Gun Law

by Ralph Cotton

The stage slowed almost to a halt. Then the driver gave the traces enough slack to keep the rig moving.

  “That’s more like it,” said Frost. He rose onto his knees and stared long and hard in the direction of the shooting. The stage rolled along an upward grade, affording a better view of Kindred and the small shack that stood on its edge.

  “It looks like the shooting’s all coming from that brush field,” said Sealy, also up on his knees, the wind licking at the fringe of his buckskin coat. “We can easily keep clear of it.”

  “All right, Art,” said Frost, “let’s get down inside where we belong.” To the driver he said, “Oates, soon as we get inside, you pour it on these horses, get ‘em flying, and keep ‘em flying.” He leaned forward and put a gloved hand on the diver’s shoulder. “Don’t slow us down until we’re on the street. Understand?”

  “Hell yes, I understand,” said Oates without looking around. “Slow down . . . speed up. You don’t know what the hell you want.” He listened until he heard the two climb inside and slam the door behind them. Then he slapped the traces to the horses’ backs and put them up into a run.

  From the low-lying brush field, Kern saw the big stagecoach come up into view far to his left, running hard toward Kindred at the head of a long stream of rising trail dust.

  “There goes the payroll stage, Harry,” he said, a gleam coming into his eyes.

  “Yep, just like I told you it would be,” said Whitesides, who was positioned near him. “We best hope all this shooting didn’t scare them off.”

  “They heard it, for sure,” said Kern, keeping low, lest a rifle shot reach out and nail him the way it did Philbert and Jennings. “That’s why it’s running to town like its wheels are on fire.”

  “You don’t think they’ll bypass us, do you?” said Whitesides.

  “No, Harry,” said Kern. “It’s too far to any place else. They’ve got to stop here. But all this gunfire will have the guards up on their toes.”

  The two looked off in the direction of Dahl’s last shoots. “I’d hate to come this far and have this gunman scare all that money away,” Whitesides said in an ominous tone.

  “We’re not taking a chance on that happening,” said Kern. He raised his head up a little and called out to the others spread out through the brush, “All of you, pull back. We’ve got business to attend to.”

  From his position behind a low rock less than thirty yards from the widow’s shack, Dahl lay with his rifle leveled and ready. He’d heard Kern call out to the deputies. He watched closely as the men slipped back through the brush toward town, staying low in a crouch. Denton Bender rose clearly into Dahl’s gun sights for a few seconds, but Dahl didn’t take the shot. He wanted Jason Catlo—no one else, he reminded himself.

  He rose a bit and gazed off at the looming trail dust left behind the speeding coach. It had already ridden out of sight, onto the main street in Kindred.

  Business to attend to . . . ?

  He stared toward the street, wondering just what that business might be. He waited until he saw the last of the deputies move back into town. Then he stood and dusted his knees and elbows. Unbuttoning the corduroy duster, he fanned the lapels to let in some air. Then he turned and walked back toward the widow’s shack.

  Chapter 21

  By the time Kern and his deputies had walked back onto the main street, the stagecoach had stopped out in front of the bank and hurriedly taken the bags of payroll money inside. Only Calvin Oates remained outside, inspecting his horses before pulling the rig around to the livery barn and unhitching the animals.

  Kern looked around at Jason Catlo and Odell Trent, who carried the badly wounded Philbert between them. Philbert’s arms hung limply across their shoulders.

  “I’m taking brother Philbert to the doctor’s,” Jason said to Kern. “Don’t do nothing until I get back,” he warned.

  “Go on, then,” said Kern, no longer interested in Philbert’s condition, or in Jason threats, which carried far less influence now that he was the only one left of the three. “Don’t be surprised if the doctor won’t answer the door after what Dahl accused you of.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” said Jason. He and Trent veered away toward the doctor’s office, the toes of Philbert’s boots dragging in the ground between them.

  Farther back, the Slone cousins dragged Buck the Mule’s big body by its heels.

  “Think seeing all this is going to upset the stage guards?” Whitesides asked Kern, sunlight glinting off his dark spectacles. He gestured toward the wounded Catlo, and at the streak of blood trailing in the dirt behind Jennings’ body.

  “Jesus, Harry . . . ,” Kern murmured, looking back at their gruesome followers. “I think this would upset most anybody in their right mind.”

  “Get rid of them,” Whitesides said quietly.

  “Good idea,” said Kern. “All of you go on to my office and wait for us,” he said back to the others without hesitation. “We’ll come get you when we get ready to do business.”

  “What do you want us to do with this one’s body, Harry?” Lyle Sloane asked Whitesides. “He weighs more than a freight train.”

  “I don’t give a wicked damn what you do with that idiot,” Whitesides said. “I don’t even know why you dragged him this far. Nobody asked you to.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Ted Sloane, as he processed Whitesides’ words. He dropped his hold on Jennings’ boot; so did Lyle. The two turned and walked away behind Cooper and Bender toward he marshal’s office.

  “Morning to you, driver,” Kern called out to Calvin Oates, who stood rubbing the lead horse’s muzzle, curiously watching them approach.

  “Morning,” Oates said flatly, eyeing the two up and down. He’d seen the others break away with the dead and the wounded.

  “I’m Emerson Kern, the new town marshal,” Kern said, stopping eight feet away. “I expect you’re wondering what all the shooting was about out there,” he said with a disarming smile.

  “No, sir, Marshal,” Oates said. He offered nothing more on the matter.

  “Well, I know you’re busy,” said Kern. “I suppose your guards are in the bank?”

  “Yes, sir, Marshal,” said Oates.

  Kern and Whitesides turned toward the bank. But they were met by Frost and his short double-barreled twelvegauge shotgun, as he stepped out the door onto the boardwalk.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” he asked stiffly.

  The two men stopped abruptly. “I’m Town Marshal Emerson Kern, sir,” Kern replied. “We’re here on business.”

  “Bank’s closed for a few minutes,” Frost said. “You’ll have to come back when it reopens.”

  “No,” Kern said, “I’m going inside now. This is legal business. Point that scattergun in another direction.”

  “It’s not pointed yet, Marshal,” said Frost. “It’s just making up its mind.” But he did turn the gun barrel slightly and give the marshal the trace of a smile. “I’m Bert Frost,” he said. “We heard all the shooting, coming in. Was that somebody giving up their gun?”

  Kern smiled at the slight sarcasm. “I see you’ve heard about our new gun law,” he said.

  “Everybody has,” said Frost. “I was telling a young couple about it a while back. They said they couldn’t wait to get here and see for themselves.” He looked around as if he might see the couple. Then he looked back at Kern and said, “How’s all that working out?”

  “Slow but steady,” said Kern. “Changes take getting used to.” He nodded at the bank and said, “Now let us pass.”

  “Can’t do it,” said Frost, “the bank is closed temporarily.”

  Kern remained patient, but said, “Carrying something of value, are you?”

  “That’s for you and the banker to discuss when the bank opens,” Frost replied. “We just haul the goods.”

  “Are you being difficult, mister?” Whitesides said out of the blue. He stared at Frost through the two black circles covering his eyes.
r />   Jesus . . . Kern gave him a stunned look.

  “This man is the town marshal,” Whitesides said before Frost could offer a response. “Now get the hell out of the way if you’re not the one to talk to. Else I’ll take that shotgun and stick—”

  “Hold it, Harry!” said Kern, seeing trouble about to erupt between the two.

  Frost bristled up like a bulldog, the scattergun gripped tightly, as if he was daring Whitesides to the make a move.

  But just in time, the door behind Frost opened and Lyndon Matheson squeezed his way out, looking back and forth between the men.

  “Good morning, Marshal Kern. Is there anything I can do for you?” Matheson asked.

  “Yes, there is, Councilman,” said Kern. “You can tell your stage guard here to get his bark off and let us in. I came to see what’s going on.”

  “Going on . . . ?” questioned Matheson. “Why, just business as usual, Marshal, I can assure you.” He gave Frost a look and said, “Please allow our new marshal to enter, Bert. We don’t want to appear unwelcoming, now, do we?”

  “No, sir,” said Frost. He stepped aside and allowed the two men to walk into the bank. But he and Whitesides shared a dark stare until Matheson followed the two inside. As the door closed, Frost turned back toward the empty stagecoach. “Asshole . . . ,” he muttered under his breath.

  Inside the bank, Matheson escorted the two men toward an ornately carved oaken partition. Beyond the barred teller window, Art Sealy stood over the bags of payroll money with his shotgun cradled in his arm. He watched Kern and Whitesides closely, in spite of the badge on Kern’s chest.

  “I dared not mention it outside on the street, Marshal,” Matheson said quietly, even though the bank was closed and empty, “but this bank has been chosen as a new relay point for the Derning and British Mining Company’s quarterly payroll disbursement.” He gave an oily smile.

  “Oh . . . ?” Kern sounded mildly surprised.

  “Of course there was no way you would have known that, Marshal,” said Matheson. “We—That is, I thought it a bit much to put on you, so soon after you took office.”

  “I think it’s something I very much needed to know,” said Kern, feigning ignorance. “How can I protect the town and its interests if I’m not told everything?”

  Whitesides and Sealy stood in silence as the two conversed.

  “My apologies, Marshal,” said Matheson. “I assure you it will never happen again.”

  “Humphh,” Kern grunted. He walked closer to the barred teller window. He looked in and down at the bags lying at the guard’s feet. “I take it the keys to those locks are someplace safe?”

  “Oh yes, indeed they are,” said Matheson. “Would you like to know where?”

  “No,” said Kern. He grinned. “So long as they’re somewhere in safekeeping, that’s good enough for me.”

  As Matheson stood up close beside him, joining him to peer down at the bags, Kern looked back at Whitesides and gave a guarded smile.

  “Stick ‘em up, Councilman,” he half whispered.

  Matheson stiffened and froze, feeling something hard pointed into the center of his back. On the other side of the teller window, Art Sealy’s grip tightened on his shotgun. Behind Kern and Matheson, Whitesides almost snatched his Colt up from its holster.

  But Kern had timed everything. He raised his finger from Matheson’s back and wiggled it in his face.

  “Got your blood pumping, didn’t I, Councilman?” he said.

  “Good Lord, Marshal!” said Matheson, his face flush. He looked around and back and forth as if coming to from a bad dream. Then, with a sigh of relief, he gave a shaky smile and said, “I blame myself for that. I’ve heard all about your keen sense of humor.”

  “And now you’ve seen it firsthand,” said Kern, grinning. He raised his fingertip and blew on it as if it were a gun barrel.

  Sealy uncoiled and lowered the barrel of his shotgun. Whitesides shook his head and eased his hand away from his gun butt.

  “Before I forget, Councilman,” Kern said, “you need to tell Kit Carson here that it’s all right to let me in there when I want in.” He gestured toward Sealy in his fringed rawhide coat, his long hair hanging shoulder-length, his fringe-cuffed gloves stuck down in his waist.

  “Kit Carson? Oh, I get it,” said Matheson, catching himself. “Mr. Sealy, please extend every courtesy to our new marshal. Assist him in any way. If anyone questions it, tell them to see me.” He turned to Kern and said, “There, Marshal, how’s that?”

  “I couldn’t ask for more,” Kern said, beaming.

  Sealy just stared at them through the teller window.

  The Sloane cousins had walked away and left Jennings’ body lying in the dirt. Two townsmen who had been watching the gunfight had slipped onto the street long enough to pull the big body to one side. They leaned Jennings against the wall of the town apothecary building, out of the traffic for the time being.

  Walking past the body on their way to the marshal’s office, Kern gave a sidelong glance at Buck the Mule and shook his head.

  “This won’t do, Harry,” he said to Whitesides walking along with him. “Your cousins can’t leave a man lying dead on a town’s main commercial street.”

  “It’s better than he deserves,” said Whitesides, “if it’s true what the man said he did to that poor woman and her husband.”

  “I’m talking about the smell, Harry,” said Kern. “As bad as Buck the Mule smelled alive, imagine what he’ll smell like in a day or two.”

  “Are we going to be here that long?” Whitesides asked.

  Kern just stared at him.

  “All right, I’ll get the Sloanes to move the nasty sumbitch,” Whitesides said grudgingly. “I can’t say I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  “He was too stupid to live,” said Kern, getting back to his old self now that Jennings was dead and one of the Catlos badly wounded. “I have little doubt that they all three did what the Teacher said they did. But that means nothing to us. We’re one step away from taking the payroll money and cutting out of here.” He smiled to himself, walking straight ahead.

  Inside the marshal’s office, Philbert lay on a bunk in one of the cells. Jason and Odell Trent had pressed bandannas and bandages on his upper shoulder, front and back to stay the bleeding.

  “You’d better not let him die, Eye Doctor,” Jason said to Trent, the two of them looking down at Philbert, watching his bloody chest rise and fall weakly with every thin breath.

  “Don’t call me Eye Doctor,” said Trent, not giving an inch.

  “Why?” asked Jason. “I understand you kept Whitesides from being blind as a bat. Didn’t you make his dark spectacles for him?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Trent. “But I’m no eye doctor. I used to grind and fit spectacles. Don’t make more of it than that.” His right hand rested on his holstered Colt.

  Jason started to say more on the matter, but the front door opened and Kern walked in, followed by Whitesides.

  “All right, men,” said Kern, “the payroll is here, just like Harry said it would be. Everybody rest up, we’re taking it this afternoon before the bank closes for the day.”

  “What about my brother, Philbert?” Jason asked.

  “What about him?” Kern asked, not really caring. He looked back into the cell and saw Philbert trying to sit up on the bunk. “Was the doctor in, or just not answering his door for you?”

  “No,” said Jason. “He was gone sure enough. I kicked his back door and found some bandages, some laudanum and whatnot. The bullet went through clean. But he’s bleeding like a stuck hog.”

  “Too bad,” said Kern. “If he’s up and able, he’s still in this thing. If he can’t ride, we’re not waiting for him.”

  “Yes, we are waiting for him,” Jason said with firm resolve.

  But Cooper, Bender, Whitesides, the Sloane cousins and Odell Trent all stepped forward as one.

  “Like Kern said,” Whitesides interjected, “if he rides, he’s
in. If he can’t, he’s not.”

  Jason backed off. But he kept his gun hand close to his Colt.

  “What about this Teacher . . . this Fighting Man we said we’d kill?”

  “What about him?” Kern repeated.

  “He killed Buck the Mule, he’s ruined my brother. We can’t let him get away with it.”

  “It appears you Catlos and your idiot friend angered him,” said Whitesides. “He doesn’t seem to be out to kill me or my men.”

  “We’re all supposed to be in this together,” said Jason.

  “Hunh-uh,” said Whitesides. “You’ve confused us with those knights of old. We’re in this for what we can get, nothing else.”

  Jason’s face twisted in rage.

  “Here’s the deal, Jason,” Kern cut in. “If this Dahl fellow gets in our way, he’s dead. Otherwise, we take this payroll and ride off shouting high hell to Mexico. We’ve already seen this man is a rifle fighter. He won’t show his face close up. That means it could take us forever to flush him out and kill him.”

  “So forget about him,” Whitesides put in. “He’s a coward anyway, fighting behind a bullet-stopping vest.”

  “I’m not forgetting about him,” said Jason, “not after what he did to brother Philbert.”

  “If you want to come back and kill Dahl after we’re through here, you do it,” Kern said. “We’ll have nothing but respect for you.”

  “I’ll even make up a song about it, if that will make you feel better,” Whitesides said, a grin creeping slowly across his face. Light glinted off his dark spectacles.

  The men stifled a laugh, recognizing the anger in Jason Catlo’s eyes.

  “I’m going in there and getting my brother patched up and ready to ride,” he said. “We’re not getting cut out of our share.”

  Chapter 22

  From a front window of the mercantile store, Stevens and the other townsmen stared out through the waning afternoon, watching the deputies walk their horses from the livery barn to the hitch rail across the street from the bank. Philbert lay atop his horse, bowed forward in his saddle, his right hand gripping his bloody left shoulder.