“Well, I mean, some of the folks, at least the folks I’m dealin’ with, are beginnin’ to get contrary about payin’ taxes ever’ week.”
“They are, are they?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that’s just too bad,” Cummins said.
“So, what do I tell ’em when they start complainin’ like that?”
“Tell them it’s the law,” Cummins said. “If they want to live in my town, they have to pay the piper.” Cummins giggled. “And we’re the piper,” he said. “Are you going to have a problem with that?”
“No, I ain’t goin’ to have no problem with that,” Crack said. “I was just commentin’, that’s all.”
“If I want any comments, I’ll ask for them. What about the rest of you? Any of you have any trouble with this?”
None of the deputies responded.
“Boys, when you think about it, we’ve got us a real sweet deal here,” Cummins said. He laughed out loud. “You might say that what we have is a license to steal. Ever since the city council voted to put in the law tax, all we have to do is just control a few drunks, make sure nobody gets beat up, and arrest anyone who spits on the sidewalk. Now, what do you say you get to work?”
At the very moment Cummins was charging his deputies with the task of spreading out to collect the “law tax,” a secret meeting was being held in the back room of the Bank of Purgatory.
Joel Montgomery, the president of the bank, was conducting the meeting, and he poured himself a drink before calling the meeting to order. “Goodman?” he called. “Are you keeping a lookout?”
“Yes,” Goodman said. “There’s nobody out on the street.”
“Well, there will be soon. This is the day they spread out to collect their tax. So if you see anyone coming this way, let me know.”
“I will,” Goodman promised.
“Men,” Montgomery said. “There’s a bottle here. If any of you want a drink before we get started, get it now. Because once we get started, we’ve got some serious business to discuss.”
“It ain’t goin’ to work,” one of the men said. He was short, with a reddish tint to his skin, and a large, blotchy nose.
“What isn’t going to work, Amon?”
Amon Goff owned the leather goods store.
“All of us gettin’ together and tellin’ Cummins we ain’t goin’ to pay his taxes no more,” Amon said. “It ain’t goin’ to work.”
“And why won’t it work?” Montgomery asked.
“Because the tax is a law that’s done been passed by the city council. If we don’t pay it, why, they’ve got the right to put us in jail. What we need to do is get the city council to pass a law changin’ that.”
“And how do you propose that we do that, Amon?” Josh Taylor asked. Taylor ran the feed store. “There’s only seven men on the city council, and four of ’em are Cummins’ deputies.”
“I don’t know how we’re goin’ to get it done,” Amon said. “I just know that if one of us refuse to pay the taxes, we’re goin’ to wind up one of two ways. Either dead, or in jail.”
“Yeah,” a man named Bascomb said. Drew Bascomb owned the freight line. “Even if we fight back, we could wind up getting hung. You seen what happened to that stranger that rode in here today. Gillis tried to collect the five-dollar visitors tax and the stranger shot him. Now, I say, good for the stranger, ’ceptin’ he’s on the way to Yuma to get hung.”
“I heard about that,” Montgomery said. “Did any of you see it? I mean, how is it that it just happened today, and already the stranger has been tried and convicted? The judge isn’t even in town.”
“Cummins held the trial himself,” Goff said. “Within five minutes after it happened, Cummins had a jury picked and he held the trial right there in the Pair O Dice saloon.”
“That’s not legal, is it?” Bascomb asked. “I mean, can Cummins hold a trial without the judge?”
“You may remember that Cummins got himself appointed associate judge,” Montgomery reminded the others. “His authority might be questionable, but he probably was within his right to conduct the trial. Now, as to the trial itself, I’m sure there were all sorts of technical errors that would qualify for an appeal. For example, does anyone know if he had a lawyer?”
“Bob Dempster was his lawyer,” Goff said.
“Bob Dempster? Good Lord, was Dempster sober?”
“Ha!” Bascomb said. “When was the last time anyone saw Bob Dempster sober?”
“Damn, the stranger could appeal this case a dozen ways from Sunday,” Montgomery said.
“Maybe so,” Bascomb said. “But he just left on the train to Yuma. Chances are, he’ll be hung by this time tomorrow night.”
“Fellas, here comes Crack,” Goodman said from the window.
“Well, what are we going to do?” Goff asked. “Are we going to pay the taxes this week, or refuse?”
Montgomery ran his hand through his hair, then let out a long, frustrated sigh. “We’ll pay them,” he said. “Right now, we have no other choice. But I don’t intend to go on paying them. We’re going to put a stop to this. There is no way I’m going to let this go on forever.”
