Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  “Hey, Joe,” Stapely said nervously. “Joe, you all right?” Coffin got his rage under control somewhat. “I’m fine. Just fine,” he mumbled. He finished off his beer and picked up the two big Remingtons. ‘Thanks for takin’ care of these for me, Stapely,” he said. “Be seein’ you.” He turned and headed outside.

  The rain had lessened only minutely. It seemed to Coffin, though, that it somehow felt less powerful. Maybe there would be a break in the storm soon, he thought. The roaring sheets of rain did help to cool his temper some, and that allowed him to think more clearly. He had every intention of tracking the Laidlaws down. He had enough sense, though, to know that leaving now would be foolish, and perhaps suicidal.

  Coffin wandered down to the local constable’s office and popped in. “You have a couple fellers named Laidlaw come in here a little bit ago?” he asked the constable on duty.

  The burly lawman nodded disinterestedly.,

  “You know where they went?” Once more Coffin had to battle his fury.

  The lawman shrugged. “They picked up vouchers for some bounties, and asked if a man named Elwood Fox had been around.”

  “Has he?” Coffin asked in exasperation.

  “Nah. I told them boys that he’d been seen out around St. Charles.” He paused, then glared at Coffin, eyes squinted. “What’s all your interest in this anyway?” he asked.

  Coffin shrugged. “Got some personal business with them. I’d heard they come into town and tried to find ’em. Then some feller said he’d seen ’em down to Farrel’s. I went there and the bartender told me the Laidlaws had killed a couple of wanted men and were comin’ over here to get the bounty due ’em.”

  “I gave ’em the voucher to take to the goddamn bank, and they left.” The lawman glared. “And that’s all you’re gonna get from me, goddammit.”

  “Where’s St. Charles?”

  “Northwest,” the lawman growled, annoyed. “Eighteen, maybe twenty miles and across the Missouri.”

  “Thanks,” Coffin said sarcastically. “You’ve been a big help.”

  “Don’t get snotty with me, boy,” the constable snapped. He started to push himself up out of the chair.

  Coffin had taken just about as much as he could take. His hand went to one of the Colts in his belt. “I think you need to just keep where you are, Constable,” he said tightly. He knew he was risking a lot. It would go hard on him if he stood here and shot down an upholder of the law, but he could take no more guff for this day.

  The lawman eased himself back into the chair. He did not look happy.

  “I got nothin’ against you, Constable,” Coffin said mildly. “And I sure as hell don’t want to shoot you, but I’ve had me one piss-poor day.”

  The lawman glared at him for a few moments, and then grinned just a little. He nodded.

  Coffin eased toward the door backward. He didn’t figure the constable would try anything, but until he was sure he would use caution. Outside, he slipped around the side of the building and into an alley. He walked swiftly, through several bleak alleys and streets before he finally slowed. The lawman would have to be loco to come chasing him out in this weather. Coffin figured that while the constable might be ornery; he probably was not mad.

  Coffin had a direction to head now, but he still figured it would be foolish to leave tonight. He decided to eat well and then have a good night’s sleep. He could get an early start.

  Chapter Five

  The rain stopped sometime in the late afternoon or evening. Coffin was not sure which. He had eaten well and then gone straight to sleep. He awoke before dawn and headed for a restaurant that served workmen on their way to their jobs. It was a loud, rambunctious place, which Coffin could have done without, but he ate quickly and then headed back to his room.

  His headache was gone, and the knot on the back of his head had shrunk somewhat. With the headache gone, a full belly and a long night’s sleep, he was feeling better. Still, his renewed spirits did not in any way lessen his anger and his determination to get the men who had treated him so cavalierly. Each time he thought of it, his stomach would do a flop and the rage would rush through his veins.

  Since he had planned on leaving today anyway, he had his supplies already. After breakfast, he went back to his room and packed. Done with that, he sat down to clean his pistols.

  As he worked, he thought back on yesterday. He realized that he had two pistols and damn near used them all up in his gunfight with the Toomeys. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He recalled seeing a Confederate during the war who had taken two plain, simple holsters on thin belts and hung them around his neck from side to side, so that each pistol rode under an armpit, butt facing outward. Coffin thought that might be something to try.

  Once he finished cleaning his pistols, he dug through his stuff and pulled out the two old holsters for the smaller Colts. He had only one belt, however, and that was holding up his pants. Thinking himself foolish for all this, he headed to a dry goods store, where he purchased two slim belts.

  Back in his room, he hooked himself up and looked in the mirror. He still felt silly, but it gave him more firepower. He decided, though, that he would wear them once he got out of town, away from all the people who would, he was convinced, laugh themselves silly at him. With relief, he packed his newfangled contraption of a holster away.

  He took a final look around his room. There was nothing he had forgotten, so he grabbed his saddlebags and the two burlap sacks of supplies and headed out.

  The walk to the livery was a sloppy and ginger one. The mud in most of the streets seemed to be at least a foot thick. It clung to his boots, and tried to hold him down with each step. He made it with getting splashed by passing wagons and carriages only five times. It did wonders to improve his sour humor.

  He took his time saddling and bridling his horse before he realized he was just stalling for time. He didn’t know why, but he did know there was only so long it could take in getting ready. Finally he pulled himself onto his horse and rode out.

  The day was still thick with moisture, and the clouds hung low and heavy over the swarming humanity. It kept the stench of the city down low, where it could most offend. It clung to his body, too, chilling him as the wind whished and whooshed in frigid fits and starts. Coffin felt miserable.

  St was just about dark when Coffin pulled into St. Charles. The ride had seemed interminable, and the wait for a ferry across the Missouri River took an eternity. He found a hotel and then took his horse to a livery. Tired and cold, he found a restaurant and stopped in to eat a hasty meal. Afterward, he hit a saloon and spent an hour or so trying to wash away the surging anger inside.

  Coffin felt different in the morning, and he was not quite sure why. But as he strapped on his newfangled shoulder holster get-up, he realized that he felt eager, calm and cool. It was like being back in the war, on the night before a battle. At those times, serenity came over him. It wasn’t that he looked forward to battle, really; it was more like having an incredible amount of focus on the impending fight, as if his mind and body were preparing him for the horrors to come.

  He headed for a restaurant. He ate, quite conscious of the surreptitious stares and comments directed his way. He bore it silently, trying to manage his embarrassment while eating.

  Stepping outside afterward, he paused and then headed back to his room at the hotel nearby. It was still cool and humid, leaving a clammy chill in the air, so Coffin picked up his long slicker. That way, he figured, he was not only warm and dry, his rigged-up shoulder holsters were hidden from view, and thus from ridicule.

  He asked a passerby where he could find the town marshal’s office. A deputy was the only one in the office. “Howdy, Deputy,” Coffin said politely. “I was wonderin’ if you could help me out?”

  Deputy Jules Belmondo bore not only the name but the looks of his St. Charles French ancestors. He spoke with no French accent, though he did drawl a little. “What can I do for you, mister?” he asked.

/>   “I was lookin’ for a couple fellers. Dewey and Daryl Laidlaw.”

  “Couple of boys was in here yesterday. Didn’t give their names.” He glared balefully up at his visitor.

  Coffin took the hint. He held out his hand. “Joe Coffin.”

  “Jules Belmondo,” the deputy said, shaking Coffin’s hand. “Have a seat if you’re of a mind.”

  Coffin nodded and sat.

  “Those two appeared to be bounty hunters, though they didn’t say so. Just asked about a fella named Elwood Fox,” Belmondo said.

  Coffin nodded. “That’d be them.”

  “What’s your business with them?” Belmondo asked.

  Coffin thought the next few moments might be touchy. It was obvious that Belmondo had little liking for bounty hunters, but he wondered just how much of a story he should concoct for Belmondo. Then he decided that essentially the truth would be best. “They took some money I’d earned,” Coffin said slowly. “A fair good amount.” That was basically true. Coffin had earned the bounty money, even if he hadn’t known it at the time.

  “You a bounty man, too?” Belmondo asked bluntly.

  “No, sir,” Coffin said. That, too, was the truth. That he might become a bounty hunter after he found the Laidlaws did not count. “I’m just lookin’ to square things.”

  Belmondo sat staring at Coffin for a few moments. Then he nodded slowly. A man had to square things if he was to be a man at all, Belmondo figured. “I don’t know where they got off to, but we heard a couple days ago that Elwood Fox was spotted over in Crooked Creek.”

  “That a town?” Coffin asked.

  “Yep. Over on the Gasconade. It runs into the Missouri a couple, three days ride from here. Crooked Creek’s a couple miles south of the Missouri.”

  Coffin nodded. “There a ferry near there?”

  “Half mile this way from the confluence.”

  Coffin stood. “I’m obliged, Deputy.” They shook hands again and Coffin left. He took his time until he was outside, then speeded up. The Laidlaws still had about a full day’s start on him. He hurried to the livery and had them saddle his horse while he went back to the hotel and packed his few belongings. By the time he had done that, a boy from the livery was outside with his horse. He gave the boy two bits, which sent the youth away happy.

  Coffin rode slowly out of town, once again not wanting to give away his urgency in case anyone was watching. But once outside of the sprawling town, he put his spurs to the horse, keeping a good pace. He rode until after dark before pulling up in a stand of Willows near the bank of the Missouri. By the time he unsaddled his horse and tended it, he was in no mood for making a fire. He would have appreciated hot coffee, but the effort was not worth it, he thought. He settled for a few pieces of jerky washed down with river water and a quick cigarette.

  He got an early start after a breakfast of jerky and water. He pushed well into the night and had to roust the ferryman to take him across. The man growled and grumped, until Coffin handed him a double eagle. That changed his attitude in a hurry.

  Coffin arrived in Crooked Creek near midnight. The only thing he saw open was the Twisted Water Saloon. It might not have been going full blast, but the small place was fairly crowded.

  Coffin stopped at the bar and ordered a shot of bourbon and a glass of beer. When it was brought, he asked the bartender, who had introduced himself as Rudy Schmidt, “There any place to get a bite to eat this hour?”

  “We can whip somethin’ up for you if you ain’t too choosy.”

  “Beefsteak and taters’ll do if you can manage that. Coffee, too.”

  “Won’t take but a few moments.” He started to turn away, but Coffin called him back.

  “You seen two fellers named Laidlaw? They should’ve come through here yesterday, or maybe today.”

  “Not nobody that give his name that way,” the bartender said with a shrug. “You know what they look like?”

  Coffin dredged up the descriptions of the Laidlaws that Stapely had given him. “Brothers. Both’re maybe six-foot, one seventy. Dark, unfriendly eyes, big noses. The older’s got a touch of white in his hair and he’s got a scar from a bullet in his left cheek.”

  The bartender nodded. “Yep. They were in here late this afternoon. They were lookin’ for some fella named Elwood Fox. They was bounty men. Showed around a paper on this Fox fella.” The bartender wondered if he should be telling this short, hard-looking man anything, but then he decided that Coffin was a heap more friendly than those other two had been, so he didn’t mind.

  “Know what happened to ’em?”

  Schmidt shrugged. “They had a couple of drinks, went and ate over at Landsberg’s down the street there, and then rode on. Don’t know where they were headin’, but they left by the road south.”

  “That road follow the Gasconade?”

  The bartender laughed. “Hell no. Any road followed the Gasconade, it’d take you a week to go a mile, twisty as that goddamn river is. But it goes in that general direction.”

  Coffin nodded. “Just one more thing—those boys do anything else while they were in town?”

  The bartender shook his head. “Not that I know of. Unless they had the blacksmith do somethin’. They left their horses there for the little while they was here.”

  Coffin nodded again. “Thanks.”

  “Sure. I’ll have your supper out here in a jiffy. You gonna eat standin’ up?”

  “Not if I can find a table. You look pretty busy, though.”

  “We’ll find you somethin’ if there’s no place open when your supper comes.”

  Coffin worked on his beer slowly, feeling the tiredness weighing heavily on him. His eyes were gritty and his body felt slack. Sooner than he expected, the bartender came out with a plate on which sat a sizzling beefsteak so big it hung off two sides of the plate and some steaming potatoes, as well as an iron knife and fork. In his other hand, the bartender held a plate with several biscuits and a bowl of butter.

  “Come on, mister,” Schmidt said with a jerk of the head. “We’ll get you a place to eat your supper in peace.” Coffin nodded gratefully and followed the bartender, who shooed two men from a small table near the back of the saloon. Coffin sat, and Schmidt placed the plates in front of him. “I’ll be back directly with your coffee. Anything else?”

  “Another beer wouldn’t hurt none.”

  “You got it.”

  Coffin dug into the food, finally realizing just how hungry he was. He didn’t even slow when Schmidt returned with a mug of foamy beer in one hand and a pot of coffee and a cup in the other. Coffin nodded his thanks and kept on shoveling food in.

  He was still doing so when one of the working girls sidled up and sat at the table. She was plain-looking despite the face paint, and was wearing some form of undergarment that Coffin knew was not designed for wearing as a sole article of clothing. It did, however, offer a quite considerable view of her perfumed flesh.

  “You lonely, sweetheart?” she asked after a few moments to size him up. She decided she liked what she had seen so far. She wondered, though, why he had not taken off his long rain slicker.

  “Not right at the moment,” Coffin said, words garbled by the mouthful of steak and potatoes. He swallowed and then grinned. “But you give me a few minutes, and I might be.”

  “A girl can’t just sit around on her ass waitin’, ya know,” she said with a smile to soften her words.

  “Expect not. How’s about I buy you a drink or two to tide you over?”

  “That’d do, sweetheart.” She turned and waved to Schmidt, who brought her a shot of whiskey. Looking at the glass, Coffin wondered how watered down it was.

  Chapter Six

  By the time Coffin had finished his meal, the scarlet woman—Blue Gladys—had polished off three shots of whiskey. Coffin leaned back and rolled and lit a cigarette. “Best slow down on that stuff, girl,” he said, pointing to the empty whiskey glass. But he smiled as he spoke.

  Blue Gladys looked
around to make sure the bartender was not around. “I ain’t supposed to say, but Rudy there and the other bartenders make sure we don’t get too much.”

  Coffin grinned again. “I suspected. After all, it wouldn’t do to have a bunch of drunk workin’ girls, would it?”

  Blue Gladys giggled.

  Coffin wondered how she had gotten the nickname “Blue.” She certainly didn’t seem melancholy. Then he figured it didn’t matter. He would be here just a few hours and then be on his way. Schmidt strolled up with another mug of beer for Coffin and another shot for Blue Gladys.

  “Any way I can get my horse tended to, Rudy?” Coffin asked.

  “The livery.”

  “It looked closed when I rode on by it before.”

  “Probably is, but for a five I can rouse one of the boys who works there.”

  “You trust ’em?” Coffin asked, looking up with eyebrows raised in question.

  “’Bout as much as I trust anyone else in Crooked Creek.”

  “And how much is that?”

  Rudy laughed. “Most folks ’round here is respectable. ’Course, there’s always a few bad eggs.”

  Coffin nodded. He dug in a pocket and pulled out a coin. He flipped it to Rudy, who deftly caught it and glanced at the gold eagle. “That enough?” Coffin asked. Funds were getting a little low already, but he wouldn’t worry about that just yet.

  Rudy nodded. “More than enough, but when you need things after hours, that’s only right.”

  Coffin nodded. “Make sure he’s grained good and curried, too. Tell the boy to take his care with the tendin’, and with my belongin’s, too. Have him bring my saddlebags to me here. Or you can, if you’d rather. I’ll be by for the horse...” he glanced at Blue Gladys. “...in the morning.”

  Blue Gladys nodded. So did Schmidt. Then the bartender left. “It’s gonna cost you some, sweetheart, for the night.”

  “Is everybody around here a thief?” he asked with a laugh.

  Blue Gladys pinked up. “A girl’s got to make a livin’, ya know, Mr...?”