by Ralph Cotton
Chapter 3
On the way back into Kindred, Dr. Washburn looked back along the trail and saw two men riding abreast toward town. As they drew nearer and reined their horses down to a walk, Washburn veered his buggy to one side, making room for them to pass him. The two dusty riders offered no sign of thanks for his courtesy. They rode straight ahead, stopped their horses and stepped down from their saddles out in front of the saloon.
Dr. Washburn rode on.
One of the men, a Missouri gunman named Tribold Cooper, rubbed the toe of his boot back and forth in the dirt, following a trail of blood that ran from the street to the saloon doors with his eyes.
“It looks like somebody in this cow-stop had themselves a bad day,” he said. He loosened two horses hitched to the crowded rail and slapped their rumps. The horses turned and trotted away, their reins dangling in the dirt.
The other man, a gunman from Colorado Territory named Denton Bender, wiped a hand across his dry parched lips as he looked back and forth along the saloon boardwalk.
“Let’s hope he didn’t drink all the whiskey before he got sent to hell,” he said.
“That would be my prayer for the departed, whoever he might’ve been,” said Tribold Cooper. He spun his reins around the hitch rail, raised his rifle from its boot and wiped dust from its stock with his gloved hand.
Across the dirt street, Marshal Kern watched the two walk into the saloon. It’s about damn time. . . . He gave a faint grin to himself, took his hat from a peg on the wall and walked out of the office, rifle in hand.
Inside the saloon, the two gunmen looked at an old swamper who stood on a chair wiping dried blood and matter from the wall with a wet cloth. Behind the bar the saloon owner called out to the newcomers from between the row of drinkers, “Don’t let that blood scare you away, gentlemen. This is the most peaceful place on the frontier.”
“Do we look scared to you, idiot?” said Cooper with a dark stare.
“Well, no, sir, you do not!” said the saloon owner, taken aback by the dusty stranger’s sudden harsh remark. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were afraid of anything. I only meant that this is out of the ordinary—”
“You need to shut up right now, barkeep, and fetch us a bottle,” said Bender. “You’ve already made a damn poor impression.”
“Sorry, gentlemen,” said Jellico. He hurried away and snatched a bottle from under the bar.
Drinkers at the bar hastily scooted sidelong, making room for the pair among them. Cooper and Bender offered no sign of thanks, as if it were only natural for people to stand aside in their presence.
When Jellico placed a bottle of rye and two clean shot glasses in front them, the two men looked at each other with a smile of satisfaction.
Watching the nervous saloon owner fill their glasses, Bender instructed him, “Leave the bottle. Don’t even cork it.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jellico.
The two stood staring coldly until the saloon owner walked away.
“Here’s to us,” Cooper said, the two of them raising their glasses in unison.
But before either of them could touch the glasses to their lips, Marshal Kern stepped inside the batwing doors and called out, “Don’t drink that whiskey.”
Other drinkers turned and looked on as the marshal walked across the floor. Cooper and Bender also turned to face him, their glasses still raised but halted for the moment. They looked at the shiny new badge on Kern’s chest.
“You are asking a hell of a lot, Marshal,” Cooper said with a guarded smile.
“I bet I am,” Kern replied. “Jake, get me a clean glass and fill it. I want to have a nice friendly drink with my newly appointed deputies.”
“You best hurry, barkeep,” Bender said, gesturing a nod toward his raised glass. “If my arm gets stuck here, I’m blaming you.”
Jellico acted fast. He snatched up a clean glass from a row of glasses, filled it and slid it over to the marshal.
Kern raised his glass and turned to the other drinkers who stood watching intently. Jake Jellico was poised behind the bar like an obedient hound.
“Fellows,” Kern said to the drinkers, “I want all of you to meet deputies Tribold Cooper and Denton Bender. They’ll be helping me clean up this town and making a respectable place for folks to raise their mud-ugly children.”
The townsmen laughed at his joke, raised their glasses in a toasting gesture and welcomed the two strangers into their midst. Cooper, Bender and Kern gave each other a smile and a look and drank their rye in one gulp.
“All right, then,” Kern said, setting his glass down and tapping it on the bar top for a refill. He looked along the bar and said, “All of you move down some. Give me and my deputies room to drink without smelling everybody’s dried sweat.”
Again the drinking men laughed; they made room along the bar and went back to their own conversations.
“Tell me I haven’t hit the mother lode here,” Kern whispered under his breath as the saloon settled back into its normal state.
“Yep, I’ve got to hand it to you, Emerson,” Tribold Cooper said. “You’ve treed yourself the biggest cat in the canyon.”
The three laughed quietly among themselves.
“Where’s the other four deputies you talked about bringing in here?” Bender asked.
Kern took on a troubled look. “I’m afraid my plan took a bad turn earlier today,” he said. “The four of them are dead. But it’s nothing to worry about. I know plenty of others I can get to—”
“Whoa, hold on,” said Cooper, cutting him off. “Did you say they’re all four dead?”
“That’s right. They are,” said Kern, “but like I said, it’s nothing to worry about. I can replace them as fast as I need to.”
The two men looked at each other, both thinking about the dried blood spots they’d seen in the dirt out front.
Cooper said, “I take it these four didn’t all die of natural causes, did they?”
“You know they didn’t,” Kern said.
“They must’ve had a posse on their tails?” Bender asked.
“Yes, in a manner of speaking,” said Kern, trying to get away from the subject.
“In a manner of speaking?” Cooper said with a curious look.
“Some hired railroad gunman tracked them here and killed them,” Kern explained, “even before I could swear them in and pin a badge on them.” He shrugged as if it were of no concern. “But forget about them. I want us to talk about what we’ve got going here and how we—”
“One man killed them? All of them?” Bender questioned, clearly stunned.
“That’s right. One man,” Kern said, recognizing that the two weren’t going to let it go right away. “He caught them off guard and killed them.”
“Who were these four gunmen?” Cooper asked.
“Curtis Hicks and some others,” said Kern. Again he tried to pass it off with a shrug.
“What others?” Cooper asked bluntly, getting tired of Kern trying to play it all down.
“Ernie Newman, Ned Carver and Cordell Garrant,” Kern said with a sigh. “Like I said, they got caught off guard.”
“Damn!” said Bender. “You just named four of the toughest dogs ever let out of hell.”
“No,” said Cooper, “the man who killed them is the toughest dog ever let out of hell. What’s the chances of getting him to work with us?”
“Don’t think I haven’t given it some thought,” said Kern. “But the truth is if this fellow wasn’t wearing a bullet-stopping vest, he’d be dead.”
“I’ve heard of those vests,” said Bender. “I expect anybody can be a tough dog if he’s wearing one.”
“Cordell Garrant put two bullet holes in this jake’s chest,” said Kern. “Either one would have killed him, had he not been wearing the vest. He’s laid up outside of town licking his wounds right now.”
Bender and Cooper looked at each other. Cooper turned to Kern with a slight grin. “Are you thinking what I think you�
��re thinking?”
“Not if you’re thinking I want you to go kill this man,” said Kern, getting a crafty look on his face. “I’m thinking it’s best we leave him be, let him clear on out of here.”
“Suit yourself,” Bender said. “But you change your mind, we can go put a few bullets in his head—make sure he’s not wearing a bullet-stopping hat.” He grinned at his joke.
Cooper said in contemplation, “What kind of man wears a bullet-stopping vest anyways?”
“One who’s scared of getting shot?” Bender offered.
“Maybe scared,” said Cooper, still wrestling the thought. “Maybe smart.”
Bender shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, scared or smart. They bury both kinds every day of the week.”
Kern said, “I told him to keep out of Kindred. I’m figuring he’ll cut on out of here soon as he’s up and around.”
“And if he’s not?” Cooper asked.
“It makes no difference,” said Kern. “Soon as you two get settled in, we’re going to start collecting guns. Once the guns are gone we’ll start putting pressure on these merchants and townsfolk, begin drawing us in some money.”
“That’s the kind of talk I like hearing,” said Cooper.
“Me too,” replied Bender. He lowered his voice even more and asked, “But why squeeze them for money a little at a time? Why not raid this place and take it all at once?”
“Because that’s an outlaw’s way of doing things,” said Kern. “I’m through with that. We do it the way I’m saying—it’s their government at work for them.” He grinned. “It’s as respectable as sugar on a pie.” He sniffed his rye and tossed it back.
Sugar on a pie . . . ?
Cooper and Bender smiled at him.
Sara pretended not to be listening as Sherman Dahl and the newspaperman talked, Dandly asking questions about the gunfight and about the Western Railways Alliance for whom Dahl worked. Sara listened as Dahl answered, taking his time. He impressed her, appearing to be a man who was unaccustomed to answering to anyone about anything. She liked that about him, she told herself, as she busied herself straightening up the small room when she knew no straightening was needed.
As she listened to Dahl speak, she positioned herself in ways that allowed her to look at him without him knowing—catching glances like some young schoolgirl, she thought. But that was all right. She liked what she saw. She’d known many men during her time working the crib rooms above the Lucky Devil Saloon. For the most part they had all come to look the same to her. They paid their money, they lay down atop her and in a moment they walked away. Their faces were soon only blurry images in her memory.
But this one was different. Dahl was young, handsome and memorable. He had a gentlemanly bearing about him. He was quiet, well mannered and appeared to be easygoing in spite of the fact that she had witnessed him shoot down four men amid a hail of blazing gunfire. Well, nobody’s perfect. . . . She smiled to herself.
Yes, he had killed them, she allowed herself to admit, but they were all four wanted men. In a way Sherman Dahl was a lawman only doing his job. She looked at the bulletproof vest hanging on the chair back and thought of what the outcome would have been if he’d not been wearing it. But then she forced herself to look away, not wanting to think about that.
Instead she wanted to think about the respectful manner Dahl appeared to have for everyone around him, even Ed Dandly, who was known to be a little pushy in his pursuit of the news. There was good in this man, she’d already decided to herself. There was gentleness and sincerity in his eyes.
Dahl had answered Dandly’s questions regarding the shooting and the four wanted outlaws: who they were, what they had done and who had sent him to bring them to justice.
“. . . And just how long do you plan to be with us here in Kindred, now that your job is finished, Mr. Dahl?” Dandly asked in closing. He continued to scribble down Dahl’s replies to his preceding questions.
Dahl cut a glance to Sara Cayes before answering Dandly. “I’ve just promised Miss Sara I’d be here until the doctor tells me it’s all right for me to leave,” he said.
Seeing the guarded look Dahl and the young woman gave each other, Dandly stood up and closed his notepad and put his pencil away.
“I understand,” he said. But before he turned to leave, he shot Dahl one more question. “Did the marshal tell you what is about to happen in Kindred in the next couple of days?”
“No,” said Dahl. “He only told me to stay out of his town, and I agreed to do so.”
“Yes,” said Dandly. “But aren’t you interested in knowing why he doesn’t want you in Kindred?”
“No,” said Dahl, “not particularly. I did what I came here to do.”
“Kindred is going to be disarmed,” Dandly said without regarding Dahl’s explanation.
“Disarmed, huh?” Dahl sounded curious, but no more than mildly so.
“Yes, you heard me correctly,” said Dandly. He gave Dahl a studious look. “What are your thoughts on something like that working here on this wilderness frontier ?”
Dahl only shook his head. “It’s not something I should comment on,” he said. “I wish all of you the best.”
“Two days from now anyone wearing a gun in Kindred will have to hand it over to the marshal,” he said. “Do you suppose that he wants you to stay out of town because he knows how difficult it would be to disarm a man such as yourself?”
Dahl didn’t like the question. “If a man such as myself were to go into Kindred, he should abide by the law, whatever that law may be. I’m no troublemaker, Mr. Dandly.”
“So, if you were to go into Kindred, you would turn your guns over voluntarily if called upon to do so?” Dandly asked.
“I won’t be going into Kindred, Mr. Dandly, so I don’t understand why you would ask me,” Dahl replied, not wanting to give the newsman anything that could be misinterpreted or misquoted.
“Come now, Mr. Dahl,” Dandly said. “Surely you don’t mind giving your opinion. After all, you do make a living with your gun.” He sounded a bit frustrated by Dahl’s reluctance.
“Not in Kindred, I don’t,” Dahl said firmly. “In Kindred, my job is finished.”
“I see,” Dandly said quietly, realizing that he wasn’t getting anywhere. He let out a breath and said, “In that case, so is my job here.”
Sara stepped over to the door as Dandly turned to leave. Placing his hat back atop his head, Dandly smiled at her.
“You take good care of Mr. Dahl, Miss Sara,” he said. “And a very lovely afternoon to you both.”
As soon as Dandly stepped through the open door, Sara closed it quickly and slid the bolt into position.
“There, finally,” she said, letting out a breath and leaning back against the closed door for a moment. “Now, where were we, Sherman?”
Dahl noted it was the first time she had called him by his first name.
“We both know where we were, Sara,” he replied in a quiet tone. He scooted over slightly in the bed, making room for her beside him in spite of his painful condition.
Chapter 4
Three riders sat atop their dusty, sweat-streaked horses gazing down on the rock canyon below them. A stream of dust loomed behind a slow-moving, heavily loaded wagon. Three horses led the Conestoga-type wagon, and an empty place for a fourth horse gave the rig an off-balance appearance. Atop the wagon stood a row of arched wooden bows. But the canvas that had once covered the bow rib-work was gone, exposing the wagon’s cargo to the harsh desert.
“I don’t believe my tired eyes,” said Jason Catlo to his brother, Philbert, and “Buck the Mule” Jennings. He handed a pair of battered army binoculars to his brother, keeping his gaze on the wagon.
“I want to look too,” said Jennings.
Raising the binoculars to his eyes, Philbert said sidelong to the big dirty gunman, “Wait until you’ve been here longer, Buck the Mule. Not everybody starts right off borrowing another man’s personals.”
&
nbsp; Jennings stared at him with a seething look, but he kept quiet.
Looking down through the smudged lens, Philbert chuffed a short laugh and said, “You’re right, brother Jason, she is a fine little darling, that’s for sure.” His eyes moved along with the lens, drawing in close on the face of a young blond-haired woman seated beside the wagon’s driver.
“Not the woman, Phil,” said Jason Catlo. “I’m talking about that old wagon. That’s a relic. I haven’t seen one since I was just a boy.”
“You look at what suits you, brother. I’ll do the same,” said Philbert.
He moved his eyes and the lens up and down the woman as she shook out her damp hair and pushed it back from her face. Her dusty sunbonnet lay folded on her lap.
“Let me see her, damn it,” Jennings said, getting irritated trying to see the woman clearly with his naked eyes.
“Do not curse, Buck the Mule,” Philbert warned him, raising a finger toward him for emphasis. “You can see her when I’m through looking.”
“Let him look, Phil,” said Jason Catlo, recognizing trouble a-brew in Jennings’ eyes.
“I will,” said Philbert, “soon as I’m finished.” He chuffed again and said under his breath, “Honey, why don’t you lift that dress on up, get some cool air on your knees? You could roast yourself in all this heat.”
“All right, that’s enough,” said Jennings. “I want to see too.” His big dirty hand went to the butt of the Colt holstered on his hip.
“Let him look, Phil,” Jason insisted.
Watching the woman place the sunbonnet back atop her head and step down out of sight, off the other side of the moving wagon, Philbert chuckled, lowered the binoculars and rubbed his eyes.
“All right, Buck the Mule . . . your turn,” he said. He handed the binoculars sidelong to the big, dirty gunman.
Jennings nervously raised the binoculars to his eyes and stared down at the distant wagon. Then he lowered the lens in disappointment and gave Philbert Catlo a scorching stare.
