Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  As winter’s grip finally eased, Coffin began making his plans to leave. He quit at the meat market after drawing his pay on a Saturday evening. He spent the night getting drunk with some of his cronies. Sunday was spent mostly in recovering from the previous night’s revelry.

  He planned to leave on Monday, but late Sunday a storm blew in. A wicked wind swept over the city, and being this close to winter yet, it was a bitter wind. It brought with it thunderous, heavy rains, and even some sleet and snow. Temperatures plummeted.

  Standing in his room at Smith’s Boardinghouse, he looked out at the storm and wisely decided that he was not in all that much of a hurry to leave St. Louis. Instead, he braved the storm long enough to get to Farrel’s Tavern.

  “Goddamn,” he muttered when he was back inside. He slapped the water off his hat and slicker. He clapped his hat back on and then hung his rain slicker on a peg along with the two dozen or so others. He greeted several of his former work mates as he clumped to the bar, where a shot of bourbon and a mug of beer awaited him.

  Several hours later, he was back at the bar after having lost twelve dollars and seventy cents over poker. As everyone else did whenever the door opened, he looked to see the new arrivals.

  Something was vaguely familiar about one or two of the men, but they were bundled up against the weather. Before the last one entered, Coffin turned away and was paying them no mind. He was just taking a sip of beer when someone clapped him on the back and started tugging him around. Coffin let himself be pulled, but his hand dropped to one of the pistols in his belt. He stared up a little at a rugged, ruddy face. It was one of the five men who had just come into the saloon. “Somethin’ I can do for you, pal?” Coffin asked as politely as he could manage.

  “What’s your name, boy?” the man countered, his voice grating.

  “Abe Lincoln,” Coffin said sarcastically. “Yours?”

  “Tice Toomey, you fest’rin’ little snake fart. Now what’s your name, goddammit all?”

  “You don’t get your hand off me, boy,” Coffin said flatly, “I’m…”

  “Yeah?” Toomey asked cockily, “just what the hollow hell you gonna do to me?” He smirked.

  Without Toomey knowing he had done so, Coffin had slid a pistol out. He thumbed back the hammer but said nothing. He just sneered at Toomey.

  Toomey’s eyes narrowed, and his bulbous Adam’s apple bobbled some as he swallowed. He did not look afraid, just half-crazed. He released Coffin’s shoulder and with exaggerated care, brushed off Coffin’s shirt. “There now, ya see, bub, ain’t no call fer nastiness and harsh words, now is there?”

  Toomey took a step back, as if expecting Coffin to holster his pistol. When Coffin did not do so, disappointment flickered over Toomey’s face for an all-too-brief moment before he could cover it up.

  “You mind tellin’ me just what in hell you’re doin’ comin’ up and layin’ hands on me like that?” Coffin finally asked.

  “I was thinkin’ you was somebody.”

  “I am. Now either tell me what the hell you want with me or get your ass out and leave me in peace.”

  Toomey looked like he was thinking it over. While he did, Coffin sized up Toomey and his four companions. They were a mean, filthy-looking lot in whose eyes intelligence and goodwill did not reside. They seemed to be inbred, with that affliction’s moronic, slack-jawed face. All were tall and ungainly. Two wore remnants of Confederate uniforms, and Coffin was sure the two had not had those articles of clothing off since they donned them during the war.

  “Your name wouldn’t be Joe sumpin’, would it, bub?” Toomey finally asked. “My name ain’t no concern of yours.”

  “Now, dammit, you’re bein’ a mighty unreasonable feller. All I ast was your name Joe sumpin’. That’s all.”

  “And I told you it was none of your goddamn business.” He paused. “Now why don’t you take them knobheaded peckerwoods back there and get the hell out of the saloon.”

  “Lord all-goddamn-mighty, but if you i’nt a ball-bustin’ little son of a bitch,” Toomey said with a low whistle and a shake of his head. “Goddamn if you ain’t.”

  “What I am is one annoyed little son of a bitch, and I’m fast losin’ my patience with you.”

  Toomey looked like he wanted to chew out chunks of the bar. “At ain’t neighborly of you, bub.”

  “I got no desire nor willingness to be neighborly with the likes of you. I ain’t even of a mind to talk to you. So, if you’d be so kind as to get the hell out of here, I can go back to my beer.”

  “Well ’at ain’t gonna do. No sirree, no sir. It just plumb purely won’t.”

  Coffin shrugged.

  “You ever been in Cincinnati?” Toomey asked, as if the question had just popped into his head.

  Coffin shrugged again. Talking to this oaf had done no good so far, so he figured he wouldn’t say anything else. Maybe that would force Toomey and his friends to leave him alone.

  “Well, me’n my boys there is to think you was. Yep siree. Was ’long about the end of last summer. Come to think on it, you was holdin’ a pistol in your hands then, too.” He scratched at his furry chin, his eyes heavenward, as if he had just stumbled on the fountain of youth or something equally momentous.

  Coffin shrugged again. He knew damn well who this man and his fellows were and why they were here. And he was not about to be civil toward them in the slightest.

  “You was thuh pukin’ little shit who kilt my brother Earl there in Cincinnat’. Shot ’im right inna back.” Coffin shrugged again. He was tired of the game. There would be gunplay here sure as anything, he knew, and he just wanted to get it over with now. “That’s the chances you take when you hold up a bank, now ain’t it?”

  “Then it was you,” Toomey said. He seemed surprised, as if he had never thought of such a thing before. That amazed Coffin.

  “Yeah, it was me.”

  “Why’n hell’d you hafta get involved in ’at? Huh? Jesus, bub, that was a dumb thing to do.”

  “Not half as stupid as robbin’ a bank in a big, busy place like Cincinnati.” Coffin was vaguely aware that someone had opened the saloon door, took one step inside, saw the tableau and bolted back outside again. “Well ’at’s spilt milk under the bridge,” Toomey mused. Coffin shook his head in wonder. “It is that,” he said evenly. “So what’re you gonna do about it?”

  “Well,” Toomey said with a brilliant grin, “we come here to kill your ass dead.”

  “Then maybe you should be gettin’ to the doin’ instead of trying to kill me of boredom.”

  “You got us makin’ a disadvantage here,” Toomey protested mildly. “You got your gun out already and is ready fo’ action.”

  “I found that’s a good way to keep alive.”

  Toomey nodded in understanding. “That’s a fac’. But ’at don’t change the fac’ you got an advantage on us.”

  “I’d say things’re about even.”

  “How’s ’at?”

  “There’s five of you idiots and only one of me.” Toomey nodded.

  To Coffin, Toomey seemed to be actually trying to think, another source of amazement to Coffin, who seemed calm as he waited. He was, however, more than a little nervous. He knew he was good with a gun, but there were five of them, and he was nowhere near certain that he could get all five before one of them plugged him good. He also was not sure how the other saloon patrons would react either. Some were men he had worked with, but most he did not know, and it was possible that they could be kin of Toomey. Or they might be sympathizers of the South in the late unpleasantness, and so would join with any like-thinking person.

  Coffin finally pushed the thoughts away. There was nothing he could do about any of that. What he needed most right now was to be alert, since he was absolutely certain that Toomey and his companions were going to try something. It was just a matter of when—and how.

  The saloon was devoid of talking and most other noise. The thunder and pounding rain outside blocked ou
t whatever other small sounds there might be.

  “You mind was I to talk wit’ my brothers and cousins back there a minute?” Toomey finally asked. With his limited intelligence, he was at a disadvantage in almost any situation. Having the comfort of his brothers’ and cousins’ advice was important.

  “I would,” Coffin said flatly.

  Something in Coffin’s eyes made Toomey realize that Coffin was not lying. “But I can’t make no...”

  “Look, Toomey, you’re an asshole. I know that, you know that, your brothers and cousins know that. Hell, everybody who’s ever seen you knows that.” He paused. “Since that’s so well-known a fact, it’s time for you to do somethin’. Either pull your piece and take your chances, or drag your sorry ass out of here, and take that rabble with you.”

  Coffin reached behind him, found his beer with his left hand, grabbed it and brought it around. He drank a little, eyes alertly watching Toomey over the rim of the mug.

  As Coffin sipped, Toomey edged backward some. He had been only a few feet from Coffin and knew he would be blasted into oblivion at that range. With even a bit more distance between him and Coffin, Toomey thought he might have a small chance.

  “Now!” Toomey suddenly shouted.

  Chapter Four

  Coffin flipped his beer mug toward Toomey, who jumped in surprise. It kept him from drawing his pistol for a few precious moments. Coffin figured he could use those few heartbeats to concentrate on the other four.

  As Toomey shifted to the side out of the way of the beer mug, Coffin noticed that two of the other four men had drawn their pistols while Toomey had been blocking Coffin’s vision. He went for them first, blasting each man twice. Then he dove to his right, and rolled, coming to a stop when he crashed into a table near the door.

  Coffin noted that the two men he had fired on were down and apparently out of the fight permanently. But Toomey and both other men had unlimbered their pistols. The saloon seemed empty except for the opponents. Coffin knew that was not true, but most of the saloon’s patrons had fled earlier, racing out into the storm without coats or sometimes hats.

  Shoving to his feet, Coffin snatched out his other pistol with his left hand. He fired four times, feeling the comfortable buck of the old Remington in his hand.

  Toomey and one of the others went down, but Coffin was not sure how badly they were hit. He leveled the revolver in his right hand at the man still standing. Coffin was about to drop the hammer when his target suddenly started and then dropped his own pistol.

  Coffin was confused by that, but he figured to fire anyway. There was no telling what the enemy might be up to, and Coffin was not sure that all the men he had hit were dead. Better to drop this one, he figured, than to risk being killed through some trickery.

  The thoughts burst through his mind in less time than it took to blink, but the possibilities had been considered and the decision made. His finger started to tighten on the trigger.

  Then something pounded him a good shot on the back of the head. As Coffin dropped, his finger jerked on the trigger. He heard the gun go off, but had no idea where the lead ball went.

  He awoke with the storm still roaring around him. Once he got to his feet, he found that walking was not easy with the pounding of the rain on his thumping head. He realized that he was out back of Farrel’s Tavern.

  “Son of a bitch,” Coffin snapped as he slipped in some mud and went down on a knee. He pushed to his feet again, shaking water off his hands. He finally made it to the wood walk in front of the saloon. He stopped in front of the saloon for a moment, trying to steady himself. As his hand reached for the doorknob, Coffin realized he did not have his pistols. He turned and splashed to the boardinghouse.

  Glad that no one was in the sitting room, he checked the grandfather clock there. He had been out little more than half an hour. He hurried to his room, trying to ignore the throbbing ache at the back of his head.

  Shivering a little from the cold, Coffin stripped down and dried himself off. He pulled on his only other shirt, long johns, socks and pants. Pulling out the two .36-caliber Colts he had taken from that Rebel so many years ago, he carefully loaded them and then shoved them into his belt. He slapped on his soaking hat and headed out. At the door he grabbed a slicker that someone had left there. It was way too big, but Coffin didn’t care. All he wanted was to keep the powder in his pistols dry until he was inside Farrel’s Tavern again.

  Once more he stopped just outside and took a deep breath to settle himself. For the first time, the moisture-laden air smelled sweet and fresh, as if the pounding of the rain has washed away the city’s foulness.

  With his hand on the butt of a Colt still in his belt, he pushed inside. The place was nearly empty, and what little conversation there had been quickly was stifled. The bartender—known only as Stapely smiled warily.

  Coffin saw nothing amiss, really, and there was nowhere for an assailant to hide, so he figured he was safe. He pulled off the borrowed slicker and pulled on his own before marching to the bar. He passed several bloodspots.

  Waiting for him at the bar—as if nothing had happened—were a shot and a beer, and his two Remingtons. He jolted down the whiskey and took a few sips of beer. Then he fixed an icy stare on the bartender and said, “What the hell happened?”

  “It was the damnedest thing,” Stapely said, shaking his head. “You was about ready to pop that last fella there, when these two guys come in. Bounty hunters they were. We found that out later. Anyways, the one bangs you on the back of the noggin, and a moment later, the other shot the last one down.”

  “Seems I recall that one feller looked funny right there at the end, as if he saw someone he knew all of a sudden.” Stapely nodded. “Yep, that was it. We found that out later, too.” He refilled Coffin’s shot glass and beer mug. “Them two—they said their names was Laidlaw; Dewey and Daryl—said they’d tracked the five of them here from somewhere back in Kentucky or Tennessee or somewhere.” Coffin could understand that. The Toomey clan most likely had as many enemies as friends and kinfolk.

  “They was polite fellas, too,” Stapely continued. “Once they’d conked you and made sure all those other boys really were dead—one of ’em wasn’t, and they took care of that right quick-they picked up your guns and brought ’em over here.” He paused. “Well, they stood there a minute lookin’ at wanted posters. I told ’em you was a worker here, at the meat market,” Stapely added, as if he were proud of the fact. “Apparently you wasn’t among ’em, so they dragged you out back and dumped you there.”

  That made no sense to Coffin. “Why didn’t they just leave me where I was?” he asked.

  Stapely shrugged. “They seemed to think things’d be easier if you wasn’t layin’ around gettin’ in the way.” Coffin figured that was reasonable. Bounty hunters like the Laidlaws probably worked efficiently and as safely as they could. If they had left Coffin where he was, they’d have to keep on stepping over him. Of course, they could’ve just moved him to the side, along the wall, but Coffin figured the men had to think of him as a danger. After all, he had just taken on five men and was standing untouched when the Laidlaws entered the saloon. Men like the Laidlaws would be wary with a man like Coffin around, thinking that if he awoke, he might get hold of a gun and open fire. The easiest thing for the Laidlaw brothers to do would have been to kill him, but Coffin figured they didn’t do that since there were witnesses around, and they more than likely would not want to explain his shooting to lawmen. By dumping him outside, they had him out of the way, and there was a chance he might drown or something, in which case they would not really have much explaining to do.

  “Why didn’t you come bring me back?” Coffin asked. He reached up almost absent-mindedly and touched the still-swollen knot at the back of his head.

  “I did,” Stapely said. “Soon as those boys left, me and a couple others went out lookin’ for you, but you wasn’t there.”

  Coffin nodded. “Where’d them two get off to?” he
asked casually. He had the thought that he might go after them for giving him the big knot on the back of his head, and for leaving him to die out in the storm.

  Stapely shrugged. “All I know is that they took the five bodies—after they’d taken everything of value from them dumb bastards—and said they were gonna go get their bounties from the law. They didn’t sound like they was plannin’ to stay around.”

  “Why not?” Coffin asked, somewhat surprised. If he had just chased down five outlaws and gotten the bounty in the midst of a driving rainstorm, he would’ve been real fond of spending a few days in civilization.

  “Said they was lookin’ for another outlaw—a fella named Elwood Fox. You know him?”

  Coffin shook his head. “Why the hell would I know him?” he asked sharply. He resented the assumption that because some outlaws had come gunning for him that he knew every outlaw.

  “I don’t know,” Stapely said lamely.

  “You know how much they got for that band of scum?” he asked idly. He had never seriously thought of bounty hunting, but it might be a possibility if there was any money in it.

  “Hell yes,” Stapely said with an impressed whistle. “Showed the posters around. Totin’ it all up, them two fellas took in near three thousand dollars. Whoo, boy, that’s a heap of money.”

  A burst of rage flooded through Coffin, so hot and so big that it wiped the pounding ache of his head away for a moment. It wasn’t bad enough that the two Laidlaws had smacked him on the back of the head, but they had made three thousand dollars for work he had done, even if he had done it with no knowledge of how much the Toomey clan was worth.

  Coffin stood stock still, knuckles white where his hand gripped the beer mug. He was outraged at what the Laidlaws had done, and it took him some seconds to get a handle on the anger.