Rattler's Law, Volume One

by James Reasoner

  Finally, she raised her voice and cried, "Please! Please stop arguing, everyone! There's no need for this!" It was hard to hear her over the angry din, but after a few moments the audience quieted down somewhat.

  Augusta took a deep breath and went on, "You see, this is just the kind of thing I've been talking about. There wouldn't have been an argument in here tonight if those men hadn’t been drinking." She leveled a finger at the three cowboys, who were still on their feet.

  "That's a damned lie!" their spokesman protested. "We just don't want some little chippy comin' in here and tellin' us how to live!"

  Cully shouldered his way forward. He would give the three cowboys a choice—settle down and get out or go to jail. But before he could reach them, the curtain on the stage was suddenly pushed aside, and a tall figure bounded out. Joshua leapt off the platform and headed toward the cowboys. In three quick strides he was standing in front of them. His fists were clenched, and he said between gritted teeth, "You can't say that about Miss Hall, you...you..."

  Joshua had had little experience in cursing. Unable to find the word he wanted he did the next best thing.

  Cully saw his brother's shoulder drop and knew what was about to happen. He yelled, "Hold it!" but he was too late. Joshua's fist was already smashing into the cowhand's face. The young man fell back against his friends, who caught him before he could drop to the floor. The cowboy staggered to his feet, shaking his head, then howled furiously and flung a punch at Joshua.

  Joshua tried to get out of the way, but the liquor had slowed his reflexes. The blow clipped his chin and jerked his head around. As he lurched backward, several townsmen leapt to his aid, throwing themselves at the cowboys with fists doubled.

  A hard hand clamped down on Cully's arm. Spinning around, the deputy looked into the grim face of Lucas Flint. "You intend to let them beat each other to a pulp before you do anything about this?" the marshal asked sharply.

  Cully shook his head. He slipped his Colt from its holster and said, "Nope, I reckon I'll stop it right now."

  He aimed the barrel at the ceiling and triggered two shots. The gunfire boomed deafeningly in the close quarters. A stunned silence fell over the crowd, and fists froze in uplifted positions before punches could be thrown. Cully strode forward, his gun still in his hand. "All right, that'll be enough!" he cried.

  Flint, his Peacemaker drawn, moved right behind him. "Break it up!" he called. "The show's over, so you folks might as well go on home."

  From the stage, Augusta protested, "But, Marshal, I was just starting my discussion—"

  Flint shook his head. "There won't be any discussion tonight, miss. I won't have a brawl in the courthouse. Everybody go home."

  There was some muttering, but the audience seemed glad to be able to leave without having to listen to the rest of Augusta's talk. Within moments, most of them had filed out of the room. The three cowhands who had harassed Augusta tried to leave with the others, but Flint stopped them with a gesture of his Peacemaker.

  "I've had trouble with you and your friends before, Stockton," he said to the leader. "I'm not sure how this started, but I'll bet you had something to do with it. Stay out of trouble for the rest of the night, or you'll have to explain to your boss why you missed a few days' work while you were sitting in jail. Understand?"

  "Sure," Stockton muttered in surly tones. "Is that all, Marshal?"

  "That's all."

  The cowboys went out, still looking angry.

  Cully turned to Flint. "I didn't think you were coming tonight."

  "I didn't come to see the play," the marshal replied. "I was just taking a turn along the street when I heard the yelling. You should have made sure things didn't get this far out of hand, Cully."

  "I know. Sorry, Marshal," Cully agreed with a curt nod.

  Flint shook his head and started toward the stage, where Augusta still stood, her shoulders sagging. As Cully followed Flint, he felt sorry for her. The evening had gone badly; she had seen her grandiose plans go up in smoke.

  "Miss Hall," Flint greeted her, touching the brim of his hat, "I'm sorry I had to call off the rest of your meeting, but some folks were liable to get hurt. Those cowboys can be pretty hotheaded."

  "They were drunk," Augusta said contemptuously.

  "No, ma'am, I don't think so. They might've had a drink or two earlier this evening, but I imagine they

  were putting off their serious drinking until after the play."

  "They had been guzzling whiskey. You could tell from the way they acted." Augusta sounded completely sure of herself.

  "I won't argue that with you, ma'am." Flint's voice was flat and hard. "But I will ask you not to stir up any more trouble while you're in Abilene."

  "Me stir up trouble?" Augusta exclaimed, incredulous. "Why, Marshal, anyone can see that liquor was to blame for all of this evening's problems, not anything I did."

  "Just remember what I said." Flint turned away with a weary shake of his head. He moved past Cully and headed for the door. Angus, Sister Lorraine, and Dr. Rose Keller joined him.

  Cully watched them leave the building, and then he faced Augusta. "I'm sorry things turned out this way, Miss Hall," he began. "I reckon we all told you it'd be hard convincing folks around here that drinking is bad."

  "Perhaps you did, Deputy," Augusta replied tightly. "Nevertheless, I have to continue with my mission. As long as I have men like your brother to help me—" She broke off abruptly, and Cully remembered the way Joshua had helped her tonight. From the anxious look on her face, Augusta was recalling the same thing.

  Cully glanced around. "Where is Joshua, anyway?" he asked. "He was here just a few minutes ago, when he launched that punch at Stockton."

  Augusta looked around the hall and began to frown. "I—I don't see him," she stammered. "I thought he was right here."

  But it quickly became obvious that Joshua wasn’t in the building. He had vanished in the uproar of the near brawl.

  Cully remembered the state his brother had been in and began to worry even more. "I'll find him," he grimly told Augusta, and then he turned and stalked out.

  7

  Cully Markham stepped out of the courthouse and was stung by the night's bitter wind. Buttoning his jacket tightly, he pulled up his collar, jammed his hat firmly on his head, and strode down the long courthouse path and onto Texas Street. He spent the next hour combing the saloons and streets of Abilene searching for his brother. Finding no sign of him, he grew increasingly anxious and decided to ride out to the Calvary Methodist Church to see if Joshua had slipped past him and gone back to the parsonage.

  During the performance Alice Hammond had stayed at the orphanage to take care of the children who were too young to attend. When she told Cully that she hadn’t seen Joshua since he left for the courthouse several hours earlier, he became even more concerned. As unlikely as it seemed, his brother had vanished. Thanking Alice but keeping his worry to himself, he rode back downtown.

  As he approached the marshal's office, he saw Flint standing in the glow of lantern light talking to two people. Cully made out the figures of Angus MacQuarrie and the lady gambler, Jessica Partin. Angus was nodding and rumbled, "Aye, Lucas," as Cully reined in and dismounted. But before Cully could join them, Angus took Jessica's arm and started down the boardwalk toward his tavern.

  Cully stepped onto the boardwalk and nodded toward the retreating couple. "What was that about?"

  Flint didn’t answer. Instead he asked, "Have any luck?"

  "I can't find Joshua anywhere," Cully replied anxiously. "I'm worried, Marshal. I think he's been drinking, and you know what that means."

  "It's not good, not for him," Flint agreed. "But I imagine he'll turn up. He's probably either too sick or too ashamed to show his face."

  "I hope you're right."

  Flint inclined his head toward the office door. "Come on inside and have some coffee," he offered. "That was probably a cold ride back from the church."

  Cully
admitted that it had been and followed Flint into the office. The sound of stentorian snoring rumbled from the open cellblock door, and Cully, forgetting his concern, began to grin. "Sounds like we've got a guest," he said.

  "Leander," Flint remarked with a snort. "He was down at the Bull's Head getting drunk and telling his stories about the old days when he trapped beaver with Kit Carson and hunted buffalo with Bill Cody. Some young puncher told him he was just an old windbag, and Leander took exception—to the tune of a couple of busted ribs."

  Cully let out a low whistle. "Is the cowboy going to press charges?"

  "No, I don't think so. Rose patched him up. He was drunk, too, and when he sobered up some, he said it was his own fault. He knew better than to argue with Leander. But I thought it might be a good idea for the old boy to sleep it off in a cell tonight. Keep him from getting into any more trouble."

  Cully nodded solemnly. Flint's recounting of Leander Bullfinch's latest antics had distracted him briefly, but now his worry about Joshua returned to gnaw at him. He knew Flint was right. They could do nothing but wait for Joshua to show up.

  Telling himself to relax, Cully poured a cup of coffee. Then he sat in one of the straight-backed chairs and tilted it against the wall as he sipped the strong, steaming brew. Flint settled down at the desk to do some paperwork. In another hour or so, Cully realized, it would be time to make the final rounds for the night. Flint often handled that chore alone and didn’t mind doing it, but if Cully didn’t do something to distract himself, he would only get more and more agitated about Joshua.

  Lucas Flint, breaking the uneasy silence that had reigned over the office for several long minutes, asked abruptly, "Has that temperance gal told you how long she intends to stay in Abilene?"

  Cully shook his head. "Joshua's the one she talks to, Marshal, not me."

  "Well, she's been stirring up trouble ever since she got here. I reckon Joshua likes her, but I won't be sorry to see her go."

  "Joshua likes her, all right," Cully agreed. "But I don't know how she'll feel about him after tonight."

  The two lawmen passed more time in silence; only the scratching of Flint's pen and an occasional crackle from one of the logs burning in the stove intruded on the quiet.

  In the soothing warmth of the office, Cully began to doze. Shaking himself awake, he stood up to get more coffee, hoping it would ward off the weariness. He was reaching for the pot when he heard running footsteps pounding on the boardwalk outside. Just as he turned toward the door, it burst open.

  A cowhand, a long bloody scratch vividly marking his cheek, stumbled into the office. "Marshal!" he exclaimed. "They're bustin' the place up good! You'd better go stop 'em 'fore somebody gets hurt bad!"

  Flint, his face an unreadable mask, rose from his chair in a single smooth motion. "Slow down, mister!" he rapped. "Now tell me what's going on. Who's busting things up, and where?"

  As the cowboy took a deep breath, Cully realized that he was one of the three men who had been harassing Augusta during her talk. "It's Stockton and Downing," the man panted. "We all went down to Buster's place, and I reckon they got too likkered up. Stockton wanted to fight ever'body in the place. He give me this when I tried to stop him." He gestured at the wound on his face.

  "All right," Flint snapped. Moving from behind the desk, he strode toward the line of pegs next to the door and grabbed his hat and coat. "Come on, Cully. Looks like Leander's going to have some company." To the cowboy, he said, "How come you didn't jump in there with your pards?"

  The puncher shook his head. "I like a drink as much as anybody, Marshal, but Stockton and Downing really tied one on. And they're downright crazy when they get too much whiskey. I just hope Stockton don't shoot somebody 'fore you get there! They ain't bad fellas, really. I'd hate to see 'em hang."

  Cully had slipped on his hat and jacket, and he was right behind Flint when the marshal stepped onto the boardwalk. Flint's horse was tethered to the hitch rack next to Cully's. Jerking the reins loose, both men mounted quickly and kicked their horses into a brisk trot, leaving the cowboy standing on the boardwalk.

  Within minutes, they were reining up in front of Buster's disreputable saloon. As they dismounted, they could hear the crash of men fighting and furniture breaking inside the place. It sounded as though quite a battle was going on. Both lawmen had their hands on their guns as they pushed aside the canvas that covered the entrance.

  Cully saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and ducked to avoid a flying chair. The chair hit the wall, inches from where his head had been, and splintered into kindling. Flint gestured with his Peacemaker. With a nod Cully followed his orders and moved around the left side of the room. The marshal went to the right, and the two lawmen flanked the knot of men struggling in the center. A nervous Buster was crouching behind the bar, his head bobbing up and down as debris flew at him, while an aging bar girl stood screaming in one corner.

  Suddenly the lantern light flickered on steel in the middle of the fight. Flint darted toward the flash, raising his Colt as he lunged. The barrel thudded against the skull of the cowboy called Stockton just as he tried to bring his own gun to bear on one of his opponents. Stockton stiffened, gave a groan, and slumped to the sawdust-covered floor.

  Cully, seeing the other man, Downing, reaching for his gun, flung out his left hand and grasped his wrist before the draw could be completed. As the deputy moved in, the five other men who had been brawling fell back. Downing tried to jerk free, but Cully managed to spin him around.

  The deputy hadn’t pulled his Colt, so his right hand was free. He clenched it and hammered Dowling's beard-stubbled face. The powerful blow—a short right cross—snapped Downing's head around. Cully hooked a boot around the man's ankle and gave him a shove, grabbing the butt of Downing's holstered gun at the same time. The weapon slid out of the holster as Downing toppled heavily. He lay on the floor and shook his head groggily as Cully covered him with his own gun.

  "All right," Flint announced in a hard voice. "It's all over."

  Buster poked his head up over the bar and shouted, "I want those men arrested, Marshal! Look what they did to my place!"

  Glancing around, Cully surveyed the wreckage and saw a couple of broken tables. Flint nodded. "They'll have to pay the damages, all right, and a fine, too." He looked at Downing and went on, "Get up, mister. You're going to have to haul your friend down to the jail."

  Downing opened his mouth as if to protest, but when he looked at Flint's stern face, he swallowed hard and was silent. He staggered to his feet, then grabbed Stockton under the arms and pulled him up. Stockton moaned and sagged against him.

  Flint scooped Stockton's fallen gun from the floor, then gestured with it toward the doorway. "Get moving," he ordered Downing.

  "What about those damages, Marshal?" Buster called out.

  "You'll have to wait until the hearing," Flint told him over his shoulder.

  The saloonkeeper was grumbling as Flint and Cully, prodding Downing and Stockton in front of them, left the ramshackle tavern. The lawmen mounted up and walked their horses slowly behind the prisoners as they went back to Texas Street. Stockton was barely conscious, and Downing wound up half carrying him most of the way.

  By the time they reached the office, the cowboy who had brought word of the fight was gone. Cully figured he had headed back to the ranch where Stockton, Downing, and he worked.

  Leander Bullfinch was still snoring when they took the prisoners inside. Stockton's senses were returning, and he protested loudly as they ushered him into the cellblock. "You can't put us in there with Leander! That buffalo coat of his stinks worse'n anything I ever smelled."

  "Reckon you'll just have to get used to it, Stockton," Flint snapped. "I warned you about causing more trouble tonight. You didn't have to get drunk and start a fight."

  "Hell, it weren't much of a fight. You had no call to break it up."

  Flint slammed the cell door shut. "You were about to start shooting folk
s."

  Downing grinned from inside the enclosure. "Yeah, but ol' Stockton here was too drunk to hit anybody, Marshal. It woulda been blind luck if anybody'd got hurt."

  "Been known to happen," Flint said dryly. "You men sleep it off. In the morning we'll talk about damages and your fine with the judge."

  Cully looked at the night's prisoners and smiled to himself. Stockton and Downing both sat down on the cell's single bunk and put their hands to their heads. They had consumed enough liquor to guarantee that they would have powerful headaches by morning. In the cell next to them, Leander continued to snore.

  Cully shut the cellblock door and followed Flint into the office. They hung up their hats and coats, and Cully went to the stove to pour a fresh cup of coffee. "You know, maybe Miss Hall's right," he said over his shoulder. "Maybe folks would be better off if they just gave up drinking."

  "Might help," Flint grunted. "But it wouldn't get rid of all the trouble in the world, and you know it, Cully. High-spirited young cowboys like those two in there would find some way of raising hell, even if there was no such thing as whiskey."

  "I suppose so," Cully said. He sat back down in the chair against the wall and propped his feet up on the desk.

  Flint tried to return to his paperwork, but he seemed to have trouble concentrating. Finally, he put his pen back in the inkwell and said, "Come on, Cully. We might as well make the last rounds for the night."

  "Sure thing," Cully replied, getting up and reaching for his hat. He was closer to the door than Flint, so he was the one who grasped the knob and opened it. As the door swung back, he heard someone standing outside utter a startled gasp. Surprised himself, Cully stopped and peered at the pretty features of Augusta Hall.