Gun Law

by Ralph Cotton

  “You’re most welcome, Doctor,” Dahl said. Bareheaded, he touched his fingers to his forehead courteously.

  Celia Knox stood with a smile on her battered face.

  “Ma’am, I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better,” Dahl said.

  Celia nodded. With the same pleasant smile on her face, she gestured down at Kern lying dead at the foot of the stairs.

  “I threw scalding coffee on that dirty son of a bitch,” she said.

  “Oh . . . ?” Surprised by the woman’s language, Dahl looked at Sara.

  “She really did,” Sara whispered. “It was terrible, you should have heard him scream.”

  “I bet,” said Dahl. He looked back up at Celia. “Well, that’s real fine, ma’am . . . Good work.”

  Chapter 26

  Dahl and Sara turned toward the sound of the buggy rolling back into sight, Matheson slumped on the driver’s seat. A large bloody welt ran across the side of his forehead. Billy Nichols rode along on his horse beside the buggy, leading Kern’s horse by its reins.

  “You won’t believe this,” Nichols said to Dahl as the buggy rolled to a halt a few feet away. “These bags are full of money.” He stopped his horse and gestured for Matheson to get down from the buggy. Once standing on the ground, Matheson looked at Kern’s body and shook his head in disgust.

  “I believe you, Billy,” said Dahl. “The banker here poisoned the two guards and unlocked the payroll bags. He rebagged the payroll money. The deputies were going to ride off with newspaper trimmings and the townsmen on their trail. These two were taking off with the real money.”

  Nichols looked taken aback by Dahl’s knowledge of the incident.

  “I guess I was wrong, you do believe it,” he said.

  Dahl saw the young man’s disappointment in not being the one to break the news.

  “But you’re the one who caught him and brought him back,” Dahl said quickly. “I’d say the town of Kindred owes you a debt of gratitude.”

  “It’s not Kindred’s money,” Matheson said sorely. “Anyway, I’m both a bank manager and an elected town leader. I have every right to be out here protecting this money. Once the townsfolk hear how this all happened, I know—”

  “Save it for the townsmen, then,” Dahl said, cutting him off.

  “The townsmen, ha!” said Matheson. “What was I just thinking? There’s no explaining anything to those idiots in Kindred. They do well to find their mouths with both hands and a wooden spoon.”

  “Be sure to mention that to them,” said Dahl. “Maybe it might make them go easier on you.”

  Matheson gave him a puzzled look. “What is your position in all of this, mister? Aren’t you some sort of hired gun?”

  “Yes,” said Dahl, “I’m some sort of . . . hired gun.”

  “What I mean is . . . ,” Matheson said, stepping over closer and lowering his voice. “Isn’t there a way for us to—you know—end this to everyone’s satisfaction?” He looked back and forth between Nichols and Dahl. “There is a great deal of money in those bags, sir. If you get my meaning.”

  Dahl looked at him. Then he looked at Nichols, then at Sara, who had taken a step back when the buggy rolled up.

  “I get your meaning,” he said to Matheson. Nodding toward Sara and Nichols, he said, “Why don’t you two walk up there and take the doctor and the woman back inside?”

  Sara hesitated. Nichols looked stunned.

  “It’ll be all right,” Dahl assured them both. Seeing Nichols hang his head in disappointment, he said, “Go on, Billy. This is the way it’s done.”

  Matheson grinned with satisfaction. He and Dahl watched on in silence until Sara and Nichols had climbed the stairs and followed the doctor and the woman inside.

  “I’ve got to hand it to bankers and politicians,” Dahl said to Matheson. “You always find a soft place to land when the storm’s over.” He gave a slight smile.

  Matheson returned the smile and spread his greasy hands.

  “What can I say?” he said. “We all have to make allowances for—”

  “Except for this time,” Dahl said, cutting him off again. His smile was gone, and a cold, hard look had come into his eyes.

  “Pardon me?” said Matheson, not believing what he’d heard.

  “This time, there’s no soft place to land,” Dahl said quietly. He looked toward Kern’s Colt lying in the dirt three feet away from Matheson. “Grab the gun and make your play.”

  “Whoa, hold on,” said Matheson, his hands went chest high. “I was under the impression we were coming to a deal here.”

  “We are,” Dahl said. “You just heard it.”

  “I’m no gunman, sir,” said Matheson. “We can each have half of this money, to do with as we please.”

  “Or one of us can have it all,” said Dahl. “To do with as we please.” He nodded at the gun in the dirt. “Grab it. That’s the deal.”

  “I’m a banker,” said Matheson. “I don’t take foolish risks . . . and that’s what this is. I’d never make it to the gun. You’d kill me first.”

  “You need better odds?” said Dahl. He slipped his gun into his holster. “How’s that?”

  “Uh-uh,” said the banker, “I’m not a fool. I don’t take the broad risk—I leave that to the other party. I always take the minimum risk for the greatest return.” He managed a thin smile, liking the banter, the negotiating.

  “Then how’s this?” Dahl lifted his Colt from his holster and unloaded it, letting one bullet after the other drop in the dirt at his feet.

  “That’s better, but still . . . ,” Matheson said hesitantly.

  “Now grab the gun,” Dahl said. “This is the best odds you’ll get from me. The deal won’t get any better . . . only worse from here.”

  But Matheson didn’t understand how that could be. He’d taken the deal this far. What else could he get? He looked at the bullets in the dirt, the empty Colt in Dahl’s hand. This was turning out better than he could have hoped for, he thought. Still he pressed for more.

  “No, I’m not going for it,” he said. “I need more than this. Give me something else.” He gave a thin, nervous smile. “Call it stronger security, better collateral if you will.”

  Dahl shook his head slowly. “You turned down my strongest offer.” He looked at the empty Colt in his hand. Then he pitched it over ten feet away.

  “Well, well . . . ,” said Matheson in surprise. A confident gleam came to his eyes. He looked at the bullets on the ground and at the big Colt lying far out of Dahl’s reach. The gunman just gave it up, he told himself. He had to make a move now. This was a deal to his liking—no risk, all gain.

  Dahl didn’t move an inch as he watched the banker leap to the ground, grab Kern’s Colt and scramble around in the dirt toward him.

  What’s this? He hasn’t moved . . . ! Matheson thought, cocking the Colt, raising it. Why hasn’t he moved . . . ? This fool . . . ! He threw the Colt out at arm’s length and aimed it. Not my problem . . . , he thought. I have him . . . ! It’s all over—

  But his thought stopped suddenly as Dahl’s right arm sprang up from his side. A small, two-shot Marston hideout pistol jumped out of Dahl’s duster sleeve into his hand . . . and fired, all in one motion.

  “You turned down the better deal,” Dahl said. The banker’s dead eyes turned up toward a gaping hole in the center of his forehead. “Greedy, I guess . . . ,” he murmured, shoving the hideout gun back up in his duster sleeve and snapping it into place on a small spring-loaded metal track.

  Hearing the shot, Sara ran out the front door of the cabin and hurried down the stairs. A few feet behind her, Billy Nichols walked down a little slower, seeing that Dahl wasn’t wounded.

  “Oh my God, Sherman! Are you all right?” Sara said, her voice trembling. This time, instead of flinging herself into his arms, she stopped warily at the foot of the stairs and looked down at the banker’s body lying in the dirt.

  “He went for Kern’s gun,” Dahl offered, seeing the questi
oning look on her face.

  “I—I see that,” Sara said. “But I never thought I’d see a gun in Lyndon Matheson’s hand.”

  “Well, now you see it,” said Dahl. “Unless you think I put the gun in his hand.”

  “No, I didn’t think that,” said Sara. “I know you wouldn’t do something like that. . . .” She paused for moment, then asked, “Did you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Dahl said. He gave her a look and a smile. He stepped over and picked up his Colt and walked to Sara and Billy Nichols, picking up his bullets on the way. He saw the look in Nichols’ eyes as he reloaded his Colt. “All right, maybe I did put the gun in his hand, in a manner of speaking,” he said. “I can’t deny I wanted him to grab for it.”

  Billy Nichols nodded, satisfied. “But he made his choice,” he said in Dahl’s defense.

  “Yes, he made the choice, Billy,” Dahl said. “Much obliged.”

  On the upper porch, Dr. Washburn stepped out and looked down.

  “Does anybody need me down there?” he called out to them.

  “We’re good, Doctor,” Dahl replied.

  Billy sensed that Dahl and Sara wanted to be alone.

  “I’ll take these horses over and water them down,” he said. “Then I’ll dig holes and bury these two if you want me to.”

  “No, these two are going back to Kindred, along with the payroll money,” Dahl replied without taking his eyes off Sara’s.

  “All right,” said Nichols, leading the buggy horse away with one hand. He guided both his horse and Dahl’s with his other.

  “This is all done,” Dahl said. “I’m able to leave anytime.”

  Sara let out a breath and said, “You’ve been able to leave for a while. I’m obliged you stayed and helped everybody out.” She looked him up and down. “Is that something most hired gunmen would do, for free, I mean?”

  “Fighting man,” Dahl corrected her. “It is if I want to.” Sara smiled. “And now you’re leaving . . .”

  “If I want to,” Dahl said.

  “Do you . . . want to, that is?” Sara asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Dahl said. “I can go home, but there’s no home there.”

  “Then stay here,” Sara said. “Make this your home. If you want to, I mean.”

  “Would you like me to do that?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes, I would,” she said, “if that’s what you want.”

  “It is,” he said. He stared into her eyes. She saw something leave him, something that she knew he had kept masked from the world—something cold and distant in his demeanor that had been there only a moment ago, and now was gone. Whatever it was, she was glad to see it vanish.

  “What about the fact that I’m a whore—I mean, a dove?” she corrected herself. “Should we talk about that?”

  “If we need to,” he said. “Do we need to?”

  “I think so,” she said. “I am a dove. I have been for a while now.”

  “Do you want to be?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, not anymore,” she said.

  “Then don’t be,” he said. He tipped her chin up to his face, standing close to her.

  “I won’t,” she said.

  “All right, then,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad we talked about it.”

  “Me too. That was nice,” she said.

  They turned, arms around each other’s waists, and stepped around the two bodies lying in the dirt. They walked along the rocky trail for a few yards, feeling a cooling breeze blow in off the far green hill line.

  Don’t miss a page of action from America’s most exciting Western author, Ralph Cotton.

  SUMMERS’ HORSES

  Coming from Signet in July 2011.

  Will Summers followed the big rough-coated spotted cur up the last stretch of trail to a clearing on the mountainside. He led a string of six horses and a sorrel mule on a lead rope behind him. The mule brought up the rear of the string at a gangly, uncooperative pace.

  Summers looked back over his shoulder as one of the horses chuffed and grumbled at the worrisome mule. These were all good horses, including the one he was riding, he told himself, eyeing the string, respectively. He patted a gloved hand on the withers of the silver-gray dapple beneath him.

  On the string: Three dark bays, an Appaloosa mare soon to foal, a paint horse and a black Morgan cross . . . he counted to himself, as if taking inventory. Seven fine horses . . . He turned forward in his saddle and rode on.

  From a window in a weathered cabin, Layla Brooks stood watching Summers and the animals disappear and reappear brokenly through the trees, filing along at an easy pace.

  The first living human she’d seen in weeks . . . she reminded herself. The thought of it caused a lump to move in her throat. She kept her eyes from welling and took a breath. She trembled slightly. When she recognized Summers, she eased the hammers down on the shotgun in her hands and leaned the gun against the wall. Of all people . . .

  She gave herself a thin, tight smile and touched her fingertips to her hair. All right, she had no brushes, no combs, she told herself. She looked down her front at the soiled, grease-spotted gingham dress. Quick . . .

  She stripped the dress over her head and tossed it aside. She picked up her denim trousers from across a stool, shook them out and wiggled into them. She pulled Lee Persons’ loose linsey-woolsey shirt over her bare breasts and smoothed it down.

  She touched her tangled hair again, this time with both hands, and looked all around in desperation. The water bucket . . . ? Hearing the sound of horses’ hooves make the turn in the trail and head upward to the cabin, she hurried across the floor to the big wooden bucket. Was there time . . . ? Yes, there had to be, she said to herself.

  At the turn in the trail, Summers stopped and looked all around, and at the cabin thirty yards away. A thin curl of smoke rose and drifted above the stone chimney. The yard looked clean enough for the time of year. Firewood filled much of the side yard, some split and stacked, some lying strewn around a chopping block where an ax stood, its handle up.

  Looking to the right of the yard, Summers saw the plank grave marker standing at the head of a freshly turned mound of earth. Through the wavy, dusty window glass, Layla peeped out and watched him ride over to it, leading his string of horses and mule behind him. The big cur anticipated Summers, and lopped over to the grave ahead of him.

  “Take your time, Will . . . ,” Layla said to herself, seeing Summers stop his horse and his string and look down at the mound of earth. She dipped water up from the bucket with both hands and let it run down her bosom.

  “L. Persons,” Summers murmured, reading the crudely carved pine grave marker. “So long, Lee.” He took off his battered Stetson and held it at his side, the lead rope in the same gloved hand. Across the grave from him, the spotted cur plopped down on its bony rump and scratched an ear. Summers turned in his saddle when he heard the front door of the cabin swing open.

  “Who’s there?” Layla called out from the front porch. She stood with a towel raised to the side of her wet hair. “Is that you, Will Summers?”

  Summers turned his horse and his string of horses and mule. “Yes, ma’am, Layla,” he said. “It’s me.” The cur sprang to a stand and loped across the yard, leading him. “I brought Lee the mule he asked for.” His hat still in hand, he gestured it back toward the grave and said respectfully, “I see he won’t be needing it now.”

  Layla stopped drying her hair for a moment and looked over at the grave. Then she raised the towel again.

  “No. He won’t need it now,” she said, returning to drying her hair. “I will, though. I’ll be moving back down to Prospect.” She paused, then said, “How much for the mule?”

  Summers considered it quickly, then said, “Lee paid for it in advance, Layla.” He pulled the string forward until the mule stood near to his side. “So here it is, delivered as promised. It’s all yours.”

  “Oh, really?” Layla said skeptically. She put a hand on her hi
p, the damp towel hanging from it. “Lee Persons never paid in advance for anything in his life. So let’s try again.” She gave him a sharp, wise smile. “How much for the mule, Will?” she repeated. “I’m not a charity case.”

  Summers looked her up and down, her wet hair hanging to her shoulders, Lee’s old shirt, open deep down the front and clinging wetly to her breasts. He looked away; then he looked back at her.

  “How long has he been dead?” he asked.

  “It’s been weeks since he died,” Layla said. “I’m going to say ten weeks at the least.” She stared over at the grave as she spoke. “I wrapped him and laid him in the springhouse until the ground thawed. I finally buried him three days ago.” She paused, then added, “I’m past grieving him.”

  “I see,” said Summers. He put his hat on and crossed his wrists on his saddle horn. “Ten weeks . . .”

  “At the least . . . ,” Layla pointed out quietly, her hand still on her hip. “I woke up in the night because the fire had gone out. I found him lying there, dead, eyes wide-open. He was clutching his chest.”

  Summers shook his lowered head. At the edge of the porch, the big cur had plopped down again and sat staring back and forth between them as if following the conversation.

  “He was a good man, Lee Persons,” Summers said. He considered it for a second, shrugged and added, “Good enough anyway.”

  “Yes, he was,” Layla said. “And now he is dead and in the ground,” she said bluntly, as if trying to get past Lee Persons and on with whatever came next.

  Summers sighed; he looked away, then back again. Long shallow skiffs of snow still clung to shadowed rock ledges and low spots up on the steep hillsides.

  “Ten weeks, huh?” he said, giving her a curious knowing look.

  “Ten weeks, Will . . . ,” Layla repeated, staring knowingly back at him. “How many times are you going to ask me that?”

  “That’s all.” Summers gave a shrug.

  “Good,” said Layla. “Now how much for the sorrel mule?” she repeated.

  “I hate to take money from you, Layla,” Summers said.