by Ralph Cotton
“But I bet it doesn’t scare you the way it just did me,” she said.
“It might,” Dahl said, gazing at the wavy figures in the distance, all of them standing still now, not in any hurry—no cause for alarm. He let out a tight breath. “It depends on the situation.”
“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” Sara said. She smiled, leaning her head against his bare chest.
Dahl only smiled thinly, looking off along the dirt street, still trying to discern the cause of the shooting.
“I only wish you could stay longer.”
“Oh . . . ?” Dahl looked down at her and said, “What if I’m not always this easy to get along with?”
“You are, though,” she said. “I can tell you are.”
“Shhh,” Dahl said, suddenly hushing her.
She fell silent, sensing urgency in his tone and in the way his arm tightened around her.
“Listen, hear that?” he said in a whisper.
“No,” she said. They both stood listening intently beneath the purr of a warm wind. Staring toward a line of distant hills farther south of the town, she said, “Yes, I hear it now. What is it?”
“It sounds like someone in trouble,” Dahl said. He turned to the house. “I’ll get my boots.”
“Should I get your horse?” Sara asked. “Am I going with you?” she called out as Dahl bounded quietly onto the porch and slipped inside the house with the sleek muscular ease of a mountain cat.
Sara didn’t waste a second. She turned and ran to the dilapidated barn.
A moment later, Dahl stepped out onto the front porch again, now in his boots, with his shirt on and his gun belt buckled around his waist. Sara stood holding the reins to his horse.
“I didn’t think you’d want me to take the time to saddle him,” she said, a bit out of breath, a canteen hanging by its strap from her shoulder.
“Thanks, Sara,” said Dahl. He stepped off the porch looking toward the hill line. “Have you heard anything else?”
“No,” she said, handing him the dun’s reins. “Am I going with you?” she asked again.
Dahl glanced back along the dirt street and considered it for a second. There were still men moving about on the dirt street. The crowd that had gathered had now broken off in different directions.
“Yes, come with me,” he said, not wanting to leave her alone.
Without hesitation Sara let him take her by her waist and lift her up over the horse’s back. Reins in hand, Dahl swung up behind her and nudged the dun out across the sandy flatlands, strewn with rock, prickly pear, cholla and sage.
“Which direction do you think the sound came from?” Sara asked, scanning through the wavering heat and the sharp stabbing sunlight.
“We’re not going to know until we hear it again,” said Dahl. “That’s if we hear it again,” he added.
“It sounded like a child crying for help,” Sara said.
“I know,” said Dahl. “I figure anyone needing help will try to stick close to the trail leading them to town, if they can.”
“So that’s what we’re going to do too?” Sara asked.
“Yep,” said Dahl. He put the dun forward at a quick pace, hoping to get closer to the sound, should they hear it again. Sara gripped the dun’s mane with one hand and reached back, holding firmly on to Dahl’s thigh with her other.
“Are you all right there?” Dahl asked as they rode along across the rough terrain.
“Don’t you worry about me, Sherman Dahl. I’m hanging on,” Sara said bravely over her shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Chapter 10
The woman had staggered down the trail from the hill line throughout the night and most of the morning. She had veered off the trail and walked barefoot through beds of prickly pear and spiky wire-brush until she’d collapsed in the thin shade of a dry creek bed. There she lay naked, save for her dead husband’s bloody shirt, which she’d tied around her waist by the sleeves. The sound of gunfire had stirred her from a sleep so close to death that it awakened her with a start, even in her beaten and battered condition. Warm, fresh blood had oozed its way under a protective patch of dried, black blood from the bullet hole in her back. It trickled like a spider’s touch down her spine into the blood-soaked shirt.
When she’d first cried out toward the sound of distant gunfire, she knew there was little left inside her that could resist the willowy arms of death. But that no longer mattered, something said inside her. No, she agreed, nothing mattered. . . .
Death would feel far better than this, she told herself. Less painful. . . .
She lay back on the rocky ground in silence and felt the endless blackness begin to swallow her up like some firm, gentle cocoon weaving itself around her.
She saw her husband’s face, the way she last remembered seeing him alive, the traces to the team of horses in his strong hands. She saw his smile. Wherever death was taking her, Charles was already there, waiting for her. . . .
“Ma’am?” she heard him say, and she knew he must be joking with her. “Ma’am . . . ?” he said again. But she detected no playfulness in his voice. “Can you hear me, ma’am . . . ?”
She stirred slightly and murmured her husband’s name. She managed to open her eyes and look up at the black silhouette of his face in the glare of sunlight. Then she realized it was not Charles looming over her.
Let me go . . . , she heard herself plead, not knowing if she said her words aloud or to herself.
Yet, even as she wanted to be turned loose and left to die, something else inside her spoke to her. If she only wanted to die, why then had she struggled so hard, so long, to get to this spot? Good question. . . . She felt herself slip backward again, deeper into the painless darkness.
“She’s alive, but just barely,” Dahl said, touching his wet bandanna gently to the woman’s badly bruised and battered face.
Sara held the unconscious woman cradled in her lap as Dahl attended to her with water and cloth.
“There’s not much we can do for her out here,” Dahl said in a rush, having seen the bullet hole in the woman’s back when they’d found her moments earlier. “We’ve got to get her into town to the doctor.”
They both looked back toward the street into town, a thousand yards away, the short distance they’d gone before spotting the woman lying in the creek bed thirty yards from the main trail.
“You go, take her on the horse,” said Sara. “I’ll walk back.”
Dahl drew his Colt from his holster and handed it to her butt first.
She gave him a curious look.
“I can’t go armed into Kindred,” he said. “Hold on to it for me.”
She nodded, took the gun in her hands and looked it over as Dahl scooped the unconscious woman up carefully into his arms.
“Do you think Kern is going to give you trouble anyway?” she asked.
“He shouldn’t, not under these circumstances,” said Dahl. “I’m unarmed. That’s all his gun law calls for.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Sara said, “under these circumstances . . .” But she sounded apprehensive, following him to the horse. “Be careful all the same.”
“I will, I promise,” said Dahl. “And you be careful too.” He nodded toward the Colt in her hands. “Do you know how to use one of those?”
“I cock it. I point it. Then I pull the trigger,” she said. “Nothing to it.”
“Right, nothing to it,” he said, wasting no time getting the limp woman up onto his horse’s back as carefully as he could. He leaned her forward onto the dun’s neck, then swung up behind her and turned the horse toward town.
Please be careful. . . . For a moment, she stood with the gun in both hands and watched him ride away in a low stir of dust. Then she sighed and started walking back, letting the heavy Colt hang from her right hand, swinging loosely back and forth with each step.
Dr. Washburn had just arrived back in town and stopped his buggy in the alley behind his office when Dah
l rode up with the half-naked woman leaning unconscious against his chest. The large doctor hurried down from his buggy seat and ran over to Dahl as he reined the big dun to a sliding halt.
“My goodness, young man!” the doctor said. “What have we here? That’s not Sara, is it?”
“No, it’s not Sara, Doctor,” said Dahl. He stepped down from the horse’s bare back and pulled the woman into his arms. “Sara and I found her lying along the trail south of here. She’s back-shot. I hope I’m not too late getting her here.”
“Bring her into my office. We’ll see,” the doctor said. He hurriedly swung open the gate to his backyard.
He rushed ahead of Dahl and the woman and opened the rear door to his office.
“Straight ahead, on your left,” he said, directing Dahl down a hallway. “I see you haven’t listened to me and stayed off your horse,” he said as Dahl moved quickly past him.
“I had no choice, Doctor,” said Dahl. “I had to get her here fast.”
“I understand,” the doctor said, pointing Dahl toward a treatment gurney set up in the middle of a small room. “Lay her on her side. Let me see her back wound,” he said.
Dahl put the woman down carefully while the doctor jerked out of his black linen suit coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
Washburn clasped the woman’s wrist between his thumb and finger to feel for a pulse. At the same time, he leaned down and looked at the bullet hole in her back, only an inch from her spine. Fresh blood trickled down onto the gurney. The two stood in silence for a moment.
“She’s alive. Good,” the doctor said finally, his black necktie hanging loose around his opened white collar. He laid her hand down and turned her wrist loose.
Dahl watched the large doctor hurry about the room, gathering medical supplies and instruments.
“What can I do to help, Doctor?” he asked.
“You can stay out of my way,” the doctor said flatly.
Dahl stepped back.
“You took a chance coming here after the marshal warned you against it,” Washburn said without stopping as he laid down a clean pan and filled it with a solution from a green bottle.
“I had no choice, Doctor,” Dahl said, staying back out of the way. “I came unarmed, if that’s any help.”
“Might be,” Washburn said. “But you still want to keep yourself out of sight and get out of here quick as you can.”
“I’m gone as soon as you tell me to go, Doctor,” Dahl said. “Not before.”
“All right, go,” the doctor said.
Dahl just looked at him.
“I mean it, go,” the doctor repeated. He gave Dahl a serious stare. “There’s nothing you can do here for me, or for her,” he added, gesturing a nod down at the woman. She managed to loll her head a bit and half open her eyes.
“All right, I’ll leave,” said Dahl. But before he turned toward the rear door, he asked, “Did you hear shooting earlier?”
“I heard it,” said the doctor. “I was on my way back from birthing a baby east of town. Don’t know what it was about, though.” He glared at Dahl as he picked up a small sponge and a clean white cloth. “Are you leaving, or what?”
“I’m gone,” Dahl said. He started to turn away.
“If you want to do something good, send Sara here to help me look after this woman,” the doctor said. “From the looks of her, I doubt a man’s face is the first thing she wants to wake up to.”
“What do you mean, Doctor?” Dahl asked.
“What do you think I mean?” the doctor replied in a grim tone.
Down the street in the marshal’s office, Kern and Jason Catlo looked out the window as Jennings, Philbert and Bender waited outside for more townsmen to show up with their guns. They stood behind a table, which was piled high with all of the guns that had been turned in before the shooting.
“They’ll come back,” Kern said hopefully. “They’re spooked right now, but they’ll come back. I might need to go remind them all that the law is passed, and there’s nothing they can do but comply.” He nodded with confidence. “But they will be back.”
“I hope you’re right,” Jason Catlo said, looking away, the trace of a smile spreading across his face. “There is nobody who wishes this plan more success than I do.”
“Me too,” Jennings said in a thick voice, overhearing the two.
“Oh, it’s going to work,” said Kern. “I can safely promise you that.” He folded his hands behind his back and gazed back and forth along the street.
Small groups of townsmen stood along the first street, huddled together in conversation. Some still held the guns meant to be turned over to the lawmen. Others stood empty-handed, having already given up their weapons before the shooting had given everyone pause to reconsider the new law.
Among one group, the town blacksmith, a fellow named Erkel Fannin, stood with a big Remington pistol in his hand. A large Dance Brothers revolver stood behind his waistband, its hand sticking out from behind the edge of his long leather work apron.
“I don’t trust it anymore,” he said to the four men gathered near him. “I’m taking my guns back to my shop and burying them down deep under something.”
“But you voted for this law, Erkel,” said a real estate speculator named Dan Marlowe. He shook his head. “What about those of us who were first in line and got rid of our firearms?”
“All I can say is shame on you,” said the blacksmith. “It was all a mistake. I’m keeping my guns.”
“If it’s a mistake, then we need to get the mayor and the three town councilmen to repeal the law,” said the real estate man. “Until then, you have to abide by the law as it stands.”
“You’re on the town council, Matheson,” the blacksmith said to a thin bald man who stood with his hands in the pockets of a long black duster. “How long does it take to get a law off the books once it’s on?”
“I’ve never seen it done, but it shouldn’t take long at all,” said the councilman, who also happened to be managing president of the Great Western Bank and Trust Company. He considered it for a moment, then said, “On second thought, I’m afraid it might take a while.” His brow furrowed. “We have to call a special meeting, get all three of us there and the mayor of course, soon as he gets back.”
“Damn, who knows how long it’ll be before Coakley gets back?” the blacksmith said. “Can’t it get done without him?”
“I don’t see how,” said the councilman. “Coakley was councilman before he was elected mayor. Now we’re one councilman short until the next council election. When Coakley gets back, he can appoint someone temporarily. But all this takes time.”
“Where is Councilman Matthews?” Stevens asked.
“He’s off salmon fishing somewhere north of here,” said Matheson. “I expect he’ll be coming back in another week or two.”
“A week or two?” said the blacksmith. “We need help from our local government now! What if he and Mayor Coakley neither one ever come back? What if Coakley fell down a hole and broke his damn neck?” he asked.
“Then the next elected town official will be the marshal when Kern’s appointment runs out,” said the councilman.
“Jesus,” said the blacksmith, “what a mess.”
“These are all things we didn’t consider before passing the law,” the councilman said. “See, the mayor appointed the marshal to office until the next town marshal’s election.” He used his fingers to guide him as he spoke. “Then the marshal has to run for office like everybody else. Until then he’s an appointee—”
“Damn it,” said the blacksmith, “can’t you and Councilman Myers repeal the law by yourselves? Mayor Coakley said if it didn’t work out, we could strike it from the books.”
“I’m afraid Mayor Coakley spoke a little hastily,” said Matheson.
“In other words, he’s a lying son of a bitch,” said the blacksmith.
“Crudely spoken, but yes, perhaps,” said the councilman. “Although I believe that the
marshal may have the power to appoint an interim councilman under these circumstances, even though he’s an appointee himself.”
The blacksmith and the other townsmen all stared at him as if he’d spoken in tongues.
“I’m keeping my guns,” the blacksmith said flatly. “I must have been out of my mind.”
Denton Bender walked into the marshal’s office through the rear door, making his way back inside after using the jake.
“It looks like the town doctor is back from delivering somebody’s whelp,” he said.
“Oh?” said Kern. “Well, we didn’t need him before, but we might before this is over.” He looked at Jason and said, “Care to join me, Deputy?”
“Sure, where we headed?” said Jason Catlo.
“We’re going to go remind some of these good citizens that they are breaking the law.”
“Hell, let’s go do it,” Jason said eagerly. He gave his brother, Philbert, and the others a grin. “Think you ol’ boys can handle all this action until we get back?” He gestured all around the quiet office.
“We’ll do our level best,” said Philbert, working a chewed-down matchstick around in the corner of his mouth. He pulled the brim of his battered hat down low above his eyes.
Chapter 11
When the marshal and Jason Catlo had left the office, Denton Bender walked over to the window and looked out, watching the pair cross the dirt street.
“Looks like the town doctor must have his hands full today,” he said over his shoulder.
“Yeah? How so?” asked Philbert Catlo, the words hanging loosely from his lips. He leaned back, his hands folded behind his head, perched on the corner of the gun table.
“I saw him and another man carrying a half-naked woman in through the back door. Looked like she’d been back-shot. She was limp as a Chinese soup noodle.”
Philbert sat upright on the desk corner. He pushed his hat brim up with a finger and looked over at Buck the Mule Jennings.
