Rattler

by Barry Andrew Chambers

Genres: Westerns

Synopsis

He's Not Your Ordinary Frontier Hero. Then Again, He's Not Supposed To Be. . . Randall Foster was a young school teacher who got dragged into a deadly clash of clans. When the dust settled, the teacher was hand-picked by a covert government agency called The Service. Proving himself in a secret training program, Randall Foster soon has a new career, a code name "Rattler," and a stubborn horse who does everything except obey. In a mild-mannered disguise, Rattler comes to Clearview, Kansas, in search of a depraved killer using the name Featherston--and walks straight into the ruthless killer's crosshairs. People are getting slaughtered in cold blood, two other Service agents are already in deep, and Rattler's cover is wearing thin. Now, amidst corruption, murder and betrayal, Rattler must turn from secret agent to bold-faced fighter--against an enemy with more cunning than anyone can possibly know. . . " Rattler is loaded with action, humor, and the unexpected--Barry Chambers is a new star in Western fiction." --A.J. Fenady, Award-winning author of Chisum

Release date: March 12, 2010

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 321

Sample

She was shaking so badly she had to hold the cup with both hands as she nervously sipped the hot tea. Wilma Ducette closed her eyes. Soon, very soon, the sheriff would be at her door.

Wilma got up and paced the small parlor, afraid to look out the window. Soon, very soon. She wished the day was over. She wanted to get it over with now. If she looked out the window, she knew she’d see the ghost of her husband. A frightful, unforgiving apparition that would point an accusing finger at her.

“You killed me.” His voice would be cold and deep, coming from the other side of life. Stop it, Wilma. Think about what it’ll be like an hour from now. It will all be over, with the sheriff’s visit. She would play the grieving widow, plan the funeral, and in a week, she’d be on her way to Denver. Back home. Back to the carefree life of a single woman. Back to reliving her days as a social butterfly. Maybe there would be a rich, handsome man available for an attractive young widow.

Wilma glanced up at the clock. It was ten minutes to noon. Ten til noon. Twenty minutes earlier, Charles Ducette would have met his end at the hands of a highwayman, a vicious killer, whose only aim was to put a bullet in Charles’ head and take his money.

The killer, whose unlikely name was Percy Pierpoint, had been hired by Wilma to do the deed. It started two years ago when she came up with the plan. She’d asked her no account cousin who lived in back of a saloon if he knew a man who could do the job. A tough man. A cruel man who killed without mercy. A man like Percy.

Her story had been airtight. “I need a man who can protect Charles when he goes to town.”

The cousin, bleary-eyed from a night of drinking and carousing, looked at her dully. “Huh?” was his reply, equally as dull.

Wilma bit her tongue and held in her impatience.

“Charles has a long, daily ride to the bank. People know this. I fear for his safety and I need a man who could shadow him.”

“A, uh…a body guard?”

She was mildly surprised that her cousin had a coherent thought. “Exactly. I want an outsider…someone who doesn’t talk to the locals.”

With furrowed brow, her cousin rubbed the stubble on his chin. Wilma wasn’t sure if he was thinking or about to fall back into a drunken stupor.

“I know someone who knows someone,” he said.

The next part of the plan was simple. She presented her gun-shy, derringer-toting husband with a Colt .45.

“For your protection dear. You need it on the long road to town.” Charles held the gun away from his body like it was a sleeping skunk.

“This is quite a gift, my love.”

“You know I don’t like you on that long road, unarmed.”

“But dearest, I have my derringer.”

“That wouldn’t help you against a man with a real gun,” she said, patting his cheeks. “I love you. Please carry this gun with you. Do it for me.”

He shrugged and gave her a shy smile. “Whatever you say, sweetheart. I’ll put it in my briefcase.”

Wilma knew two things about her husband. The Colt would stay in the briefcase. And he would never load the gun.

She contacted the man who was recommended by her cousin. He gave her a name and she met the gunslinger in a remote town called Scrubb’s Junction. The man called himself Percy, but he looked like the toughest Percy she’d ever seen. A light scar ran from the left corner of his mouth, down his chin. His hair was midnight. His eyes were a deep blue. An alertness in them hid danger. Percy’s face was clean shaven, and he wore a scent that was pleasing to her. Pine, she decided. If he’d been in any other line of business, she would have considered him excellent second husband material.

She explained to Percy that she wasn’t looking for a bodyguard. She needed a man to kill her husband.

“He beats me!” she cried. “And he consorts with women in town.”

Percy showed no emotion. He merely let her speak.

“I have a strange request,” she said. “I am going to pay you three hundred dollars as a retainer. In about eighteen months, I will contact you and tell you when I need your services.”

Percy Pierpoint’s voice was soft and patient. “Believe me, Mrs. Ducette, your request is not so strange. However, my standard retainer fee is five hundred.”

“Of course.” Without hesitation, she pulled out a handful of bills and counted out five hundred dollars. She had been prepared to pay a thousand. Percy Pierpoint had an impeccable reputation for professionalism and discretion. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Pierpoint.”

She shook his black-gloved hand and felt a tingle. His eyes held a gaze with a mixture of killer and sexual allure. He definitely was a dangerous man.

Wilma went back home. She found her cousin at his customary table in the saloon, gulping down cheap whiskey like it was rainwater.

“I talked to the man that your friend recommended.”

Her cousin was just starting to drink, so he was as clearheaded as he was going to be for the rest of the day.

“Did he agree to be Charles’ bodyguard?”

Wilma shook her head. “He asked for too much money. And he smelled like a polecat.” She thought back to the pleasant pine scent of Percy Pierpoint.

Her cousin smirked. “Who cares? You don’t have to smell him.”

“Yes, but I couldn’t pay him the ridiculous price he was asking. You know Charles. He saves pennies like they’re gold from El Dorado.”

Her cousin took a long swig, then wiped his mouth. He was bored with the conversation.

Wilma continued her tale. “Anyway, I bought Charles a gun. In the long run, it’s cheaper and the more I think of it, there hasn’t been any crime on that road since the Wells Fargo was robbed three years ago.”

Wilma left the bar, satisfied that her cousin would never connect her talking to Percy Pierpoint with the murder that would happen eighteen months hence.

The day had finally arrived. Wilma knew exactly when Pierpoint would perform the deed and how long it would take. The road was not well traveled, but Charles’ corpse would be found by a rancher or farmer who was headed into town. Since the town was closer to the scene of the crime than the house, the excited rancher would go get the sheriff.

Wilma looked up at the clock. 12:07. Seven minutes after noon. The tea in her cup was cold. Her hands still shook. She wasn’t nervous about the murder. Her confidence in Percy was solid. It was the waiting. She hated the waiting. She couldn’t wait much longer without screaming. Then she heard it.

The clip-clop of hooves was steady, sure. Sheriff Hawkins was approaching the house. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Of course not. Who was in a hurry to deliver bad news?

She dared not look out the window. Instead, she picked up some sewing and pulled the needle through the cloth. Look busy. Be calm, then surprised. Should she cry at the news of her husband’s demise? Or should she faint—fall deadweight into the sheriff’s arms?

Heavy boots clomped on the wooden porch planks. They stopped. A shadow appeared in the glass. The sharp rap on the door made her jump.

“Yes?” she called out in a strained voice.

“Sheriff Hawkins, Wilma.”

She put the sewing down and tried not to hurry to the door. Smile, she thought. Take a breath, she thought. And she did. Greet him with a pleasant, untroubled smile.

Wilma opened the door. Sheriff Hawkins stood there with his hat in his hands. He looked like he’d lost his best coon dog.

“Wilma,” he said softly.

“Sheriff? What is it?”

She was proud of the alarm she was able to put into her voice. Perhaps she had a flare for the dramatic. She made a mental note to check out some of the fine theatre companies in Denver. They would be looking for a leading lady of beauty and quality.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Wilma.”

“What? Tell me quickly Sheriff.”

“I’ve come to arrest you, Wilma.”

He held up a pair of handcuffs. The shock and disbelief on her face would make any of the finer theatres in Denver proud…if she’d been acting. The sheriff stepped into the parlor.

“You are charged with the attempted murder of your husband, Charles.”

Without thinking, Wilma dashed to the kitchen to escape through the back door. As she shot out of the house, she was greeted by Percy Pierpoint, who blocked her way.

“Afternoon Mrs. Ducette.”

He held up a gold badge. “I’m Randall Foster of The Service, a branch of the U.S. Marshals.”

Wilma felt red hot irons puncturing her chest. She put her hand to her throat.

“Wha…? You aren’t Percy Pierpoint?”

“No ma’am. Mr. Pierpoint has been rotting in jail for two years. I’ve been taking his contracts and saving lives…such as your husband’s.”

The sheriff had followed her outside. He caught Wilma in his arms as she fell back in a real faint.

I fell in love with Wilma Ducette the moment I saw her. She was a real firecracker with a wicked glint in her eye to boot. Of course she was now in jail, but my fantasies had been fueled just the same.

My name is Randall “Rattler” Foster. “Randy” to my friends, “Mr. Foster” to anyone under twelve and “Rattler”…well, no one knows that name. It’s an exclusive code name known to very few people in The Service, which is an offshoot of the U.S. Marshal’s Service. My job entails duties such as bringing in escaped prisoners, investigating rustlers and something my boss calls “undercover.” I get involved with outlaw gangs as an inside man and send information to my boss.

Harlon Shanks runs the regional office of The Service. It’s located in Dodge City, Kansas and our territory goes as far east as St. Louis, as far west as Denver. Wyoming forms the north boundary and New Mexico Territory forms the south.

For a man of fifty-eight years old, Harlon looks a lot younger. His brown hair is grey at the sideburns, and his craggy face could be a lot craggier. At six feet four inches and a lean, muscular, two hundred pounds, Harlon could still hold his own out in the field. The problem is, while he was on a job in the Dakotas, he got shot. In fact, it was the fifteenth time he’d been shot in the line of duty. But the Dakota bullet lodged near his heart. Even though it was small caliber, it couldn’t be cut out of him without causing major damage or death.

So Harlon handed in his gun for a desk. To tell you the truth, I think the inactivity and paperwork will do him in sooner.

 

I came to the attention of The Service when I was just past the age of twenty-one. I lived in Pleasant Valley, Colorado. Both my parents were teachers and like a dutiful son, I trekked to the nearest town that had a school without a teacher and took up the title.

One day in late spring, one of my students, Treva Spurlock, approached me after school.

“Mr. Foster?” she said in a timid voice.

Treva was fifteen, but looked younger. She was a small girl with a big brain. At times, I let her take the younger children out back and teach them their basic ABCs.

“What is it Treva?” She walked toward me slowly.

“Mr. Foster, I have a question.” For a terrifying moment, I thought she was about to ask me about the birds and the bees.

“Yes, Treva?”

“Well sir, you’re really smart. Probably the smartest person in eastern Colorado.”

I doubted this, but accepted the compliment with a smile.

“What can I do for you, Treva?”

“My family.”

On those two words, I totally understood. The Spurlocks had been in a famous feud with the McMahons for years. No one knew who started the animosity, but these folks just plain didn’t like each other.

Bruce McMahon, the grandfather, was said to have stolen a Spurlock pig. David Spurlock, Treva’s grandfather, was accused of burning the McMahon’s crops in retaliation. Their sons continued the rivalry with petty squabbles to bloody bar fights.

One of the classic bar fights ever, occurred in a skirmish between Spurlocks and McMahons. The Blue Hog was the only bar in Pleasant Valley. Since there were no other watering holes, it was inevitable that a Spurlock and McMahon would meet up and lock horns.

After seeing his place torn up numerous times, the owner of The Blue Hog painted a line right down the middle of his bar. One side was for the McMahons and the other side was for the Spurlocks. For a while, both families respected the boundary.

The trouble started on a lazy Saturday morning in May. Buck Spurlock walked wearily through the swinging doors. He’d been up all night setting fence posts for the northern boundary of the Spurlock property. He sat heavily at the bar and tapped the counter with his dirty fingernails.

“Let’s have a whiskey, Sam.”

The bartender eyed him in judgment. “A little early, isn’t it Buck?”

With bleary eyes, Spurlock slowly held up a silver dollar. “Whiskey,” he repeated.

Sam shrugged and poured Buck a shot. He downed the drink and sat at the counter in a stupor. He lowered his head and was soon sound asleep.

What Sam didn’t notice and Buck was unaware of, was Buck’s elbow had slid over to the McMahon half of the bar. Any neutral stranger who could sit where he wanted, would have gently nudged the elbow away to give himself room. But a neutral person did not show up.

Around noon, Buck was snoring loudly as his body listed to the right, into McMahon territory. Two McMahons, Asa and Creighton, came through the swinging doors. They’d been to town to buy feed. When they saw the slumbering Buck leaning on their side of the bar, their tempers were pricked.

“Lookee here, Creighton. We’ve got ourselves a trespasser.” Sam came in from the back, polishing a glass. His face went white when he took in the situation. He held his hands up at the two McMahons.

“Now wait a minute fellas. I don’t want any trouble. Buck here fell asleep. He didn’t mean no harm.” Sam made a move to pull Buck back over to the Spurlock side of the counter.

“Leave him be,” growled Asa. “This piece of Spurlock cow patty needs a lesson in geography.” Asa’s leg reared back to kick the stool out from under Buck. At that moment, a voice came from the bar’s entrance.

“Better not, lessin’ you intend to take us all on.”

Standing in the doorway were Elmer and Keenan Spurlock and their cousin, Odie. They had come to town to look for Buck since he had not come home the night before. The three men came through the wide swinging doors, shoulder to shoulder.

Asa, who was the biggest man in the room, withdrew his foot and met Elmer halfway.

“Look at him!” shouted Asa. “He’s on our side of the bar!”

Creighton joined his brother. “He ain’t got no right to be lying on our counter, droolin’ all over it.”

Sam was in a quandary. He stood there like a statue, trying to figure out what to do. The sheriff was out of town. That meant that Deputy Lawson was in charge. And if things hung true to form, when the sheriff was out of town, Deputy Lawson was most likely up at Beggerman’s Creek, fishing. Sam calculated the possible damage and decided on a plan that would save money.

“Drinks are on the house,” squeaked Sam, “if you men promise not to squabble.” All five men turned their heads to Sam. Buck mumbled something in his peaceful bliss. Creighton licked his lips and rubbed his chin. Free drinks. It was a powerful argument against fighting. Elmer took off his hat and fanned his face. Asa had a tense smile on his face.

“Well…maybe we could see our way to let you slide on this one. But you’d better remove that Spurlock from our spot.” Odie and Keenan looked at each other and nodded. They warily walked past Asa and Creighton and went over to Buck. Keenan tapped Buck on the shoulder.

“Buck. Time to get up,” he said softly.

Buck mumbled again and started to move away from Keenan, which put him farther on the McMahon side. Quickly, Keenan and Odie pulled Buck over to their end of the bar. “Come on Buck, wake up.”

Buck opened one eye and spoke in a husky voice, “What are you doing here Keenie?”

With shaking hands, Sam poured whiskey into a glass. The light brown liquid corkscrewed out of the bottle into the tumbler. Keenan took it and held it in front of Buck’s opened eye.

“Free whiskey, Buck.”

With that, Buck opened his other eye. “Is it Christmas?” he asked.

“No, free whiskey,” said Odie.

Buck snatched the glass and took it in one gulp. At that, the Spurlocks and McMahons took their respective sides of the bar as Sam poured glass after glass.

Within half an hour, the piano player showed up and began playing a rousing medley of bawdy songs. The bar was filling up with regular clientele. Katie, the hostess, entered from her upstairs parlor and filtered in and out among the customers. Every Spurlock and McMahon in the place was drunk.

Just as the church bells chimed one o’clock, more Spurlocks and McMahons showed up, looking for their brothers who had not returned from town.

Buddy McMahon, a hot tempered man known for his knee-jerk reactions, was told by a drunk Asa about Buck Spurlock’s “crossing the line”.

“I’m going to beat Buck to a pulp,” threatened Buddy. “We can’t let them hornswoggle us.”

Asa tried to hold Buddy back. “Wait…wait…we got free drinks.”

Thinking he had diverted disaster, Sam had started charging for drinks after the feuding families had gotten drunk. This made a very sober Buddy McMahon extra angry.

“Free drinks, huh? I’ll get my own free drink.” Truth be known, Buddy was more upset that his brothers got free drinks than of Buck Spurlock’s indiscretion. He brushed off the drunk Asa and walked over into Spurlock Territory. He stopped at a table where Elmer and his brothers were playing poker. Before anyone knew it, Buddy grabbed the whiskey bottle off the table and took two generous gulps.

The piano player took his hands off the keyboard. Katie, the hostess, stopped in mid-giggle at Odie’s dirty joke about a nearsighted donkey. The whole place was suddenly a tomb.

Buddy slammed the bottle back down on the table and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Even the liquor tastes rancid on this side of the room,” he declared.

Elmer glowered at him. Buck, who was snoozing over in the corner, woke up and looked around. “Wha’s matter?” he slurred.

Sam sighed. He pulled out the ledger that was used for recording damages. He licked the lead tip of his pencil and held it poised over the DAMAGE column.

Buddy folded his arms and stood there, challenging everyone at the table. Eight Spurlocks locked eyes on seven McMahons.

Outside The Blue Hog, Minnie Haskell and her twelve-year-old daughter, Nina, were passing by. They heard the explosion of wood on wood. They stopped short of the swinging doors. It probably saved their lives as a forty pound keg of beer flew out, missing them by inches.

“My lands!” shrieked Minnie. Shouts and cursing mixed with banging and crashing assaulted the woman’s ears.

“Look, Ma!” cried Nina. Nineteen-year-old Herbie Spurlock crashed through the window and rolled out onto the street. His face, arms and legs were scratched as he lay stunned.

Nina waved. “Hi Herbie!”

“It’s those Spurlocks and McMahons,” said Minnie. “Let’s go dear.” She pulled her reluctant daughter away from the roiling Blue Hog.

Katie ran out with her dress torn down the front. “They’re killing each other!”

A curious crowd was gathering in front of the noisy bar. Reverend Madison, Bible in hand, started toward the swinging doors. “This is unseemly,” he said. “I will play the role of peacemaker.”

Katie put both her hands on the Reverend’s shoulders. “It’s the McMahons and Spurlocks!”

Without hesitating, Reverend Madison turned and headed up the street. “I’ll be in my office,” he muttered over his shoulder.

A chair with one leg missing was thrown out the door, followed by Buddy, who was pushing Keenan and Buck. They fell into a tangle of arms and legs. In the confusion, Keenan kicked his brother Buck in the face, leaving a dusty print of his boot. Buddy hammered Keenan in his left eye, accompanied by colorful insults regarding his family.

Trudy ‘O Dell held her hands over her ten-year-old son’s ears.

A loud clang echoed from inside. Still holding the ledger and pencil Sam the bartender backpedaled out of the swinging doors and hit a support beam. “Oof!” He fell on his butt and groaned. He put his hand to the bump that was swelling on his forehead and scrawled out something with the pencil. “That’s one bent spittoon”—he looked down at his torn apron—“and one work vest.”

A spine chilling shatter of glass erupted from The Blue Hog. Creighton McMahon staggered out of the bar with shards of glass buried in his bleeding face. “My eye! My eye!” he cried.

Sam wrote furiously into the ledger. “And one very expensive bar mirror.”

Ben Carrier, a dry goods clerk, got one good look at Creighton and fainted into the arms of Louise Hampton, the church or. . .