by Ralph Cotton
When he’d finished he stared at her, awaiting her reaction.
“I see,” she said, without changing either her expression or her position.
“I thought you ought to hear it from me, instead of from somebody else,” Dahl said.
Sara nodded slightly. “I’m glad it was you who told me,” she said.
“I can leave here today, if you want me to,” Dahl said.
“I don’t want you to leave today,” she said, “unless it’s what you want to do.”
“I don’t want you to think that I’m a good man,” Dahl said. “I’m not. I doubt if I ever will be again.”
Sara gave only a trace of a smile. “I’ll be the judge of that. Thank you,” she said. She gestured a nod toward the bulletproof vest still hanging on the chair back. “I have some spare quilting. Why don’t I mend your shooting vest for you?”
In the afternoon, the Catlo brothers and Buck the Mule Jennings rode into Kindred from the south. Passing the widow’s shack along the way, they looked across the rocky flatland and saw clothes drying on a rope line. As they rode by, staring from thirty yards away, they saw a woman pull a garment down from the clothesline and walk back to the house, folding the clothing over her forearm.
“Is that a petticoat she’s carrying?” Jennings asked his two companions, riding a few feet behind them.
“Uh-oh,” Jason said with foreboding.
“Don’t go concerning yourself with it, whatever she’s carrying,” said Philbert. “You’ve run your string with the fairer sex for a while, the way I see it.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jennings asked with a scowl, staring hard at Philbert from behind.
“Jesus, Buck the Mule . . .” Philbert chuckled and shook his head without looking back. “Don’t you see you have no business around womenfolk? You beat them up, force yourself on them. Do things to them that would curdle bear’s milk—”
“You poke a broom handle in their husband’s eye,” Jason cut in, staring straight ahead.
“I told you I never done that,” said Jennings, getting irritated all over again about the matter.
“Then just who the hell did it, Buck the Mule?” Jason asked pointedly.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Jennings repeated. “But it wasn’t me.” His voice turned harsh with rage.
Concerned, Philbert let his horse fall back beside the big dirty gunman in order to keep an eye on him. “Hey. He’s just funning you, Buck the Mule. We know you didn’t do it. Hell, for all we know the woman did it to him.”
“Don’t say that. She never done it either,” Jennings said, defending the woman he’d had his way with and then shot in the back. He’d grown irritated, and his grimy hand had poised close to his holstered revolver.
“All right.” Jason shrugged. “He might have poked it in his own eye, just for spite,” he said, smiling to himself, “knowing you were off romancing his woman.”
“Yeah . . . ?” Jennings seemed to settle down a little.
Philbert looked at him and said, “Tell us again, Buck the Mule, about the first time your pa tried to kill you.”
“I already told you,” Jennings said. Now that he had settled down, his hand moved away from the gun butt and rubbed back and forth on his trouser leg as if to wipe his big fingers clean.
“Tell us again, Buck,” Philbert urged, grinning, friendly.
“It’s the sort of story we never grow tired of hearing,” Jason put in. He let his horse drop back, flanking Jennings on his other side.
“All right,” said Jennings, “it wasn’t nothing really. I was just a baby. He tired to hit me in the head with a smithing hammer . . . but my ma stopped him. She grabbed the hammer from him and cracked the handle across his nose. Broke it all to hell!” He gave a wide grin and threw his head back in a laugh.
Philbert and Jason gave each other a bemused look and laughed along with him.
“Now tell us about how you stabbed him when you got older,” Philbert said.
“Well,” said Jennings, “that was when I was six or seven years old—”
“Wait, hold it, look at this,” said Jason, cutting him off. He gestured toward a new hand-painted sign nailed to a post standing alongside the beginning of the main street into Kindred.
In large letters, the sign read:GUN LAW
BY ORDER OF MARSHAL EMERSON KERN, NO FIREARMS ARE ALLOWED WITHIN THE TOWN LIMITS OF KINDRED TOWNSHIP. ALL GUNS MUST BE TURNED IN AT THE TOWN MARSHAL’S OFFICE FOR SAFEKEEPING. THIS LAW WILL BE STRINGENTLY ENFORCED.
“So, the idiot was right,” Jason said, after reading the new sign. “They really are banning guns.” He gave his brother a surprised grin. “Can you believe this?”
Philbert stared at the sign. He nudged his horse over and touched a finger to it, checking if the paint was dry.
“What does stringently mean?” he asked. He rubbed his finger and thumb together, seeing no wet paint on them.
“It means the same as—” Jason started to answer but stopped short, finding himself at a loss. “Hell, you know . . .” He shrugged.
“No, I don’t know,” said Philbert. “That’s why I asked. I thought you might.”
“Well, it means . . .” Jason gave up. “Hell, I don’t know what it means, all right?”
“It means strictly enforced,” said Jennings, sitting his horse off to the side, his big wrists crossed on his saddle horn, watching the two.
The Catlo brothers looked surprised.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Jason. “I believe he’s right.”
“Good work, Buck the Mule,” said Philbert. He looked at his brother and said, “You should have known that.”
“But I didn’t,” said Jason, getting a little irritated himself, “so let it go.”
“It’s gone, brother.” Philbert grinned.
“The thing is, I can’t believe this is true, a town with no guns allowed,” said Jason. He looked Buck the Mule Jennings up and down appraisingly, then his brother, Philbert. Looking back at the new sign, he shook his head and said, “Can you imagine the kind of no-good murderers and thugs this gun law is going to draw from all over the territory soon as they hear about it?”
Philbert looked at Jennings, then at his brother. He stifled an outright laugh and chuffed to himself. “Hell, I shudder to think of it,” he said.
The three turned their horses to the street and rode into town at a slow walk. They took note of a long line of townsmen standing out in front of the town marshal’s office, beneath a large wooden star that hung above the open door. The townsmen held rifles, shotguns and handguns, respectively.
“Look at this,” Philbert said in amazement, “they even stand in line to get rid of their shooting gear.” He chuckled and turned to Jason, whispering under his breath, “Tell me, brother, have I died and gone to heaven?”
“If you did, we both died together,” said Jason.
“Me too,” Buck the Mule Jennings cut in, riding right behind them.
From the window of his office, Marshal Emerson Kern watched the three men file past. They gazed at the shops, at the bank and at the telegraph office. Their caged eyes moved across the people along the boardwalk like hungry wolves sizing up a flock of sheep.
He nodded to Tribold Cooper and said quietly, “We might have trouble coming.”
“Yeah? What makes you say so?” Tribold had just taken a short-barreled shotgun from an elderly townsman and laid it on a table with a stack of other guns. He looked out the window with the marshal, but he was too late to catch a glance of the three gunmen riding by.
“Stop this line. Arm yourselves and meet me behind the saloon,” Kern said.
“Arm yourselves . . . ?” an old townsman murmured. He gave the others in line a strange look.
Cooper and Bender nodded at the marshal’s order.
“Marshal Kern, how will you know my Caroline from all the rest?” the old man asked. He’d just handed over his shotgun and watched as it was slung atop the anonymou
s stack of guns.
“Caroline?” said Kern. “Your shotgun has a name?” he asked, bemused by the idea.
“Yes,” said the old man. “Sweet Caroline’s been with me longer than any woman ever made it. I want to know how you’re going to recognize her in case I come to—”
“In case you want her back?” Kern asked, cutting him off in an intimidating tone of voice. “You mean in case you get drunk and mad, and want to cause harm to somebody?” He stared hard at the old man and said, “Because that’s the very thing we’re trying to prevent.”
The old man scratched his head, befuddled. “I don’t drink. I never get cross with anybody. Look at me. Do I look like I’m going to start trouble?”
“What’s your name, sir?” Kern asked.
“Virgil. Virgil Tullit.”
“Well, Virgil, we’ve all heard those arguments too many times to count,” Kern said. He shook a finger at him. “This is for everybody’s good old-timer. Don’t be a hardhead.”
“But what if I want to collect my Caroline and leave town?” the old man asked.
As Kern turned to the door, he said over his shoulder in a dismissing voice, “Well, we just won’t let you leave town. We’ll stick you in jail and sit on you until you starve to death. Because that’s the kind of low-down snakes us local government officials are.” He grinned and winked at the others in line. “Isn’t that right, fellows?”
The townsmen laughed at his joke, all except for the old man, who scratched his head again and shrugged. “I still don’t see how you’ll tell Caroline from all the others,” he said weakly.
“Don’t even trouble your mind thinking about it,” Kern said. “Let me do all the thinking around here. That’s my job.” He gave a wide, generous grin. “I’ve got everything on file, right up here.” He tapped himself on the side of his head.
Cooper and Bender looked at each other and grinned as they picked up their gun belts, unrolled them and strapped them on.
“He’s good,” Bender said privately to Cooper as the marshal walked out the door.
“Oh yeah, he’s a pistol all right,” said Cooper, his smile disappearing as he buckled his gun belt and slid his Colt up and down to loosen it.
Chapter 7
Jake Jellico finished wiping down the bar top at the Lucky Devil Saloon and Brothel and glanced up just as three dusty gunmen walked through the batwing doors. Along the bar, the row of drinkers saw the hard, trailbitten look of the men and instinctively made space for them.
“Oh, hell . . . ,” Jellico murmured. All three were armed—a rifle hanging from each man’s left hand, their right hands poised near a holstered revolver on their hip.
As the three lined up and laid their rifles on the bar top, the nervous saloon owner pointed a finger at a sign leaning against the broken mirror behind the bar indicating the new Gun Law.
“Gentlemen, don’t take this the wrong way, but the town is disarming itself this very day. Until you turn in your guns at the marshal’s office, I’m not allowed to serve you strong drink.”
The three looked back and forth along the bar on either side of them in disbelief, seeing no guns on any of the other drinkers.
“I see it. I still don’t believe it,” Philbert Catlo muttered to his brother.
“Oh, it’s true,” Jellico said, thinking the words were directed at him. “There’ve been so many killings here that the town voted to put a stop to it. Getting rid of guns is the only reasonable way.”
Philbert gave him a hard stare. “I was talking to brother Jason here,” he said.
“Easy, brother Phil,” said Jason, seeing the look on Philbert’s face. “He didn’t know. . . .”
“Indeed, sir,” said Jellico, “I did not know, and I apologize—” He stopped suddenly as a stunned look of recognition came to his face. “Phil and Jason?” he said, looking back and forth between the two while Jennings stared blankly at him.
“That’s right,” said Jason. “What of it?”
“You—you’re the Catlo brothers, aren’t you?” Jellico said in a shallow and worried voice.
“Again, what of it?” Jason said with a cold expression.
“Nothing, I mean—” Jellico stammered. “Welcome to Kindred, that is. It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you fellows.”
“Why’s that?” Philbert asked bluntly, not letting the saloon owner off the spot he’d suddenly found himself on.
Buck the Mule Jennings crowded in closer and asked the frightened man, “Have you heard of me too?”
Jellico looked back and forth wildly, not knowing how to respond, or which question to answer first.
“Well—that is—” Jellico stopped and finally collected himself enough to ask, “Gentlemen, why don’t I get all three of you a drink?”
“Because it’s against the law?” Jason answered, still staring at him relentlessly.
With a terror-filled grin, Jellico reached under the bar and pulled up a bottle of rye and three shot glasses.
“I always say a law is like a fence,” he mused, sweat beading on his upper lip. “It’s no good unless there’s room for a gate in it.”
“What’s this idiot talking about?” Philbert asked Jason.
“Damned if I know,” Jason said. “Something about building fences—leaving a gate open.” He laid his hand atop his rifle stock resting on the bar. “What are you talking about, idiot?” he asked Jellico.
“I have no idea,” Jellico said shakily. He froze in place with a tortured smile; sweat ran down his broad forehead. The bottle of rye and the shot glasses stood on the bar top.
Unarmed townsmen sensed trouble and began to slink away and fade out the doors, front and rear.
“Gentlemen, if you will allow me to intercede on Mr. Jellico’s behalf,” a voice bellowed from the far end of the bar.
The three gunmen looked around as Ed Dandly walked toward them, his hands chest high, a notepad and pencil stub in his right hand.
“Now this idiot,” Jason said, his hand still resting on his rifle stock.
Dandly ignored the remark as he approached with a cautious smile. Behind the bar, Jake Jellico still stood with the same look of terror on his face.
“I’m Edward Dandly . . . ?” the smiling newsman said, ending his words in a question suggesting that the three should have heard of him. He touched the brim of his derby hat. “I own the Kindred Star Weekly News . . . ? The town newspaper . . . ?”
Jason whispered to his brother, “Everybody in this burg is crazy as a loon.”
“I like it,” Philbert replied with a grin.
“Mr. Jellico was concerned that you gentlemen were going to . . . well, that you may have killed him, had he refused you service.”
“Now, there’s a thought,” Philbert said. He and Jason looked at each other. Jason drummed his fingertips on the rifle stock.
“I expect we’ll never know, now that he went ahead and jerked us up a bottle,” Jason said. He looked at the shot glasses, then at Jellico and asked, “Are you going to fill them, or do we start all over?”
Philbert looked at a slim young man standing to the side, watching on with apprehension, a guitar leaning against his leg.
“Do you play that, or is it all that keeps you from falling over?” he asked.
“What . . . ?” The young man looked wide-eyed and stunned. Then he caught on and said quickly, “Oh. Yes, sir! I do play it!” He jerked the guitar up across his chest and began plucking a snappy tune.
“See? It’s the whole town,” Jason whispered to his brother.
“I just wish we’d moved here when we were both children,” Philbert whispered in reply, turning his eyes to the filled shot glasses.
Jennings stood grinning at the guitar player, his big dirty fingers plucking an imaginary guitar on his chest.
Marshal Kern stood waiting impatiently for Cooper and Bender as more drinkers slipped out the back door of the saloon and wasted no time getting clear of the place. He heard the sound of guitar mus
ic start up inside. He paced back and forth until he finally saw the two deputies rounding the corner of the building, their gun hands swinging near their holstered revolvers.
“What took you so long?” Kern demanded in a stiff tone.
“We came as soon as we strapped down,” said Cooper, gesturing at his gun belt. “What’s going on anyway?”
“It sounds like the trouble has already started,” said Kern. “Hear the guitar?”
“I hear it,” said Cooper. “But it doesn’t raise that much concern for me.” He grinned at Bender. “What about you, Denton? Does that guitar sound like trouble starting?”
“Not so far,” Bender said. “But you never know when a guitar player might fly into a killing rage.” He returned the grin.
Kern glared at them. “I’m saying the music means the three have settled in and made themselves to home. That tells me that Jellico has served them whiskey. That’s against our new rules. If these men get away with it, everybody will start questioning our ability to enforce the gun law. Do you understand?”
The two stopped grinning. Cooper raised and lowered his Colt in its holster. Bender took his Colt out, checked it and lowered it back in place, keeping his gun hand resting on its butt.
“Tell us how you want to play this, Marshal,” Cooper said. “We’ve got you covered.”
“Well, I’m damned obliged to you both, Deputies,” Kern said in a cutting, sarcastic tone.
The two men stood in silence.
“All right, now, let’s go unarm these saddle bums, before we all three look like fools,” Kern said. He levered a round into his rifle chamber and started to turn to the rear door of the saloon.
From a few feet away, one of the drinkers who had fled the saloon said in a hushed voice, “Marshal, those three ain’t your everyday saddle bums.”
Kern turned toward a short, stout man standing halfhidden by a telegraph pole. “Who are you?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you around town.”
