by Ralph Cotton
“What on earth are they all doing at the Li Woo Laundry House?” Shaggs asked. He looked at Walter Stevens as if the mercantile owner might have an answer for him.
But Stevens only shrugged. He’d been busily counting the money he collected from the sale of the used firearms he’d convinced several townsmen to purchase.
“Maybe they’re doing the same thing anybody would be doing there,” said Dan Marlowe. “Picking up clean shirts.” He looked back down at the battered old Spencer rifle in his hands, a recent acquisition thanks to Stevens.
“Walter, are you certain this thing will even fire?” he asked.
“It’ll fire, Dan,” Stevens reassured him. “Just make sure you know how to fire it.”
“So, Stevens, what’s the tally?” said Fannin. “How much did you make selling us all of this worthless junk?” He worked the stiff action of a single-shot breechloading carbine in his hands.
“Don’t want it, Erkel?” asked Stevens. “I’ll be glad to refund your money.” He reached for the rifle. Several pairs of eyes followed him—men who were ready to make a bid on the iron relic, in case they weren’t able to retrieve their guns from Kern’s office.
“No, that’s all right,” Fannin said, jerking the rifle back out of Stevens’ grasp. “I’m keeping it. I was just curious is all.”
Stevens looked all around at the gathered townsmen, some with his used guns, some still holding hickory implement handles, hay rakes, chains. He folded the cash and stuffed it down into his shirt pocket.
“Anybody else wants their money back, now’s the time to say so,” he said. “Just remember, if we get in there and see that the guns have been hidden someplace that we can’t get to, you’ll be caught short.”
“Damn snake . . . ,” a townsman growled under his breath.
“Once I button this shirt pocket, all deals are final,” Stevens called out.
“Let’s get on with it,” Fannin said grudgingly. “The sooner we butt in the marshal’s office and get our guns back, the sooner we can throw this junk away.”
“If we can get them back . . . if they’re even there,” a townsman grumbled.
“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I ever give up my guns again,” said Shaggs. “They say these gun laws work in some places, but I don’t see how. From now on, the only gun law I’d support will be one that makes it illegal not to carry at least one gun at all times.”
“Hear, hear, on that,” said another townsman. “I never before realized how much carrying a gun makes everybody walk a little straighter.”
“More polite too,” said Shaggs.
From the window, a townsman kept watch on the deputies until they hitched their horses and Kern and one of his deputies walked across the street and through the front doors of the Great Western Bank and Trust Company.
“All right, the marshal and two of them are going to the bank,” he said. “This might be our best chance!”
“I’ve got the ax,” said Shaggs. “Let’s go.”
The men filed out the back door and hurried along the alley toward the rear of the marshal’s office.
As soon as Kern and Lyle Sloane were inside the bank, Whitesides, Ted Sloane and Odell Trent walked across the street, leading their horses, and stood a few yards away from the bank’s doors.
“I don’t trust this, cousin Harry,” said Ted Sloane. The two watched as a hand inside the bank turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED with the flick of a wrist.
“Easy, Teddy boy,” said Whitesides. “You’re just nervous wondering what you’ll do with all that money.” As he spoke he fidgeted with his dark spectacles, adjusting them up and down on the bridge of his nose.
“You heard what Kern told us,” Trent said to Ted Sloane. “This is going to be slick as a whistle; not a shot fired, eh?”
“Yeah, I hope so,” said Sloane.
“Damn it,” Whitesides said, still struggling to get his spectacles to suit him.
“Are you all right, Harry?” Trent asked in a concerned tone. “Can you see everything? Do you need me to bend the wire a little—”
“Damn it, Odell, I’m good,” Whitesides said. He jammed the spectacles down onto his nose and twisted the wire-rims sharply. The three turned back toward the closed doors of the bank.
But as they stared at the doors, sudden blasts of pistol fire resounded from inside the bank.
“Damn it to hell!” Whitesides shouted. He jerked his Colt up from his holster; his dark spectacles fell from his nose. He snatched them from the dirt and shoved them back onto his nose.
“Oh, shit!” he cried out as one of the lenses broke away from the wire frame and fell to the ground.
Teddy Sloane and Odell Trent jerked their guns up and fanned back and forth, ready to shoot anyone who might dare venture forward. Across the street, Cooper and Bender both drew their guns. So did Jason Catlo. Philbert sat swaying in his saddle, turning loose of his shoulder and trying to draw his Colt.
The bank door flew open and Kern emerged with a bag of money in either hand and another bag at his feet. A wide circle of blood covered most of his chest.
“Harry, quick, they’ve shot me and Lyle!” he called out in a strained voice; he wobbled in place, nearly falling. “Come get this money!”
“You heard him, come on!” Whitesides said to Trent and Ted Sloane.
Even as the three got to the open door, Kern managed to throw one bag after the other to them.
“Where’s Lyle?” said Ted Sloane, looking frantically past Kern until he saw Lyle’s body lying sprawled in the floor near the teller window. Bullet holes glistened on his bloody chest.
“There’s nothing you can do for him,” Kern shouted, giving the gunman a shove. “Now get out of here!”
“What about you?” Whitesides asked.
“I’ll be all right, Harry, if this bullet doesn’t kill me,” said Kern. “I’ll tell them I walked in on a robbery. They’re unarmed. They can’t argue about it. Now go! I’ll catch up to you later.”
Without another word, Whitesides and the other two ran to their horses carrying the heavy canvas bags full of money. As they struggled and lifted the bags up behind their saddles, Cooper and Bender jumped atop their horses.
“We’re not letting those money bags out of our sight, Denton,” Cooper said, he and Bender turning their horses in the street.
“I hear you, Tribold!” said Bender, excited, his blood racing.
Jason reached for his horse’s reins. Philbert sat bowed in his saddle, finally getting his Colt raised and cocked. But before Jason could get atop his horse, he turned at the sound of Dahl’s voice booming along the empty dirt street.
“Jason and Philbert Catlo,” Dahl called out from thirty yards away.
“Well, well now, look who’s coming here, brother Phil,” said Jason. He turned loose of his reins and let them drop to the dirt.
Whitesides, Ted Sloane and Odell Trent stopped hurriedly tying the canvas bags down behind their saddles.
Whitesides turned a crooked half-blind stare toward Dahl and his long corduroy duster, walking steadily toward them.
“Damn it, all I see is a blur,” said Whitesides. But even as he spoke he held his rifle at port arms, ready to throw it to his shoulder and fire.
“Stand fast, Harry! Please! Before you shoot one of us,” Trent said, speaking for him and the remaining Sloane cousin.
Jason called out to Dahl, “How did you know I was coming to kill you first thing from here, Teacher?”
“Just a lucky guess,” Dahl said flatly, walking forward, no rifle, only a big Colt in his right hand, hanging down his side.
“We don’t have time for all this, Catlo,” Whitesides called out, looking back and forth, seeing off-balanced shadows and images, but unable to identify anything clearly.
“We’re making time for it, Whitesides,” Jason replied, staring at Dahl as he spoke. “You saw what he did to my brother and Buck the Mule.”
Whitesides called out to Trent an
d Ted Sloane, “Stay out of this, men. Let the Catlos take care of their own business.”
In the middle of the street, Cooper and Bender both heard Whitesides.
“Good idea,” said Cooper. The two settled their horses, rifles in their right hands, ready if they needed them.
“I suppose you’ve got your bullet-stopping vest on today, Teacher?” Jason called out.
“Not today,” Dahl said quietly.
“You’re lying,” said Jason. “Not that it matters. It won’t help you at all. We’re going to shoot your damn head off anyway.”
Dahl stopped fifteen feet away; he unbuttoned his corduroy duster slowly. He was bareheaded; a hot breeze licked at his hair.
“Hey, you’re really not wearing it, are you?” said Jason. “Look at this, brother Phil, he’s crazy as a June bug.”
“I see it,” Philbert managed to say, struggling to keep himself seated in his saddle. He coughed with great pain and said, “Why is he not wearing it?”
“Yeah, Teacher,” said Jason. “Why is it you’re not wearing it?”
Dahl said flatly, “Sometimes I wear it, sometimes I don’t. Today, I don’t,” he added.
“Oh, I see,” said Jason. He gave a thin smile. “It’s just all about how the day suits you.”
Dahl just stared without replying.
“Yep, that’s how it is. . . .” Jason shook his head with disapproval. “You’re one of those kinds of people, I just knew it.”
Atop the roofline overlooking the street, Billy Nichols watched the gunmen, both the ones on horseback and the ones on the ground, all of them faced off against Sherman Dahl. He gripped the bloody gun butt in his right hand—the big Colt that he’d taken from Buck the Mule’s corpse when he’d slipped into town a half hour earlier. Though Kern told Whitesides to have the Sloane cousins move the body, Jennings still sat leaning in the same spot, his lifeless eyes staring blankly.
With a good loaded gun in his hand, Billy felt a newborn confidence coursing through him. Dahl was the only man he’d met lately who’d treated him with any decency, any kindness, any trust. He wasn’t about to leave him facing this many men alone. Especially not these men, the ones who had beaten him, kicked him around, would have gladly seen him hang for a crime they knew he didn’t commit.
Make your play, you dirty sonsabitches . . . he said to himself, his anger growing, replacing any remnants of fear, as he stared down onto the street. Below him he could hear Dahl speaking with calm, cold determination.
“It’s time I settle you Catlos up for the woman and her husband,” Dahl said.
“Who’s paying you, Teacher?” Jason said. “With a man like you, gun work is all about money.”
“Not always,” said Dahl. “I’m through talking. Bring your gun up. Let’s have at it.”
“When we’re damn good and ready, Teacher,” Jason said. “I expect if I take a notion to, I’ll stand here until hell freezes—”
Dahl’s first shot stopped him cold. The bullet ripped through his chest and out of his back. It bored deep into Philbert’s calf, the wounded man sitting on his horse behind his brother.
Jason slammed back against Philbert’s horse and hit the ground dead. Philbert let out a sharp wail as the bullet nailed him just above his boot well. His spooked horse reared on its hind legs; Philbert, in his weak wounded condition, struggled to stay in his saddle. His Colt wobbled limply in his hand.
“Damn you, Teacher!” he shouted, leveling the Colt as his horse touched back down. He pulled the trigger; his shot went wild.
Dahl’s shot hit him squarely in the chest.
Philbert’s Colt roared again on his way out of the saddle and to the ground. His second stray bullet whistled past Whitesides’ head.
Unable to see clearly, Whitesides mistook the shot for Dahl’s.
“To hell with this! Kill him!” he shouted. He swung his rifle up and began firing, his target any blurry image that moved in front of him. Following Whitesides’ order, Trent and Ted Sloane swung their guns up and fired at Dahl.
Dahl had already started to back into an alleyway, having completed what he’d set out to do. But he looked up along the roofline on hearing Billy Nichols call out to him.
“I’m with you, Mr. Dahl!” he shouted, firing the big Colt as he slid and slipped and scooted down toward the edge of a slanted tin roof.
“It’s that damn kid! Shoot him!” shouted Tribold Cooper. He and Bender dropped from their horses and turned their fire onto the roofline.
Oh no . . . ! Dahl saw the Colt in Nichols’ hand firing wildly as he tumbled off the roof to the ground, right into the midst of the blazing gunfire.
Running down the street from the alleyway beside the marshal’s office, the townsmen rushed toward the bank ready to put up a fight, all of them with guns in their hands.
The townsmen had chopped through the thick rear door of the marshal’s office, and managed to reclaim their firearms just in time to hear shots erupt from the direction of the bank. They charged toward the gunmen like a platoon of soldiers, yelling and firing. Gray smoke filled and loomed along the dirt street.
“The deputies are robbing the bank!” shouted Shaggs, seeing the three canvas bags on the gunmen’s horses. Stevens and Fannin were running right beside him. “Stop, you thieving bastards!” Shaggs shouted.
The townsmen saw Dahl run over to the fallen young man and pull him to his feet. They carefully directed their fire away from the Teacher and toward the deputies.
“I’m okay!” Billy Nichols shouted as he gained his footing and began firing once again.
The two turned their fire toward Whitesides, Trent and the remaining Sloane cousin. Whitesides cursed and screamed, still firing blindly as bullets from the townsmen sliced through him and drove him backward. He crashed through the bank door and fell dead in a spreading pool of blood. His broken spectacles flew off and slid four feet before coming to a spinning halt.
In the middle of the street, Bender fired as he fanned his hat back and forth trying to clear away a swirling cloud of gray-black smoke. He aimed his fire toward Billy, but a shot from Dahl’s Colt stopped him dead. He fell backward in the dirt beneath a red mist of blood.
Fannin and Stevens ran up close to Tribold Cooper, firing as one, any animosity between them over the price of the used firearms now wiped away. Cooper fell dead beneath their relentless hail of bullets.
Through the looming smoke, Dan Marlowe looked all around, his eyes burning and watering.
“Hold your fire,” he shouted, seeing that the last two gunmen still alive had just crumpled onto their knees in the dirt. Ted Sloane knelt wobbling in place, supporting himself on the tip of his Colt barrel, which was jammed into the dirt. A quick shot from Marlowe pitched him backward in the dirt.
Beside Sloane, Odell Trent knelt on one knee, his other knee cocked, trying desperately to push himself up. His bloody hands were empty; his rifle lay three feet away. That he was still kneeling and conscious was somewhat miraculous, given the state of things. His chest was riddled with bullet holes. Red-yellow matter dangled from a gaping hole in the side of his head.
“Who are you, mister?” Shaggs called out, sliding to a halt in front of him, his rifle aimed and ready.
“I—I don’t know,” Trent answered in a thick dreamy voice. “My brain’s . . . blown out.”
“Yes, it is,” said Shaggs. He pulled the trigger. Trent fell backward, his arms spread wide, as if he’d been preparing to fly when the bullet stopped him.
Erkel Fannin looked around at the carnage in the smoky street, and then glanced down at the gun in his hand. Smoke curled up from its barrel and caressed the back of his hand like the breath of some wild, terrible demon. He looked in stunned surprise at Walter Stevens and whispered, “Lord God . . .”
Chapter 23
Out in front of the bank, Dan Marlowe and Walter Stevens untied the canvas bags of money and dropped them to the dirt at their feet. The door to the bank stood open wide, but no one had
ventured inside when Dahl and Billy Nichols walked over.
“That’s the boy who killed Ed Dandly,” Dahl heard a townsman whisper.
“No, it’s not,” Dahl said. He looked into the shadowy bank, seeing Harry Whitesides lying sprawled in his own blood.
“It sure looks like him to me,” the townsman said.
The other townsmen looked on in silence, wanting to hear what Dahl had to offer on the matter.
“It’s not him,” Dahl said more firmly. “Take my word for it.” His big Colt dangled in his hand, still curling smoke.
But the townsman persisted.
“You mean it’s not him, or he didn’t do it?” he asked cautiously.
Dahl turned to him with both his big Colt and a cold stare pointed squarely at him.
“Both,” he said.
The inquiring townsman backed off; the rest of the townsmen nodded at one another, satisfied with Dahl’s answer.
Dahl turned back to the open door and looked inside.
After a short, tight silence, Walter Stevens cleared his throat and said, “At least we saved the mine’s payroll money, fellows.” He looked all around and gave an amiable smile.
“Don’t count on it,” Dahl said.
He turned and walked to the canvas bags and stooped down over them. Pulling a wicked-looking knife from his boot well, he sliced open the top of one of the locked canvas bags, turned it upside down and shook it.
“My goodness . . . ,” said Fannin. He and the other townsmen watched stakes of chopped and bound newspaper spill out onto the ground, followed by a flow of steel washers the size of silver dollars.
“What the hell is this?” Stevens asked with a puzzled expression.
“It’s sure as hell not payroll money!” said the blacksmith.
“It’s a trick,” said Dahl. Without hesitation he walked back to the open bank door and made his way inside, Billy Nichols shadowing him. Behind Nichols the townsmen ventured in, looking all around, seeing the door leading into the enclosed room behind the barred teller windows standing wide-open. They stepped around Lyle Sloane’s body, lying on the floor near the teller counter.
