The Murdock's Law by Loren D. Estleman Page B

relief. “Another second and you’d have been breathing out your belly.”
    Cross ignored the comment. “Well, they’re shut down on our side. If there’s a drop of alcohol to be got in town, it’s horse liniment.”
    â€œAny trouble?”
    â€œCouple of prospectors tried to jump Randy in the House of Mirrors,” said Earl. “I asked them not to.”
    The other deputy snorted. “He kicked one in the belly and clubbed the other across the knees with his shotgun. You should of heard him howl. First one’s still heaving, I reckon.”
    â€œThat’s the way I used to make Pa’s horses behave,” shrugged the younger man.
    I turned to Yardlinger. “How many cathouses in town?”
    â€œJust one, Martha’s, over on Arapaho. But she serves claret. A man’d be all night getting drunk enough to start anything.”
    â€œJust so we know where they’ll be if they decide to stick.”

    â€œThat’s them now,” said Cross.
    Rumbling hoofbeats swelled as a dozen riders swung into the north end of the street, trailing a fog of horses’ breath. I pointed at the open doors of the livery stable, each of which sported a burning lantern hanging on a nail. “Confiscate those and bring them along.”
    Earl obeyed, ignoring the protests of the old Negro in charge, and hurried to catch up with us. As we approached the riders, the thunder of hoofs faltered and died. The darkness on the street had alerted the newcomers. Steel slid from leather, hammers rolled back with a racheting sound.
    When the lanterns arrived I took one and held it up as I walked across in front of the line of horse-men.
    Dick Mather regarded me in hostile silence, a sick man slumped in a linen duster and gripping the pommel of his saddle in both hands as if to keep from toppling off. The man to his immediate right had a broken nose and one thick black eyebrow that went straight across both eyes, giving him a primitive look that was completed by his close-cropped black beard. The gun in his left hand was a Smith & Wesson American .44. The other riders were ten years younger, but their faces were as hard as the weapons they brandished.
    I finished my inspection and returned to Yardlinger’s side. The five of us were strung out across the street, forming a human barricade with guns in hand.
    â€œThat’s Abel Turk next to Mather, the bearded one,” the chief deputy informed me. “Foreman at
the Six Bar Six. He hasn’t seen many backs hereabouts since his reputation got around.”
    â€œWhat’s going on, Murdock?” demanded the rancher in his phlegmy baritone. “Whole town in mourning for Marshal Arno?”
    â€œNot until his replacement dried up the watering holes,” I replied. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like, boys, but there’ll be no drinking tonight.”
    â€œWhat gives you that right?” The man Yardlinger had identified as Abel Turk spoke quietly, with no threat in his deep voice. Never trust a man who’s slow to anger. I looked him over again, then returned to Mather.
    â€œDon’t you tell your hands anything?”
    â€œHe told me some hot iron who calls himself Murdock is playing lawman,” Turk said. “That still don’t give you leave to refuse a thirsty cowman a drink.”
    â€œMaybe it doesn’t. But this does.” I patted the carbine.
    â€œWe aren’t breaking any laws,” huffed Mather.
    â€œYou’re flashing a lot of steel for law-abiding citizens.”
    He let that go. “You running us out of town?”
    â€œNot at all. Like you said, you haven’t broken any laws. But if you try to get into one of the saloons, I’ll arrest you all for breaking and entering. I understand there’s an open door on Arapaho Street.”
    â€œNo thanks.” The rancher gathered his reins. His shaggy gray tossed its head and whinnied