But despite knowing that, both of them were itching to slap leather. They didn’t cotton to having guns pointed at them. Not one little bit.
The less belligerent of the two black-suited gents continued. “Why don’t we just put our guns down and let these boys go on their way?” He was shorter and stockier than his companion, with a broad, sunburned face and sandy hair under the derby.
“All right,” the man called Ambrose said after a moment. “You heard the man. Git!”
“You know,” Matt said, “I still don’t like your tone—”
“Come on, Matt,” Sam interrupted. He started to turn his horse. “We’re leaving.”
Showing obvious reluctance, Matt came with him. They rode slowly away from the destroyed cabin. Matt was seething with anger.
“That fella needs a lesson in manners.”
“I agree,” Sam said, “but not at the cost of both of us getting shot.”
Matt sighed. “I reckon you’re right about that.”
They had ridden about fifty yards when they heard hoofbeats behind them. Hipping around in their saddles, they saw the shorter of the two dudes riding after them.
“Now what?” Matt muttered. “Has he decided he wants trouble after all?”
“More than likely he just wants to talk to us,” Sam said.
They slowed their horses and let the man catch up to them. As he rode up beside them, he nodded pleasantly and said, “I thought you fellas deserved an explanation.”
“Your pard Ambrose ain’t gonna like that,” Matt said.
The man waved a hand to dismiss that idea. “Ambrose is just a little hotheaded sometimes. He was all caught up in the heat of battle, I guess you could say. He’s calmed down now. He understands that if folks know what’s going on, that’ll make our job out here easier.”
“What is your job?” Sam asked. “Are you Pinkertons?”
“No, sir. Special marshals appointed by Governor St. John to enforce the new liquor act. I’m Marshal Calvin Bickford, and my partner is Marshal Ambrose Porter.”
“Wait a minute,” Matt said. “What new liquor act?”
“Why, the one banning its possession or sale in the state of Kansas, of course.”
Matt’s eyebrows rose. “The whole
Bickford nodded. “That’s right.”
“But…but you can’t just get rid of booze in the whole state!”
“It’s done,” Bickford insisted. “Governor St. John signed the law into effect and swore in a force of special marshals to see that it’s carried out. We’re empowered to deputize men to help us.”
Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s why you were after those men in that cabin?”
“That’s right. They’ve been brewing and selling illegal whiskey. We called on them to surrender, in which case we would have simply taken them into custody and destroyed their still, but they refused and opened fire on us.”
“So you tossed a bomb at them,” Matt said.
“And blew up their still,” Sam said. “That’s what caused the explosion to be so big. They must have had some of their whiskey stored in there.”
Bickford nodded. “Quite a bit, in fact, judging by what happened. It’s fortunate for them that they all got out in time.”
“What if they hadn’t?” Matt asked.
Bickford’s beefy shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Then the state would have been spared the expense of trying them on charges of violating the liquor act and attempted murder of sworn peace officers. Those fellas will be behind bars for quite a spell, I’m afraid.”
“Well, no offense, but tryin’ to blow up somebody just because he’s been brewin’ a little Who-hit-John seems to me like a damned sorry way to make a livin’,” Matt said.
“It’s the law, son,” Bickford replied. “And you don’t really care whether you offend me or not, do you?”
“Come to think of it…no, I sure don’t.”
Bickford smiled. “That’s all right. Any lawman learns pretty quickly that he’s got to have a thick hide to do the job, at least if he intends to do it right.”
“Is there a town around here?” Sam asked.
“Sure is. Nice place called Cottonwood, about ten miles east.”
“Do they have any saloons there?” Matt asked.
“Not anymore. Town’s dry as a bone, just like the rest of Kansas.”
Matt growled in disgust. “I don’t believe it. How’s a fella supposed to cut the dust from his mouth when he’s been on the trail all day if he can’t even get a damned beer?”
“Buttermilk’s good for that,” Bickford said.
