Gun Law

by Ralph Cotton

  Inside the marshal’s office, the four gunmen looked at each other every now and then as they heard another thump against the side of the building. At one point, Denton Bender started to turn toward the front door. But Philbert Catlo wagged a finger at him.

  “No, no, Deputy Bender,” he said. “You heard brother Jason say they wanted to be alone for a few minutes.”

  Bender backed off, but Cooper stepped forward and said to Philbert, “I don’t give a damn if you go check on things yourself. But somebody needs to go.” He hooked his thumb into his gun belt.

  Philbert looked at Jennings, who stood crooked-necked against a wall. “Are you ever going to be worth a damn for anything?”

  “By God, I’m good right now,” Jennings replied in a harsh voice.

  Philbert only shook his head. He walked toward the door, saying half playfully to Cooper and Bender over his shoulder, “If I get jumped on by brother Jason, it’s your fault.”

  As the door closed behind Philbert, Cooper and Bender both turned to Jennings.

  “Maybe you ought to get the doctor here to take a look at that collarbone, Buck the Mule,” said Cooper.

  “Thanks. I will,” said Jennings. His cordial reply turned dark. He scowled at them. “When I get damn good and ready,” he added.

  Philbert made his way outside and turned into an alley, following a loud thumping sound. He quickly came upon Kern and Jason, immediately noticing the welts and bruises on Kern’s face. The marshal stood slumped halfway down the wall. Jason was wiping blood from the marshal’s gun butt with a bandanna he’d jerked from Kern’s neck.

  “Damn,” said Philbert, “I hope this is not your idea of a quiet conversation. You can hear that thumping all over town. What’s this about?”

  “It’s nothing, brother Phil, just me bouncing the marshal’s head a little to get his memory oiled up.” He grinned, reached out and shoved Kern’s gun back down into his holster. “We’re all done now.”

  “You did all that to him, and you’re giving him his gun back?” Philbert asked.

  “Yep, that’s what I’m doing,” Jason said.

  “But why?” Philbert asked, astonished, looking at the many welts and cuts on Kern’s face.

  “Because I’m a complete idiot . . . ,” said Jason, “why else?”

  “Jesus . . .” Philbert walked over and stuck the toe of his boot into the slumped marshal’s side.

  “And . . . I’ve got his bullets,” said Jason, opening his hand and showing his brother the six bullets in his palm.

  “Take . . . your damn . . . boot off of me,” Kern growled at Philbert.

  “Sure thing, Marshal,” said Philbert. He stepped back, keeping his hand on his gun butt. “Want to let me in on things,” he asked Jason, “before those other two decide to come and take a look for themselves?”

  “Yeah, I’ll tell you,” said Jason. “The marshal here just let me know that there’s a big mine payroll coming to the Kindred bank for the first time.”

  Philbert glared at Kern and said, “All that about the long ride, squeeze this place over time. That was all bull, right?”

  “You’ve . . . got it, Philbert,” Kern managed to say, blood running down both cheeks.

  “Well, kiss my . . .” Philbert’s words trailed as he drew his pistol, cocked it and pointed it at Kern’s head.

  “Damn, brother, don’t be a fool,” said Jason. “Kern is our partner. He’s the one the mining people expect to see when they get here with all that payroll money.”

  Philbert considered the facts, letting out an exasperated breath and lowering his gun barrel. “That helps, some,” he said, uncocking the gun and slipping it back into his holster.

  “Let’s go inside and talk to the others,” said Jason. “I want us all to know where we stand.”

  Chapter 16

  Gathered inside the marshal’s office, Tribold Cooper, Denton Bender and Buck the Mule Jennings all three stiffened in surprise at the sight of Marshal Kern stumbling through the door with his face battered and bloody.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Cooper said, his hand going instinctively to the butt of his holstered Colt.

  “Easy, Deputy,” said Jason Catlo, he and his brother stepping in behind the pistol-whipped marshal. “Don’t grab that iron unless you know why you’re grabbing it.”

  Cooper eased down. He dropped his gun hand to his side.

  “What went on out there?” he asked, studying the marshal’s battered face.

  “Honored fellow deputies,” Philbert said with his easy smile, “it saddens brother Jason and me to have to say this, but it appears our marshal hasn’t been completely honest with us.”

  Jason gave Kern a shove. Kern caught himself on the desk and stood for a moment with his disheveled head lowered.

  “But now he’s had a change of heart and wants to tell all,” Jason said.

  “I—I can’t talk,” Kern said, trying to work his swollen jaw with his fingers. “You . . . tell them,” he said to Jason Catlo.

  Bender and Cooper watched warily.

  “All right, here goes,” said Jason. “I just learned that for all the talk Marshal Kern gave us about setting up a long-term deal for ourselves here in Kindred, his real plan’s to rob a big mine payroll that’s coming to the town bank for safekeeping.”

  “Is that right, Marshal Kern?” questioned Cooper with disgust. “You’ve been lying to us?” Again his hand closed around his gun butt.

  “Easy, Cooper. It gets better,” said Jason Catlo, holding a hand up toward the smoldering gunman.

  “You’ll like this part,” Philbert said with a dark chuckle.

  “Don’t let . . . them shoot me,” Kern pleaded to Jason Catlo.

  “I’ll do my best, Marshal,” Jason said with a dark grin. To the gunmen in the room, he announced, “The marshal wasn’t even going to share the deal with us. He has Harry Whitesides and his two cousins coming to town to rob the bank and take the payroll money.” He paused and looked Kern up and down with contempt. “I expect we were supposed to get gunned down in the process—make it all look real.”

  Both Cooper and Bender stepped toward Kern.

  “You dirty son of a bitch,” said Cooper. “You was going to let us get killed, while you ride off with a nice fat payroll robbery?”

  “With that half-blind skunk, Harry Whitesides?” Bender added, enraged.

  “Don’t blame me for Harry Whitesides,” Kern said in his own defense. “It was Hicks’ idea to send for him. He said Harry and his cousins were the best bank robbers a man could find in this part of the country.”

  “That hurts our feelings,” said Philbert.

  “You know Whitesides?” Cooper asked Bender.

  “Yeah, I know Whitesides,” said Bender. “I rode with him until he got so bad I was afraid he’d shoot me by mistake.”

  “That bad, huh?” said Cooper.

  Bender shook his head. “He couldn’t look straight down and see his feet well enough to count his toes.”

  “What does that matter?” said Jason. “Kern here is supposed to have the town disarmed when the payroll arrives anyway.” He reached out with his gun barrel and tweaked Kern’s nose. “Right, Marshal?”

  “Everything depends on the town being unarmed,” said Kern. “That was the whole idea. The mine company always sends along two payroll guards. But Whitesides and his cousins are used to killing a couple of guards. It’s the townsmen that are getting to be the problem for everybody. Look what happened in Houston, in Northfield.”

  “Why are you being so honest with us now, Kern?” Cooper asked.

  “My, my, Cooper . . . ,” said Philbert, shaking his head at the question, “how’d you ever find your way to town?”

  Cooper bristled.

  “He’s being honest because I pistol-whipped some sense into him,” Jason cut in. “Just because he tried to jackpot us and get us killed doesn’t mean we can’t do business with him, does it?”

  “Not to me . . . it doesn�
�t,” Kern interjected in a stiff, pained voice. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  Cooper and Bender looked at each other, considering the matter.

  “Well . . . no, I expect it doesn’t to us either,” Cooper said grudgingly.

  “When’s the payroll coming in?” Bender asked.

  “It’s due any time now,” said Kern. “Whitesides and his cousins are tracking it here from the train station at Burkeville. The guards have telegraphed the Kindred bank and told Matheson it’s on its way.”

  “How do you know they telegraphed the bank?” Cooper asked.

  “Fuller, the telegraph clerk, told me,” said Kern. “He knows it’s his patriotic duty to keep the law informed on such matters.” Kern managed a pained smile. “Plus, he likes drinking rye with me.”

  “When Harry Whitesides and his cousins get here, the payroll won’t be far behind?” Cooper asked.

  “That’s the plan,” said Kern. “They’ll track it in close to town, then ride on ahead and tip me off that it’s coming.” He looked back and forth with his swollen and bloody face. “I’m betting it’ll be sometime today.”

  As the deputies and the marshal spoke in the front office, Billy Nichols lay in pain on the cell floor, listening, making out just enough of the conversation to know that these men were not what they appeared to be.

  He had to get out of there, he told himself. There was little doubt in his mind they would let the townsmen hang him. They would even kill him themselves when it suited them.

  All this for an apple, a handful of stale bread . . . ?

  Billy crawled across the dirty cell floor, pulled himself to his feet and examined his surroundings. There had to be something in here he could use to pick the lock on the iron door. Something, anything . . .

  The pain in his heel and ankle had lessened a little, but he still winced as he tried to put weight down onto his foot. It didn’t matter, pain or not, he had to get out of there. . . .

  He patted his pockets and found nothing. But as he felt his belt, an idea hit him. The buckle . . . !

  He hurriedly loosened his belt and yanked it from his waist. With the metal buckle in hand, he reached and took ahold of the iron-barred door for support. But instead of support himself against the bars as he’d expected, he fell forward a step as the unlocked door swung open a few inches.

  Billy stood stunned for a moment, staring, wondering if this was some sort of trap. Then he batted his eyes and swallowed a knot in his throat. Trap or not, he had to take a chance. He eased out of the cell, not daring to breathe. Limping badly, he crossed the floor, sidled up to the rear door and squeezed it open silently.

  Hearing the men talking in the front office, he stepped out into the silver-gray light of dawn. With no regard for his throbbing foot, or the limp that pulled him a little to one side, he raced away like a jackrabbit.

  In the front office, Philbert looked at his brother, Jason. “What’s that sound?” he asked.

  The six men stood listening intently. Finally, Kern staggered over and looked out through the dirty front window at a single lantern swinging low at a townsman’s side.

  “It’s the townsmen,” he said. “Here to get the boy and stretch his neck at first light, I’ll wager.”

  Jason grinned. “I’ll wager you told them they could have him?” he said.

  “I mentioned that I’m so broken up over poor Ed Dandly’s death that I don’t much give a damn what they do to his killer,” said Kern.

  Philbert looked over at Jennings and gave a nod toward the back room. Jennings had been standing off to one side, more concerned with the pain in his neck and broken collarbone than he was with the deceiving the marshal, the robbery or anything else. But he caught Philbert’s signal and walked away with a grunt toward the cells.

  Out front in the street, Dan Marlowe stood at the head of a small gathering of townsmen armed with ax handles and pitchforks.

  “All right, Marshal Kern, it’s first light,” he called out in a loud, clear voice. “It’s time we get this gruesome piece of work done. Bring him on out.”

  “All right, Marlowe,” Kern called out in reply. “My deputies and I are with you fellows on this.”

  But Kern turned in time to see Jennings standing with his big dirty hands spread in disbelief.

  “He’s gone!” he said, wide-eyed.

  “He’s what?” shouted Kern, his battered face looking grim and terrible in the thin dawn light. “He can’t be gone!”

  Running, falling, rolling back to his feet and continuing to run, Billy Nichols weaved his way through the back alleys of Kindred until he stopped and stood for a moment against a telegraph pole to catch his breath. Across the street and thirty yards ahead of him, he saw a dim lantern light in a window of the widow’s shack.

  He limped along a few more yards, looking back, making sure he wasn’t being followed yet. In the shadowy half-light, he saw the group of townsmen moving along in the direction of the marshal’s office. He knew what they wanted. They’d come for him—to hang him, he told himself.

  Hunched over and crouched, he hurried across the street and on toward the widow’s shack. When he reached the side yard, he veered back to the old barn, where he saw the doctor’s buggy sitting by the backyard fence. The horse stood with a rear hoof tipped, sleeping in the still gray morning light.

  Sara gazed out the window and was startled to see a young man limp over to the buggy and climb up into the seat.

  “Sherman, come here, quick!” she said. “Someone is stealing the doctor’s buggy!”

  Dahl stood up from the table and came to her side, followed by Dr. Washburn, who’d been sleeping in a chair beside the bed.

  “Well, I’ll be darned,” the doctor said. “A fellow would have to be in some awfully dire straits to want to steal ol’ Tom.”

  “I’ve got a feeling this is connected to the gunshots we heard earlier,” said Dahl. “Both of you wait here,” he said to Sara and the doctor.

  As Dahl slipped away and out the side door, Sara whispered to Doc Washburn, “He better hurry if he’s going to keep your rig from getting stolen.”

  “Don’t you worry about my rig, Sara,” Washburn chuckled. “Ol’ Tom is a heavy sleeper for a horse. If you wake him too sudden, he’ll fly into a fit—well, I suppose you’ll be seeing it soon enough,” he said.

  Outside, Billy Nichols loosened the buggy brake and slapped the traces up and down on the unsuspecting horse’s back.

  “Hee-iii!” he called out in a lowered voice, trying to slip away as quietly as possible.

  But the startled horse would have none of it. The dapple gray seemed to spring up off the ground with all four hooves spinning. The horse came down with a long, loud whinny, twirling and bucking like a crazed wild mustang.

  Billy let out a shriek as the animal reared and sawed, snorted and kicked. The lightweight buggy slung back and forth, bouncing high off the ground, its helpless occupant barely able to stay in the driver’s seat.

  By the time Dahl had slipped out the side door and across the yard, the horse had bolted forward, made a wild sliding turn in the dirt and come racing back toward him, the buggy leaning dangerously over on two wheels. The young man in the seat hung on with one hand to keep from flying over the side.

  But then, for all its wild gyrations, the horse slid to a sudden, jolting halt at almost the same spot where it had started. Dahl seized the chance to grab the young man by his flailing arm and pull him from the buggy to the ground. He stamped a boot down on his chest and held him firmly in place.

  “Don’t shoot, mister! Please!” Billy cried out, seeing the long Colt hanging in Dahl’s right hand. “I wasn’t stealing it!”

  Dahl had pulled the gun on his way across the yard, but upon seeing the young man closer, he’d lowered the gun down at his side.

  “I see you weren’t,” Dahl said, “not if the horse had any say in it.”

  Dr. Washburn came running up beside Dahl. Behind him came Sara.
The buggy horse shook out his mane and chuffed and stamped a hoof.

  “Settle down, ol’ Tom,” the doctor said soothingly to the excited animal. He patted the dapple’s muzzle and looked down at the young man in the dirt beneath Dahl’s boot. “You’re lucky he didn’t kick your head off, scaring him like that.”

  Dahl slipped his Colt back into his holster and took his boot off the young man’s chest.

  “Get up,” he said. But seeing the young man struggle to stand, he reached down and helped him to his feet, noting his battered face, the dried blood on the front of his shirt. “Who are you?” he asked. “What happened to your face?”

  “I’m . . . Billy Nichols,” said the young man. “This is what the marshal’s deputies did to me.” He touched a cupped hand to his bloody swollen cheek.

  “Whatever happened in town during the night, you must’ve been in on it,” Dahl said.

  “I—I was,” the young man stammered. “I’m not going to lie about it.” He looked back and forth from the doctor to the woman, then to Dahl. “I stole an apple and some bread from the newspaper office. But I didn’t kill the newsman. I swear I didn’t.”

  “What?” said Dr. Washburn. “Ed Dandly is dead?”

  “Yes, he is,” said Billy. “He was stabbed in the heart. But I found him that way . . . I didn’t do it, you’ve got to believe me!”

  Dahl saw him limp sideways and almost fall. Doc Washburn caught him by the forearm and steadied him.

  “What’s wrong with your foot?” Dahl asked.

  “The marshal hit me with his rifle barrel, said it would keep me from getting shot trying to escape.”

  “But it didn’t work, did it?” Dahl said. “You still managed to get away.”

  “They—they left the cell door unlocked,” Billy said. “If I hadn’t gotten away, they were going to hang me, or kill me.” He gestured toward the street in the distance. “The townsmen were coming for me. I heard him as I was running away.”