Gun Law

Once the wheel was repaired enough to ride on, Matheson drove the buggy up along the hill. To take some of the weight off the buggy, Kern followed on horseback, making sure not to let the laundry bags out of his sight for a second. At the top of hill, where the land leveled off some, Matheson pointed Kern toward a narrower path veering off along a hillside, covered heavily with pine and spruce.

“This winds about two miles in and stops just before the door to the doctor’s cabin,” he said.

“After you,” said Kern, wagging him forward with his rifle barrel. “I prefer keeping an eye on you from behind, rather than looking back over my shoulder.”

“I’ve done nothing to make you distrust me, Kern,” the banker said indignantly.

“Right,” Kern said, “and you did nothing to the coach guards except to serve them lunch—their last meal, as it turned out.”

“That was part of our plan, was it not?” said Matheson, his coat still off, his sleeves still rolled up. A black streak of wheel grease stained his cheek.

“Yep, it was,” said Kern. “There’s just something sneaky and unnatural about poisoning a man. I can’t say why, but it makes my skin crawl.”

“Oh, what . . . ?” said Matheson. “I suppose it’s much more wholesome to blow a hole through a person’s heart with a big slug of lead?” He slapped the reins to the buggy horse and rolled on.

“Lyndon, I don’t see us lasting together very long in Mexico . . . ,” he murmured under his breath.

A short time later, the trail widened out onto a flat clearing in the rocky hillside. There, built on stilts beside a runoff stream, stood a cabin made of pine, tin and adobe. Around its side sat the doctor’s buggy, a canvas thrown over it as protection from pine needles and rain.

“Now, here we have a man who truly likes to drink alone,” Kern quipped in a guarded voice.

“Finding the doctor here is both a blessing and a curse,” said Matheson. “He can help us put on a new wheel. But I’m sure he’s going to have many questions about these Chinese laundry bags.”

“We thank him for helping with the wheel,” said Kern. “But if he has too many questions, I’ll be obliged to close his shop.”

“Come, now, Kern,” said Matheson. “You can’t go around shooting everyone. Sooner or later, it has to stop.”

Matheson shook his head and eased the buggy forward, the patched-up wheel thumping, creaking with each turn.

“At any rate, we’ve nothing to hide here,” he said. “Doc won’t know a thing about what went on in town. He has no reason not to trust us—you being our new marshal, me the councilman and bank manager.”

“And we’ll play it just that way, if we can,” said Kern, laying his rifle across his lap and moving his hand away from it.

“Hello, the house,” Matheson called out, stopping the buggy a few yards away and rising a little from the seat. “Dr. Washburn . . . it is I, Councilman Matheson. The marshal and I need some help here.”

Peering out the front window and down a long flight of split pine stairs, Sara Cayes turned to Dr. Washburn, who had awakened from a nap in a cushioned rocking chair. He’d left his shoes sitting by the rocker and walked over beside her in his stockinged feet.

Washburn lowered his wire-rimmed spectacles, rubbed sleep from his eyes and sighed as he put them back on. He looked out through the wavy window glass, noticing the crooked buggy wheel and dried bloodstain on Kern’s shirt.

“If they need help, I expect we’d best help them,” he said. “It is our marshal and one of our councilmen.”

“But what about Kern’s deputies?” asked Sara. “We don’t want them to know Celia is here.” She tossed a glance over her shoulder at Celia Knox, lying in a small feather bed, a quilt pulled up over her in spite of the day’s heat.

“No, we can’t risk letting Kern know she’s here,” said the doctor. “I’ll see what they want. As far as they know, you’re here with me.”

“Yes, of course,” said Sara, liking the ruse, “and we want to be alone.” She smiled. “So be cross with them, get them away from here.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’ll do my best,” the doctor said, looking her up and down.

“Dr. Washburn,” Matheson called out again, “are you all right in there?”

“I’m coming,” the doctor called out, cracking the door open a little. “Let me get my trousers on.”

Washburn hurriedly unbuttoned his trousers, dropped his suspenders off his shoulders and stripped his shirt from his back. He mussed his hair and started to swing the door open.

“Wait,” said Sara. She ran to the bed and came back with a spare blanket. She threw it around his shoulders and gave him a slight shove.

In the buggy, Matheson had started to step down and climb the steps up to the front door. Kern had stepped down from his saddle and followed suit. But they both stopped in their tracks when they saw the front door open. Doc Washburn stepped out onto a plank porch and stared down at them.

“What the bejesus are you doing up here, Councilman Matheson?” he asked in a growling voice, walking down the steps to keep them from coming up. “Where do I have to go to get away and relax?” he demanded.

“Our apologies, Dr. Washburn,” said Matheson. “As you can see, we’ve had a wheel problem not far from here. I remembered your place here and . . . well, I thought we would go through your barn and see if you might have a spare buggy wheel.”

“Yeah, we never expected that you’d be here,” said Kern. “Imagine our surprise to see your buggy sitting there.”

Washburn looked back and forth at them, noting that there was no hole or rip in Kern’s shirt, only the smeared, dried circle of blood. He let out a breath and jerked his head toward a small barn around the side of the house.

“All right, there should be a wheel or two in there. But you’ll have to get it yourselves and put it on. Unless one of you is hurt, I’m a little busy right now.” He stared at Kern, but made no gesture toward the dried blood.

“That, Marshal, is none of your business,” said Washburn. “I told you where the wheel is. Get it, put it on and go away.”

Kern didn’t like his tone. “Listen, old man—” he said, getting more suspicious, swinging down from his saddle.

But before he could say anything else, the three of them heard the door swing open. They looked up the long flight of steps.

“Dr. Freddie, are you going to be all day?” Sara called down, wearing nothing but a thin sheet she held loosely up over the front of her body.

“Uh—Yes! I’m coming. I’ll be right there,” the old doctor said. He looked back at the two, noting Matheson’s stunned expression and the smug, amused smile on Kern’s face.

“Gentlemen,” Washburn said gruffly, “need I explain myself any further?”

“Oh yes, we understand,” said Kern. They looked up the long steps in time to see Sara turn around and walk bare-bottomed back inside the house. “You get on back up there, Dr. Freddie,” Kern said with a grin.

“Help yourself to any tools, wheels, whatever you need,” said Washburn, turning around and hurrying back up the steps.

“All this time,” Matheson said, “I thought the old fool came up here to drink alone.”

“Let’s get busy,” said Kern. “We don’t know how long it’ll be before we’ll have townsmen on our tails.”

Back inside the house, Dr. Washburn stood puffing and panting from the climb up the steep stairway. With a hand clasped to his chest, he stared at Sara, who was now back in her clothes.

“Lord, gal . . . you did fine . . . absolutely fine,” he said, bug-eyed, trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t get rid of the picture of her—the pale, creamy flesh he’d caught only a glimpse of when she had turned and walked back inside. “Jesus . . . ,” he added.

“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.

“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.

“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.”

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.

“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?”

“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.

“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.”