Gun Law

by Ralph Cotton

  “I’m a liquor peddler, name of Giles Frame,” the man answered. He raised a bowler hat that appeared too small for his head. “I was about to discuss selling this place some whiskey when those three walked in. The big dirty fellow doesn’t look familiar, but the other two are Jason and Philbert Catlo. I’ve seen them a time or two the past year, usually after somebody just got themselves killed for looking at them the wrong way.”

  “Jason and Philbert Catlo?” Kern asked, an ill look coming to his face.

  “The Catlo brothers?” Bender asked, with the same disturbed look.

  “Yes, that’s them all right,” said the peddler. “Take my word for it.” Having giving his information, the peddler turned and hurried away along the alley, a hand holding his bowler in place. By now, the townsfolk had scurried away.

  “Well, that’ll do it for me,” Cooper said. He started to leave in an awkward half run, half walk.

  “Hold it,” Kern demanded. “What the hell do you mean, that’ll do it for you? We’re going in there. I don’t give a damn if it’s the Catlo brothers or the James brothers. We’re going to disarm them.” As he spoke his rifle swung around toward Cooper.

  “Not unless I know I’m getting something out of it once we’re finished with them,” Cooper said. “It would be different if we were planning to clean this town out in one big raid. I wouldn’t stand for them getting in our way. But the way we’re going about this thing, a little bit at a time, huh-uh, it’s not worth getting shot at. Bender and I feel like we’re working for wages.”

  “Yeah, like some kind of real deputies,” Bender put in with a disgusted look. “We could do this anywhere.”

  “So what’s in it for us?” Cooper asked bluntly.

  “Damn it!” Kern clenched his teeth, considered the question despite his frustration. “All right. A hundred apiece if you end up killing them all three.”

  “What if we only kill one or two of them?” Bender asked, his hand still resting on his gun butt.

  “That’d still be a hundred apiece,” said Kern. “I’m not made out of money . . . not yet anyway.”

  Cooper looked at Bender and shrugged. “What the hell, we’ll kill all three. It wouldn’t make sense just killing one or two of them. We’d lose money.”

  “Are we ready?” Kern asked.

  “Ready as rain,” Cooper said, “now that Bender and I know we’ve got an interest in things here.”

  “Then let’s go get it done,” Kern said with grim finality in his gruff voice.

  Cooper adjusted his gun belt and gestured an arm for Marshal Kern to lead them through the rear door of the saloon. “After you, Marshal,” he said.

  The Catlo brothers and Buck the Mule Jennings watched from the bar as the marshal walked in. The two deputies stepped through the door behind him and spread out across the width of the saloon. Jake Jellico was behind the bar, sweating in his feet. He held the bottle of rye in his hand, ready to refill the gunmen’s glasses as soon they set them down empty on the bar top.

  A few feet away stood Ed Dandly, his pencil stub and notebook still in hand. He turned toward the marshal with a worried look.

  Kern noted the rifles lying atop the bar, the holstered revolvers at each man’s hip. He stopped in the middle of the sawdust-covered floor and stood with his feet spread shoulder-width apart.

  “In case nobody told you three, nobody gets served liquor in Kindred unless they turn in their guns,” he called out. As soon as he’d spoken, he gave Jellico a cold stare.

  Jellico set the bottle of rye down. He raised his hands chest high and said, “Marshal, I mentioned about the new gun law. I just figured these men—”

  “Yeah, Idiot here told us rightly enough,” Jason said. He turned and raised the glass of rye toward Kern as if preparing to toast him.

  “And if he hadn’t told us, Marshal, this sign would have been a dead giveaway,” Philbert cut in, nodding toward the sign leaning against the broken mirror.

  “We can read,” Jennings said, and then backtracked. “Well, they can anyway.”

  “Drink your whiskey, Buck the Mule,” Jason said quietly to the big dirty gunman in an effort to push him out of the conversation.

  “The point is, Marshal,” Philbert said, “you knew we had firearms, and you and your deputies here came to take them from us. Ain’t that about right?”

  Cooper and Bender stepped in closer, each of them thinking about the hundred dollars apiece the marshal had offered them to kill these three.

  “That’s exactly right,” said Cooper. “Use them or drop them is all we come to say.” He nodded toward the rifles on the bar.

  “Keep out of this, Deputy,” Kern warned, well aware why Cooper was so eager to get the fighting under way.

  “Use them or drop them . . . ,” Philbert repeated. “What a clever thing to say.” He took a step away from the bar, his brother right beside him. Jennings moved to the side, his big dirty hand poised to reach for his gun.

  Before either the deputies or the marshal could make a move, Philbert’s Colt streaked up from his holster. Kern saw the open bore of the gun barrel pointed at him.

  Philbert stepped forward, a mirthless grin spread wide across his face. “The fact is,” he said, “we have nothing but respect for this new gun law of yours.” In a flash, his Colt flipped around in his hand. He held the gun out, butt first, much to the marshal’s surprise.

  “Damn it,” Bender growled under his breath. Not only had Jason Catlo’s fast draw caught them cold, but he knew he and Cooper had just missed out on making the three hundred dollars the marshal had promised them. He and Cooper stood watching as Jason Catlo raised his Colt slowly, walked forward and held it out to the marshal in the same manner.

  “My brother speaks for me too, Marshal,” he said. “We heard about the law from some pilgrims on the trail. We came here wanting to see it for ourselves.”

  Kern didn’t trust the moves they’d made, but he stepped forward anyway, took the two Colts they held out for him and looked toward the rifles on the bar.

  “Buck the Mule,” said Philbert, “bring those rifles on over here, so the marshal can relieve us of them. I sense an uneasiness at work here.”

  “You have to admit,” said Kern, “you Catlos are not known for surrendering your weapons without a fight.”

  “I don’t look at it as surrendering our weapons, Marshal,” said Jason. “I like to call it bowing to the advancement of civilization.”

  “I like that!” said Ed Dandly. He scribbled it down on his notepad.

  Ignoring the newsman, Kern questioned Jason and Philbert. “So you fellows heard about our gun law along the trail, eh?”

  “Yep,” said Philbert.

  “Good news travels fast, Marshal,” Jason put in.

  “So does bad news,” Jennings said, stepping forward with the rifles from atop the bar. He glared at Dandly and said, “Write that down too.”

  “Yes, of course,” Dandly replied, scribbling in order to placate the gruesome gunman.

  “The fact is, Marshal,” said Jason, “we’re wondering if you could use our help. We saw the line backed up out front of your office. It must be a big job collecting every gun in town.”

  “You can’t imagine,” Kern said, feeling better now that the rifles and sidearms were out of the Catlo brothers’ reach.

  “Now that we’re legal here,” Jason said, “maybe we could all have a drink and talk about it?”

  Kern looked at his deputies, then back at the Catlo brothers. “Yeah, sure, why not?” he said. He turned to Ed Dandly and shouted, “Get lost.”

  “But, Marshal, this is all news,” said Dandly. “What are you trying to hide?”

  “Cracking your head with a gun butt is news too,” said Kern, ignoring the newsman’s question. He stared coldly at him until Dandly relented and slunk away.

  When Dandly was gone through the front door, the men all turned back to the bar. Philbert looked at the guitar player, who’d stood frozen in silen
ce since the three lawmen walked in.

  “Nobody told you to stop playing, did they?” he asked the frightened young musician.

  “No, sir,” the musician said.

  “Then play, man, play!” Philbert demanded, waving a hand in the air.

  The shaky musician jerked the guitar back up across his chest and played intently.

  Philbert turned to Marshal Kern and said, “I am what you might call appreciative of good music, although I have never had any gift for it myself.”

  Chapter 8

  Some of the unarmed townsmen who had left the saloon moments earlier had now slipped back inside. Others remained on the boardwalk out front, staring in at the town marshal and his five companions through the dirty front windows. The ones who had ventured back in kept their distance, drinking quietly and warily at either end of the bar.

  “This is what you end up getting once you’ve handed over your guns,” said Virgil Tullit, standing on the street at the edge of the boardwalk. “I knew it was a mistake, damn it to hell,” he lamented. “When these political snakes know you’re defenseless, they start showing you their whole other side—the lying sonsabitches.”

  An airtight goods salesman and a mercantile store owner both gave the old man a look.

  “Isn’t that a little harsh, sir?” said the goods salesman, a Missourian named John Admore. “How do you know they are liars?”

  “Because they hold public office,” Virgil said bluntly. “They all lie until they get big enough to hire somebody to lie for them.”

  “My goodness, you are bitter, sir,” said the goods salesman.

  “Being bitter doesn’t make me wrong, does it?” the old man retorted with a sharp glint in his eyes.

  “No, sir, it does not,” said Walter Stevens, the mercantile owner. He and Admore looked at each other and stifled a short laugh.

  “Come on, old-timer,” said the goods salesman, “do you really think your new mayor Coakley and Marshal Emerson Kern had some dark sinister plan in mind for Kindred?”

  “Mayor Coakley? Hell,” said the old man. “Nobody’s even seen him since he won his—”

  “Gracious no,” said Stevens, even before the old man could finish his answer. “All they want is to stop all the killing in our streets and see us live in peace. Is that so bad?”

  “Yes, I’m certain they only want what’s the best for Kindred,” said the salesman.

  “It might seem like they only want what’s best for us right now,” said Virgil. “But mark my words, young fellows, all they want is to take control of the town. And they’re doing it today. Without our firearms, there ain’t a damn thing we can do about anything. They can hand-feed us dung . . . We’ll have to swallow it. If we don’t swallow, it’ll choke us to death.”

  The two men looked at each other, shook their heads and grinned. The line of townsmen waiting for the marshal and his deputies to return and collect their guns still stretched far down the street.

  “Young fellows . . . ?” said Admore, turning back to the old man. “I hardly qualify as a young fellow. I’m fortysix years old, sir. I have two grandchildren and another on the way.”

  “Anybody who thinks this gun law is meant to protect us is either awfully young or awfully foolish,” said Virgil. “I didn’t want to come outright and call you both fools.”

  “Well, that’s courteous of you,” said Admore, with a mock touch of his fingers to his derby brim. “I’ve never been called a fool in such a polite manner.”

  But Stevens would have none of it. He gave the old man a cross look.

  “If you feel that way, why’d I see you standing in line to hand over a rifle to the marshal’s deputy?”

  “That was my shotgun,” the old man corrected him. “I reckon I lost my mind for a minute,” he added. “I must’ve got worn down and started believing them myself.”

  “Oh . . . ?” said Stevens. He studied the old man’s face as his fingers fiddled deftly with a gold watch chain hanging from his vest pocket. “So, what are you telling us, Virgil?”

  The old man looked back and forth cautiously along the boardwalk. Then he opened the front of his coat a little and said, “I’m telling you I snuck Sweet Caroline back while the deputies were strapping up to come over here.” Down in an inside pocket stood two pieces of the broken-down shotgun.

  “Sweet Caroline . . . ?” said Stevens, looking at the shotgun. His fingers fell from his watch chain. He and the goods salesman looked shocked.

  “My goodness, sir!” said Admore in a hushed tone. “Do you realize the trouble you could be in, stealing a gun from the marshal’s office?”

  “Steal her, my ass,” the old man said, dismissing the allegation. Caroline’s been by my side every night since I was nineteen years old. I’m the only hands she’s ever known. How many of yas can say that same thing about—”

  “Jesus, you crazy old coot, get away from us,” said Stevens, cutting him off. He looked around quickly as if they were being watched. “I don’t want the marshal thinking I had anything to do with this!”

  “Nor do I,” Admore, his tone turning icy.

  “See, Caroline . . . ?” the old man said to the two pieces of the shotgun under his coat. “They’re already scared as rabbits, and this is just the first day.” He closed his coat and shook a gnarled finger at them. “Shame on yas both. Already you’re left without courage—the main thing this country was meant to give every man she ever birthed.”

  Admore looked all around and said to the gathered townsmen, “Does anyone know where Virgil lives? Can someone take him home? Please?”

  “We’re afraid he’s not himself today,” Stevens put in. “He’s talking out of his head.”

  “Come on, Virgil, old fellow,” said a young man who’d been standing nearby. “Let’s get you home.” He stepped forward, looked at the mercantile clerk and the salesman and said, “Don’t worry. I know where he lives.” As he spoke he reached out, closed the old man’s coat and smoothed a hand down the front to make sure the broken-down shotgun wasn’t seen.

  “Who the hell are you?” said the old man.

  “You know me, Virgil,” said the young man with a disarming smile. He cast a glance to the others. “I’m Billy. I live over that way,” he said, pointing out across the flatlands in no particular direction. “I’ll take care of him, you can bet,” he said quietly to the two businessmen.

  “You see that you do, young fellow,” Stevens said with warning in his tone. “Virgil’s not thinking clearly today, but he’s one of us. Don’t you forget it.”

  The mercantile man turned to the goods salesman. The two shrugged.

  “It must be tough on an old-timer like Virgil, seeing things change so rapidly,” said Admore. He shook his head in reflection. “How do you ever convince them that our leaders have our best interest at heart?”

  Admore smiled. “And if we find out they don’t, we simply vote them out of office when the time comes, and they have to go. What could be more perfect than that?”

  “Exactly,” Stevens agreed. The two watched Virgil Tullit and the young man walk out of sight.

  Inside the saloon, huddled along the bar, the five gunmen and the marshal spoke hushed and guarded among themselves below the noise of the busy saloon. Kern fell silent for a moment and stared coldly at Jake Jellico, who walked behind the bar, snatched up an empty rye bottle and set a fresh one in its place.

  “As I was saying . . .” Kern went on speaking once the saloon owner was out of listening range. “When I saw that this town elected Mayor Coakley because they wanted him to get rid of the guns, I said to myself, ‘This is the place where I want to put down some roots.’ ” He smiled, reached out and filled each of their empty glasses.

  “When will we have the pleasure of meeting this Mayor Coakley?” Jason asked.

  Kern didn’t reply right away, continuing to fill the glasses. Then he said, “He went off on a holiday soon after he won the election . . . sort of a celebration, I suppose.”
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  Philbert gave him a look. “Did he go on a holiday, or did somebody kill him?” he asked.

  “It was one or the other, I’m sure,” said Kern.

  “I don’t know about putting down roots,” Buck the Mule cut in, already feeling his shots of whiskey. He gave a crooked smile. “I’d sure like to pull some up.”

  Kern gave Jason Catlo a guarded look of uncertainty. “He’s all right,” Jason said under his breath. “My brother and I have gotten used to him.”

  “He’ll do anything we tell him,” Philbert cut in under his breath.

  Seeing a flash of apprehension cross Kern’s brow, Jason added quickly, “And in turn we’ll do anything you tell us to do.”

  “Good. Because that’s the way it’s got to be,” Kern said. He gave Cooper and Bender a glance as he spoke, making sure they heard him too.

  The two deputies looked on in silence.

  “I want all of you to ask yourself, do you want to spend your life on the run, looking back over your shoulder, or do you want to sit back and have the law work for you?” He gave a smile of satisfaction. “It’ll take no time to get these townsmen shaped up and doing what we tell them to do. All the while they’ll be thanking us for doing it.”

  “I don’t mean to piss on your foot, Marshal,” said Jason. “But why are they going to thank us for taking control of this town?”

  Kern chuckled. “Because we’re going to convince them this is the best and safest damn place to live on the whole frontier,” he said. “Any time they question it, we’ll remind them that they should be ashamed of themselves for not being grateful for everything we’ve done for them.”

  The gunmen laughed among themselves.

  “You’ve put some thought into all this, that’s for sure, Marshal,” Philbert said, raising his shot glass in a toast to Kern. “I’m glad I’m on your side.”

  “Ain’t we all?” said Tribold Cooper, raising his glass as well.

  Kern nodded his appreciation. He tipped his glass to the men and emptied it. He looked all around at the unarmed townsmen standing at the bar, drinking, busy talking among themselves.