Gun Law

by Ralph Cotton

  “You don’t say,” he said quietly.

  Jennings’ face twisted instantly to one side. He batted his broad eyes nervously.

  “You don’t say,” he repeated.

  Tribold Cooper stopped sorting through the pile of guns for a moment and looked up.

  “Is there something wrong with you, Buck the Mule?” he asked, sounding a little irritated with Jennings’ peculiar ways.

  “Nothing you want to fool with,” Jennings said with a strange look on his face. His big hand went to the butt of his gun.

  “Oh, is that a fact?” said Cooper, his hand reaching for his own gun.

  “Easy now, Buck the Mule,” said Philbert, standing up from the corner of the table, the matchstick clenched in his teeth. He turned to Cooper and said, “Pay him no mind, Tribold. He’s been inside too long.”

  “Maybe you best air him out some,” said Cooper. “He’s headed to the point where there’s no coming back with me.”

  “Good idea,” said Philbert, not wanting to argue with Cooper right then. “Come on, Buck the Mule!” he said in a loud, strong voice, hoping to jar Jennings enough to get his attention. “Let’s you and me take a walk.”

  “I want to see the woman,” Jennings said in a strange voice.

  “What woman is he talking about?” Cooper asked, his hand still in place on his gun butt, even though Jennings had dropped his to his side.

  “He’s just rattling,” said Philbert. “There’s nothing to it.” He walked over and gave Jennings a slight shove.

  “I’ll go, Philbert, but don’t push me,” Jennings warned him stubbornly.

  “That’s not a push,” said Philbert, “that’s a friendly nudge.”

  The big gunman turned and walked out the door, Philbert right behind him. Cooper and Bender looked at each other as soon as the two had left.

  “That is one crazy sumbitch, right there,” Bender said.

  “Which one?” Cooper asked. He dropped his hand from his gun butt, now that the two were gone.

  “Both, now that I think about it,” said Bender.

  “What the hell was Kern thinking, hiring a bunch like that to help us collect guns?”

  “If you ask me, Kern was scared and didn’t know what else to do with them,” said Cooper, “so he hired them, figuring they’d throw with us and do what he says.”

  “But they won’t, will they?” Bender asked, needing some guidance.

  “Hell no,” said Cooper. “Men like the Catlos and their idiot, skull-busting pal won’t listen to anybody for long.” He gave a short, dark grin. “Neither will we, as far as that goes.”

  After leaving the marshal’s office, Kern and Jason Catlo walked across the dirt street and straight up to the blacksmith and the other townsmen, who were still gathered in a circle talking.

  “It looks like your turn-in line has slowed to a halt ever since your gunmen shot down poor old Virgil,” the blacksmith called out.

  “We’re called deputies, mister,” Jason Catlo said before Kern could reply. They stopped only a step away from the gathered townsmen

  “He’s right, Erkel,” said Kern. “How dare you call my deputies gunmen?”

  “They’re carrying guns,” the blacksmith retorted, not backing down an inch. “They shot a man down in the street. They sure seem like gunmen to me.”

  “They are the only men on this street besides me who have a legal right to carry a gun,” said Kern. He gestured at the big Dance Brothers revolver sticking out of Fannin’s waist, and at the big Remington hanging in his hand. “What does that make you, Erkel Fannin?”

  “It makes me—”

  The blacksmith’s words stopped short as Jason Catlo grabbed him by the bib of his leather apron with both hands.

  “Under arrest,” Catlo said, finishing his words for him. His knee jolted up sharp and hard into the blacksmith’s crotch. The blacksmith snapped forward, jackknifed at the waist, any fight he might have had clearly gone out of him.

  But it wasn’t enough to satisfy Jason Catlo. He stepped back, sliding the big Dance Brothers pistol from the blacksmith’s waist as the big man hung there, suspended, helpless.

  “Plea-please!” Erkel Fannin managed to groan in a tight and strained voice.

  The townsmen watched in stunned horror as Catlo stepped back, brought the big revolver around full-swing and swiped it across the top of the blacksmith’s head.

  Kern was just as stunned as the townsmen by Catlo’s action. But he recovered quickly in order to show who was in charge.

  “My deputy is following orders. Let this be a warning to you. Any of you illegally carrying guns run the same risk as Erkel here.” He pointed down at the knocked-out blacksmith lying sprawled in the dirt. “The law is the law,” he added, looking all around slowly.

  “Marshal, I’m appalled!” said Councilman Matheson. “Our blacksmith here has never raised a hand in violence toward anyone!”

  “Raise your hands up out of your coat pockets, mister,” said Jason Catlo.

  “What? I beg your pardon, sir!” said the outraged councilman. “I happen to be a town official.”

  “We don’t play favorites, do we, Marshal Kern?” said Catlo, stepping forward toward Matheson.

  “Well, no,” Kern said unsteadily.

  “Now raise your hands, scarecrow,” Jason said to the councilman. “Else you can join the blacksmith staring at pissants.”

  Matheson glanced down at the blacksmith’s half-open crossed eyes gazing across the dirt. Blood ran from a split welt on top of his head.

  “I—I have a small Uhlinger pistol here,” said Matheson, raising his hands from his coat pockets.

  “A hideout gun. Shame on you, Councilman,” said Jason Catlo with a devilish grin. “What kind of example does that set for the young folks of this town, an elected town official prowling the streets, armed, in clear violation of the gun law?”

  “Easy, Deputy,” Marshal Kern warned, seeing that Jason Catlo was about to take it too far.

  “I’m sorry, Marshal,” Catlo said, “but this just makes my blood boil.” He looked back at Matheson, the small gun butt peeping over the edge of his coat pocket.

  “It’s not even loaded, Deputy,” Matheson said in a trembling voice. “I brought it along just to turn it in, I swear!”

  “Loaded . . . unloaded. I don’t give a damn,” Catlo said, shaking his head in feigned disgust. “I ought to beat your teeth out just for the hell of it,” he said.

  “Wait a minute, Deputy,” said Kern, just as Jason took a step toward Lyndon Matheson. “Maybe something good can come out of this.” He looked at the shaken councilman and said quietly, “Councilman, a good word from you would help us get these people to abide by the law.”

  “I’ll do anything to help you, Marshal!” said Councilman Matheson. “I live to serve my community.” He raised the Uhlinger slowly from his coat pocket, stepped forward and laid it on Kern’s outstretched palm. Catlo looked ahead, drumming his fingertips on his holstered Colt, the big Dance Brothers pistol hanging from his hand. Fannin’s blood dripped from the pistol’s handle.

  From the window of the marshal’s office, Tribold Cooper and Denton Bender had seen everything taking place in the middle of the dirt street.

  “Looks like the good citizens are starting to change their minds,” said Cooper, watching the councilman address everyone on the street. Three townsmen lifted the knocked-out blacksmith and carried him toward his shop a block away.

  “Yeah, I see that . . . ,” said Bender, pleased to see the townsmen who still carried their guns start to make their way back to the marshal’s office to form another line. “There’s nothing like a good talking-to to straighten things out. We might start getting busy here after all.”

  Dr. Washburn removed the .45-caliber slug from the unconscious woman’s back and dropped it into a small metal pan. He folded a soft cotton cloth, placing it on the gurney, and turned her onto her back atop it, allowing a few minutes of drainage before recleaning
and dressing the wound.

  He pulled a sheet up above the woman’s bruised and naked breasts, and then looked at her swollen purple face and shook his head.

  “You’re a double-shot patient indeed,” he murmured down to her.

  He stepped over to a table and took a silver flask from his black medical bag. He unscrewed the cap, shook the contents around and gave himself a thin smile.

  “Here’s to me,” he toasted himself wryly. “For a job well done.”

  He threw back a drink, let out a short hiss and threw back another. He started to screw the cap back on the flask, but stopped himself as he heard the back door open and close.

  “Who’s there?” he asked, walking out of the surgery room and down the hall toward the rear of the house, open flask in hand. “Is that you, Sara?”

  “No, Doctor,” said Philbert Catlo, both he and Jennings stepping into sight, as if coming out of hiding. “It’s just us deputies,” he said with his wide, friendly grin.

  “Deputies . . . ?” the doctor questioned warily. “Where are your badges?”

  “Badges?” Philbert slapped a hand to his chest. “You’ve got me there, Doctor.” He continued with his wide grin. “We’ve been so busy, we haven’t had time to pin any badges on yet.” He cut a look to Buck the Mule Jennings and said, “Remind me to make a mental note of it. I’ll tell Marshal Kern first thing—deputies need badges. Okay?”

  “I will . . . ,” said Jennings, staring hard at the doctor as he spoke.

  “What is it I can do for you?” the doctor asked bluntly.

  “We heard tell that a woman was brought in, back-shot and naked, Doctor,” said Philbert.

  He stared at the doctor. “Of course we need to know any time something like that has happened to somebody, even if they’re not from here.”

  Not from here . . . Washburn considered the deputy’s words, but he put on his poker face. These two weren’t from here themselves. How would they know the woman wasn’t from here?

  “So . . . how is she?” Jennings asked, leering past the doctor and down the hall toward the surgery room.

  “She’s dead,” the doctor said somberly, the flask still in his hand, uncapped. “Why do you think I’m standing in here drinking all by myself?” he added for believability’s sake.

  “Dead, huh?” said Philbert. He clicked his cheek and winced. “Damn, that’s a terrible thing, Doc.”

  “All the way dead?” asked Jennings.

  The doctor just looked at him, then at Philbert, who shook his head a little, letting the doctor know not to expect much from Jennings.

  “Who was she, Doc?” Philbert asked. “Where’s she from? What happened to her?”

  “She died before I could find out,” the doctor lied, straight-faced. “She was badly tortured, raped, beaten, shamelessly treated . . . then shot in the back when they were through with her.” As he spoke he stood watching Jennings’ face contort and flinch.

  “That’s a terrible thing, for sure,” Philbert repeated, shaking his head, trying to keep the doctor from seeing the guilt on Jennings’ face. “But if she told you anything at all that might help us find the low-down snakes who done that to her, we need to know.”

  “I wish I could help you, Lord knows,” said the doctor. “But she died no sooner than I got the bullet out of her back.”

  “All right, then,” said Philbert with a showy sigh of regret. “May she rest in peace, the poor darling.” He started to turn toward the rear door. But he caught himself and said suddenly, “We’ll take a look at her body, then be on our way.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Deputy,” the doctor said, undaunted. “I never allow anyone to see the body until after someone has cleaned it up and—”

  “Why’s that?” asked Philbert, cutting him off. “Is it bad luck or something?” He shot the doctor another grin. “Because if it is, me and Deputy Buck the Mule here are not what you call real superstitious. Are we, Buck the Mule?”

  “Not a lick,” said Jennings.

  “Besides, we’re deputies,” said Philbert. “We’re supposed to look at dead bodies.” He eased his gun hand up and rested it on his gun butt.

  “I like to look at them,” said Jennings. His big hand also went to his gun butt.

  “Don’t hurt our feelings, now, Doctor,” Philbert said, his voice sounding dark and sinister, like the low hiss of a viper.

  While the doctor stood staring, unsure of his next move, the rear door opened and closed again. This time, Sara Cayes walked into sight.

  “Hello—” she called out. But she stopped cold at the sight of the two gunmen, who appeared to be facing off with the large grim-faced doctor. “Oh,” she said, looking back and forth between the three.

  “Sara, you go back home,” Dr. Washburn said, trying to play down the urgency of the situation. “I’m afraid my patient didn’t make it.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Sara said. Sensing something was amiss, she backed away and said, “If you need me for anything else, just send for me.” She started to turn to the door. But Philbert Catlo would have none of it.

  “Hold on there, little lady,” he said. His hand came up holding his Colt loosely pointed between her and the doctor. “We’re getting ready to take a look at the dear departed. Why don’t you just come along with us?”

  “Who are you?” Sara asked.

  “I’ll ask all the questions,” said Philbert. He gave Jennings a nod. The big dirty gunman stepped forward quickly and took Sara by her arm.

  “Yeah, you keep your mouth shut and come with us,” said Jennings. He looked her over and asked, “Are you from here?”

  When Sara didn’t answer right away, Jennings shook her roughly.

  “No, I’m not from Kindred,” Sara said, “but I live here now.” She looked him squarely in his broad, vacant eyes. “I work at the Lucky Devil Saloon and Brothel.”

  “You’re a saloon whore,” Jennings said with a leering grin.

  “Yes, I’m one of the doves there,” Sara said.

  “Sara is also a good citizen of Kindred,” the doctor put in, seeing the lewd expression on the big gunman’s face as he continued looking her up and down, desire in his eyes. “She’s been a big help to me more times than I can tell you.”

  “I bet she has,” Jennings said, breathing close to Sara’s cheek.

  “Whore or not, we’ve got no time for this,” said Philbert. He wagged his gun loosely back and forth. “Let’s see this dead woman.”

  Chapter 12

  Inside the surgery room door, the two gunmen, Sara Cayes, and Dr. Washburn all stood staring at the sheet-covered body on the gurney. Washburn managed to hide his surprise when he saw that the sheet was not as he had left it, but had been pulled all the way up over her head, covering her entirely. One of the woman’s bruised purplish arms hung limply off the edge of the gurney.

  “There, I told you she’s dead. Now let’s all let her rest in peace,” Washburn insisted, keeping himself in check.

  Sara let out a slight sigh when she set eyes on the sheet-covered body, she herself believing the woman had died.

  “The poor thing . . . ,” she murmured.

  Jennings turned Sara loose and stared down at the covered face of Celia Knox.

  “Can I see her?” he asked Philbert, sounding a little excited.

  “That’s why we’re here, Buck the Mule,” said Philbert, giving the doctor one more quick, distrustful look. He took hold of the top edge of the sheet, lifted it and looked down, immediately recognizing Celia’s bruised and swollen face.

  After a moment, Jennings reached out a dirty hand and started to lay it on the woman’s naked, battered breast.

  “All right, that’s enough of this!” said the doctor, stepping forward, outraged. “Deputies or no deputies, I won’t allow you to disrespect the dead in my presence! Get away from her, the both of you!”

  “Damn, Buck the Mule,” said Philbert with a dark chuckle. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He dropped the sheet back down over the woman’s face.

  “I only wanted to touch her,” said Jennings in an angry, childlike voice. He glared at Philbert. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Philbert just stared at him for a moment, a bemused expression on his face.

  “Okay, Deputies, you’ve done your job. You’ve seen her,” Washburn said firmly. “Now go report her death to the marshal.”

  “We will,” said Philbert. He stepped away from the gurney, then turned to the doctor as he slipped his Colt back into its holster. “Who brought her here?”

  “A young man who is convalescing in a house outside town,” said Washburn, offering them no more than he had to on the matter. “He found her and brought her here.”

  “Oh,” said Philbert, “he found her like that, all beat up and shot, that is?” He gave a short, sly grin. “Well, well, who’s to say he didn’t do it to her?”

  “I’m to say he didn’t,” Sara cut in instantly. “I was with him when he found her.”

  “And she was still alive when you both found her?” Philbert asked.

  “Yes, barely,” said Sara. “The man who found her with me is Sherman Dahl. We both found her. He brought her here on horseback. Then he came back and sent me to help the doctor look after her.”

  “But she said nothing about what happened to her?” Philbert asked.

  “Not a word,” said Sara. “She was in no condition to say anything.”

  Philbert considered it, and decided that there was no way he and his brother and Buck the Mule Jennings would be connected to the woman.

  “Too damn bad,” he said with a trace of his usual smile. “I always want to get my hands on a sumbitch who does something like this, eh, Buck the Mule?”

  “Yeah, me too,” said Jennings. “Choke the sumbitch to death.” He opened and closed his big, dirty hands as he spoke.

  “Let’s go talk to the marshal . . . ,” Philbert said to Jennings. He gave a touch of his hat brim toward the doctor and Sara. With no apology for their earlier behavior, he gave Jennings a slight shove toward the hallway.