Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  “Thanks, Rudy.” Coffin strolled to the end of the bar and looked over the selection of food. He picked up a tin plate and piled on some smoked beef, catfish, two kinds of cheese and a boiled egg, Juggling the plate and utensils, he went back to where his drinks and hat were. A tall, beefy man dressed in a neat suit was standing there, back to Coffin.

  “Excuse me,” Coffin said. He got no response. “Excuse me,” he said again, more loudly this time. Still no response. Coffin calmly set his plate on the bar, and then gave the beefy man a hard punch to the kidney.

  The man gasped and sank, but caught himself with his right arm on the bar and managed to push himself back up.

  “Now,” Coffin said evenly, “get your fat ass out of the way.”

  The man turned, his face red. “You goddamn little shit, I’m gonna mash you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Coffin said calmly.

  The big man looked down, and saw the muzzle of a cocked Remington brushing the vest across his sizable middle.

  “Back off, Mike,” a voice said.

  The big man shuffled backward two steps. Then another man materialized. He was tall, thin, strong looking and had a mean cast to his handsome, unmarred face. He held out his hand. “Name’s Rupert Lyons,” he said.

  Coffin glanced from Lyons to Big Mike, as he thought of the other man. Then he eased the hammer of the Remington down and slid the pistol away. He shook Lyons’s hand.

  “Mike here gets a little feisty of a time,” Lyons said easily. “But he don’t usually mean no harm. Still,” Lyons added, musing, “Finnegan don’t take kindly to folks pullin’ guns on him.”

  “Then he should keep his fat ass away from other folks’ things,” Coffin said flatly. He waved a hand toward his hat and two drinks.

  “Well, I can see how that’d go against a man’s grain. Don’t you, Mike?”

  The big man nodded, but Coffin could see and even feel the insincerity.

  “What’s your name there, fella?” Lyons asked politely.

  “Joe Coffin.”

  “You in town to stay? Or you just passin’ through?”

  Coffin shrugged. “Ain’t decided yet. Not that it’s any of your affair.”

  “I got a little piece of advice for you,” Lyons said with exaggerated politeness. “You plan on stickin’ around here, I’d be a good man to be friends with. And a man not to get on the bad side of.”

  “That right?” Coffin said, with only a little sarcasm.

  “Yes indeed.”

  “Fine,” Coffin said with a nod. “Now, if you’re through tryin’ to impress me, my beer’s goin’ flat and I’m hungry.”

  Lyons glared at him but then nodded. “We can chat another time, then,” he said. Turning, he added, “Come on, Mike.” The two walked off, but not before Finnegan shot a withering glance at Coffin, who grinned insolently back at him.

  Coffin turned back to his food. A few minutes later, Schmidt wandered back toward him, stopped and refilled the two glasses.

  “Who—or what—was that?” Coffin asked, cheek bulging with food.

  “Rupe?” Schmidt said with a laugh. “He owns about half the town. Or so people say.”

  “Includin’ this place?” Coffin asked, curious.

  “Well, like with everything else he supposedly owns, not ‘officially,’ you might say. Word is that he owns a major chunk of the Twisted Water, but silently. Just like other places. No one knows for sure. As far as the ‘real’ owner, the one who plays the role, anyway, is Rex Sutter.”

  “Owner of the hotel?”

  Schmidt nodded. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He walked off to take care of some thirsty customers. “Anyway, Rupe carries quite a bit of weight around Crooked Creek,” Schmidt said when he returned.

  “And I suppose that ox that was with him helps enforce whatever Lyons is up to?”

  “Ain’t many men around here gonna stand up to Big Mike Finnegan.”

  Coffin shrugged. “The bigger they are, the farther they got to fall. And they’ll fall. It might take some time and a bit of equalizin’, but they’ll fall.”

  Schmidt grinned. “Feisty little bastard, ain’t you?” Coffin returned the grin.

  Schmidt went off again, and when he returned, he was serious. “Another word of advice, Joe,” Schmidt said quietly. “Watch your step around Lyons.”

  “He don’t scare me.”

  “He should.” Schmidt held up his hand to forestall more protest. “I ain’t sayin’ you should back down from him or kiss his ass or anything like that. Just be wary of him. He has a lot of friends around town. Worse, he’s got a lot of people who owe him and are scared shitless of him.”

  Coffin nodded. He was cocky and tough. But he was not crazy. A man with a lot of scared folks at his beck and call could cause a lot of trouble for someone. Especially if that someone was in a town where he knew no one and had no friends.

  Schmidt went back to his work, and Coffin went back to his eating. When he had finished, and still not seen Blue Gladys, Coffin strolled off to one of the two faro tables and watched a while. He even managed to lose a few dollars after a while. But it quickly paled on him. Coffin was thinking of dropping out of the faro game when Blue Gladys walked up behind him and gently placed her hands on his shoulders. He looked up and grinned, then reached up and patted her one hand.

  “So, you just couldn’t stay away, could you, sweetheart?” she asked in that slightly mocking tone that was normal for her.

  “Nope. Had me a great urge to come on back here and do a little pokin’ dance.”

  “Well, let’s get to...unless you’d rather set here and play some more faro?”

  “Well, I reckon I could break off my playin’ if you’re gonna stand there naggin’ me. Lordy,” he added as he stood and swept his money up, “I should’ve got married if I was gonna have to listen to this.”

  Blue Gladys laughed. It was a surprisingly strong sound from such a thin woman. They headed up the stairs together.

  “What’re you doin’ back here, sweetheart?” Blue Gladys said when they were done and lying relaxed.

  “Come to see you.” Coffin smiled.

  “Ah, bullshit,” Blue Gladys said. “You ain’t gonna go ten feet to find some pitiful fallen angel,” she said bitterly. “Now, why’d you really come back?”

  Coffin flipped the covers off him and swung around so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor. He reached for the cigarette fixings in the pocket of his shirt lying on the table. He rolled a smoke quietly, and then lit it. Once it was going, he spoke, more like he was talking to himself than talking to Blue Gladys.

  “I got no place else to go, really. I got no kin except some folks back in Pennsylvania I don’t really know and who don’t want nothin’ to do with me. I’ve got no wife, no sweetheart, no roots and, I sometimes think, no future.”

  He paused, taking a couple of deep drags on the cigarette and then blowing the smoke out with a long, drawn-out sigh. “When I come through here the other day, I wasn’t here long, but I felt more comfortable in Crooked Creek than I’ve ever felt anywhere else that I can remember. Hell, I know that don’t mean nothin’, and that I just got me a dose of the melancholy, but, since I didn’t have no place else to go, this seemed as good a place as any.” Coffin grabbed the bottle of whiskey on the table and slugged back a good mouthful. He finished the cigarette and stubbed it out on the table and lay back again. Then he grinned. “Besides,” he said impishly, “there was this nice-lookin’ and mighty willin’ woman just a-sittin’ here in old Crooked Creek waitin’ for me.” He laughed a little.

  “That she was...I mean is...Well, that is, if you’re willin’ again.”

  “Hell, a man don’t get an invite like that too often,” he said with a laugh, reaching out for her.

  It was near noon the next day before Coffin left Blue Gladys. He was tired but happy and hummed a tune as he strolled out into the balmy sunshine. For the first time he could really believe that sprin
g was here. He strolled toward his hotel, taking in the sights around the town. He had never really looked at the place before.

  The main street was wide and seemed well-kept. Large cottonwoods rose up in the middle of the street in two places, and someone had taken the time to ring them with small wooden fences. Stores lined the street, many with wood sidewalks out front and a few with porticos.

  Coffin turned west on River Street toward his hotel. Suddenly Randy Carstairs trotted up beside him.

  “Hi, Mr. Coffin,” the boy said exuberantly.

  “Hi, Randy. How’re you doin’?”

  “Just fine. Where you been?”

  “You’re awfully nosy,” Coffin said with a laugh.

  “Well, I come lookin’ for ya before, and you wasn’t in your room. Mr. Eagan said he didn’t see you at all today.”

  “I had some business down in town early,” Coffin said quietly, but firmly.

  “I looked all over town for ya, too.”

  Coffin stopped and looked at Randy. “You ought to know, Randy,” he said sternly, “that there’s many folk who don’t take to bein’ asked questions. Not everything a man does is of concern to others.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Coffin.” He looked crestfallen.

  “It’s all right, Randy. I’m just lettin’ you know that I don’t like too many questions, and also to save you some grief in later times.” He started walking again, with Randy alongside. “Why ain’t you helpin’ your pa?”

  Randy shrugged. “It’s a lot of work.”

  “It’d help you build your muscles up. Help toughen you, too.”

  “Yeah, I know,” the boy complained.

  They arrived at Eagan’s. “I got more things to do, Randy,” Coffin said politely but firmly. Actually, all he really wanted to do was get some sleep, something he had had precious little of the night before. But he didn’t want to tell that to his young friend.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. Tell you what, though. You go on back and help your pa today. Then you come by tomorrow about noon. Me’n you’ll go do somethin’.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” Coffin said with a shrug. “We’ll think of somethin’.”

  “All right.” Randy ran off, whooping and hollering. Coffin watched him for a minute, wondering what he had gotten himself into. He wasn’t sure he wanted a friend that age. Nor did he want to be a substitute for Randy’s father. He also did not think it was good for the boy to go hanging around with him all that much.

  He sighed. He growled at himself for worrying too much about things that would work themselves out somehow anyway. He turned and headed inside.

  Chapter Ten

  Coffin was walking down Cottonwood Street—the main street of Crooked Creek—enjoying the late autumn crispness. He had been in Crooked Creek six months or so and had found it a good place to be, all in all. He had not met the young woman he had seen that one time, and for a while he had wondered if seeing her perhaps was a dream. He had finally concluded, though, that she had been passing through Crooked Creek. Maybe on her way west; maybe on her way back east, her family beaten by the hardships; maybe a girl from one of the nearby farms, come into town for supplies of a time.

  He did not give up his hope of seeing her again, though. Not this soon. In a way, it was almost good that he had not seen her since it was almost like a dream, one he could conjure up anytime he wanted. He was half doing so now, strolling down the street.

  He stopped suddenly, intently watching a wagon down at the far end of town. Something seemed wrong. It took a few moments to realize that the freight wagon was out of control, racing hell-bent up the street.

  Coffin started walking again, more quickly. The wagon continued its headlong rush, though it was still two hundred yards or so away. Coffin stepped up his pace a little more. People were beginning to stop and point at the wagon. Coffin quickened his steps still more. Then he spotted a plump woman stepping out into the street. She was bundled up against the cold and appeared to be oblivious of the charging wagon.

  Coffin began to run, dodging gawkers rooted to the cold ground, watching in fascination as the woman blithely walked to an almost certain death.

  He jumped off the boardwalk, slipping on the thin rime of ice on the ground. He regained his balance and charged on, breath puffing out in frosty little clouds. He glanced up and saw that the wagon was less than fifty yards off.

  The woman had finally become aware that something was wrong. She stopped, looking at the gawkers on the sides of the street. Many were beckoning urgently to her. She slowly turned, as the sound of the thundering wagon washed over her. Then she screamed as she found herself frozen in fear.

  Coffin slid, trying to stop. Still skidding, he slammed the side of his shoulder into the woman. He did not bother to see if she fell or not; it was sufficient that she was out of the way, at least a little.

  The wagon was only twenty yards away, and Coffin saw that the driver was frantically trying to stop the four racing mules, but he only had one line in hand.

  Coffin tore open his waist-length blanket coat and jerked out a Remington. He cocked it and fired all five rounds in the chamber. The front two mules were down, either dead or dying. It did not matter. The two rear mules immediately trampled on the front two, though they tried not to. Then all four were jumbled in a squirming, squealing knot of mule-flesh, chains, wood and leather.

  The wagon’s front wheels hit that roiling mess and flipped the wagon up and over. The driver jumped, landing hard on the cold ground and rolling. Crates, boxes and bales flew in all directions.

  Coffin had seen his shots take effect, and in the few heart-stopping seconds that all hell broke loose, Coffin spun to his right and dove, landing mostly atop the woman. Then something landed hard on his back. He grunted, the sound muffled by the woman’s heavy cloak.

  Suddenly the world seemed almost serene. The only real sound in the hushed aftermath of the action were mules braying wildly. Coffin pushed himself up, quietly groaning with pain as whatever had hit him fell off. He helped the woman up, though it hurt his back considerably.

  “My apologies, ma’am,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be so rough.”

  “Think no...”

  A scream of “Mother!” stopped the woman. She and Coffin turned. Coffin managed to keep from gasping as he saw the young woman he had come to Crooked Creek to find rushing toward the woman.

  “Mother, are you all right?” the girl asked, breathless from the cold and her mad dash.

  “Yes, yes, dear. Yes. I’m fine. Haven’t hurt anything but my dignity.” She brushed herself off. “If it wasn’t for this young man here, I’d have been squashed flat as a flapjack.” She looked at Coffin. “And what is your name, sir?”

  “Joe Coffin, ma’am,” Coffin said quietly, as if afraid to talk.

  “Well, Mr. Coffin,” the woman said, “I am most grateful for your saving intervention.”

  “It was nothing, ma’am. Though I apologize again for bein’ so god-awful rough on you.”

  “Pshaw. I’d rather you did that than allowing the alternative,” she said with a small laugh. She paused, then said, “Dear me, I’ve forgotten my manners. I’m Edith Yarnell. And this is my daughter Edna”

  “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. You, too, miss. You’d be related to Mr. Yarnell, the banker, then?”

  “My husband,” Edith said. “You know him?”

  “I met him a couple times when I’ve had business in the bank.” He realized he was standing there still holding his pistol. He stuck it in his holster and pulled his coat closed. “Well, ma’am, miss, I should be pushin’ on. And I expect you’d like to compose yourselves after all this.” Edith smiled a little. “I must admit, it did get my old heart ticking faster.”

  Coffin was surprised at the woman’s earthiness. She was not as old as he had originally thought, but she was middle-aged, and seemed not to mind being middle-aged.

  Edith looked at
Coffin’s face. “You think I’m not proper enough?” she said with a laugh.

  “No,” Coffin said hastily. “No, not at all.”

  “Pshaw, Mr. Coffin.” She smiled. “I didn’t get to be my age without taking some of life’s misfortunes. I wasn’t born in any fancy circumstances. I’ve come far, Mr. Coffin, and I think I’ve managed to do so without being too awful snooty about it.”

  “Mother!” Edna said in a little shock.

  “Hush, daughter. You’re not all that snooty either.” Edna blushed, and Coffin thought she looked wonderful.

  Sudden gunshots made them all jump. Coffin whirled, hand reaching for his other pistol. He stopped and turned back to face the two women once he saw that it was just someone who had shot two of the mules that had still been alive and suffering.

  “Well, Mr. Coffin, what can I do to repay you?” Edith asked.

  Let me marry your daughter, he thought. But he said, “Payment’s not necessary, ma’am.”

  “Pshaw again. Certainly there must be somethin’ I can do.”

  “Have him over to supper, Mama,” Edna suddenly said. Coffin glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He could not believe it, but she seemed to be interested in him. He fought back the hope, though, not wanting to be crushed when he learned she was just being polite to the man who had saved her mother.

  “An excellent idea, Edna,” Edith said. “Yes. Come to supper, Mr. Coffin. Will tonight be all right?”

  “Yes,” Coffin stammered. “Yes, sure.”

  “Our house is over on Winding Road. You know where that is?” When Coffin nodded, Edith added, “It’s the two-story brick house. Five o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.” Coffin walked away befuddled by his sudden fortune. The jumbled profusion of the horses and wagon brought him back to reality.

  The wagon driver was leaning against a hitching rail, holding a rag to a cut on his head. He pushed off the rail and limped toward Coffin, his hand out. “Goddamn if I ain’t glad you come along there a few minutes ago, mister. Hell yes I am.”

  Coffin nodded and shook hands with him. “I don’t imagine the man you work for’s going to be quite so grateful.”