Rattler. Barry Andrew Chambers
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saw that I was smart in handling the Spurlock-McMahon feud but they needed to test my physical skills, which is what Harlon Shanks proceeded to do in St. Louis. To tell you the truth, I thought I’d failed miserably, but Harlon was impressed.
“I’m not very good with my fists,” I told him.
“Nonsense,” Harlon said, waving me off. “You pack a mean punch. For a moment there, I thought you’d broken my nose.”
I squinted at his nose which now sported a bandage. It was hard to see if I’d actually done any damage.
“You showed other qualities we like Mr. Foster.”
“I did? Like what?”
“When I immediately started in on you, you were slow to anger. You held yourself at bay, displaying a cool temper.”
I was tempted to tell him that it was because I was scared to death.
“And you showed calm. Here I am, a big bruiser, threatening you. You didn’t flinch. In fact, you made a joke.”
Again, I was tempted to tell him I didn’t flinch, because I was frozen in fear.
“We need men who are slow to anger and can think on their feet. Your little speech about the bullet in the knee”—Harlon shook his head and grinned—“that showed quick thinking and imagination. And I can tell you’re very comfortable with a gun, even when it isn’t yours.”
So I retired as a teacher and went into training as a special agent of The Service. I was taught how to pick a lock, how to read counterfeit money, and how to use my fists. For a while, I thought they were training me to be an outlaw.
“You need to know the world of the criminal,” Harlon told me. “You don’t have to live the life of one, you just need to understand them.”
I qualified on their shooting range with one of The Service’s highest scores. I was just glad they didn’t test me on my quick draw, which was poorly lacking.
The Service had a course in memorizing. In a month’s time, I was able to remember faces, scars, moles, mustaches, plus dates, times, and other numerical exercises. My observation skills were tested. I could remember clothes, horses, all sorts of useful information.
They also had me run, jump, crawl, climb, and swim through a wooded area they called “The Trail”, or as we trainees called it, “The Trail of Hell”. Some guy from West Point designed it. The first time I tried it, I didn’t make it halfway through. The Trail was supposed to train me for survival and to last through a rigorous, physical fight. At the end of six months, not only could I complete The Trail of Hell, I could slice through it like a knife through butter.
My hands grew rough and firm. My muscles hardened. I had more energy than I’d ever had before. As a teacher, my life was sedentary, soft. The Service toughened me up.
I was also trained in the art of pugilism. I learned to throw a whale of a haymaker. I was taught balance and counterbalance so I could throw a man twice my size, by using his momentum.
One day I was called into the director’s office. He was a man of white hair and rough skin. His name was Hansel, like the fairy tale, except Hansel was his last name.
“Come in, Mr. Foster.”
“Yes sir.”
Mr. Hansel sat behind a very large oak desk with a stack of papers scattered across it. His handshake was as firm as the gaze he held on me.
“How is your training going?”
“Very good sir. I have a week left.”
He opened a file and jotted a note inside it. When he closed it, I saw my name on it.
“We’re assigning you a code name. You will never use it in public. It is a name that only you and certain operators in The Service will know.”
I nodded, hoping it would be an easy name to spell.
“You will be known as “Rattler”. We logged it into your file.”
“Rattler,” I repeated. “Yes, Mr. Hansel, thank you sir.”
He stood up, signifying it was time I left. He gave me another firm handshake, and I walked to the door. I turned. “Mr. Hansel? Why Rattler?”
He smiled and nodded to himself. “The name “Daisy” was already taken.”
I thought Rattler was a much better name.
When I finished my training I was given an agent’s license and issued a badge and a six-shooter. The weapon was from a gunsmith in Connecticut. I’d never heard of the brand name, but was assured that it was a quality firearm. I liked its heft. It felt right. It felt like it had been made especially for my hand.
For the next seven years I lived in Dallas, Topeka, Salt Lake City, Denver, New Mexico Territory, and San Francisco. I went wherever I was needed. In Utah, I was part of a gang that robbed mining payrolls. Somewhere along the line I was found out and almost hung. Instead, the gang’s boss decided to stick a Bowie knife in me. I was left for dead, but found by another agent who was playing the outside man on the case. Harlon Shanks. He got me to a doctor who decided the huge knife had missed my vital organs. I was laid up for several weeks after that.
Since joining The Service, my body has been thrown down a mine shaft, shot twice in each shoulder, knifed in the gut, and I broke my leg jumping off a cliff. There’s no other job in the world I’d rather have.
Chapter Three
When the Dodge City office opened, I was recovering from my broken leg and doing some filing for The Service. Mr. Hansel retired and was replaced by his nephew, Jacob Specks.
At thirty-three, Jacob was a little green for such a job, but he was a proven field agent and humbled by the appointment. Two days after the cast was removed from my leg, Jacob summoned me to his office.
I found him behind that same oak desk of Hansel’s—the one from St. Louis. Jacob was reading a report and didn’t look up as he pointed to a chair.
“Take a seat Rattler. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
I sat quietly as he finished reading the report. He nodded as he read, his lips moving with the words. Then he put the report down and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I need a drink,” he said to no one in particular.
“You’re not supposed to drink on duty, sir.”
He looked up at the ceiling and smiled ruefully. “That’s exactly right, Rattler.” He laughed and kept on laughing.
That’s when I realized he’d already had that drink. To remind him that I was still present, I spoke. “Why did you want to see me sir?”
He sobered up immediately.
“I have something for you.”
“Yes sir?”
“It’s a little dangerous.”
So far, this was nothing new. “How can I be of service, Mr. Specks?”
He stood up and looked out the window. What he was looking at, I don’t know, but it was something serious. Then he turned. “I was going to assign this job to Gator, but he turned me down.”
In The Service, you are not allowed to turn down a job. The fact that Specks allowed it to be turned down was startling enough, but the fact that it was Gator, made it plumb unbelievable. Gator was a legend. His deeds were legend. I’d list his exploits and all of the men he had killed, but you would stop reading and my credibility would be shot.
“Gator turned you down? What do I have to do? Go to the north pole and wrestle a polar bear naked?”
This struck Jacob Specks as terribly funny and he let out a stream of guffaws mixed with profanity. With each guffaw, I smelled scotch.