While he waited for the coffee to finish perking, he went to the front door of the office and stepped out onto the boardwalk. Drawing a deep breath of crisp air, he stretched and then leaned against one of the posts supporting the awning above him to gaze at the shops and saloons housed in the two- and three-story frame buildings that lined Texas Street.
He saw that the saloons were closed, as they ought to be at this hour. The Bull's Head, almost directly opposite him, and the Old Fruit Saloon, located on the corner to his left, were dark and quiet. But diagonally across the street to his right he noticed a flicker of movement as someone opened the curtains at the Red Top Café.
The sky was a clear, bright blue, and Cully could tell that the day would be pleasant once the sun had a chance to warm the chilly air.
Abilene's deputy marshal was a clean-shaven, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties. Lounging lazily against the boardwalk post, he struck a deceptively casual pose. But anyone who had spent much time in the West would spot the alertness in his eyes and the habitual way his right hand was poised inches from his pearl-handled Colt.
In repose, his handsome features had a grim cast, but that would be relieved by one of his frequent smiles. His boots were worn but well cared for, as were the holster and shell belt that were strapped around his hips. The denim pants, work shirt, and cowhide vest might have marked him as a cowboy had it not been for the badge pinned to his vest.
Cully Markham was handy with a gun and in his earlier years had come awfully close to riding on the wrong side of the law. He had chosen instead to uphold it—even though that sometimes meant doing boring chores like brewing coffee and sweeping out the office. Grinning faintly, he turned and went back inside.
Marshal Lucas Flint arrived at the office ten minutes later. He hung his hat on one of the pegs just inside the doorway, then took the cup of steaming black liquid that Cully handed to him and sipped it gratefully. As he strolled behind his scarred old desk that was piled with papers, he asked, "Anybody been around looking for me this morning?"
"No," Cully replied. "It's been quiet. Not too many folks up and about just yet."
"One fewer than yesterday," Flint grunted.
Cully frowned. "What do you mean, Marshal?"
"Alfred Pendleton died last night."
Cully's frown deepened. As deputy marshal, Cully had hauled in a drunken Alfred Pendleton many times and locked him in one of the cells. "What happened?"
"I found his body lying in the street when I was making my final rounds," Flint said. "Had to roust Cyril Warren out of bed. We took Pendleton to Cyril's place and looked him over. There were no signs of foul play, but he had been drinking as usual. It's the coroner's opinion, and mine, too, that Pendleton finally died from guzzling too much rotgut."
Cully shook his head. "That's a shame. Alfred wasn't a bad sort. He never gave me any trouble when I had to arrest him and toss him in jail."
"Cyril will be burying him today. I told him to send the bill to the county. Alfred didn't have any folks around here, did he?"
"None that I know of."
The two lawmen said nothing further about Alfred Pendleton's death. It was unfortunate, but both men knew that such unhappy endings were all too common in the West, even in so-called civilized places like Abilene. In fact, Cully thought as he went about his work, people seemed to take to drink more quickly as civilization approached from the east.
When the deputy walked to the Red Top Café for breakfast a little later, he noticed that the temperature was rising as he had predicted. The fine film of frost that had blanketed everything earlier in the morning was gone. The air was still nippy, but it was a pleasant change after the hot summer that Abilene had just had.
Once inside the cheerful, clean café, Cully ordered a big platter of bacon and flapjacks. He grinned when he saw the extra flapjacks on the plate. The larger portion wasn’t unusual when the vivacious, redheaded young woman who brought him his breakfast was working. A green-eyed beauty, Alice Hammond worked part-time at the cafe and was a few years younger than Cully. He had known almost from the day she arrived in Abilene that she had a crush on him. He was genuinely fond of her, too, but not romantically so. At least that was what he told himself. Give Alice a few more years and that might change, he mused. He smiled at her and watched her pale cheeks flush with pleasure as she hurried to refill his coffee cup.
When he had finished eating, Cully said good-bye to Alice and strolled out onto the boardwalk. Judging from the amount of traffic now moving on Texas Street, Abilene's main thoroughfare, he figured it was about eight o'clock. Men on horseback threaded their way among wagons and buggies that maneuvered for space on the broad street. Cries of greeting, the clatter of wheels, the jingle of harnesses, and the clopping of horses' hooves filled the air. The raised plank boardwalks that lined the street and connected the various businesses were crowded with chattering pedestrians.
Abilene was a thriving, growing city. For years it had been the center for shipping cattle by rail to the big markets in the East, but it was no longer the wild cattle town it had once been. The Kansas Pacific had pushed west, along with the frontier, and Abilene was becoming civilized. General mercantiles, hardware stores, and even a pharmacy now stood shoulder to shoulder with rowdy saloons. It was the good, solid citizens of this city that thronged the street this morning. In a couple of months winter would move in good and proper, and folks had plenty to do to prepare for it.
Flint had said that he had already eaten breakfast, which meant that Cully was at loose ends for the moment. He would return to the office later to relieve the marshal, but for now he could wander where he wanted.
Cully headed for the Kansas Pacific depot on Railroad Street. He knew a westbound train was due this morning. Lucas Flint had made it a practice to have one of the town's two lawmen meet the trains when they came in, if possible. Trouble might decide to get off at any time and being careful was what kept them alive.
Cully stepped into the lobby of the big, red brick building and waved at Oliver Brewer, the gray-haired, cheerful stationmaster, who was standing behind the ticket window. Under his green eyeshade, Brewer smiled and nodded a greeting. Cully scanned the large room, scrutinizing the people sitting on the benches. Some had valises with them, clearly planning to depart on the westbound; the others were probably waiting to greet passengers who would be disembarking.
Cully strolled over to the ticket window. "Morning, Oliver," he said. "The westbound on schedule?"
"Right on time, as far as I know," Brewer answered. He pulled a fat engineer's watch from his vest pocket and checked it, rather than looking at the big clock on the lobby wall. "Ought to be here in another five minutes."
Nodding, Cully turned away, ambled to the doors that led to the platform, and pushed through them. Cold air struck his cheeks. The platform was on the south side of the tracks, blocked from the warm morning sun by the massive depot and the awning that shielded it from rain and snow. Because of the chilly shade, he had it to himself for the moment, but that would change in a hurry when the train rolled in.
Leaning against one of the awning posts, he gazed up the tracks, his eyes tracing their path past the sprawling stockyards on the eastern edge of town and onward to the rolling prairie beyond. A moment later the faint sound of a whistle drifted in. Cully grinned. Brewer had been right; the westbound was on time.
The train rolled into the station accompanied by the hiss of steam and the squeal of brakes. The people who had been waiting inside the depot crowded onto the platform. Cully stayed where he was, out of the way of the embarking and disembarking passengers.
The usual assortment of people got off the train. Businessmen and families made up the majority of the passengers, but a few cowhands were among the group, looking as if they wished they were back on their horses.
Then a petite young woman emerged from one of the cars and stepped nimbly down to the platform. Cully glanced in her direction, then after a moment took a more
careful look.
He had always had an eye for a pretty girl, and this youthful newcomer certainly fit that description. She was so small that at first glance she might have been taken for a child, but her curvaceous form quickly dispelled that notion.
Cully guessed that she was in her early twenties. Dark brown curls surrounded her delicate, heart-shaped face; the rest of her long hair had been twisted into a bun, which was nestled at the nape of her neck. Evidently her journey had been long and rigorous because several wisps had strayed appealingly from the disciplined coiffure. A straw hat perched atop her head, and she wore a dark blue dress and close-fitting woolen jacket.
Something beyond her attractive appearance, however, held Cully's eye. She paused on the station platform and peered around as if she were looking for someone or something. When it was apparent that she couldn’t locate the object of her search, Cully made his decision. He would go over to her, introduce himself, and offer his assistance. After all, it was his duty as a public servant, he told himself. The fact that she was a pretty, young woman had nothing to do with it.
He started toward her, but before he had taken more than a couple of steps, she noticed him and her eyes lit up. Slipping into the crowd, she moved toward him.
When Cully reached her, he nodded and touched the brim of his flat-crowned black hat. "Morning, ma'am," he said.
"Oh, Sheriff, I'm so glad to see you," the young woman said effusively. "I would have asked directions to your office if you hadn't been here, but the fact that you are here must be some sort of omen. I believe I'll take it to mean that my mission here is preordained to be a success."
Cully blinked at the flurry of words that tumbled from her lips, and the half smile on his face slowly faded into a bewildered frown. "I'm afraid you've got the wrong fella, ma'am," he said. "I'm the deputy marshal, not the sheriff. But if somebody was supposed to meet you here, I'd be glad to help you look for him. My name's Cully Markham."
The young woman thrust out a tiny, gloved hand. "I'm so glad to meet you, Deputy Markham. I'm Augusta Hall. I'm afraid I haven't made myself clear. I merely meant that I was seeking to speak with the law enforcement officials here in Abilene, and that your being right here on hand as I got off the train was certainly fortuitous, don't you think?"
"It's something, all right," a puzzled Cully mumbled, taking her hand and shaking it absently. "If you've got business with the marshal, I can take you to the office. I'm sure Marshal Flint would be glad to help you."
Augusta Hall smiled, and Cully saw that a dimple appeared in her right cheek when she did. "Oh, I don't necessarily need to talk to the marshal," she went on. "I've just found that it's usually a good idea to apprise the local authorities of my presence in their town."
That made Cully frown even more. "Why? You don't look like a bounty hunter or hired gun."
Augusta gave a little laugh. "I suppose you could call me a hired gun of sorts, Deputy," she replied. "A hired gun on the side of everything that is good and decent and right in this world."
This was going too fast for Cully, and the way this young woman talked, he had a feeling it would be too fast for most folks. He said, "Why don't you come with me, and we'll get it all sorted out. Have you got a bag we need to get from the baggage car?"
"Several valises, in fact," Augusta admitted. "Thank you for offering to help me."
A few minutes later, Cully found himself staring at three large carpetbags and one smaller case. Forcing a smile, he hefted the bulky bags and shuffled awkwardly down the platform. Augusta, carrying the little case, walked beside him toward the depot.
"The marshal's office is over on Texas Street," Cully told her. "It won't take but a few minutes to get there."
"Well, I don't actually need to see the marshal now that I've met you, Deputy Markham."
"Why don't you call me Cully?"
Augusta had been talking ever since she left the train, but Cully's simple request silenced her for so long that he turned to look at her. To his surprise, he saw she was blushing, a rosy glow that only enhanced her beauty. Finally, she murmured, "I don't think that would be proper, Deputy. After all, we've just met. I hardly know you. I might venture to call you Mr. Markham, if you insist."
"Uh, no, ma'am, not if it makes you uncomfortable. Deputy is just fine."
This Augusta Hall is a strange one, Cully thought. He was unaccustomed to ladies who required things to be so formal.
Now that he had agreed to her code of decorum, Augusta seemed to regain her composure. "What I really would like you to do," she continued in her former high-spirited manner, "is direct me to the town's religious leaders."
Once more Cully was surprised, but he replied amiably, "Sure, I can do that. It just so happens that you're lucky again. My brother, Joshua, is the pastor of the Calvary Methodist Church. Maybe your running into me was a double omen."
"That may well be true, Deputy. It is said that the Lord works in mysterious ways."
"Yes, ma'am. I reckon He does." As Cully guided her through the bustling traffic on Railroad Street, he shifted the heavy bags he was carrying to get a better grip on them. "But I don't think it would be a good idea to try to walk to the church. It's quite a distance." Glancing around, he spotted a man he knew sitting in a wagon parked across the street from the depot. "Hey, Dan, you busy right now?" he called.
The townsman looked around and saw Cully, loaded down with bags, approaching him. He grinned and quipped, "Not as busy as you are, Cully, leastways from the looks of it. I'm supposed to pick up a shipment of goods for Karatofsky once it's unloaded from the train."
"Is he in a hurry for it?"
Dan shook his head. "Naw. It's just some yard goods. The boxes can sit in the station for a while. You want to borrow the wagon?"
"I'd be obliged."
Dan swung down from the wagon and came over to relieve Cully of one of the bags. "Let me give you a hand with them," he said, carrying it to the vehicle.
Cully loaded the other two bags into the wagon bed, then helped Augusta Hall climb onto the seat. "Thanks, Dan," he said. "I'll bring the wagon back in just a bit."
The man shook his head. "No hurry. I'll go over and shoot the breeze with Oliver Brewer while I keep an eye on that shipment."
Cully climbed lithely up to the wagon seat and settled down next to Augusta. He noticed that she shifted ever so slightly to the far end of the plank bench, making certain several inches separated them. Evidently, she was the soul of friendliness—as long as nobody tried to get too close or too familiar with her.
"Is that man a friend of yours?" she asked as he picked up the reins and got the team moving.
"Sure. He works for one of the biggest mercantile stores in town. He picks up freight and makes deliveries to the ranches for them."
"He won't get into trouble for letting you borrow his wagon, will he?"
Cully shook his head. "Dan's boss won't mind him doing a favor for me or the marshal or just about anybody who needed one. Folks are that way around here. We're friendly; we like to help anybody who needs it."
"I'm glad to hear that," Augusta said fervently.
Cully frowned again. Something in her tone bothered him. She sounded as if she was expecting nothing but trouble in Abilene. And why did she want to see the town's religious leaders?
"Once we get to the church, I can introduce you to Joshua," Cully said. "He's not the only one out there that you'll want to meet, either. There's an orphanage associated with the church, and it's run by a nun named Sister Lorraine. There're some other meetinghouses in town, but I reckon between Joshua and Sister Lorraine, they'd know just about everything going on in Abilene that's of a religious nature."
"Oh, but it's not the things of a religious nature I'm interested in, Deputy. Quite the contrary."
More puzzled than ever, Cully peered at her. "Ma'am?"
Augusta Hall favored him with a dazzling smile. "You see, I want to know all about the sin in Abilene."
Aware that
he was gaping at her, Cully looked away. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and managed to mumble, "I reckon there's plenty of that around town, all right."
They had followed Railroad Street to where it merged with Texas Street. Cully planned to take Abilene's main thoroughfare to Elm Street, where he would turn north toward the church. The railroad crossing wouldn’t be quite so rough by this route. As the wagon rolled down Texas Street, Augusta looked at the businesses they were passing and said, "Yes, indeed. I would think there was an abundance of iniquity here. I've heard a great deal about these trail towns."
Cully saw that she was frowning at Angus's Tavern as they passed it. Angus's was one of the most respectable drinking establishments in town, but Augusta apparently disapproved of it.
"Abilene hasn't really been what you'd call a trail town for a couple of years now," Cully pointed out. "I've been told it was pretty wild and woolly in its day, but the folks here have hired some good marshals to clean it up. Bear River Tom Smith was the first, then Wild Bill Hickok, and now my boss Lucas Flint. You may have heard of him. Some folks call him the Rattler. That kind of man doesn't let things get too far out of hand."
After a few seconds, Augusta said quietly, "I'm sorry, Deputy. I’m afraid I haven’t heard of your Marshal Rattler. And I didn't mean to imply there was anything wrong with your law enforcement."
"No offense taken," Cully replied with a grin. He didn’t bother correcting her about Flint’s name. "We still get our share of Texas cowboys here, and things do get a mite rowdy from time to time."
As they continued toward the church, Cully spun several anecdotes about some of the wild times Abilene had seen, toning down the roughest parts so as not to offend Augusta. She listened with polite interest.
Because the Calvary Methodist Church sat on a slight rise on the northwestern edge of town, the church steeple was visible for a good distance. Augusta seemed to perk up once she spotted it. As the wagon moved up the little hill toward the simple, whitewashed frame building, she exclaimed, "What a lovely church! Is that the orphanage next to it?"
Rattler's Law, Volume One Page 138
