"You pulled your punch, I hope?"
"Of course. He'll be all right when he wakes up, except for a headache."
Leslie nodded and led the way into the stable. Five minutes later both men were mounted and riding out of town. They followed Texas Street to the west, their horses' hooves clattering over the bridge spanning Mud Creek. Ahead of them stretched the prairie, the Kansas Pacific tracks cutting through the plains. To the south, paralleling the railroad, was the Smoky Hill River. The two big men urged their horses into a gallop as they rode beside the rails.
Somewhere up ahead were Ellie and Oliver. O’Sullivan promised himself that he would see them alive again. Or he would kill Brett Easton with his bare hands.
The posse led by Flint and Cully set a fast pace on the ride west from Abilene. They hugged the line of the now leafless trees that grew along the banks of the Smoky Hill River. But as they neared the area where the cabin was located, the marshal ordered the men to slow their horses to a walk. If the kidnappers had posted sentries, as was likely, Flint didn’t want a large dust cloud to give away the approaching posse.
As they rode at the head of the dozen or so men hastily deputized in Abilene, Cully said to Flint, "I think I recollect this place, too, Marshal. It used to belong to some farmer, didn't it?"
Flint nodded. "He couldn't make a go of it, from what I understand, and finally gave up. The farm had plenty of water, since the river was right beside it, but the ground was just too rocky. The cabin sits on a bluff above the river."
"That's the way I remember it, too," Cully agreed. "I've ridden past it a few times. You think we can get close enough to the place without them seeing us?"
Flint rubbed his jaw thoughtfully and then said, "That's what I hope. There are some trees along that bluff. They might give us enough cover."
The two lawmen fell silent. When they saw the peak of the cabin's roof through the trees a hundred yards away, Flint called a halt. Gesturing to the posse, he ordered them to move into the stand of trees. Once the men were under cover, he swung down from his horse and turned to the Scotsman. "Angus, you and the others stay here and keep as quiet as you can. Cully and I will scout ahead a little."
"Aye," Angus acknowledged with a nod.
On foot, Flint and Cully slipped through the trees. They were so close to the river now that they could hear its soft gurgle. They also heard the sudden whinny of a horse up ahead.
"That'll be them," Flint breathed. Crouching, he inched forward, then paused behind some brush. Cully knelt beside him. Flint moved some of the growth aside and they were able to see the cabin, some fifty yards away.
Four horses were tied up in front of the ramshackle structure. Smoke curled lazily from the stone chimney, a sign that someone inside was probably brewing a pot of coffee. One man stood on the porch, a rifle in his hands. He appeared to be the only guard.
Flint whispered, "Do you know that fellow?"
Cully shook his head. "Don't recognize him right off at this distance. Reckon he's one of Price's friends."
"That would be my guess. I can't see if they have anybody else on guard."
"Neither can I," Cully agreed. "You think we could rush the place?"
Flint studied the open area in front of the cabin. The trees and brush didn’t come as close to it as he had hoped. "I'm not sure," he said finally. "That's a lot of open ground to cover. I reckon we could charge them and roust them out, but those two youngsters would probably get killed in the process."
Cully looked speculatively at the bluff. After a moment, he said, "What we need is somebody to distract them for a few minutes while the rest of the posse comes to the front. Looks to me like a man could slip along the river and then climb that bluff right up to their back door."
"It would be a pretty hard climb. That slope's pretty steep, and it's rocky."
Cully grinned. "Shoot, I've climbed worse. Joshua could tell you. When I was a little kid, there was this cliff close to where we lived—"
"I'll take your word for it," Flint cut in. "One thing, though. I don't want you providing the distraction. The rest of us will do that. When we start the ruckus, it'll be up to you to get in through the back and grab Ellie and Oliver. Can you do that?"
Cully considered Flint's suggestion, then nodded. "It's the only way they'll have a chance. You'd better give me about fifteen minutes to get into position. I'd signal you, but I don't know what I could do that wouldn't tip them off, too."
Flint agreed, and the two lawmen moved stealthily back to where they had left the posse. Once there, Flint quietly explained the plan to the other men. Angus put a hand on Cully's shoulder and squeezed. "Good luck, lad," he said.
"Thanks. I reckon Ellie and Oliver are the ones who'll need it the most, though." With a carefree wave to Flint that belied the grim nature of his mission, Cully left his horse tied in the trees and headed for the river on foot.
Flint pulled his watch from his pants pocket and flipped the case open. Fifteen minutes, Cully had said. That was what they would give him. And if he wasn’t ready, this rescue attempt could quickly turn into a disaster.
13
The time passed very slowly. According to Lucas Flint's watch, they had been waiting for five minutes when he heard galloping horses approaching from the east. He spun around and hissed to Angus, "See who that is and stop the fools before they ruin everything!"
Angus ran toward the rear of the posse, carrying the shotgun that was his preferred weapon. He spotted two men riding through the trees and stepped in front of them, covering them with the gun. "Hold it!" he ordered in a harsh whisper, muffling the deep rumble of his voice.
Leslie Garrison and Quincy O’Sullivan reined in awkwardly and gaped at him in surprise. They hadn’t spotted the posse members hidden up ahead. Leslie cried, "Angus! I'm glad to see you."
"Hush, lad," the Scotsman rasped, lowering his shotgun and motioning for the newcomers to be quiet. "Wha' are the two o' ye doing out here? Especially ye, Quincy. Dinna Talmage say ye could no' come?"
"I guess you could say Talmage got his mind changed for him," O’Sullivan said. Lines of concern were deeply etched in his face as he asked, "What's happened?"
Angus shook his head. "Nothing yet. We be waiting f' Cully t' get into position 'fore we rush the place."
O’Sullivan frowned anxiously. "If you rush them, they're sure to kill Ellie and Oliver."
"Not the way Lucas has planned it," Angus told him. "G'down off tha' horse and come wi' me. Lucas kin tell ye all about it."
O’Sullivan and Leslie dismounted and tied their horses to a sapling, then followed closely behind Angus to where Lucas Flint was standing, staring at the watch in his hand. At the sound of their footsteps, he glanced up and frowned in angry surprise when he saw who the newcomers were.
"Dammit, Quincy, I thought you were staying in Abilene," Flint snapped. "Where's Talmage?"
"I said all along he didn't have to come," O’Sullivan replied. "But I'm here, and that's all that matters. I want to go in there, Marshal."
Flint took a deep breath. He suspected that O’Sullivan had slipped away from Talmage somehow, maybe even got the jump on him and knocked him out of this fight for the moment. But this was no time to question the prizefighter. Cully would be climbing the bluff toward the cabin above by now.
"We already have our rescue attempt planned," Flint told O’Sullivan. He explained it tersely, finishing, "If we don't hit the place when Cully said, things could get fouled up."
"But your deputy's not going to make his move until he hears the shooting when you charge the cabin," O’Sullivan pointed out. "As long as nobody fires a gun, he'll wait for the right moment."
"True enough, but every second he waits there behind that cabin his chances of being spotted increase. He's got to take Easton and Price by surprise, or he won't do any good."
O’Sullivan thought that over. Leslie Garrison stood by, a worried look on his rugged face. Finally, O’Sullivan said, "Look, Marshal, Easton'
s after me. I think it should be my decision whether or not I ride over there. I honestly think that I can get Ellie and Oliver out."
Flint looked intently at him for a long moment, then glanced over at Angus and Leslie. "What do you two think?" he asked.
"The man has a point, Lucas," Angus replied. "And he's right about Cully waiting until the shooting starts 'fore he busts in."
Leslie said, "It looks to me as though Quincy will be the only one taking any extra risks, Marshal. If anything goes wrong, the posse can still charge, and Cully can come in the back just as you planned."
Flint nodded abruptly. "All right," he said to O’Sullivan. "I don't much like it, but you're right about it being your life. If you want to go in there, I won't stop you."
Despite his worry, O’Sullivan was able to grin. "Thanks, Marshal. You don't know how good it feels to be doing something instead of just sitting and waiting."
"You'd better do it pretty quickly. Cully should be just about ready now. I don't want him to be a sitting duck any longer than necessary."
"I'll go right now," O’Sullivan said, turning and heading for his horse. He untied his mount and swung up into the saddle, then rode through the trees toward the clearing in front of the cabin. The posse members had overheard the conversation, and several of them muttered, "Good luck, O’Sullivan," as he passed them. Leslie said, "Be careful, Quincy," a warning echoed by Angus.
Flint held the butt of his gun out toward O’Sullivan and said, "You might need this. I've got a spare in my saddlebag."
O’Sullivan shook his head. "I've never been any good with one of those, Marshal. My fists are the only weapons I've ever used. But thanks anyway."
Holstering his gun, Flint watched O’Sullivan walk his horse through the brush and into the clearing. The next few minutes would tell the story.
O’Sullivan could feel his heart pounding as he rode toward the cabin. He saw the man standing on the porch suddenly straighten and duck into the building, no doubt to warn Easton that someone was coming. O’Sullivan half expected shots to ring out, but the air remained still and quiet. It was a pretty day, he thought, warm for autumn. The sky was a clear blue. If it came to that, not a bad day to die.
It seemed to take forever to cross the open space in front of the cabin. As he rode forward, O’Sullivan could see how the ground dropped away a few feet beyond the shack. That would be the bluff Flint had told him about. At the bottom of it was the river.
Finally, O’Sullivan drew the horse to a stop a few feet from the porch. Resting his hands on the saddle horn, he called out, "Easton! Are you in there?"
For a long moment there was silence. Then a voice called from inside the cabin, "I'm here, O’Sullivan. Where's Talmage?"
"In Abilene," O’Sullivan replied. "You don't need him, Easton. All he knows is what I've told him. He didn't see you and Savage and your thugs kill Bernie and Randolph. You know damn well a judge and jury aren't going to listen to anybody but an eyewitness."
A cold laugh floated through the open window next to the door. "True enough," Easton agreed. "But I wouldn't mind seeing Talmage dead anyway, just to make sure all the loose ends are tied up. That's not your concern, though, O’Sullivan."
O’Sullivan sensed there were several guns pointing at him. With his skin crawling, he called, "That's right, Easton. All I'm worried about now is Ellie and Oliver Barlow. I came out here like you wanted. Now let them go." He had raised his voice so that if Cully was indeed concealed behind the cabin, as he was supposed to be, he would overhear the conversation and know what was going on.
The cabin door swung open with a squeal of rusty hinges that tore at O’Sullivan's tightly stretched nerves. When he saw who stumbled through it, he clutched at the saddle horn to keep from flinging himself off the horse.
Ellie and Oliver stood on the porch and crowding close behind them were Brett Easton and Woodie Price. This was the first time that O’Sullivan had seen Easton since that awful night in Chicago, but he had no trouble recognizing the man. Easton was holding the barrel of a small pistol to Oliver's head. His other hand gripped the boy's shoulder. Price was behind Ellie, one arm around her waist and the other hand holding a revolver pressed into her side.
Both captives looked as if they had been roughed up, their clothes torn and disheveled. One sleeve and shoulder of Ellie's dress had been ripped away, exposing her smooth, slim arm. O’Sullivan saw purple bruises there, and anger surged through him. Trembling slightly, he managed to control it.
Despite what she had gone through, Ellie held her head up, and her eyes were clear as she looked at O’Sullivan. He saw sorrow in them and realized with a shock that it was for him, not for herself. He could tell that she wished he hadn’t come; she would rather die herself than have him fall into Easton's hands.
Oliver hung his head, his eyes staring at the planks at his feet, his stance one of fear and defeat. Were it not for Easton gripping his shoulder, he might have fallen.
O’Sullivan heard a noise at the window and glanced up to see the two other men glaring at him, their rifles trained on him. Grinning, Easton said, "That's so you don't try anything funny, O’Sullivan. Those men will blow you right out of that saddle if you do."
O’Sullivan sighed heavily. "I'm not going to try anything, Easton. I came to see that my friends aren't hurt. Why don't you let them go now? You've gotten what you wanted."
"I haven't," Price growled. "Not yet, anyway." He moved the arm that was around Ellie's waist so that he could reach up and roughly stroke her breast. She paled but didn’t flinch or utter a sound.
O’Sullivan felt his desperation and rage growing. "Come on, Easton," he growled. "I'm not going to double-cross you. You keep your end of the bargain."
"Now that's a funny thing, O’Sullivan," Easton said, his grin broadening. He moved the muzzle of his pistol away from Oliver's head and aimed the weapon at O’Sullivan's large frame. "I don't mind double-crossing you one damn bit. Dane always told me never to leave any witnesses behind. I think I'll just kill you, then let Price and his men have their fun with the girl here. They've been very patient. I might even take a turn myself."
Oliver's head lifted, his eyes widening as the horrible meaning of Easton's words soaked into his stunned mind. Suddenly, surprising everyone, he twisted out of Easton's grasp and spun around. Using all the courage, self-confidence, and skill he had learned during his boxing lessons from Leslie Garrison, Oliver lashed out and knocked Easton's gun arm aside. The pistol cracked, but the bullet went wild. Oliver launched a punch, putting all his weight into the blow and driving his fist into Easton's stomach.
Easton grunted and took an involuntary step backward, but he recovered quickly. Oliver had accomplished a great deal with surprise and timing, but he lacked the sheer power to knock down a grown man. Furious, Easton slashed at the boy with the gun. The barrel thudded against Oliver's head and sent him sprawling off the edge of the porch.
Seeing Oliver take action, O’Sullivan made his move at the same instant. He flung himself out of the saddle, his vigorous lunge bridging the few feet so that he landed on the porch and plowed into Ellie and Price. The collision loosened Price's grip on the girl. O’Sullivan's hand closed over the barrel of the gun and jerked it away from Ellie's body just as Price fired.
O’Sullivan felt the bullet tear into him, but he had already thrown a punch at Price's head. It landed with devastating force, slamming Price back against the wall of the cabin. He still managed to hang on to the gun, though. With the last of his fading strength, O’Sullivan pushed Ellie off the porch and cried, "Run!" Then he collapsed, clutching at his middle and feeling the blood welling between his fingers.
Inside the cabin the two men standing at the window were trying to aim their rifles at the figures struggling on the porch when the back door was smashed open by a kick from Cully Markham's booted foot. Cully leaped into the room and threw himself to the floor as the men whirled around. Their rifles blasted, but the slugs whined over Cully's
head, through the space he had occupied a split second earlier. He triggered twice, the reports so close together they sounded like one. The bullets caught one of the men in the chest. He spun around and collapsed like a rag doll. Cully rolled to the side as the other man's shots chewed splinters from the rough planks of the floor. The Colt in his hand boomed a third time and sent the remaining outlaw staggering backward, clutching a lead-shattered shoulder.
On the porch, Easton and Price both recovered in time to see a dozen men on horseback burst through the trees on the far side of the clearing. Easton jammed his pistol back in its holster and vaulted over the porch railing. He jerked the reins of one of the horses free and leaped into the saddle. Pulling the animal's head around savagely, he slammed his heels into its sides and galloped toward the river, heading east away from the cabin.
Price chose not to flee. He was tired of running, tired of being pushed around. If he were going to go down, it wouldn’t be alone. He lifted his gun and lined its sights on Ellie Barlow, who was running across the front of the porch toward her fallen brother. There was no way Price could miss at this range.
Before his finger could tighten on the trigger, a .44-.40 Winchester slug barreled into his chest, knocking him back and killing him instantly. He collapsed on the porch next to Quincy O’Sullivan's bloody, motionless body.
Lucas Flint levered another shell into the chamber of his rifle and drew a deep breath. Seeing what Price was about to do, he had yanked his horse to a halt to steady his aim, but it had still been a lucky shot and he knew it. Ellie was still alive, though, so he would take the luck and be thankful for it. He kneed his horse into motion.
The posse rode up to the cabin, guns out and ready, but silence had descended on the place. That quiet was broken by a groan from inside. Then Cully stepped through the door. He still held his Colt, but there was a grin on his gun smoke-grimed face.
"There's one dead and one hurting pretty bad inside here, Marshal," he told Flint. "Neither one's going to be giving us any more trouble."
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 135
