by Ralph Cotton
“No,” Matheson said sharply. “This lens is the property of the Great Western Bank and Trust Company. I would be violating a sacred employer’s trust if I were to simply hand it over to anyone who wants to take a little look-see.” He collapsed the lens between his palms with finality.
“Well, excuse the living hell plumb out of me, Councilman,” the townsman said as the banker turned with the lens tucked under his arm and left the street. “I never thought men who handle other people’s money to be on such high moral ground.”
“That only proves that you are even more ignorant than I first suspected,” Matheson shot back over his shoulder.
The townsman cursed under his breath.
Another townsman said to him, “Don’t take it so hard, chappy. His nasty attitude will change soon as it gets close to next election time.”
Jake Jellico had unlocked the doors of the Lucky Devil Saloon and Brothel only a few moments earlier. Sunlight streamed in as he stood cleaning up behind the bar. When he saw Kern, his deputies and four new men walk through the doors, he stopped what he was doing and immediately snatched up shot glasses and a fresh bottle of rye and stood them all in a row along the bar top.
“Morning, Marshal Kern,” he called out, his voice already reflecting his worried state. “I’m getting ready to boil some coffee.”
“No coffee, just rye,” said Kern.
“Oh yes, of course,” said Jellico. He hurriedly wiped down a length of bar top with a damp towel as the men lined up along the rail.
“Well, well, Marshal,” he said, looking closer at the men. “It’s like you and your men are all loaded for bear.”
Whitesides grabbed his forearm as he made a swipe with the towel.
“What the hell does that mean?” he asked, staring at the saloon owner through his darkened spectacles.
Jellico froze, staring back wide-eyed, on the verge of panic.
“I—I—It just means—” he stammered mindlessly until Kern cut in.
“Pay no attention to our saloon owner, Harry,” Kern said. “He is the most scared man you’re likely to ever see in this business.”
“Is that a fact?” Whitesides turned Jellico’s arm loose. But he continued to stare at him through his dark spectacles. “A man that scared ought not make comments about who’s loaded for what, is my thinking.”
“And you are absolutely right, sir,” Jellico replied. He rounded a finger beneath his starched shirt collar and gave a nervous smile to Kern.
“A new deputy, Marshal?” he asked.
“No, why?” said Kern.
“Oh, just wondering is all,” said the shaken saloon owner. He jerked up the bottle and began filling shot glasses with a trembling hand. “I just saw these four are wearing guns, and with the new law and all, I guess I just assumed that they are—”
“What the hell’s this man jabbering about?” Whitesides demanded, cutting Jellico off.
“I give up,” said Kern. He turned to Jellico and gave him a threatening stare. “Why don’t you just keep your mouth shut and pour whiskey? Nobody came here to watch you sweat.”
“Yes, sir, Marshal,” said Jellico.
“Yeah, and pour it fast,” Whitesides said. He tossed back his shot glass of rye in a gulp. “I hate whiskey that takes too much time between the bottle and glass. It loses its personality.”
“I couldn’t agree more, sir,” said Jellico.
The men tossed back their rye as soon as it filled their glasses.
“Fill us again, Jake,” said Kern, banging his glass down onto the bar top. He said to Whitesides and the others, “One more round while I go to the privy. Then we get to work.” He stepped back from the bar, walked to the rear door and went outside.
Whitesides and the others finished their drink, then finished another before Kern walked back in, adjusting his gun belt.
“It’s about time,” said Whitesides as Kern sidled back to the bar and lifted his shot glass. “We thought you’d got a foot stuck.”
“It’s not stuck now,” said Kern. He managed a tight grin on his lumped and swollen face, threw back his drink and set the empty glass down on the bar.
“Put all these on my account,” he said, circling a finger above the empty glasses and the half-consumed rye bottle.
“Yes, sir, Marshal Kern,” Jellico said. As he gathered up the empty glasses, he said, “There sure has been lots of excitement in Kindred, poor Ed Dandly getting killed and all.”
“Yes, there has been, Jake,” Kern said. He pushed his empty glass away. “And the day is just now off and running.”
As the gunmen left the saloon, adjusting their gun belts and checking their rifles and sidearms, the Catlos and Buck the Mule Jennings fell in alongside Kern.
“Can I kill the woman again?” Jennings asked.
“Merciful Moses . . . ,” said Kern. “What do you feed this idiot?” Kern asked Jason under his breath.
“What’d he say?” Jennings asked, only catching a few of the murmured words.
“Nothing,” Jason said to Jennings.
“If you’d killed the woman right the first time, we wouldn’t be doing this, Buck the Mule,” Philbert said. “This time I better kill her myself—”
“For God’s sake, why don’t both of you save your breath?” said Jason. “The woman’s not there. That’s just this man’s way of drawing us to him.”
“I knew that,” said Philbert, sounding a little embarrassed.
“Woman or no woman,” Kern said, “this Dahl fellow has been a thorn in my side ever since I first laid eyes on him.” He reflected for a moment, then said, “There’re other towns all over the frontier who’ve banned guns on their streets.” He lowered his voice. “Hell, everybody still carries what they want to. They just carry a smaller caliber and they keep it out of sight.”
“Then what’s the point in the law?” Jason asked.
“It works on folks’ minds,” Kern said, tapping his forehead. “Any time I want to, I can reach out and grab somebody carrying a gun, and he knows he’s in the wrong from the get-go. It’s a way to let everybody know the law is above them.” He grinned and added, “And I am the law.”
“And you’re not carrying no puny, little small-caliber pocket gun. You legally carry the biggest, baddest gun you can lay hands on.” Jason grinned. “That makes you the biggest dog on the walk, at all times. Anybody doesn’t like it, it doesn’t matter. They’re outgunned anyway.”
“Hey, I see you do understand this thing,” said Kern.
“It’s not hard to figure,” said Jason. “I think you’ve jumped on a sweet deal here.”
“Yes, but damn it,” Kern said in reflection, “why have I been saddled with this so-called Fighting Man, just when things are starting to go my way?”
“Maybe you haven’t been living right,” Jason offered with a smug grin.
They walked on.
From a front window of Marlowe’s realty office, the townsmen watched Marshal Kern and his deputies closely.
“Maybe if this goes the right way,” Fannin said, “we won’t have to break in and take our guns back.”
“Don’t count on it, Erkel,” said Shaggs. “The odds aren’t favoring that happening today.”
They all stared intently as the ten gunmen walked toward the far edge of town.
Chapter 20
A warm morning wind rippled across the brittle tops of brush standing in low stretch of rocky ground at Kindred’s edge. As the wide street narrowed into a trail, the wary marshal fanned out his deputies with a wave of his gloved hand.
“He’ll be waiting to ambush us in the brush before we even get to the shack,” he said in a lowered voice.
Whitesides stared at Kern and jacked a round into his rifle as he asked, “How do you know so damn much about what he’s going to do?”
“Trust me,” Kern said grimly. He gave another wave of his hand and said, “Everybody spread out now. Comb the brush. Run him out and kill him.”
On
Kern’s other side, Bender and Cooper moved away, circling wide of the others and stepping down into the wind-whipped brush. Kern, Jason Catlo and Whitesides spread out a few feet and walked straight ahead, down into the brush, seeing Cooper and Bender covering the left flank. On their right, the Sloane cousins and Odell Trent walked slowly, circling the brushy lowland on their way toward the run-down house.
A hundred yards away from both the widow’s shack and the low-lying stretch of brush and rock, Sherman Dahl lay prone behind a rock so small it barely offered him the cover he needed. But that was all right, he told himself. If this went well he wouldn’t need the cover for long.
If it didn’t go well . . . ?
Then it wouldn’t matter, he thought as he adjusted his rifle sights and looked down the barrel toward the gunmen spread across the swaying brush.
Out of habit and experience, he had repositioned himself as soon as the townsmen left. In most cases, a surprise position was only good once. Then a wise fighter picked up his guns and his billet and moved on—find the next surprise, he’d reminded himself.
He lay silently watching and listening while the ten gunmen searched for him through the brush and rock. Ten to one were not good odds and his immediate objective was to change the odds as quickly as possible. There were only three men he wanted to kill. But these other seven became his targets the minute they stepped into the street with the Catlos and Jennings.
So be it. . . . He slipped his finger inside the trigger guard and settled down with the butt of the cocked Winchester resting in the pocket of his shoulder—prepared for his shot the very second it presented itself.
In the brush, Jennings and Philbert Catlo stopped searching and looked over at the others who were still moving forward, thirty yards away. Kern and Whitesides walked along ten feet apart.
“How does he know this Teacher fellow isn’t waiting for us inside the shack?” Jennings asked Philbert.
“You get no argument from me,” Philbert said. “I haven’t seen him be right about anything since we met up with him.”
“What if Jason is wrong too, about the woman not being there?” Jennings questioned.
“Watch your language, Buck the Mule,” Philbert cautioned him. “That’s my brother you’re getting ready to talk about.”
“I’m not speaking ill of him,” said Jennings. “What if he’s wrong? What if that woman is there inside the shack, getting better and better every day?”
“Just biding her time?” Philbert finished for him. “Waiting for her chance to slip a noose around our necks?”
“Yeah, that’s all I’m getting at,” Jennings said.
Philbert thought about it for a second. He looked back and forth across the stretch of brush. Then he directed his gaze at the front of the shack just ahead of them, dust stirring on the breeze in its barren front yard.
“I hate to say this, Buck the Mule, but you might be right.” He chuckled under his breath and gestured toward the trail above the low-lying brush. “Follow me,” he said quietly.
“Are we going on to the shack?” Jennings asked, suddenly sounding excited.
“Yeah, why not?” said Philbert, stepping up toward the open trail.
“Oh boy!” Jennings said, his voice almost childlike. “If she is there, I get to kill her!” He hurried, trying to pass Philbert on the narrow rocky path.
“Hold up, Buck the Mule! Damn it!” Philbert exclaimed as the two crested the edge of the trail. He grabbed the big gunman by his shoulder.
“Uuumphh . . . ,” Jennings grunted aloud, stopping abruptly, moving up onto his tiptoes.
Philbert felt the hot spray of blood fly out of the big gunman’s back and splatter him in the face. At the same second he heard another rifle shot explode and echo off along the distant hills.
The big gunman twisted full circle and crashed down onto Philbert just in time to keep Dahl’s next shot from hitting him full in his chest. The two rolled back down as one into the brush. When they came to a halt, Jennings’ heavy limp body lay atop Philbert, pinning him to the ground.
“He’s out on the dirt flats!” Kern shouted, diving to the rocky ground inside the brush. He returned a quick wild rifle shot in Dahl’s direction.
“He’s killed Philbert and the idiot!” shouted Bender, he and Cooper both dropping to the ground themselves. They also fired toward the resounding rifle shot.
“I can’t say I’m real sorry to hear that,” Whitesides said to Kern, crawling up beside him. He held his fire, looking all around through the brush. “This sneaking sumbitch has us where we can’t get a look without topping that edge like a bunch of turkeys.”
“Yeah, turkeys at a turkey shoot,” Kern replied angrily. He parted the brush with his rifle barrel and stared as best he could toward the edge of the trail lying above them.
Dahl let fly another rifle shot. From the sound of it, he had moved again.
“Damn it to hell! He won’t sit still and fight,” Kern growled.
“Philbert, are you all right?” Jason called out to his brother desperately.
Another shot exploded from Dahl’s rifle, then another. As soon as he fired the second shot, he hurried off to a new spot behind another small rock.
“I’m all right, brother . . . but I’m stuck under Buck the Mule!” Philbert called back to him. “He’s dead and he’s bleeding all over me!”
Kern returned four shots blindly, then called out to the brush, “Cooper, Bender, you’re the nearest to him. Go get him onto his feet.”
Another rifle bullet ripped through the air, this time coming from closer to the widow’s shack.
Cooper and Bender stood into a crouch and hurried through the brush. When they came upon Jennings’ bloodly body lying atop Philbert, they dragged the dead gunman off him and watched Philbert gasp for breath in the blood-soaked dirt.
“Let’s get out of here,” Tribold Cooper said, still crouched, dragging Philbert to his feet.
“I’m ready!” said Philbert, his face, clothes and hands coated thickly with Jennings’ blood.
“Wait for us!” said Cooper, seeing Philbert running upward to the edge of the trail.
“Not today,” Philbert called out over his shoulder. He chuckled. “It’s every man for himself before he gets settled in and reload—”
He never got the words out of his mouth. As he topped the edge of the trail, a bullet from Dahl’s Winchester thumped into his left shoulder, just above his heart. The impact flung him down the short sloop and back into the brush.
Tribold Cooper, who had been right behind him, dropped to the dirt and stuck his rifle above the trail’s edge. He fired repeatedly, as fast as he could lever new rounds into the chamber.
“Damn it all, Bender, is he singling out the Catlos brothers?” Cooper called down behind him to where Bender knelt over Philbert, stuffing a bandanna into the gaping high shoulder wound.
“It looks that way to me,” Bender said, working fast, seeing Philbert struggle to hold on to consciousness.
“I’ll . . . kill . . . the bastard,” Philbert managed to say in a broken voice.
“Right now, you best be careful he doesn’t kill you first,” Bender said.
From a flat spot behind a low stand of barrel cactus, Dahl turned over onto his back and began reloading his rifle.
Two down, one to go . . . he told himself. After that, the fight was over, as far as he was concerned. That is, unless Marshal Emerson Kern and the rest of his men wanted to pursue the matter further.
Stage guards Bert Frost and Art Sealy both sat upright atop the big Studebaker stagecoach when the gunshots began exploding outside Kindred less than two miles away. The two gave a curious look toward the distant gunfire and sat with their shotguns across their laps.
“Pull her down some, Oates,” Frost called out to the driver, above the squeak, groan and rattle of the big heavy rig. “Let’s figure out what this shooting is all about before we ride smack into something.”
The stage had bounc
ed, bucked and swayed along the dusty trail since daylight. But upon hearing the guard’s order, the driver, Calvin Oates, pulled back on the traces and slowed the six-horse rig down to an easy pace.
“You fellows will have to tell me what you want to do,” said the driver. “I’m paid to drive, not to figure out gunfire.”
The guards didn’t reply. They continued looking in the direction of the shots ahead and to their left. Art Sealy stood up and balanced himself unsteadily, as if standing would afford him a better view.
“For a town that’s no longer armed, they sure are raising lots of hell. They’ve got a new town marshal too, I’ve heard.”
“Sit down, Art,” said Frost, “before you break your danged neck.” He continued to stare and listen. “Maybe they all got together for one last hoopla and shoot up all their bullets. Maybe it’s the new marshal doing all the shooting.”
“That makes no sense,” said Sealy, rocking back and forth, almost losing his footing as the stage rolled on at its slower speed.
“That was a joke, Art,” said Frost. “Now sit down before I knock you down. All you’re doing is aggravating me.”
Sealy dropped back onto his haunches. The stage rolled on.
“Do you suppose it’s got anything to do with this?” he said, pointing down with a gloved finger at the inside of the coach beneath them. The big rig housed three large, leather-trimmed canvas bags filled with banded stacks of dollars and assorted gold coins. The tops of the bags were each drawn tight and fastened with a padlock.
“If I could answer questions like that, they’d be paying me more,” said Frost.
Sealy just nodded.
Frost turned sharply to the driver and shouted, “Calvin, dang it! Will you please slow this rig down! Give us time to think this thing out.”
Oates pulled back harder on the traces and called out to the horses, “Whoooa, boys, you heard the man.”
