by Ralph Cotton
“All right,” he said with a sigh, “we’ve left the line waiting at my office long enough to show them who’s boss. Cooper, you and Bender take Deputy Jennings with you and get started collecting again. The brothers and I will ride along directly.”
“You’ve got it, Marshal,” Cooper said. He and Bender looked at Jennings. “Come on, Buck the Mule,” he said, grinning. “Let’s go take all the guns away from these troublemaking townsmen before they all start killing one another for no reason.”
Philbert Catlo set his glass down and pushed himself back from the bar. He picked up his battered Stetson hat and dropped it atop his head.
“If you don’t mind, Marshal, I’ll go along with these three. Maybe it’ll speed us up getting rid of all these terrible guns.”
“Not at all, Deputy Philbert. You go right on ahead with them. That’s the kind of attitude I like to see,” Kern said with a laugh.
Jason nodded privately to his brother and turned to the bar beside the marshal. “Yeah, so do I,” he said. “My brother is always one who can’t wait to get his hands on a piece of work once he knows he has something to offer the job.” He filled the marshal’s glass. “Now let’s talk some between us.”
“Good idea,” said Kern, turning beside him.
On the way to the marshal’s office, Cooper and Bender both looked Jennings and Philbert Catlo up and down. Along the boardwalk, the line of townsmen had grown, trailing onto the dirt street and halfway down the next block.
“Let these idiots wait,” Cooper said as the four men walked along. Again the two looked Philbert up and down appraisingly.
“Did you hear what he called them?” Bender asked.
“Idiots, right?” said Philbert.
“That’s right. He called them idiots,” said Bender. He paused for a second, and then said, “Isn’t that what I heard you call the barkeep back there?”
“Yes, I believe I did,” said Philbert, walking straight ahead. He shrugged. “We hadn’t been introduced. Why, is he some kin of yours?”
“No, hell no, he’s not,” said Bender, his expression turning irritated. “It’s just that ‘idiots’ is what we both usually call folks.”
“Oh . . . ,” said Philbert without looking at the two.
“So, how’s that going to work out now that you and your brother are here with us?”
“And me too,” Jennings cut in, not to be overlooked.
“Him too,” Bender added.
Philbert not only turned and looked at them. He stopped in the street.
“Let me make sure I understand this,” said Philbert. “You’re wanting to know if it’s all right, you and your pal Cooper here using the word idiot, the same word my brother and I use?”
“He’s not asking your permission, Catlo,” said Cooper, standing facing him, his hand poised at his side, “only your opinion.”
“My opinion . . . ,” Philbert chuffed. His gun hand was also poised, but not as tense or as deliberate as Tribold Cooper’s. “My opinion is, if this is all we’ve got to worry about, we’re in good shape here.”
“It’s about more than who calls who an idiot,” said Cooper. “It’s about you, your brother and your pal here riding in and jumping right into our feed trough feetfirst.”
“That’s how you look at it?” said Philbert. “Us three just rode in and took over something you two started with the marshal?”
“Get this straight. You three didn’t take nothing over,” said Cooper. “The point we’re making is that you’re not going to either. This is something we got going for ourselves—ourselves, only.”
Along the boardwalk the townsmen looked on, not hearing the discussion, but wondering why it was taking so long to get their guns turned in.
“We understand that,” said Philbert. “My brother, Jason, and I, and Buck the Mule here, have no interest in sticking around here, doing nothing the rest of our lives.”
Bender shot Philbert a skeptical look. “We’re not riding this on the short trail,” he explained. “We’re in it for the long ride, just like Kern told us.”
“What? Rob this place dry over the next ten or fifteen years . . . ?” Philbert chuffed again. “No, thank you. That’s not the Catlos’ style. If we were lazy thieves, we would all run for Congress, right, Buck the Mule?”
“Damn right . . . Congress,” said Jennings.
“That’s all Kern is doing anyway,” said Philbert. “He’s setting this up as something legitimate, when it’s nothing but one more way to steal.”
Bender and Cooper looked at each other, beginning to understand what the sharp young gunman was saying.
“We’re not lazy thieves,” Cooper offered in their defense.
“Maybe not, but you’ve thrown in with one,” said Philbert. He thumbed back over his shoulder toward the saloon where Kern and Jason stood drinking. “At least the Catlos are honest thieves. We don’t lie about what we are. We take what we want, all at once, and we ride on.”
“So do we,” said Triblold Cooper, “but this is something new. We figured, why not try it out? It’s not even illegal, unless we get caught some way.”
“Jesus,” Philbret said in disgust. “You can say that about anything you’ve ever done. Nothing is illegal until you get caught and convicted of it. That’s just the nature of things.” He gestured a hand toward the line of townsmen. “Look at them, fellows,” he said. “See anything familiar?”
“Like what?” asked Cooper, needing a clue.
Like what . . . Philbert took a deep breath for patience’s sake. “Like, they’re all holding guns,” said Philbert.
“We see that,” said Cooper.
“Good,” said Philbert. “What’s the first thing you tell an armed man before you rob his bank, his stage line, his home, his whole damned family?”
“Drop your gun?” Bender offered, taking an interest in the question.
“Exactly,” said Philbert. He gestured a hand toward the line of townsmen. “That’s all this gun law is doing, telling everybody to drop their guns.” He grinned. “Any idiot knows what comes next, don’t they?”
Cooper raised the front of his hat and scratched his head. “Damn, Catlo, you’re not going to be as hard to get along with as I thought.”
“I have to admit,” said Philbert, “I do have a way of growing on folks.”
“Hold it, what’s this?” said Bender.
The four turned and saw an old man appear from an alleyway, blood running down his forehead, his short-barreled shotgun in hand, waving above his head. Cooper quickly identified Virgil Tullit.
“He’s not taking my gun!” Virgil shouted. “He’s not taking my Sweet Caroline—!”
As the words left the old man’s lips, the four deputies drew and fired in unison. Blast upon blast of gunfire streaked repeatedly, almost as one. Virgil fell back dead in the street, his shotgun flying from his hand. It landed across his chest, as if in a symbolic attempt to protect him.
“Damn, that was fast,” said Tribold Cooper, eyeing Philbert’s smoking Colt.
“Thanks,” said Philbert. He grinned. “You’re not slow yourself.” A cloud of gray-black smoke loomed up around the four gunmen.
Chapter 9
The townsmen broke from the line along the boardwalk and rushed to surround Virgil Tullit’s bloody body in the dirt street. The four deputies stood staring without expression as Kern hurried from the saloon, Jason Catlo following behind him at an easy pace.
“My God,” said a townsman, staring down at the bullet-riddled corpse. “Old Virgil wasn’t going to shoot anybody. He never harmed a soul.”
“Are these the sonsabitches we’re handing our guns to?” another townsman asked under his breath.
“Maybe you,” said another. “I’m not.”
“Hold on, gentlemen,” said Walter Stevens. “I care as much for this ol’ man as any of you. But I have to say, he was acting quite odd earlier. He said he wasn’t giving up his shotgun—even called it by a woman’s name.
” He gave the others a skeptical look.
“Yes, damn it, he called it Sweet Caroline,” said the town barber, Albert Shaggs. “So what? The gun was made in the Carolinas. What the hell’s wrong with you, Stevens?” he yelled in the old man’s defense.
“All right, I’m sorry,” the mercantile owner said. “I didn’t realize he always called it by name. I just found it odd, that’s all. And the way he snuck it out of the marshal’s office? Not turning it in like he was supposed to?”
A townsman who’d been in line looked at the others surrounding Tullit’s body and spoke up. “Maybe it wasn’t so odd after all. Maybe what’s odd is us willing to hand over our guns if this is what we can expect from armed deputies, just for opening our mouths.”
“He didn’t just open his mouth, gentlemen,” said John Admore. He gestured his hand down at the old man’s bloody chest. “Let me remind you, he was waving a shotgun, and shouting that he wasn’t going to let anyone take it.”
“But he didn’t point it at anybody,” said Shaggs, a pair of grooming scissors in the pocket of his striped barber shirt.
“Not yet, he didn’t,” the salesman offered. “I was there earlier myself. I agree with what Mr. Stevens said. The old man was acting oddly.”
“Sure, you agree with Stevens,” said the barber. “The two of yas have a special interest in common.” He rubbed his thumb and finger together in the universal sign of greed.
“That is a terrible thing to say, sir,” said the salesman,
“and I resent it . . . on both Mr. Stevens’ behalf as well as my own!” He sliced a sideways glance to Stevens as he spoke, making sure the mercantile owner saw him defending their honor.
“You might resent it, but let’s hear you deny it,” said another townsman.
Standing in their midst, Ed Dandly stared back and forth, pencil stub in hand, scribbling furiously on his notepad.
A few yards away, Marshal Kern stopped beside the four deputies. From all directions, more townsfolk ventured forward, drawn by the gunfire they’d heard.
“All right, what the hell happened?” Kern asked the four gunmen in a lowered voice.
Tribold Cooper spoke up first as he stood replacing the spent cartridges in his warm revolver.
“The old man came running at us with the shotgun,” he said. “What were we supposed to do?”
“Kill him, that’s what,” said Philbert before the marshal could reply. He smiled as he clicked his chamber shut on his gun and rolled the cylinder, reloaded, ready to fire. “Ain’t that about the gist of what you were going to say, Marshal Kern?”
“Everybody saw the shotgun?” Kern asked cautiously, not replying to Philbert, but well aware that the reloaded gun in Philbert’s hand was pointed loosely at his belly.
“We all saw it, Marshal,” said Philbert and Cooper at the same time. “They all saw it too,” Philbert added, nodding toward the townsmen who were now gathered in the street, looking in their direction, their assortment of guns in hand.
“This could get sticky,” Marshal Kern said calmly, noting all the guns on the street. “Everybody stay back and keep quiet. I’ll smooth it over.”
“It’s a pleasure watching him work,” Cooper said to Philbert as the marshal walked away toward the crowd.
“He’s only halfway there and I’m already inspired by it.” Philbert grinned.
“All right, everybody back,” Marshal Kern demanded, shoving his way through the tightly gathered crowd. “Give me room to see what’s going on.”
“Marshal, your deputies over there shot and killed Virgil Tullit,” Ed Dandly said. His writing hand was poised, awaiting the marshal’s response.
“Was that shotgun in his hand?” Kern asked, gazing down at the short-barreled shotgun still lying across Tullit’s bloody chest.
“Yes, it was,” said Dandly. “Everybody saw it. Even I saw it from my office window.”
That helps. . . . Kern breathed a sigh of relief to himself. He stopped and picked up the shotgun and broke it open.
“Is anybody gone to get Doc Washburn?” a townsman asked.
“Doc’s off delivering a baby,” said the barber. “But I’m qualified to tell you this man is dead.”
“No, barber,” said the townsman, “you’re qualified to tell us he needs a shave. Doc Washburn is the only qua—”
“Damn it, he’s dead, mister,” Kern said, cutting the man off. “You could read a book through his chest.”
The curious townsmen drew closer as if to see for themselves.
“Stay back, people,” said Kern. “That was a figure of speech.”
“Is it loaded, Marshal?” Ed Dandly asked, his pencil poised and ready.
Kern looked down intently at the empty shotgun in his hands. “Yes, it is,” he lied instinctively.
“May I see for myself?” asked Dandly in an effort to check his facts before committing anything to paper.
Kern caught himself, realizing he needn’t lie about the matter. “I mean, no, it’s not loaded.”
“It’s easy enough to tell, Marshal,” Dandly said with a crafty little grin. “Just look down at the—”
“Shut up, Dandy,” said Kern, cutting him off. “I know how to tell if a gun’s loaded.” He glared angrily at the newsman. “It’s not loaded. But my deputies didn’t know that when he came running at them, threatening them with it, now, did they?”
“Do you suppose they might have asked him first?” the newsman queried.
“Is that what you would have done, Dandy? Would you ask a man running at you with a shotgun if his gun was loaded?” Kern asked.
“It’s Dandly, Marshal,” the newsman corrected. “We’re not talking about what I might have done. We’re talking about what your men did.”
“My men did what any lawmen would do under these circumstances,” said Kern.
Dandly wasn’t about to let up. “Can you see why it might make the townsfolk a little reluctant to hand over their guns, seeing how quick it is for your deputies to draw and fire on a man with very little provocation ?”
“He had a shotgun, you damn fool!” said Kern, holding the gun up close to Dandly’s face. “Want me to spell it for you? S-h-o-t-g-u-n!”
One man spoke up from the gathered crowd. “Marshal, begging your pardon, but Ed Dandly is right. We’re wondering about this whole thing now.” He looked toward the four deputies, and at Jason Catlo, who came walking into the crowd. “We don’t know any of these deputies who are working for you.”
“What’s that you’re holding there, mister?” Kern asked in a tightly controlled voice.
“It’s a Spencer carbine,” said the man, Ben Clavens, a senior telegraph clerk.
“According to the law you’re not supposed to be carrying a gun on the streets of Kindred.”
Clavens said, “But I was there in line, turning it in, when all this started—”
“That’s no excuse,” Kern said with authority. “The law is the law. Now get yourself back in line to give it up, or my deputies will escort you straight to jail.”
“Yes, sir, Marshal,” Clavens said. He slunk back from the crowd.
“That goes for all the rest of you too,” Kern called out. “This is a law matter out here in the street. The rest of you get back in line and give up those guns or go on about your business, whichever you were doing before.”
Where the four deputies stood watching, Tribold Cooper leaned in closer to Philbert Catlo.
“See what I mean? Ain’t he something to watch?” he said.
“I’m impressed,” said Philbert, “and I don’t impress all that easy.”
“How come they’re not getting back in line?” Jennings asked, staring back and forth along the street.
“I was sort of wondering that myself, Buck the Mule,” said Philbert, his thumb hooked in his gun belt. He eyed townsmen moving away in every direction. Only a couple of them had gone back to the boardwalk out in front of the marshal’s office.
From the widow’s sh
ack outside the Kindred town limits, Sherman Dahl and Sara Cayes had heard the powerful burst of gunfire a half mile away.
Dahl had risen from the bed and stepped into his trousers. Instinctively, he’d slipped his big Colt from its holster and walked onto the rickety and weathered front porch, even though the gunfire quickly fell silent. He’d stepped off the porch barefoot as Sara ran to him from around the corner of the house, where she had been gathering kindling to raise a fire in the backyard chimnea.
“Don’t go down there, Sherman!” she said in a frightened voice. “Please, you mustn’t!”
Dahl turned as she ran to him. He caught her in his arm and held her to him. He felt her tremble out of control for a moment.
“Take it easy, Sara,” he said soothingly. “I’m not going anywhere.” He gestured toward what appeared to be a crowd gathering on the street in the distance. Each figure looked small and wavy in the heat and sunlight. “At first I thought it might have been an attack of some sort. Now I see it wasn’t,” he added. “It’s over, whatever it was.”
“It’s Marshal Kern’s town,” she reminded him, gazing down the long dusty street from beside him. “Let him take care of it, whatever it was.”
“Certainly,” said Dahl, consolingly, realizing how terrified she was. “I wasn’t going anywhere barefoot,” he said to lighten the matter. “See . . . ?”
They both looked down at his feet. He smiled at her and drew her firmly against him.
“I—I just couldn’t bear seeing something happen to you,” she said. “I would think it my fault, having talked you into staying here.”
“It wouldn’t be your fault, Sara,” Dahl said. “It’s also Dr. Washburn’s orders, remember? Besides, do I look like a man who would stay somewhere if I didn’t really want to?”
She smiled, calming down, and she leaned her head against his chest.
“No, you don’t,” she said. “Now I feel foolish acting this way over a burst of gunshots.”
“You needn’t,” Dahl said. “I’ve heard gunfire all my life. It still gets my attention.”
