Gun Law

by Ralph Cotton

  “Here,” Sara said, seeing his condition, “let’s get you seated. I’ll get you some water.”

  “No . . . ,” said Washburn. “Make it rye whiskey. I could use a drink . . . soon as I get my lungs back.”

  Once she’d helped him sit down, Sara went to a cupboard and took out a bottle of rye the doctor kept for times when he was alone. She poured a water glass half full and brought it to him.

  “Thank you, young lady,” he said as he took the glass and held it ready for a drink. “Did you . . . see the laundry bags on Matheson’s buggy?” he asked.

  “Laundry bags?” she asked. “How do you know they’re laundry bags?”

  “They’re from . . . the Li Woo Laundry House,” said Washburn. He’d begun to catch his breath. He sipped the rye. “I saw Chinese writing on the sides.”

  “Oh . . . ,” said Sara. She considered it for a moment, then asked, “Why would Matheson haul his laundry around out here?”

  “The short answer is, he wouldn’t,” said Dr. Washburn. “These two are up to something. I can feel it all over me.” He took another sip of rye. “I don’t know what’s in the bags, but something told me not to ask.” His expression no longer hid his worry. “And the blood on Kern’s shirt . . . he never mentioned it,” he said.

  “It’s not his?” Sara said.

  “No, but it’s somebody’s,” said Washburn.

  They both took a quick glance toward the bed where Celia lay sleeping.

  “What are we going to do, Doctor?” Sara asked quietly.

  “This woman is still in no shape to be traveling just yet,” the doctor said. “I don’t think there’s much we can do for now. We’ll just have to sit tight and hope they’ll fix their buggy wheel and get on away from here.”

  “What can I be doing?” Sara asked, nervous but determined to keep her wits about her.

  Washburn looked around at his medical bag sitting on a nightstand beside the bed.

  “You’ll find a Navy Colt tucked down in the side of my black bag, Sara,” he said. “Why don’t you get it and bring it to me? Then go lock the front door.”

  “I will, right now, Doctor,” Sara said.

  She started to walk away, but the old doctor stopped her. He handed her the glass of whiskey. He’d only taken a couple of short sips from it.

  “You best pour this back in the bottle and put some coffee on to boil. I want to stay alert until these two are cleared out of here.”

  Outside, Kern and Matheson rummaged through the doctor’s horse barn and came out with a dusty spare wheel and some axle grease. Rolling the wheel out of the barn toward the buggy, Kern looked curiously up at the front door of the house.

  “Did you notice anything peculiar about how he acted, Matheson?” he asked.

  “No, I can’t say that I did,” Matheson replied, walking along beside him, carrying a bell jack and a large can of grease. “Why, did you?”

  “Yes, I did,” said Kern. He looked at the two laundry bags, clearly visible inside the buggy. “How come he didn’t question you having these two big bags of money in the buggy with you or the blood on my shirt?”

  Matheson gave him a condescending look. “Maybe he didn’t notice the blood. Maybe he didn’t know the two large bags are full of money. Maybe he thought it was laundry, like anybody else would, given the Li Woo Laundry House words and markings on the sides.”

  “Damn it, Matheson, you know what I’m saying,” said Kern. “Of course he didn’t know it was money. But who wouldn’t at least ask you why you’re carrying two big bags of dirty laundry around with you, this far from Kindred? I would have asked,” he added. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Matheson set the can of grease and the jack down beside the buggy. He looked up the long set of stairs leading to the closed front door of the cabin.

  “If I had a dove like Sara Cayes lying naked in my bed, I would not have asked us anything. All I would have said was leave!”

  Kern thought about that, staring up at the door. Finally he let out a breath and nodded to himself.

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” he said. “We’re lucky he didn’t unload a shotgun on us, getting here at a time like this.” He chuckled and said, “Do you suppose they’re . . . ?” He made a fist and nudged his forearm back and forth.

  Matheson responded to the marshal’s crude gesture by shaking his head in disgust. He stooped and slid the bell jack under the buggy, near the axle. He tried to wiggle the top of the bell jack but found the threads seized on it.

  “You’ll have to help me lift the buggy onto the jack, so I can take the wheel off and put the other one on,” he said.

  Kern laid the spare wheel in the dirt, stepped over and helped him raise the side of the buggy onto the jack.

  “This should do the trick,” said Matheson, spinning the buggy wheel a little to make sure it had cleared the ground. “Would you please pass me the mallet and wrench?”

  But Kern had gone back to staring at the front door with a suspicious look.

  “Excuse me, Marshal,” said Matheson, “the mallet? The wrench, please?”

  “Hold on,” said Kern. “I want to check things out a little.” He turned to his horse and redrew his rifle from the saddle boot.

  “Wait a minute, Marshal,” said Matheson. “What could they possibly be up to that has bearing on us? We need to attend to business and get out of here.”

  “Shut up, Councilman,” said Kern. “When we leave here, I don’t want their fingers pointing in our direction.” He walked away toward a thin path winding up around the side of the stilted cabin.

  “For God’s sake, don’t harm them,” Matheson said in a lowered voice.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll hardly feel a thing, Councilman,” Kern replied over his shoulder in the same lowered tone.

  From the edge of the front cabin window, Sara Cayes said over her shoulder, “Here he comes, Doc. He’s walking around, up into the rocks.” She sighed. “I suppose my little playacting didn’t work.”

  “I think you gave a stunning performance, Sara,” the doctor said. The Navy Colt lay across his lap. He sat in the rocking chair that Sara and he had lined up perfectly with the front door.

  “What do we do now?” Sara asked, sounding afraid. She knew the marshal was coming, that there would be no way out for the three except to face and defeat him.

  “Once he’s up around the boulder behind us, he can jump three feet and be on the roof,” Washburn said. “But he still has to come through the front door.”

  “But what should I do, Doctor?” Sara asked, willing to take whatever action necessary.

  “Stay out from in front of me, young lady,” said Washburn. He picked up the Colt and turned it in his thick hand. “Once he learns he’s not the only man with a gun, our new marshal’s life is going to turn disappointing , to say the least.”

  Chapter 25

  Sherman Dahl and Billy Nichols had followed the buggy wheel tracks and hoofprints to the spot on the high trail where the spokes had separated from the rim. But they only stopped there for a few minutes, long enough to give their horses a drink, pouring tepid water from two canteens into a broad-brimmed hat Shaggs had given Billy for the trail.

  When they set back out on the trail, they followed the tracks and hoofprints until their horses stood inside a sparse stand of pine. They looked up and saw the cabin perched on a large boulder-strewn hillside a hundred yards ahead.

  “Look at this,” said Dahl, his eyes on Kern, as the marshal climbed around the accessible side of a huge rock seated against the rear of the cabin.

  “Marshal Kern!” said Nichols. He fidgeted in his saddle, his hand gripping the butt of the big Colt on his hip.

  Dahl looked at him and said, “Not from here, Billy. All you’ll do is let Kern know we’re onto him.” He nudged his big dun forward. “Come on, let’s get around this turn. Then we’ll have him—maybe have them both.”

  Beside the buggy, Matheson worked hard and fast, sweat streaming down his face. He
’d gotten the old wheel off by the time he glanced up and saw Kern crossing the boulder toward the rear of the cabin.

  “Hurry, Lyndon, hurry . . . !” he murmured to himself.

  This was his opportunity to get away from Emerson Kern and keep all of the payroll money for himself, he thought. He flung the patched wheel aside, grabbed the can of grease and smeared a large glob of it around the protruding end of the axle.

  He could have taken Kern’s horse, but by the time he’d loaded the bags behind the saddle, Kern was bound to see him. He couldn’t risk Kern getting him in his rifle sights. Besides, he was not typically a horseback rider. He was more of a buggy man—even still, more of a Pullman traveler, he thought with a faint smile.

  Riding in style . . . ! Oh yes, from now on . . . ! he thought. He hurriedly wiped his hand on the dirt to get rid of the grease. He picked up the spare wheel and wrestled in onto the axle. He picked up the large wheel nut and the wrench lying beside him.

  “Hurry! Hurry, damn it . . . !” he growled to himself.

  Inside the cabin, Sara stood beside the bed where Celia Knox had awakened and tried to sit up a little.

  “What—what’s wrong?” Celia asked, feeling, sensing the tension in her quiet surroundings.

  “The marshal from Kindred is snooping around out there, Celia,” Sara whispered, reaching down and fluffing a feather pillow up behind her shoulders.

  “The marshal?” Celia said. “You mean the one whose deputies . . . ?” She hesitated to finish. “I’m getting up from here,” she said. She started to swing around onto the side of the bed, her face still battered and swollen.

  “I know you can, but don’t,” Sara whispered, pressing her back down. “It’s important that you stay quiet. They mustn’t know you’re here.”

  Celia leaned back stiffly against the pillow and nodded, her eyes widening in terror.

  “Yes, I understand. I’ll be quiet!” she whispered in reply.

  In his rocking chair, Dr. Washburn jerked the gun up, startled, as he heard a loud thump on the rear of the tin roof.

  Sara turned facing him and froze in place; Celia lay fear-stricken, not daring to breathe.

  “Here comes our honorable marshal now,” Washburn whispered. “When he gets in front of that door, I’ve got him.”

  Sitting alert, the doctor cocked the Navy Colt and held it in his right hand, the gun butt resting on his crossed knee. He and Sara’s eyes followed the much quieter sound of Kern’s boots on the tin roof as the marshal tried to slip across the roof unnoticed.

  After a tense, silent moment, their eyes turned to the sound of Kern climbing down from the roof onto the narrow walkway surrounding the cabin. Another moment later, they heard him try to pry open a closed shutter for a peep inside.

  “Don’t worry, ladies. He can’t see in,” Washburn whispered.

  Their eyes followed Kern’s softened footsteps around the side of the house to next window, then the next. Sara remained tense and frozen as she stood beside the bed; Celia lay with the same terrified expression on her healing, but still battered face.

  Dr. Washburn finally broke the tense silence by calling out, “Marshal Kern, we know you’re out there. If you wanted to see what’s going on in here, you could have climbed the steps and come to the door.”

  “Damn it to hell . . . ,” Kern murmured to himself. “All right, Doc, open this door. I want to see what you and the whore are up to.”

  “Shame on you, Marshal,” said Washburn. “You know what we’re up to. I did everything but spell it out for you.”

  “Huh-uh, Doc,” said Kern through the door. “I mean what you’re really up to. I don’t buy the story of you two in bed together. The picture doesn’t sit well with me. Not that pretty little thing with an old geezer like you.”

  “Well, you can go straight to hell, Marshal,” said Washburn, feigning anger. “This young woman has been my very special friend ever since—”

  “Open this damn door, Washburn, or I’ll bust it the hell down!” Kern shouted. He began slamming his shoulder against the door over and over.

  While the whole cabin shuddered from the impact and the door strained on its hinges, Celia rolled up onto the side of the bed and looked at Sara.

  “Don’t stop me,” she said. “I better get up from here.”

  “Yes, maybe you should,” Sara said, not sure how long the door could take the beating. “Get up and get under the bed before he breaks in and sees you.” She grabbed Celia and pulled her to her feet.

  “Ladies, trust me, I’ve got him,” Washburn said with confidence as Kern continued to shoulder the front door loudly.

  No sooner had the doctor spoken out to the women than the door burst open and Emerson Kern stumbled inside, trying to catch his footing and raise his rifle barrel at the same time.

  “Take that, you bastard!” the doctor shouted, firing round after round from the Navy Colt.

  Out of five of the .36-caliber shots fired, four hit their target. Each bullet hit Kern like the sting of some large, terrible insect. He jerked back, forth and sideways with each shot; his rifle flew from his hands.

  Washburn let out a yell of frustration when his last shot had fired and the Colt’s hammer fell on an empty chamber. He sat stunned, seeing Kern still on his feet, wobbling unsteadily in place.

  When Kern’s rifle had hit the floor, Sara leaped across the room and dived onto it. She grabbed it by its barrel and rolled onto her feet just as Kern snatched his Colt from his holster and aimed it at Washburn.

  Seeing Sara rise up with his rifle, swinging it back like a club, Kern turned his Colt toward her. But before he could fire he caught a glimpse of a wide black ribbon of steaming hot coffee fly out of a pot in the hands of a woman he’d never seen before.

  Kern screamed as the scalding coffee hit him in his chest. But before he could do anything to help himself, his scream was cut short by the force of his rifle butt striking him in his chest. The hard blow sent him flying backward out the front door and tumbling head over heels down the long, steep stairs.

  Rounding the last turn toward the cabin thirty yards away, Dahl and Billy Nichols veered their horses away from each other as Matheson came charging between the two of them in the buggy, Kern’s horse hitched to the rear of the rig, running hard behind them. The councilman stood in a crouch, slapping a long buggy whip to his horse’s back.

  Matheson only tossed them both a wild-eyed gaze as he sped away. Grease smeared his face and his white shirt. Part of his stiff white collar batted in the wind.

  “Go get him, Billy,” Dahl shouted across the rising dust the fleeing councilman left swirling between them.

  “What about Kern?” Billy asked, already turning his horse in pursuit.

  “I’ll get him,” Dahl said.

  Before Nichols was even out of sight around the turn in the trail, Dahl had already heeled his dun on toward the cabin. He saw Kern getting up from the dirt at the bottom of the steep stairway. He saw him stagger back and forth like a drunk, ranting and screaming curses toward the open door high above him. Kern’s fall had torn away half of the handrail from the stairs. Miraculously, through it all, he’d managed to hang on to his Colt.

  Through the open door, Sara saw Dahl riding into sight, and immediately she felt her eyes well.

  “We’re going to be all right,” she cried over her shoulder. “Sherman is here!” But then, seeing Kern raise his Colt and turn it toward Dahl, she screamed, “Sherman, look out!”

  Kern took careful aim at arm’s length. But Dahl swung the dun hard to the left and hurled himself from the saddle in the opposite direction. He heard the first bullet slice through the air dangerously close to his head as he left the saddle. When he hit the ground, he went into a roll with bullet after bullet kicking up dirt behind him.

  He stopped rolling, prone on his stomach, both elbows supporting him. His Colt bucked once in his right hand. He watched Kern flip backward and land facedown in the dirt.

  Dahl stood a
nd walked forward, his smoking Colt waist high, cocked, ready to fire again.

  Kern struggled up onto his knees and scraped his gun up off the ground. Dahl took note of his fiery red chest. Blood ran from bullet holes in his forearm, his thigh, his shoulder and his belly. A bullet graze ran back along his head above his right ear.

  “You . . . damn . . . people,” Kern said, gasping for breath. He started raising his Colt again.

  “Don’t do it . . . ,” Dahl warned.

  “Don’t . . . do . . . it?” Kern chuckled sadly. “You . . . must be . . . joking.” He leveled the gun.

  Dahl’s Colt bucked again. The shot exploded in a streak of orange-red fire. Kern flipped backward again. This time when he landed he didn’t move.

  Dahl stood over Kern. He thumbed open the loading gate on his Colt and let shell after smoking shell fall to the dirt. As he reloaded, he looked up and saw Sara coming down the stairs two and three at a time, with very little handrail left to hold on to.

  “Is everybody all right?” he managed to ask her as she threw herself into his arms.

  “Oh yes! Yes, yes, yes,” she said, her arms going around him, pressing her body to his. “We’re all three fine!”

  Dahl felt her warm tears on his throat. He held her for a moment. Then he pushed her back slightly.

  “Let me look at you,” he said. “He didn’t harm any of you, did he?”

  “No,” Sara said, “but he might have—would have, that is, if we hadn’t fought back.”

  “How’s the woman doing?” he asked.

  “Oh, she’s much better,” said Sara. “She’s up out of bed.”

  “That’s good news,” said Dahl.

  They both looked saw Washburn and the woman staring down the stairs at them.

  “Hello, Mr. Dahl,” said Dr. Washburn. “You arrived at a good time. Much obliged.”