Rocky Mountain Lawmen Series Box Set: Four John Legg Westerns

by John Legg

  “All this goes against the grain, Warren,” Coffin said quietly.

  “I suppose it does,” Yarnell agreed with a nod. “Tell you what, I’ll make it worthwhile for you.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll give you a few hundred dollars. Say, five hundred. But you’d have to leave Crooked Creek and not come back.”

  “Sounds like you’re buyin’ me off,” Coffin said, not sure he liked the idea.

  Yarnell shrugged. “It is, I suppose, if one wanted to look at it that way. You could look at it as a bonus. Something a little extra for some ‘special services’ you provided.”

  “I still ain’t sure, Warren. It smacks too much of runnin’ away. I ain’t ever done that before, and I ain’t inclined to start now.”

  “How’d you get that five hundred you deposited in my bank that day you rode into Crooked Creek?”

  Coffin shrugged. “None of your business.”

  “Come, come, Joe, we are men of the world. From what I understand, you had come into town once before and were asking questions about two men. A couple weeks later you come ridin’ back into town with five hundred dollars in your pockets. And nobody’s heard of those two since.” He drummed his fingers on the desk, waiting for a response from Coffin.

  None came, so Yarnell continued, “I figure you either killed them two boys and took their money. Or you killed them and collected a bounty on them.”

  “It’s still none of your business how I got that money.”

  “Hell,” Yarnell laughed a little, “it doesn’t matter to me how you got it. But if you are—or were—a bounty man, then the offer I just made to you could be taken as a bounty on Lyons’s head. So what do you say, Joe?” Yarnell looked mighty earnest.

  Coffin thought about it for a few moments. He had gotten the money as a bounty more or less. There was no reason to not take the money from Yarnell. Still, he wasn’t sure. “Tell me, Warren,” Coffin suddenly said, “was Edna’s rejection of me her idea? Or yours?”

  “I could say it was my idea and let you hate me instead of her, but that would be a lie. And I don’t like to lie. I do it as little as possible.”

  Like now, Coffin thought. “And you had no hand in it?”

  “No, sir,” Yarnell said earnestly. “She came to me just after it happened and told me she couldn’t be courted by you anymore. Just couldn’t. And she asked me if I’d tell you, since she felt mighty bad about having to do it.”

  “What’re Mrs. Yarnell’s thoughts on all this?”

  “She concurs, of course. Anything she can do to stand by her daughter she will do.”

  “You know,” Coffin said as he stood there studying his cigar, “it’s a good thing you don’t lie too often, Warren, ’cause you do it so dang poorly.”

  Yarnell looked as if he had been slapped, and his eyes narrowed in anger. “You watch your mouth around me, boy,” he growled. “I don’t cotton to being called a liar.”

  “Then don’t lie,” Coffin said levelly. “I’m absolutely certain that you put Edna up to this. Probably ordered her not to see me anymore. I figure you probably browbeat your wife into accepting it, too.” His hard glare shut off the protest Yarnell was set to launch. “Just let me finish.”

  Yarnell nodded, though he looked nervous.

  “All that doesn’t matter much now. If I was to defy you and come courtin’ Edna again, there’d be trouble with you. And then I’d have to kill you,” he said simply. “Once I’d done that, Edna’d not want me anymore anyway.” He could see a faint trace of a gloat beginning on Yarnell’s face.

  “But don’t go gettin’ too smug about all this, Yarnell,” Coffin said roughly. “I hear that you’re spreadin’ the word that you run me out of town, and I’ll be back to pay you a visit. You won’t survive that visit. I guarantee you that.” Yarnell looked like he had swallowed hot coals.

  “Now, I’ll be by your bank first thing tomorrow. You’re gonna give me a thousand dollars, in addition to what I already have in my account there. Anybody asks why, you tell ’em there was a reward on Lyons. Anybody asks why I’ve left, you can tell ’em anything you want as long as it’s not that I run out—or was run out.”

  Coffin could see the scheming going on in Yarnell’s eyes. “And, remember, old man, that I got friends here. You bad mouth me, and I’ll hear about it, don’t you think not.” Yarnell seethed. It enraged him to see that Coffin was reading his thoughts.

  “Oh, and one more thing—don’t send nobody after me. I’ll kill ’em and drop ’em on your doorstep.” He paused. “Tell lard ass to come on out, hands empty.”

  “How’d you know he was there?”

  “The fat pig breathes like a steamer ship.”

  Yarnell nodded. It was something else he would have to remember. “Ike,” he called. “Ike, come on out of there. No guns.”

  A moment later, the door just to Coffin’s right opened, and a big-bellied, slovenly hulk of a man stepped out, hands hooked into the holster belt that spanned his vast girth.

  “Turn toward the window and ease your pistols out, one at a time.”

  Ike Kohlhaus looked big and dumb, but he was not the latter. He had no book learning, but he had been living by his wits for a good many years now. He had heard—firsthand —how Coffin had taken down Rupert Lyons, Big Mike Finnegan, and two others. And did it on his own. Kohlhaus appreciated such daring and flair. He knew that if he tried something now that Coffin would blast him into eternity without a second thought. So he did as he was told. He pulled one pistol out, bent awkwardly and set it on the floor. He did the same with the other.

  “Kick ’em back here,” Coffin ordered.

  When Kohlhaus did so, Coffin knelt and picked them up. He dropped one of them on the sideboard. The other he flipped in the air and caught it by the barrel. He stepped up right behind Kohlhaus. “No hard feelin’s, pard,” he said quietly.

  Kohlhaus nodded, and Coffin clubbed him hard on the back of the head. Kohlhaus grunted, swayed and then toppled. Coffin pulled the percussion caps off of Kohlhaus’s pistol and dropped it on the sideboard. Then he did the same with Kohlhaus’s other revolver.

  “Tomorrow. First thing,” Coffin said, impaling Yarnell with a hard glare. Then he left the room. He turned right in the hallway, heading toward the front door.

  “Mr. Yarnell’d prefer you to use the back again,” Jefferson said.

  “And what do you prefer, Mr. Jefferson?”

  Jefferson grinned. “I prefer to stay out of trouble when I can.”

  “An admirable pursuit.”

  Jefferson nodded. “However, I don’t expect Mr. Yarnell’d make too much of a fuss about it.”

  Coffin stared calmly at Jefferson. “You figurin’ to come after me?” he asked quietly.

  Jefferson looked around, making sure none of the Yarnells were around. “No, sir. Mr. Yarnell sends me out after you, I’m gonna visit some folks for a period of time and then come back here and tell Mr. Yarnell I couldn’t find you.”

  “Obliged, Mr. Jefferson.”

  Jefferson nodded, and escorted Coffin to the front door.

  Coffin walked slowly back to his hotel. His emotions were roiling in his head, and he wanted to try to sort them out. He had never cared for a woman the way he had about Edna Yarnell. At the same time, though, he was relieved in a way that he was no longer courting her. He didn’t know why that was. He did care deeply for her, but courting, and a possible marriage to her would present no end of troubles. He also still felt as if he were running away, too, despite doing it on his terms. On the other hand, there was nothing he could really do about Yarnell spreading tales about him once he had left Crooked Creek. He would never learn about it.

  Just before he got back to the hotel, he turned the other way and just walked some more, letting the still-cold air wash over him. It seemed to help after a little while. He still had not really resolved anything, but he figured that now at least he might be able to live with his troubles. It would take a long time
for him to forget Edna, and Crooked Creek. Until he could forget, he would live as best he could.

  At last he turned toward the hotel once again. Blue Gladys was waiting for him, which he appreciated. As much as he might want to be alone, he knew that would be bad for him. Blue Gladys was wise enough to not press him too hard for anything right now.

  A rapping at the door woke Coffin. He noted the light coming from the window, and he figured it was an hour or so past dawn. He got up and pulled on his pants. There was another timid knock on the door. Coffin grabbed one of his pistols, thumbed back the hammer and eased up to the door. Standing a little bit to the side, he yanked the door open.

  Randy Carstairs stood there grinning. “Mornin’, Joe,” he said happily.

  Coffin smiled a little. “What the hell’re you doin’ here so early, Randy?”

  “Come to get you for breakfast.”

  “Well, come on in for a minute while we get dressed.”

  “We?”

  Coffin laughed. “Yes, we.”

  Randy entered the room and stopped, mouth gaping when he saw Blue Gladys. “Mornin’, Randy,” she said with a big smile. She was sitting up, and her covers had fallen down around her waist.

  Randy was speechless. He had never seen anything like this.

  “How’d you like to become a man today?” she asked with another bright smile.

  Randy gulped. He might have been trying to say something, but no words came out.

  “I think he’s a mite young just yet,” Coffin said with a short laugh.

  “Judgin’ by the state of his pants right now, I’d say you was a mite wrong,” Blue Gladys giggled. She stepped out of the bed and gave Randy an eyeful. She laughed again. “He’s gonna burst, Joe,” she said.

  Coffin nodded, distracted a little.

  “Why don’t you go wait outside a minute, Joe,” Blue Gladys said quietly.

  He glanced at her, a brief flash of anger arising. Then he looked at Randy, who at the moment was most aptly named. Randy had turned thirteen just after Christmas, and so was the same age Coffin had been the first time he’d had a woman. He smiled and nodded. “Enjoy yourself, boy,” he said. And then he went outside, where he rolled and lit a cigarette. By the time he was done with it, Blue Gladys and Randy came out. Blue Gladys was happy; Randy, beaming.

  “Well, boy, how’s it feel to be a man?” Coffin asked.

  Randy was still speechless, but if smiles told the tale, he felt on top of the world.

  The three headed downstairs and to the restaurant next door. When they were done, and Coffin sitting back with a last cup of coffee and a cigarette, Blue Gladys asked, “What’re you gonna do today?” He had not said a word to her about his plans last night.

  “I’ve got to go to the bank. After that, I ain’t sure.”

  Blue Gladys looked sharply at him, and Coffin made a barely perceptible nod in Randy’s direction. Blue Gladys nodded. They would discuss it later—if Coffin wanted. He certainly owed her nothing.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The three stopped just outside the restaurant to let their eyes adjust to the sunlight. After the hard freeze of the past few days, today was warm and pleasant, with a light wind. No clouds marred the deep, rich blue of the sky.

  “We might as well walk together part of the way,” Coffin said. He turned left and took a step. A moment later, his hat went flying off and the restaurant window behind him shattered. “Get down!” he roared, as he ripped out a Remington and crouched, as he tried to spot the source of the attack.

  Just as he picked out Ike Kohlhaus, Coffin heard Randy screech and then fall. “Shit,” Coffin breathed. He cracked off one shot immediately, not caring if he hit Kohlhaus. He just wanted to put the fat man on the defensive. Coffin risked a quick look behind him. Blue Gladys was crouched over a sprawled Randy Carstairs, who seemed mighty still, and there was blood soaking into the wood beneath the boy.

  “You dumb, fat son of a bitch!” Coffin bellowed. He pushed up and let fly the last four rounds in the Remington. Each ball hit Kohlhaus in the chest, shoving him back a half step each, until he hit the hitching post, and he hung over it, back arched.

  Coffin shoved the Remington away and grabbed the other. He took a quick look around, but no one else seemed to be of a mind to try shooting at him. He ran across the street, as Kohlhaus fell into a fat puddle on the ground. Coffin knelt next to him and grabbed the man’s shirt. Kohlhaus was still alive, but fading fast. Coffin slapped his face twice, trying to keep him conscious for a few more moments. “Did Yarnell send you, you fat bag of shit? Or was this your own goddamn stupid idea?”

  “Mine,” Kohlhaus gasped. “Wanted to get you back.”

  “For what? Conkin’ you on the head last night?”

  “Yeah. I also thought Yarnell'd think better of me.”

  “Damn stupid reasons for dyin’, boy.”

  “Little late for worryin’ ’bout now, ain’t it?”

  “It is. Makin’ it all the worse, though, is you killed a boy, you big, fat stupid son of a bitch.”

  A few tears leaked out of Kohlhaus’s eyes, which were deeply imbedded in his obese face.

  Coffin was amazed to see it. He shook his head at the complexities of men. The tears stopped when Kohlhaus stopped breathing a moment later. Coffin rose and looked around. To his surprise—and great relief—he saw Blue Gladys and Randy standing. He walked swiftly across the street.

  “You all right, boy?” he asked anxiously when he got there.

  Randy nodded. His face was pale, and he seemed to be in shock. “It hurts,” he whispered, as if afraid that using his regular voice would make his arm fall off.

  “I told you it did,” Coffin agreed, grinning. Part of the reason was relief. The other part was for Randy. If the boy could see Coffin laughing and joking, Randy might feel a little better. Maybe not less pain, but he would have the idea in his head that he would be all right.

  Coffin tore open Randy’s shirt and looked at the boy’s shoulder. “Hell, boy, it’s hardly more than a scratch,” Coffin pronounced.

  “It is?” Randy said. “Even thought it hurts so much?”

  “Well, it’s more than a scratch, but I reckon you’ll be all right. You go with Blue Gladys. She’ll bring you to Doc Hanratty.”

  “What’re you gonna be doin’?” Randy asked, still in a faint voice.

  “I got business. I’ll stop by when I’m done to see how you’re doin’.”

  “But...”

  “Don’t you argue, boy,” Blue Gladys said sternly. “Now, come on.” She took Randy’s hand and tugged him off.

  Coffin turned and walked back across the street. A crowd had gathered around Kohlhaus’s body. “A couple of you boys come give me a hand here,” he ordered.

  “Doin’ what?” someone asked.

  “Helpin’ me sling skinny here over his mule so I can get rid of him.”

  Two men came forward grudgingly and helped. Soon enough, Kohlhaus’s corpse was hanging belly down over his big gray mule. “Thanks,” Coffin said. He was sure some of the men wanted to make fun of him, but after he had killed four men at the Twisted Water and now Ike Kohlhaus, they most likely were afraid to say anything. That, too, was a relief. He still didn’t feel great about walking the streets of Crooked Creek in broad daylight, but he was a little more certain now that people would leave him alone.

  Towing the mule carrying Kohlhaus’s fat corpse, Coffin headed down River Street. People gathered along the street as they had only two days before. Now, though, the people were quiet, watching the procession in silence.

  Coffin walked straight into the bank, with the mule behind him. The two tellers and six customers stood with gaping mouths, as Coffin headed for Yarnell’s office. Then he—and the mule—entered the office.

  “What the hell...?” Yarnell exploded, jumping up. “Dammit, Coffin...”

  “Shut up and sit down,” Coffin snapped. When Yarnell did, looking mystified, Coffin said, “Where’s my money
?”

  “I’ll...I’ll get it for you. Right now.” He rose again. “Have someone do it.”

  Yarnell nodded and called for Clark, one of the tellers. While Coffin and Yarnell waited, Coffin said, “There’s only one thing keepin’ you alive now, Yarnell. Old Kohlhaus here was some sad when he found out that he’d shot a boy while he was gunnin’ for me.”

  “That Carstairs kid?”

  Coffin nodded. “If he hadn’t shown any remorse, I would’ve come here and blown a big hole in you.”

  In less than five minutes, Coffin had closed out his account and had a pocketful of money.

  “I can’t say it’s been a pleasure dealin’ with you, Yarnell,” Coffin said. He turned, pulled a pistol and calmly shot Kohlhaus’s mule in the head. The animal fell, jerking and shuddering. Coffin slid the revolver away and headed toward the door. Once there, he looked back and said, “Oh, by the way, Yarnell, don’t send anyone after me. I’d not look favorably on such a thing.”

  Outside the bank, Coffin headed for Doc Hanratty’s. He found Randy and Blue Gladys still there. The boy was looking a little better, though he was still mighty peaked. “How’re you doin’ now, boy?” Coffin asked.

  “I’m all right. It’s still painin’ me a lot, but the doctor give me something to help keep that in line.”

  “That true, Doc?” Coffin asked.

  “It is,” Hanratty said.

  “Good. Can I take him home now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Come on, Randy.”

  As they walked toward the livery, Coffin said, “I’ve got to be pushin’ on, Randy.”

  “What?”

  “I’m leaving Crooked Creek.”

  “Why?”

  “A bunch of reasons, none of ’em anything you or I could do much about.”

  “But I thought we was friends.”