Gun Law

Jake Jellico finished wiping down the bar top at the Lucky Devil Saloon and Brothel and glanced up just as three dusty gunmen walked through the batwing doors. Along the bar, the row of drinkers saw the hard, trailbitten look of the men and instinctively made space for them.

“Oh, hell . . . ,” Jellico murmured. All three were armed—a rifle hanging from each man’s left hand, their right hands poised near a holstered revolver on their hip.

As the three lined up and laid their rifles on the bar top, the nervous saloon owner pointed a finger at a sign leaning against the broken mirror behind the bar indicating the new Gun Law.

“Gentlemen, don’t take this the wrong way, but the town is disarming itself this very day. Until you turn in your guns at the marshal’s office, I’m not allowed to serve you strong drink.”

The three looked back and forth along the bar on either side of them in disbelief, seeing no guns on any of the other drinkers.

“Oh, it’s true,” Jellico said, thinking the words were directed at him. “There’ve been so many killings here that the town voted to put a stop to it. Getting rid of guns is the only reasonable way.”

“Easy, brother Phil,” said Jason, seeing the look on Philbert’s face. “He didn’t know. . . .”

“Indeed, sir,” said Jellico, “I did not know, and I apologize—” He stopped suddenly as a stunned look of recognition came to his face. “Phil and Jason?” he said, looking back and forth between the two while Jennings stared blankly at him.

“You—you’re the Catlo brothers, aren’t you?” Jellico said in a shallow and worried voice.

“Nothing, I mean—” Jellico stammered. “Welcome to Kindred, that is. It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you fellows.”

“Why’s that?” Philbert asked bluntly, not letting the saloon owner off the spot he’d suddenly found himself on.

Buck the Mule Jennings crowded in closer and asked the frightened man, “Have you heard of me too?”

Jellico looked back and forth wildly, not knowing how to respond, or which question to answer first.

“Well—that is—” Jellico stopped and finally collected himself enough to ask, “Gentlemen, why don’t I get all three of you a drink?”

“Because it’s against the law?” Jason answered, still staring at him relentlessly.

With a terror-filled grin, Jellico reached under the bar and pulled up a bottle of rye and three shot glasses.

“I always say a law is like a fence,” he mused, sweat beading on his upper lip. “It’s no good unless there’s room for a gate in it.”

“Damned if I know,” Jason said. “Something about building fences—leaving a gate open.” He laid his hand atop his rifle stock resting on the bar. “What are you talking about, idiot?” he asked Jellico.

“I have no idea,” Jellico said shakily. He froze in place with a tortured smile; sweat ran down his broad forehead. The bottle of rye and the shot glasses stood on the bar top.

Unarmed townsmen sensed trouble and began to slink away and fade out the doors, front and rear.

“Gentlemen, if you will allow me to intercede on Mr. Jellico’s behalf,” a voice bellowed from the far end of the bar.

The three gunmen looked around as Ed Dandly walked toward them, his hands chest high, a notepad and pencil stub in his right hand.

Dandly ignored the remark as he approached with a cautious smile. Behind the bar, Jake Jellico still stood with the same look of terror on his face.

“I’m Edward Dandly . . . ?” the smiling newsman said, ending his words in a question suggesting that the three should have heard of him. He touched the brim of his derby hat. “I own the Kindred Star Weekly News . . . ? The town newspaper . . . ?”

“Mr. Jellico was concerned that you gentlemen were going to . . . well, that you may have killed him, had he refused you service.”

“Now, there’s a thought,” Philbert said. He and Jason looked at each other. Jason drummed his fingertips on the rifle stock.

“I expect we’ll never know, now that he went ahead and jerked us up a bottle,” Jason said. He looked at the shot glasses, then at Jellico and asked, “Are you going to fill them, or do we start all over?”

Philbert looked at a slim young man standing to the side, watching on with apprehension, a guitar leaning against his leg.

“What . . . ?” The young man looked wide-eyed and stunned. Then he caught on and said quickly, “Oh. Yes, sir! I do play it!” He jerked the guitar up across his chest and began plucking a snappy tune.

“I just wish we’d moved here when we were both children,” Philbert whispered in reply, turning his eyes to the filled shot glasses.

Jennings stood grinning at the guitar player, his big dirty fingers plucking an imaginary guitar on his chest.

Marshal Kern stood waiting impatiently for Cooper and Bender as more drinkers slipped out the back door of the saloon and wasted no time getting clear of the place. He heard the sound of guitar music start up inside. He paced back and forth until he finally saw the two deputies rounding the corner of the building, their gun hands swinging near their holstered revolvers.

“We came as soon as we strapped down,” said Cooper, gesturing at his gun belt. “What’s going on anyway?”

“I hear it,” said Cooper. “But it doesn’t raise that much concern for me.” He grinned at Bender. “What about you, Denton? Does that guitar sound like trouble starting?”

“Not so far,” Bender said. “But you never know when a guitar player might fly into a killing rage.” He returned the grin.

Kern glared at them. “I’m saying the music means the three have settled in and made themselves to home. That tells me that Jellico has served them whiskey. That’s against our new rules. If these men get away with it, everybody will start questioning our ability to enforce the gun law. Do you understand?”

The two stopped grinning. Cooper raised and lowered his Colt in its holster. Bender took his Colt out, checked it and lowered it back in place, keeping his gun hand resting on its butt.

“Tell us how you want to play this, Marshal,” Cooper said. “We’ve got you covered.”

“Well, I’m damned obliged to you both, Deputies,” Kern said in a cutting, sarcastic tone.

“All right, now, let’s go unarm these saddle bums, before we all three look like fools,” Kern said. He levered a round into his rifle chamber and started to turn to the rear door of the saloon.

From a few feet away, one of the drinkers who had fled the saloon said in a hushed voice, “Marshal, those three ain’t your everyday saddle bums.”

Kern turned toward a short, stout man standing halfhidden by a telegraph pole. “Who are you?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you around town.”

“I’m a liquor peddler, name of Giles Frame,” the man answered. He raised a bowler hat that appeared too small for his head. “I was about to discuss selling this place some whiskey when those three walked in. The big dirty fellow doesn’t look familiar, but the other two are Jason and Philbert Catlo. I’ve seen them a time or two the past year, usually after somebody just got themselves killed for looking at them the wrong way.”

“Yes, that’s them all right,” said the peddler. “Take my word for it.” Having giving his information, the peddler turned and hurried away along the alley, a hand holding his bowler in place. By now, the townsfolk had scurried away.

“Well, that’ll do it for me,” Cooper said. He started to leave in an awkward half run, half walk.

“Hold it,” Kern demanded. “What the hell do you mean, that’ll do it for you? We’re going in there. I don’t give a damn if it’s the Catlo brothers or the James brothers. We’re going to disarm them.” As he spoke his rifle swung around toward Cooper.

“Not unless I know I’m getting something out of it once we’re finished with them,” Cooper said. “It would be different if we were planning to clean this town out in one big raid. I wouldn’t stand for them getting in our way. But the way we’re going about this thing, a little bit at a time, huh-uh, it’s not worth getting shot at. Bender and I feel like we’re working for wages.”

“Yeah, like some kind of real deputies,” Bender put in with a disgusted look. “We could do this anywhere.”

“Damn it!” Kern clenched his teeth, considered the question despite his frustration. “All right. A hundred apiece if you end up killing them all three.”

“What if we only kill one or two of them?” Bender asked, his hand still resting on his gun butt.

“That’d still be a hundred apiece,” said Kern. “I’m not made out of money . . . not yet anyway.”

Cooper looked at Bender and shrugged. “What the hell, we’ll kill all three. It wouldn’t make sense just killing one or two of them. We’d lose money.”

“Ready as rain,” Cooper said, “now that Bender and I know we’ve got an interest in things here.”

Cooper adjusted his gun belt and gestured an arm for Marshal Kern to lead them through the rear door of the saloon. “After you, Marshal,” he said.

The Catlo brothers and Buck the Mule Jennings watched from the bar as the marshal walked in. The two deputies stepped through the door behind him and spread out across the width of the saloon. Jake Jellico was behind the bar, sweating in his feet. He held the bottle of rye in his hand, ready to refill the gunmen’s glasses as soon they set them down empty on the bar top.

A few feet away stood Ed Dandly, his pencil stub and notebook still in hand. He turned toward the marshal with a worried look.

Kern noted the rifles lying atop the bar, the holstered revolvers at each man’s hip. He stopped in the middle of the sawdust-covered floor and stood with his feet spread shoulder-width apart.

“In case nobody told you three, nobody gets served liquor in Kindred unless they turn in their guns,” he called out. As soon as he’d spoken, he gave Jellico a cold stare.

Jellico set the bottle of rye down. He raised his hands chest high and said, “Marshal, I mentioned about the new gun law. I just figured these men—”

“Yeah, Idiot here told us rightly enough,” Jason said. He turned and raised the glass of rye toward Kern as if preparing to toast him.

“And if he hadn’t told us, Marshal, this sign would have been a dead giveaway,” Philbert cut in, nodding toward the sign leaning against the broken mirror.

“Drink your whiskey, Buck the Mule,” Jason said quietly to the big dirty gunman in an effort to push him out of the conversation.

“The point is, Marshal,” Philbert said, “you knew we had firearms, and you and your deputies here came to take them from us. Ain’t that about right?”

Cooper and Bender stepped in closer, each of them thinking about the hundred dollars apiece the marshal had offered them to kill these three.

“That’s exactly right,” said Cooper. “Use them or drop them is all we come to say.” He nodded toward the rifles on the bar.

“Keep out of this, Deputy,” Kern warned, well aware why Cooper was so eager to get the fighting under way.

“Use them or drop them . . . ,” Philbert repeated. “What a clever thing to say.” He took a step away from the bar, his brother right beside him. Jennings moved to the side, his big dirty hand poised to reach for his gun.

Before either the deputies or the marshal could make a move, Philbert’s Colt streaked up from his holster. Kern saw the open bore of the gun barrel pointed at him.

Philbert stepped forward, a mirthless grin spread wide across his face. “The fact is,” he said, “we have nothing but respect for this new gun law of yours.” In a flash, his Colt flipped around in his hand. He held the gun out, butt first, much to the marshal’s surprise.

“Damn it,” Bender growled under his breath. Not only had Jason Catlo’s fast draw caught them cold, but he knew he and Cooper had just missed out on making the three hundred dollars the marshal had promised them. He and Cooper stood watching as Jason Catlo raised his Colt slowly, walked forward and held it out to the marshal in the same manner.

“My brother speaks for me too, Marshal,” he said. “We heard about the law from some pilgrims on the trail. We came here wanting to see it for ourselves.”

Kern didn’t trust the moves they’d made, but he stepped forward anyway, took the two Colts they held out for him and looked toward the rifles on the bar.

“Buck the Mule,” said Philbert, “bring those rifles on over here, so the marshal can relieve us of them. I sense an uneasiness at work here.”

“You have to admit,” said Kern, “you Catlos are not known for surrendering your weapons without a fight.”

“I don’t look at it as surrendering our weapons, Marshal,” said Jason. “I like to call it bowing to the advancement of civilization.”

Ignoring the newsman, Kern questioned Jason and Philbert. “So you fellows heard about our gun law along the trail, eh?”

“So does bad news,” Jennings said, stepping forward with the rifles from atop the bar. He glared at Dandly and said, “Write that down too.”

“Yes, of course,” Dandly replied, scribbling in order to placate the gruesome gunman.

“The fact is, Marshal,” said Jason, “we’re wondering if you could use our help. We saw the line backed up out front of your office. It must be a big job collecting every gun in town.”

“You can’t imagine,” Kern said, feeling better now that the rifles and sidearms were out of the Catlo brothers’ reach.

“Now that we’re legal here,” Jason said, “maybe we could all have a drink and talk about it?”

Kern looked at his deputies, then back at the Catlo brothers. “Yeah, sure, why not?” he said. He turned to Ed Dandly and shouted, “Get lost.”

“Cracking your head with a gun butt is news too,” said Kern, ignoring the newsman’s question. He stared coldly at him until Dandly relented and slunk away.

When Dandly was gone through the front door, the men all turned back to the bar. Philbert looked at the guitar player, who’d stood frozen in silence since the three lawmen walked in.

“Nobody told you to stop playing, did they?” he asked the frightened young musician.

Philbert turned to Marshal Kern and said, “I am what you might call appreciative of good music, although I have never had any gift for it myself.”