Gun Law

by Ralph Cotton

  “What are you suggesting we do, Stevens?” a townsman called out. “Kern has all the guns.”

  “Not all of them, he doesn’t,” said Stevens. “There’re still a few around who didn’t turn theirs in.” He paused for a moment and said, “I might even know where there’re a few others.”

  “Yeah,” said a voice, “we should be gathering the ones together who still have guns. The rest of us can get ours back from Kern. All we’ve got to do is tell him we’re leaving town for a few days. He’s got to give them back to us. That’s the law too.”

  “Kern is no fool,” said Stevens. “He’ll know something’s in the works if we all start showing up saying we’re leaving town for a few days.”

  “But he has to give them back if we’re leaving town and need them while we’re traveling,” said Shaggs.

  “Kern doesn’t have to do anything, law or no law,” said Stevens. “He’s armed, we’re not.” He threw up his hands and said in disgust, “How could we ever have been this stupid?”

  “Now’s not the time to dwell on how,” said Fannin. “We were stupid enough to fall for it. We gave up the one right that kept all our other rights in check. Now we’ve got to get it back.”

  Getting back to business, Dan Marlowe turned to Stevens and asked, “What do you mean you might know where there’re some other guns?”

  Stevens looked from face to face. The townsmen stared anxiously back at him.

  “I had a mixed crate of a dozen used guns come in from Denver last week. Some revolvers, some repeating rifles.”

  “Oh,” Matheson said with a judgmental look, “and when were you going to report these guns?”

  “I just did,” said Stevens, the trace of a sly grin slightly visible on his face. “It had slipped my mind until now.”

  “Well, thank God you remembered,” said Fannin. “To hell with reporting them. Let’s get them distributed and take this town back from Kern and his thugs!”

  The townsmen began to get excited, except for Matheson, who only shook his lowered head.

  “Take it easy, gentlemen,” said Stevens. “Of course we’ll get them distributed. But let me remind you that there are only a dozen. They are in high demand. I want to be fair, but I have to charge what we know the market will bear, given the circumstances.”

  “You son of a bitch,” said Fannin. “You saw the possibility of this gun law going sour. You ordered guns and hid them back so you could turn a profit on our misfortune.”

  “No, sir, I did not,” Stevens said, raising a finger for emphasis. “I saw a potential business venture and I seized it. It’s what any wise businessman would do, gentlemen.” He looked all around. “Now who wants to be armed and who doesn’t?”

  Shaggs said with contempt, “Shouldn’t you be asking who can afford to be armed and who can’t?”

  “Well, thank you, barber,” Stevens said with a smug grin, “but those are your words, not mine.”

  “To hell with you, Stevens,” said Shaggs. He turned and started toward the rear door.

  “Wait, Shaggs,” said Fannin. “So what if we have to buy his guns at a marked-up price? At least it’ll get us out of this mess.”

  “Do what suits you,” said Shaggs, reaching for the door handle. “But why buy this weasel’s guns when we can buy ourselves a gunman?”

  The townsmen looked at each other for a moment. “Shaggs is right,” Fannin said. “Keep your guns, Stevens.” He stood up, dropped his hat atop his head and headed for the rear door himself. “We’ll all remember what kind of a bastard you are when this thing is finished.”

  Three more townsmen stood and followed Erkel Fannin out the door.

  At the hitch rail out in front of the marshal’s office, Harry Whitesides stepped down from his horse, stamped his boots on the ground and stretched his back. A brown stub of a flattened cigarette butt lay between his thin lips. Beside him, his cousins Ted and Lyle Sloane stepped down from their horses and examined their surroundings, rifles hanging from their hands.

  The fourth man, Odell Trent, peeled off his trail gloves and stuck them behind his gun belt. He popped his knuckles, loosening his fingers.

  “Where is this damned bank?” he asked, sounding tense and restless.

  Whitesides just looked at him through a pair of darktinted spectacles.

  “You’ll want to settle yourself down some before I go introducing you as my pal,” he said.

  Trent unfolded his fingers and let out a deep, tight breath.

  “I’m just eager to get to work,” he said.

  “Admirable though that may be, Odell,” said Whitesides, “it’s not the best way to present yourself under these circumstances.”

  “Sorry, Harry,” said Trent sincerely. “I’ll remember that.”

  The Sloanes just stared at him.

  Whitesides turned his dark spectacles to the marshal’s office as the front door swung open and Kern stepped out into the first rays of early-morning sunlight.

  “Morning, Marshal Kern,” Whitesides said.

  “Morning, Harry. . . .” Kern looked back and forth along the street. He gave Whitesides a nod and gestured for him and the others to come inside.

  As soon as Bender closed the door behind the five of them, Kern stepped over between Jason Catlo, Cooper and Jennings and looked at Whitesides.

  “Who’s this with you and your cousins, Harry?” he asked.

  “I might ask you the same question, Marshal,” Whitesides said, looking the Catlo brothers and Buck the Mule Jennings over with careful scrutiny.

  “You first, Harry,” Kern said firmly. “You know I don’t like last-minute surprises.”

  “Nor do I,” said Whitesides, his right hand resting on his belly gun, holstered straight across his waist. He jerked his head toward his friend and said, “This is my pal Odell Trent. I’m vouching for him. We needed another man for the job, and I brought my pard here along for good measure.”

  “Yeah . . . ?” Kern looked the man up and down. “So, Mr. Trent, are you a rooting, tooting outlaw?”

  “I can get the job done,” Trent said coolly. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  “Who’d you ride with before?” asked Cooper. “Anybody I might know, or heard of?”

  “Could be,” Trent said a little testily. “Who do you know? Who have you heard of?”

  Whitesides cut in before things took a wrong turn between the two.

  “Odell here is not what you call an ol’ hand at robbing,” he said. “But he’s a good man and a graduate of the Chicago School of Optometry, and I figure we all got to start somewhere.” He looked at the Catlo brothers. “Now, who are these two fellows—”

  “Hold it, Harry,” said Kern, looking Trent over carefully. “He’s a what?”

  “You heard me,” said Whitesides. “He’s a graduate of the Chicago School of—”

  “All right, that’s all for me,” said Jason Catlo. His hand streaked up with his Colt cocked and ready to fire. Whitesides did the same, in spite of the fact that Catlo had a head start on him.

  “Both of you hold it!” Kern said, seeing that Philbert Catlo and Buck the Mule Jennings had both drawn their guns in Jason’s defense. The two Sloanes and Odell Trent raised their guns in turn. Bender and Cooper stood with their hands on their gun butts, not sure what move to make next.

  “All you jakes listen up,” said Whitesides, moving his aim back and forth slowly from one man to the next. “I did not ride all this way to get drawn upon by the ones I come to work with.”

  “Easy, Harry,” said Kern. “Everybody’s tight as wire here. We’ve had lots going on.”

  “So have we, Marshal . . . ,” said Whitesides, not giving an inch.

  “I understand,” said Kern. He looked back and forth with his hands chest high. “But let’s all pull down our cannons and clear the air some.” He gestured toward Jason and Philbert Catlo. “These are the Catlo brothers.” He glanced toward Jennings. “And this is Buck the Mule Jennings.”

 
; Whitesides looked at all the welts and cuts on Kern’s face, then at Jennings’ crooked neck and drawn-up arm and shoulder.

  “What’s happened to this bunch, Marshal?” he asked Kern.

  “We’ve had some problems, Harry,” said Kern. “But everything is going the way it should now.”

  “Oh . . . ?” said Whitesides. “Where’s Hicks?” He glanced around. “Where’s Newman, Carver and Garrant?”

  “Dead, dead, dead and dead,” said Philbert.

  “What the hell’s this one talking about?” Whitesides asked Kern.

  “It’s the truth, Harry. They’re all four dead. Shot down like dogs,” said Kern.

  “Then I guess we need to get cracking, kill the men who shot them down like dogs.” He nodded for his cousins and Odell Trent to lower their guns. Then he uncocked his Colt and slipped it down into his holster. “Where will we find them?”

  “He’s staying at an abandoned house outside of town,” Kern said.

  “He . . . ?” Whitesides cocked his head to one side. “You mean they?”

  “No, Harry, it was one man killed them,” said Kern. “A fellow named Sherman Dahl—a hired gunman, calls himself a fighting man.”

  Whitesides considered it and shrugged. “Well, I expect he’s got a right to call himself that if he killed those four hard-heelers.”

  Cousin Lyle Sloane said, “I’ve come very near to killing Ned Carver any number of times myself. But damn, all four of them?”

  “This Dahl is sort of a private bounty collector, I take it?” cousin Ted asked Kern.

  “That’s the way I see it,” said Kern. “I would have helped those four ol’ boys out, except I didn’t know about it until it was over. By then I figured I best lie low and not tip my hand about what was getting ready to happen here.”

  “That was pretty good thinking, Marshal,” said Ted Sloane.

  “Yes, considering everything at stake here,” said Whitesides. “But I’ll tell you what. The payroll is coming here this afternoon. We can go call this gunman out, shoot a few bullets into his head, then come back and get ready for our big haul.” He looked all around with a broad grin. “Is everybody with me?”

  “We’re all with you,” said Kern, his swollen face throbbing in pain. “But before I shoot anybody, I want to knock back a couple of shots at the saloon.”

  Whitesides gave him a hard, narrow stare. “Are you saying you need to get your courage out of a bottle, Marshal?”

  “Hell yes,” said Kern, “if there’s any in there to get.”

  Whitesides and the others chuckled.

  “I knew there was something I liked about you, Kern,” Whitesides said.

  Chapter 19

  Dahl had made his way back to the widow’s shack, cleared away the morning dishes, poured himself a second mug of strong coffee and walked to a chair he’d set near a side window. His rifle stood leaning against the window ledge. He sat down and sipped the hot coffee, preparing himself for a visit from Kern’s deputies.

  It was only a few minutes later when he saw men walking toward him from the dusty street, the tops of their hats seeming to appear, disappear, then reappear in a glittering sea of sunlight. This wasn’t the direction he would have chosen, Dahl told himself.

  But here they come. . . .

  He stood and pulled his corduroy duster on over his bulletproof vest. Buttoning the coat all the way up, he slipped his right hand into a wide pocket and grabbed the handle of his big Colt, making sure his reach would be unobstructed when he needed it. Then he took a last long sip of coffee and walked bare-headed out the rear door.

  Using the cover of sunlight, he circled wide of the bushy rock-strewn yard. He walked down out of sight through a low stretch of brush, and moved back up onto the main trail only a few yards from where it merged into the dirt street running the length of Kindred.

  Dahl hurried forward from bush to rock, now approaching the men from behind as they drew nearer to the widow’s shack. By the time they had stopped and stood in the front yard, he was no more than twenty feet from their backs, closing the distance with each silent step.

  “Sherman Dahl,” the man in the lead called out to the dilapidated house. “I’m sure you know why we’re here. We came looking to—”

  “Drop the weapons,” Dahl said, standing so close the men heard his rifle cock as if it were on their shoulders.

  “Oh my God—” Shaggs shouted. “Don’t shoot, sir! Please don’t shoot!”

  A long oaken fork handle flew down from his hands as if it had turned red hot.

  A pick handle fell from another hand, and a battered ancient squirrel rifle hit the dirt from another.

  Dahl saw now that these were not Kern’s deputies. These were townsmen, and he identified the purpose of their visit before any of them opened their mouths.

  Still he asked in a quiet tone, “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Shaggs stammered in reply to Dahl, “I—that is, we, are not here looking for trouble, sir.” His eyes were fixed on the Winchester rifle in Dahl’s hands, its barrel still pointed loosely at him and the others.

  “I understand,” Dahl replied. “Now, what is it I can do for you?” He wanted to get them out of there quick so he could be ready for Kern and his deputies.

  “We were hoping to employ you to stand up for us against the marshal and his deputies, sir,” said Shaggs.

  He nodded at the pick handles, hayforks and the squirrel rifle relic lying in the dirt. “As you can see, we are sorely pressed to defend ourselves.”

  “Because you handed your guns over to the law,” Dahl said flatly. “Now you see that the law isn’t working in your best interest.”

  “Well, yes, sir,” said Shaggs. The others nodded their heads in agreement as he continued. “Once we heard what you said about these men murdering a man and raping his wife—”

  “How do you know these men did it?” Dahl asked, cutting him short.

  “How do we know . . . ?” Shaggs looked all round, bewildered, seeking support. “Well, you told us the woman identified them, sir.”

  “Yes, I told you,” said Dahl, “but you don’t know me from Adam. You’re taking my word for it, because it happens to match up with what you need right now.”

  “How can you say that, gunman?” said Fannin, speaking more boldly than Shaggs.

  “You want someone to get your guns back for you, after all of you foolishly gave them away,” said Dahl.

  “Is that so bad?” asked Fannin, hearing what he took to be a trace of contempt in Dahl’s voice. “We have a problem, and we’re willing to pay you to solve it. You’re a gun for hire. Isn’t this what you do?”

  “What I do is kill people for money, mister,” Dahl said to clear the air, seeing how these men were only talking around the matter without mentioning the shooting, the killing, the hard specifics of his services.

  “I’m sure we all understand what it is you do, Mr. Dahl,” said Shaggs. “So let’s get down to price and see how much it will cost us to have you retrieve our guns, so to speak.”

  Dahl shook his head. They still didn’t get it. They still couldn’t say they wanted to pay him to kill men for them. But he had no time for explanations.

  “There are some things I won’t do for money,” he said flatly. “Getting your guns back is one of them.”

  “But, sir, it’s a legitimate request,” said Shaggs.

  “Yes, it probably is, from your standpoint,” said Dahl.

  “But from my standpoint, anybody stupid enough to give up their right to carry a gun probably shouldn’t be carrying one in the first place.”

  “Now, see here . . . !” said Fannin. He took a bold step forward, but then he stopped, seeing Dahl’s rifle and realizing he had nothing to counter it with.

  “Take it easy, blacksmith!” said Shaggs to Fannin. “We need this man with us, not against us!”

  “I’m not against you,” said Dahl. “But I’m not with you either. I figure if you men can get your
guns back on your own, you deserve them. Otherwise, you’d best learn how to live under somebody’s boot. It’s all you’ll get from now on.”

  The townsmen stood in stunned silence until Shaggs finally said in a huff, “I can see we were once again eager to put our trust in the wrong person.”

  “People who don’t trust themselves usually have good reason not to,” Dahl said. He lowered his rifle and took a step back in the direction of the stretch of brush he’d stepped out of.

  “Yeah . . . ?” Fannin moved forward now, wanting the last word. “You can take your wise advice and stuff it up yourself. I never heard of a gunman who won’t take money when it’s offered to him.”

  “Now you have,” said Dahl. “I won’t take money from fools.” He let the bite of his words sink in.

  “Let’s go, Erkel,” Shaggs said, taking the blacksmith by his powerful arm, stopping him from advancing any farther.

  “But here’s something to consider if you want to take your guns back,” Dahl said. “I won’t take money to kill the kind of men who did what was done to that woman and her husband.”

  The townsmen stopped and looked at each other.

  “You mean . . . you were going to kill these gunmen anyway?” Shaggs asked.

  “Just as soon as I can, just as hard as I can,” said Dahl. “If there’re any guts left in you, you’ll all be armed by nightfall.”

  From out in front of his bank, Matheson had stood watching the townsmen approaching the widow’s shack through a short brass-trimmed sporting lens. In the circle of vision he had seen Dahl step up from the low stretch of brush and slip in close behind the men unexpectedly. “Very clever move, Mr. Schoolteacher . . . ,” he’d murmured under his breath.

  He continued to watch as the townsmen nervously spoke to Dahl. Their faces appeared in the circling lens as if they were standing only five feet from him.

  Beside Matheson, a townsman asked, “What’s going on over there, Councilman? Can I take myself a little look-see?”