Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  There was some benefit to him being in Eastern towns and cities. Such places were quite gun-shy, and would look askance at anyone other than a constable carrying a pistol. Knowing that, he would generally leave his pistols behind when he went walking around, lest he stir up trouble. He could get into enough trouble without asking for it.

  That changed, though, as he followed the Ohio River west and south and began hitting some of the tougher riverfront towns. There he would openly carry his pistols since nearabout everyone else seemed to. His touchiness had not lessened a whit, though he began meeting a rougher element. As such, he even more frequently got into fights. Once in a while, they would escalate beyond a barroom brawl into gunplay. And that, in turn, would bring a cool request to leave town right then and there.

  Those short, hot, furious little battles had slowly made him realize that he was mighty handy with his six-guns. He supposed that it had something to do with his coolness under fire. He had noted that in himself—and others—during the war. He was only a little surprised at that. He was a little more startled with the knowledge that he handled the weapons so easily. It was almost scary when he thought about it. So he thought about it as little as possible.

  What he could not see in himself was his arrogance and his touchiness. These were as often as not the reasons for the fights. But he was completely unaware of it, and so could not figure out why men constantly harassed him over his height. All he wanted was for people to leave him alone.

  Another thing he did not notice was his continual movement westward. He just simply rode, with no direction or purpose, but always west, as if being pulled.

  Coffin was, he could admit to himself, a man who had little future. He didn’t have much of a past either when he thought about it. Not a real, live past like other folks had, one with kin and home places and a line of ancestors he could look back upon. His past was all blood and violence and hate; anger and spite and fear. There were no pleasant remembrances, no crooning mother at hearth side. There were no dalliances with pretty girls who would be awaiting his return.

  Still, he kept on going, hoping all the while that the next place would be the one where he could put down roots, meet a young woman, maybe get married and have a few kids. That was a hoot, Coffin had thought more than once. That would require him to have some kind of job, and all he knew was hard-rock mining and soldiering. Neither appealed to him. Nor did they afford much of a future either. Not a future that would involve a wife and children, safety and ease of living. Just more blood and death and hardships.

  When he came to Cincinnati, he was feeling rather gloomy, but he thought that perhaps he could find a small measure of solace. The city was plenty big enough for a small man like himself to get lost in. He wondered if that would ease his mind, at least for a time.

  Then he decided it didn’t matter. He shrugged, and rode on into town, gravitating as if guided toward the riverfront with its festering saloons, coarse people and overpowering stench. He thought it was a sad thing that a man would feel comfortable in such foul surroundings.

  Chapter Two

  Cincinnati turned out to be not such a bad place for Coffin to hang his hat, at least for a while. He took a job in a slaughterhouse. It was, he thought wryly, an apt job for a man with his limited talents and his lack of concern over the sight of blood and hacked up flesh.

  He left the industrial area of the city down near the waterfront every once in a while, heading up to the more respectable parts of Cincinnati after a quick wash-up and with clean clothes, of course. It helped him accept his lot in life, as he saw it. By those visits, he could keep alive a faint, flickering ember of a dream to be a respected, even wealthy man. Of course, the dream did not take into account his lack of skills at anything that would bring him a fortune. On the other hand, there had been plenty of men back in the Sierra Nevada who had no skills, no learning, and no talent but had still gotten rich.

  Though the constabulary of Cincinnati frowned on the carrying of firearms, Coffin was not about to wander through the city unarmed. He took to carrying a .36-caliber Navy Colt in a holster at the small of his back under his shirt. He had taken the Colt—and another—from a dead Confederate during the battle of High Bridge just days before the war officially ended. Moments after he had picked up the two weapons, he was hit with a bullet.

  He had spent quite a while in a military hospital and then on light duty. As soon as he was able to do so, he had mustered out.

  He felt a lot safer carrying the pistol, especially when he was in one of the fetid places called saloons. It was unusual that he was seldom, if ever, bothered in the saloons. It took him a few days to realize why—he almost always went to a saloon straight from work. There were few men who wanted to tangle with a man already soaked with blood and reeking of cattle entrails.

  Of course, there was always some idiot who downed enough rum or cheap rotgut to think himself king of his own little world. That happened once, and Coffin had pounded the man senseless. After that, most of the men went back to leaving him alone, which suited him just fine.

  By the time he had been there three months, Coffin was feeling a little more comfortable. He began spending more time up in the city rather than down on the waterfront—when he could. Working twelve to fourteen hours a day in a slaughterhouse did not leave much free time.

  The work was sporadic, though, many times. Occasionally a shipment of hogs or cattle did not come through when it was expected. At such times, Coffin was told not to come in. While he got a day off, it also meant that he would not be paid for the day. Almost subconsciously he was looking for better work. He had no desire to spend the rest of his life in an abattoir, not if he was to make anything of himself.

  He was unsure of himself in such pursuit, though. He somehow felt unworthy of even being in this part of town, let alone deluding himself into thinking he could one day live and work here. Then he would growl angrily at himself for having such negative thoughts. He had never had them before, and he figured he should not have them now.

  So he continued to go into the better part of the city, hoping to lose the unusual self-doubt through sheer determination.

  Coffin wandered up into the heart of town one sunny summer day when he had no work. He had himself a good meal—pork chops with apple, candied yams and corn, followed by peach cobbler and coffee—at Franklin’s Chop House. Full and satisfied, he strolled to Gabler’s Tobacco Shop and picked up cigarette fixings. Just outside Gabler’s, Coffin rolled himself a smoke. He had just lit it when he heard gunshots and screams.

  He stepped to the end of the sidewalk and looked up and down the street. Gunshots weren’t unknown here, but Coffin felt that there was something different about this.

  Moments later, five men came riding hard up the street. Several men on foot—townsmen by the look of them—ran after the fleeing horsemen, firing guns as they did. Their words finally floated to him: “The bank’s been robbed!”

  A young woman gasped just behind Coffin. He turned his head and hissed, “Get inside, miss. Now!”

  Ashen-faced, the young woman nodded and entered the tobacco shop. It was not a proper place for a woman to be, but under the circumstances she felt justified.

  Coffin calmly shoved the back of his shirt up and yanked out the Colt. He gave it a swift glance to make sure it was set. The horsemen were abreast of him as he stepped off the sidewalk and calmly fired all five shots that he kept in the six-shooter.

  One man fell with a thud, and two others jerked, and Coffin knew he had hit them, too. He shoved his pistol away and ran toward the dead man. Kneeling, he grabbed the man’s pistol, cocked it, and, still kneeling, swung toward the horsemen again. But they had disappeared around a corner.

  Two middle-aged men stopped next to Coffin. Both were wheezing. “Good shooting, mister,” one gasped.

  Coffin shrugged. “You know this thing?” he asked, lightly kicking the corpse.

  The man who had spoken shook his head. “Not for sure
. But I figure he’s kin of the Toomeys.” He had almost caught his breath back, and he held out his hand. “Thanks, Mr…?”

  “Joe Coffin.” He shook the hand.

  “Mortimer Benchley. I’m president of The First Cincinnati Bank.”

  Coffin didn’t think that called for an answer, but he was saved by the arrival of Dave Worthington, chief constable or, as he liked to think of himself, police chief. “What’s gone on here?” he asked officiously.

  Benchley explained in a few sentences, including Coffin’s role. When he had finished, Worthington asked, “How much you lose, Mort?”

  “Five thousand, give or take a few hundred, I guess. I’d have to make a count to be sure.”

  Worthington nodded and rubbed his square jaw a few times. “And you shot down this here one, did you, son?” Worthington asked, looking at Coffin and tapping a boot toe on the corpse’s side.

  Coffin nodded.

  “What’s your name, son?” Worthington asked. When Coffin told him, the constable said, “You know it’s against the law to carry firearms here in the city, don’t you, son.” It was not really a question.

  Coffin nodded, trying to put a lid on his growing anger. He didn’t like being treated like he had done something wrong. He disliked even more being called “son.”

  “I’m of a mind to run you in, son.”

  Coffin shrugged. “Wouldn’t be wise,” he said calmly. Worthington glared at him. But before the police chief could say anything, Benchley said, “Mr. Coffin was a big help, Dave. I don’t believe any judge’d find him at fault in this instance.”

  Worthington nodded. “I expect so.”

  Coffin looked at him, thinking that the lawman was mighty dopey for a police chief. Then he took a closer look and saw the light of genius in Worthington’s eyes.

  “A couple of you boys come remove this trash here,” Worthington ordered. He looked at Coffin again. “I’d be obliged if you was to come with me to my office for a chat.”

  “You’re not arresting him, are you, Dave?” Benchley asked.

  Worthington shook his head. “Nope. No, sir. Just want to chat with him some.”

  Benchley turned to Coffin. “He does arrest you, Mr. Coffin, you get word to me. I’ll pay your bail. Lawyer, too, if it comes to that.” He looked at Worthington. “Don’t test me on this one, Dave,” he said quietly.

  Worthington shrugged, unimpressed by the banker’s warning. “Come on, Mr. Coffin,” he said, turning and walking away.

  Coffin was a little surprised that the police chief had turned his back on him. He looked at Benchley, who said, “Remember what I said.” Coffin nodded and followed the sheriff, his pistol now back in the holster under his shirt.

  Worthington’s office was about what Coffin had expected. It was a bit more bustling than others Coffin had seen, but the beat-up furnishings and equipment could have come from any marshal’s office anywhere.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Coffin,” Worthington said. “You want some coffee?”

  “That’d be nice.” Moments later Worthington handed him a tin mug. Coffin took a sip and managed to keep the grimace off his face.

  He wasn’t entirely successful, since Worthington asked with a smile, “Something wrong with the coffee, Mr. Coffin?”

  “Other than the fact that it tastes like it came out the back end of a mule, who’d gotten it from a sick cow, no.” Worthington laughed. “It is pretty rancid, ain’t it?” he asked rhetorically.

  “Mind if I smoke?” When Worthington shook his head, Coffin put his cup on the desk and pulled out his fixings. With a cigarette going, Coffin leaned back “So, what’s on your mind, Constable?”

  “Chief Constable,” Worthington emphasized. He sighed. “If I were you, Mr. Coffin, I’d take leave of these parts. And damn soon.”

  Coffin blew out a stream of smoke and then risked another swallow of coffee. “You runnin’ me out, Chief Constable?” he asked.

  “Nope, no, not running you out.” He, too, sipped coffee and made a face. He put the cup down and pushed it across the desk away from him.

  “Then what’re you sayin’?”

  “That you should get out of town. You’re foolish enough to stay here, that’s your business.”

  “Why?”

  “That man you killed is a notorious one—Earl Toomey.”

  Coffin shrugged. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “You’re not from these parts, I take it?”

  Coffin shook his head. “Been here only a couple of months.”

  “I see.” Worthington paused, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. He looked and felt tired. “The Toomey brothers—Carl, Tice, Randall, and Warren—along with several of their cousins—are the worst renegades these places have seen since before the war.”

  “So?”

  “So…they’re clannish buggers, them boys, always were. They’ve gotten worse since the late unpleasantness.” Coffin thought he could see where this was going, but he wanted it out in the open, just to be sure. “And what’s that got to do with me?”

  “The Toomeys aren’t the kind to forget the killing—and wounding—of kinfolk, Mr. Coffin.”

  “So you think they’ll come back through here lookin’ for me, that right?”

  “Yes, Mr. Coffin, I do.”

  Coffin nodded. He dropped his cigarette butt on the floor and squashed it under a boot heel. “And what concern of yours is that, Chief?”

  “None, really.”

  “Then why bother me with it? They come gunnin’ for me, I can handle myself.”

  “I’m sure you can, Mr. Coffin,” Worthington said flatly. “But can you take care of the women and children who might get caught in the crossfire? That’s my concern in this matter, Mr. Coffin. Not you and your safety. Theirs.” Coffin sat frozen. No matter how angry he was at the world, no matter how poorly he might think of himself, he could not endanger women and children. Not when there was an easy way out. He finally nodded. “Hadn’t thought of it that way,” he admitted. “I’ll be gone come mornin’.” He paused. “I might need your help, though.”

  “How can I help?” Worthington asked. He was surprised that he had gotten no resistance from this small, hard-eyed man.

  “Old Hefflemeyer might be some resistant to givin’ me the eight days’ pay I got comin’ nearly a week early.”

  “I doubt there’d be some resistance,” Worthington said with a small smile. “That’s simply a fact. That old buzzard’d cheat his ma and pa out of a day’s salary if he thought he could get away with it.”

  “Anything you can do to weaken his stiff back?”

  “I’ll talk to him this afternoon. Come on by here this evening.”

  Coffin nodded and stood. “Obliged, Cons…Chief.” He headed for the door, turning back when Worthington called to him.

  “I’m obliged to you, too, Mr. Coffin. Not only for killing one of those sons of bitches, and wounding a couple more. But also for being so reasonable in this matter.” Coffin nodded. “I might’ve done some things I ain’t too proud of, Chief, but I ain’t ever been responsible for the deaths of women and kids. I ain’t about to start now.”

  He opened the door and headed out.

  Chapter Three

  Once he got out of Cincinnati, Coffin rode slowly. He had no place to be; no place where he wanted to be. So he took his own sweet time, trying to find some purpose in his life. He would stop in a town for a day or a week, picking up whatever kind of job he could find to raise enough of a stake to get to the next town. In none of them did he find anything to keep him, and so he would move on.

  By late fall, he found himself in St. Louis. It was a big enough city for him to lose himself in for a while, so Coffin found himself a job in another meat market. The only difference between this one and the one in Cincinnati was that this one had a far larger supply of game animals, from buffalo to elk, from antelope to turkey. Coffin figured that would keep him fed and dry and warm until spring came again. Then
he could be on the move. To where he did not know. He would worry about that when the time arose.

  He, like most of the other men in St. Louis—and everywhere else he supposed—spent much of his non-working time in saloons. They were warm and comfortable for the most part. Coffin found a few saloons that fellow workers frequented, and he usually went there. In such places, he was pretty much left alone. Still, it seemed he craved excitement of a time, and so he would go to other saloons. Though he didn’t exactly start fights at those times, he certainly prodded men enough that it became inevitable.

  In the mornings after nights on which he did so, he would sit in his room quietly, full of pain, and wonder why in hell he would do such a damn-fool thing. It was insane, and Coffin began to think that perhaps he should find himself an asylum and move in.

  When the hangover—and the pain of bumps, bruises and swollen knuckles—faded, he would be his old self again for a week or so, and then the drive for excitement would push him into foolishness again.

  There were other excitements, too, though with working there was little time—or money—for indulging in gambling or in visiting some of the fallen angels, of whom the town had quite a selection.

  Most nights Coffin just went to a saloon and sat by himself for a few hours, trying not to think of a life that seemed to be going nowhere.

  Because some of his adventures could escalate quickly into a more serious fracas—and because quite a few of the other men went about armed—Coffin began carrying his pistols openly. He felt a little more secure that way, and no one looked askance at him.

  Once Christmas was behind him, though, he began to look forward to spring with somewhat renewed spirits. He still had no idea of where he wanted to go or what he wanted to do, but he did feel a resurgence of a desire to be on the move.

  With such thoughts in mind, he spent less time in saloons and in other low amusements. It wasn’t born of any renewal of morality; just a desire to make sure he had enough cash to supply himself reasonably well when he bid farewell to the city. Still, that did not keep him out of saloons and bordellos entirely. He had never thought of himself as a saint. With the promise of spring, even some of his gloominess lifted. He enjoyed life a little more, took more pleasure in such daily events as eating.