day. The sun was warm, and a crisp breeze rustled the dry, brown leaves scattered on the ground. O’Sullivan felt an exhilarating sense of freedom as he walked down Texas Street. It was good to be out from under Talmage's constant surveillance, even if the inspector did have his best interests at heart.
Quite a few people were on the street, but no one looked out of place. Cowboys, farmers, and businessmen moved among women who bustled about in sunbonnets and homespun dresses. In fact, O’Sullivan thought, the only person on Texas Street who didn’t seem to belong there was himself.
He glanced across the street and noticed a familiar figure coming out of the Great Western Store. The boy was struggling with a keg of molasses that was too large and heavy for him. O’Sullivan frowned as he tried to recall the boy's name. Oliver Barlow, that's it. Leslie had introduced him to O’Sullivan during his first visit to the school. That was where Oliver should have been at the moment, O’Sullivan thought.
Behind the lad came a smaller child, a girl with long golden hair and the same delicate features as the boy. Oliver's little sister, no doubt. O’Sullivan paused on the boardwalk and wondered what they were doing out of school.
Someone else emerged from the doorway of the store, and at first O’Sullivan couldn’t see anything but a long skirt because the person's face was hidden behind the large sack of flour she was carrying. Struggling with it was more accurate; the bag was obviously heavy. It began to slip down as the woman neared a wagon parked at the raised boardwalk. Oliver hurriedly placed the molasses keg on the seat of the wagon and sprang to help her.
The flour was still too heavy even for the two of them. The sack slipped from their hands and landed on the boardwalk with a thump, the impact raising a small white cloud that the woman fanned away. As her waving hands cleared the dust she turned, and O’Sullivan saw her face for the first time.
Why, she's just a girl, he realized, a little surprised. Without thinking about what he was doing, he started across the street to help. As he approached, he could see the resemblance between Oliver, his little sister, and the young woman. She wasn’t old enough to be the children's mother—O’Sullivan figured she was around twenty—so that meant she must be their sister. She was staring wearily at the bag of flour when O’Sullivan stepped onto the boardwalk.
Tipping his derby gallantly, he asked, "Would you be needing some help, ma'am?"
"Mr. O’Sullivan!" Oliver exclaimed excitedly, glancing up and recognizing the prizefighter. "Ellie, this is Mr. O’Sullivan. I told you about the day he came to the school and Mr. Thornbury got knocked out!"
"Yes, of course," Ellie murmured. She looked up at O’Sullivan and went on, "I hate to ask, but I suppose I could use some help. I'm Ellie Barlow." She extended her hand toward O’Sullivan.
He took it, found her grip cool and firm despite the light dusting of flour on her skin. "Quincy O’Sullivan, at your service, Miss Barlow."
"You know Oliver," Ellie said, "and this is my sister, Netta." She indicated the little girl who smiled shyly at O’Sullivan and slipped timidly behind Ellie's skirt.
"Hello, darling," O’Sullivan spoke gently to Netta. He guessed that the pretty child was around eight years old.
"Hello," Netta whispered.
As Ellie tucked a strand of long brown hair that had fallen across her cheek under her bonnet, O’Sullivan caught his breath. Her fine features, so like Oliver's, were prettily arranged in a pale, oval face, and in her lovely brown eyes he saw an innocence he found refreshing.
"I ought to be able to handle something like this, but that bag is just too heavy," she said apologetically.
"Think nothing of it." O’Sullivan bent and wrapped his arms around the sack of flour. He felt a slight twinge in his shoulder as he straightened but ignored it. Stepping over to the wagon bed, he carefully placed the bag just behind the seat. Then he lifted the keg of molasses and positioned it next to the flour. "I'd be glad to load the rest of your supplies."
"We don't have much more," Oliver said, looking at O’Sullivan with worshipful eyes. "The rest of the sacks are right inside. I'll show you." Obviously, the boy was thrilled that O’Sullivan had come to help them, and the prizefighter smiled warmly at him.
O’Sullivan quickly loaded the rest of the supplies into the wagon. He knew that if Talmage had been there he would have been angry that O’Sullivan would risk reopening his wounds, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t ignore someone who needed a hand—especially someone as pretty as Ellie Barlow.
"Thank you, Mr. O’Sullivan," Ellie said when he was finished. "I wish I could pay you for your trouble."
O’Sullivan waved off the suggestion with both big hands. "Not at all, not at all. I was glad to help, Miss Barlow. Do you live somewhere around here?"
"We have a small farm outside of town," she replied.
"Then I'd be glad to ride along and help you unload those goods."
Oliver's face lit up, but Ellie quickly shook her head. "That won't be necessary. Our father came into town with us, and we'll be picking him up as we leave. He can unload the supplies. I appreciate the offer, though, Mr. O’Sullivan."
Oliver looked disappointed, and O’Sullivan thought that little Netta did, too. But he shrugged and said, "Whatever you think best, ma'am. Any time I can give you a hand, just let me know."
"Thank you, Mr. O’Sullivan." Ellie smiled.
O’Sullivan reached down to ruffle Oliver's hair. "Say, why aren't you and your little sister in school today?"
The lad shifted his feet uncomfortably. "Aw, our pa said we didn't have to go. Said he wanted us to help pick up the supplies. Ellie tried to talk him out of it—"
"That's enough, Oliver," Ellie interrupted him quickly. "We don't want to bore Mr. O’Sullivan with our personal matters. Now come along. We have to get going."
She climbed onto the wagon, sat down on the wooden seat, and picked up the reins. Oliver and Netta scrambled into the back and found places to sit among the supplies. Oliver grinned and waved at O’Sullivan as Ellie urged the pair of mules that pulled the wagon into motion. Netta waved, too, and O’Sullivan grinned as he returned the gesture.
Ellie Barlow didn’t wave, but she glanced over her shoulder as the wagon pulled away. O’Sullivan was struck once again by her beauty—and by the sadness he saw in her deep brown eyes.
That young woman's carrying quite a load, O’Sullivan thought. He wasn’t thinking of the supplies packed in the back of the wagon.
He continued to watch Ellie steer the wagon down Texas Street. As she brought it to a stop in front of a saloon a couple of blocks away, O’Sullivan's eyes narrowed. Ellie, Oliver, and Netta sat quietly in the wagon for several minutes. Then the batwings of the saloon were pushed open, and a man appeared. Swaying slightly, he walked across the boardwalk to the wagon. He's drunk, O’Sullivan decided.
Even at this distance, O’Sullivan could make out quite a bit about the man. Dressed in work clothes, he wore a floppy-brimmed hat pushed back on his salt-and-pepper hair, and his bushy dark beard was streaked with white. Once he might have been muscular and powerful, but now his body had gone to fat. The man climbed awkwardly onto the wagon and sank down heavily next to Ellie. He didn’t appear to say anything to any of the children. As his shoulders slumped and his head tipped forward on his chest, Ellie flapped the reins and got the mules moving again.
"That's a shame, isn't it?" asked a voice nearby. O’Sullivan turned to see Deputy Cully Markham standing on the boardwalk a few feet away. He, too, was looking down the street after the Barlow wagon.
"The man was drunk," O’Sullivan snapped, not bothering to conceal his annoyance.
"Sure, he was. Nobody's seen Charlie Barlow anything but drunk for a long time now. From what I've heard, he used to be a good man, but his wife died a few years back, before I came to Abilene. According to folks who were around then, Charlie never was the same after that. Miss Ellie's sort of had to hold things together."
"She has no help? She's raising those children by herself?" O’Sullivan asked, appalled.
Cully shrugged. "I don't reckon Charlie is much help if that's what you mean. He hides in a bottle most of the time. But Ellie's been keeping things going. She's done a good job with those two kids, couldn't have done any better if they were her own."
The deputy grinned. "She's a good-looking woman, too."
"She certainly is," O’Sullivan agreed.
"Most of the young bucks around here have been trying to court her for over a year now, but Miss Ellie's not having any part of it. I reckon she feels she'
s got to worry about Oliver and little Netta before she thinks about herself."
O’Sullivan peered shrewdly at Cully. "You wouldn't be one of those would-be suitors, would you?"
Cully's grin widened. "I've always had an eye for a pretty gal, Mr. O’Sullivan, and I wouldn't have been able to live with myself if I hadn't tried to get to know Ellie Barlow better. But I had about as much luck as everybody else—not a darned bit."
O’Sullivan glanced toward the wagon. It had reached the edge of town and was just about out of sight. "Why are you telling me all this?" he asked.
"Well...I figured from the look on your face you might be interested in Ellie. Just thought I'd warn you not to get your hopes up too high."
O’Sullivan laughed. "It's that obvious, is it?"
"I wouldn't worry about it. Like I said, you're not the first." Cully stopped smiling and went on, "Say, how are you doing? Seemed to me you took a pretty good beating the other night at Angus's."
"It looked worse than it really was." O’Sullivan shrugged. "Dr. Keller patched me up just fine. She seems like a good doctor."
"The best," Cully agreed. "Marshal Flint thinks so, too. He's fond of Rose. Reckon all of us around here are. She's done a lot for the town."
Enough so that she was much more valuable staying here than she would be if she were in Chicago, where there were plenty of competent doctors, O’Sullivan thought. Talmage had said nothing about wanting Rose to return to Chicago with them, but O’Sullivan wouldn’t have put it past the smitten detective.
Cully went on, "You haven't seen Woodie Price again, have you? We could only hold him for a night. When Woodie paid his fine the next morning, the judge turned him loose. He just might come looking for you."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 125
