Gunman's Song

by Ralph Cotton

  “Secondary plan, like hell,” said Sammy Boy. “This is not going to be some crooked scheme. I’m fast and I’m good. I’m younger than Shaw and I want his handle, ‘fastest gun alive,’ more than I think he wants it these days. That’s what this is all about, Elton, nothing else.”

  As Sammy Boy and Elton spoke, a drunken old man wearing a miner’s cap staggered in between them and shook a bag of coins in Elton’s face. “Have I got time to get the rest of this down on Fast Larry Shaw?”

  “Not now,” Elton said quickly, giving the old man a shove, hoping Sammy Boy hadn’t heard what he’d said. But Sammy Boy had heard. He caught the old man by his arm before he staggered away.

  “What did you ask, old-timer?” Sammy Boy said.

  The old miner said in a blast of sour whiskey breath, finally recognizing Sammy Boy White, “No offense, Mr. White, but I watched Shaw outgun D.C. Hanson on the street in Laredo. I just don’t believe there’s a man alive who’ll beat him.”

  “Bet the way you feel, old-timer,” said Sammy Boy, letting the old man stagger away as he turned a cold gaze to Elton Minton.

  “Let me explain, Sammy!” said Elton, looking worried.

  “You bet against me,” Sammy Boy said flatly.

  “Listen to me, Sammy; it ain’t like you’re thinking it is,” Elton pleaded.

  “My pardner,” said Sammy Boy in a hurt and disgusted tone. “You went behind my back and bet on Shaw.”

  “No, Sammy, I bet on both of you! See, I was looking out for you and me, just in case something went wrong! We’d still have something coming.”

  “You were looking out for me?” Sammy looked amazed. “Elton, this ain’t no sporting event! If I lose, there ain’t no ‘looking out for me’—I’m dead!”

  Elton looked down at the floor in silence and shook his head, as if he had just come to realize what a deadly situation Sammy Boy White was in. When he looked back up at Sammy Boy he said, “Sammy, I’m sorry. I just got so caught up in the money we was going to make, I plumb forgot what losing would cost.” He cupped his forehead in his hand. “Jesus, what have I gotten us into?”

  Sammy Boy took a deep breath and let it out slowly, releasing his anger and his disappointment in Elton. “You didn’t get me into it, Elton. I want this awfully bad. It just cut me deep, you betting against me.”

  Willie the Devil had overheard part of the conversation; then, seeing the two talking between themselves, he backed away and turned toward the bar.

  Seeing him slip away, Elton said, “He caused it…he caused me to do it. I never should have listened to him.”

  “Don’t blame him,” said Sammy Boy. “If I hadn’t been wanting this kind of gunfight, the rest wouldn’t have happened anyway.”

  “What are we going to do, Sammy?” Elton asked in a shaky voice. “It’s too late to stop it.”

  Sammy Boy raised his pistol and checked it, turning the cylinder slowly, listening closely to it click. “Have you got all the bets down the way you want them?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Then just stay out of my way until this is over,” said Sammy Boy, cutting him off. He turned and walked away to a lone table in the far corner, hooking a bottle of rye off the bar on his way. Standing at the crowded bar, Willie the Devil and Donald Hornetti watched Sammy Boy pull out a chair, sit down, and pull the cork from the bottle.

  “What do you think, Willie? Hornetti asked, the two of them seeing Sammy Boy turn up a long drink of whiskey. “Has this whole plan gone to hell on us or what?”

  “Naw, we’re still on track,” said Willie the Devil. “They’re both in too deep to pull out now.” He chuckled. “What gets me is how easy it was for us to get somebody to do our killing for us.”

  “But don’t forget, I’m still facing Shaw if things go bad,” said Hornetti.

  “Yes, you’re facing him, all right,” said Willie the Devil, filling a shot glass for himself and sliding the bottle to Hornetti. “But with Sammy Boy calling him down, you’ll be facing Shaw’s back…from behind cover.” He raised his glass in a short salute. “I think that makes all the difference in the world, don’t you?”

  Hornetti grinned. “Yeah, it does at that. I almost hope Sammy Boy loses, just so I can put a bullet in a big-time gunslinger like Fast Larry Shaw.” Having poured himself a drink, Hornetti raised it in a return salute, then tossed it back in a quick gulp and let out a whiskey hiss. “I like the idea of killing him without him ever seeing it coming.”

  Chapter 8

  Had Donald Hornetti waited a moment longer out front of the Big Spur Saloon after shooting Dillard Frome, he would have seen that Frome was still alive. The shoot had knocked him unconscious, but only for a few seconds. As soon as he came to, he lifted his face from the dirt and began crawling toward the Desert Flower Inn. In his addled state he waved away the few onlookers who offered to help him. In his wake Frome left a smear of dark blood across the dirt from the exit wound in his shattered chest. He had just managed to drag himself onto the boardwalk of the Desert Flower when Lawrence Shaw and Cray stepped out the door, having come down from their rooms to investigate the single gunshot they’d heard.

  “Oh, no, Frome,” said Cray Dawson, hurrying forward and kneeling down, cradling Frome in his arms, “who did this to you?”

  The gaping wound in the man’s chest bubbled with each breath. Frome struggled to speak, letting a long string of blood spill from his lips. “I came to warn…you…Shaw.” Unable to continue, he pointed a weak, trembling hand toward the Big Spur Saloon.

  Shaw had also stooped down at Frome’s side, but he remained on guard, poised and watching the street. “There’s somebody waiting for me?” he asked, as if he weren’t at all surprised.

  Frome nodded his head. “They’re…holding Caldwell. They mean to kill you.” At that Frome’s words seemed to give out on him.

  Shaw stood and stared long and hard at the Big Spur Saloon. Cray Dawson looked up at him and said, “Forget them! We’ve got to get Frome to a doctor!”

  Still staring at the saloon, Shaw said down to Frome in a calm, solemn voice, “What say you, Dillard Frome? Do you need a doctor? Or would you rather I go kill the man who did this to you?”

  Frome managed to look down at the gaping hole in his chest. He gave Dawson a look of hopelessness, then rasped to Shaw, “There’s more than one of them…watch your back—” His words stopped short, followed by a long exhale of breath.

  “You can bet I will,” Shaw said under his breath, his right hand raising his Colt gently in its holster, then turning it loose. He stepped to the edge of the boardwalk, looking up at the evening sun standing low behind the Desert Flower and stretching long onto the dirt street.

  “Frome?” said Cray Dawson, shaking him slightly as if to wake him. Then, seeing that no amount of shaking would wake him, Dawson reached down with a gloved hand and closed Frome’s eyes.

  “Your game, ol’ pard,” said Shaw without looking down. “I’ll finish your hand for you.”

  “Shaw!” said Dawson, sounding ready to do some serious killing for the sake of the man who had just given his life to come and warn them. “What do you want me to do?”

  Shaw said without turning to face him, “Go along the boardwalk across from the Big Spur—watch the rooflines. Then follow me inside the saloon and stay to my left. Give me room.” He stepped down from the boardwalk and headed toward the Big Spur Saloon, the sun standing like a fiery red ball behind his left shoulder.

  “You got it,” said Cray Dawson, hurriedly taking off his right glove and shoving it into his belt. He veered off and hurried ahead of Shaw a few feet until he’d gotten onto the boardwalk across from the Big Spur. He moved along with caution, scanning the roofline on the other side of the street, his pistol drawn and ready.

  Out front of the Big Spur Saloon, Shaw stopped in the middle of the street and stood with his feet planted shoulder-width apart. Back at the Desert Flower Inn, Sheriff Neff had arrived, hearing the onlookers tell hi
m what had happened as he stared down at Dillard Frome’s body. “You’ve got to do something, Sheriff,” a woman said, wringing her hands. “What’s happening to our good town?”

  Before Sheriff Neff could reply, he turned toward the sound of Shaw’s voice calling out to the doors of the saloon: “I want the craven coward who shot Dillard Frome in the back to step out here. We both know why you shot him, so there’s nothing to talk about. You want killing? Come on out and let’s commence.”

  “Damn it,” Sheriff Neff whispered under his breath at the far end of the street. “Right there is what’s happened to our good town.” He hurried along the boardwalk out front of the Big Spur, his hands chest-high, offering no threat to Shaw. When he stopped, it was at Shaw’s insistence.

  “Stop right there, Sheriff,” said Shaw, his left hand raised, his eyes still on the Big Spur Saloon. “These cowards shot that man in the back because he was coming to warn me that they’re waiting for me.”

  “Shaw, it’s got to stop!” said Sheriff Neff. “I can’t have no more of it.”

  “I never asked for none of this, Sheriff,” said Shaw. “They keep coming at me, no matter where I go.”

  Cray Dawson kept scanning the roofline, the boardwalk, the streets and alleys, feeling his palms grow moist around his gun butt.

  “I know you don’t start trouble, Shaw,” said Sheriff Neff. “You don’t have to. It’s your name that starts it! But I can’t go no farther with it. Eagle Pass is a peaceable town right now. I want to keep it that way. Do you understand me, Shaw? I want you to leave…leave right now.”

  Shaw didn’t seem to hear him. He called out to the Big Spur, “Are you coming out, or do I have to come drag you out?”

  “Shaw, do you hear me?” the sheriff said.

  “I hear you, Sheriff Neff,” said Shaw, not taking his eyes off of the doors to the Big Spur. “I know you’re just doing your job…but so am I.” He took a step closer to the Big Spur Saloon. “Hear me in there? You wanted a gunfight. Come get it!”

  Inside the Big Spur, Elton Minton looked scared. Sweat glistened on his brow as he turned from the sound of Shaw’s voice and looked back into the corner where Sammy Boy sat nursing a glass of whiskey. The bottle in front of him was not nearly as full as it had been when he’d sat down only moments earlier. “Well, Sammy, here he is,” said Elton. “What are you waiting for?”

  Sammy Boy tossed Elton a sidelong glance, saying, “Go to hell, Elton.” Then he stared down at his shot glass.

  “Hey, what is this?” Willie the Devil raged at Elton, hearing Sammy Boy’s response. He grabbed Elton’s forearm. “Is he going to crawfish on us, after me putting up three thousand dollars?” Willie’s hand rested on the butt of his pistol.

  “No, Willie!” said Elton. “He’ll be all right; just give me a minute with him.” Elton hurried to the table where Sammy Boy White sat staring into his shot glass. “Sammy, what are you doing to me?” he pleaded. “I set this whole thing up for you…now you’ve got to get out there and face Shaw or Willie the Devil and the whole Talbert gang are going to be down our shirts!”

  Sammy Boy said flatly, “You set this up for yourself, Elton. All I am is a target you’re hanging in front of Shaw. Whether I live or die doesn’t matter to you.” He picked up the bottle and swallowed a shot.

  “Sammy, you can’t do me this way…these men will kill me!” Elton pleaded.

  Sammy Boy White stood up slowly, adjusting his tied-down holster and slipping his pistol up and down to keep it loose. “Don’t worry, Elton; I ain’t like you—I wouldn’t double-cross a friend. I’ll go face Shaw. Afterward, whatever money you make off this deal is mine…don’t even try to talk about it later. I’m calling it quits with you.”

  “Well,” Willie the Devil called out to Elton from the bar, “is Sammy Boy going out there or not?”

  “Yes, he’s going,” said Elton. “I told you we’ve got nothing to worry about with Sammy Boy White. He’s as game as a prize rooster! Right, Sammy?” Elton started to slap Sammy on his back, but then he thought better of it, seeing the look on the gunman’s face.

  As Sammy Boy started for the bat-wing doors, Willie gave Donald Hornetti a nod and Hornetti quietly slipped over to the stairs to the second floor with his rifle in his hand. Sammy Boy took note of what Hornetti was doing but pretended not to see him. As Sammy Boy stopped and looked out over the bat-wing doors, Donald Hornetti hurried to the front of the building to a small room overlooking the street. Inside the room he stepped up to the window and opened it stealthily.

  At the bat-wing doors, Sammy Boy White called out to Shaw standing in the middle of the street. “Fast Larry Shaw,” he said, “I’m Sammy Boy White from Abilene. I expect you’ve heard of me lately.”

  Shaw had heard his name over the past year, but he made no reply. He stood silent, relaxed but poised, ready to move at the slightest provocation.

  “Well,” Sammy Boy said, seeing Shaw wasn’t going to talk to him, “I want you to know I had nothing to do with killing that man. I’m a straightup gunman, not a backshooter.” As he spoke, he made an upward gesture with his eyes, warning Shaw of Donald Hornetti’s position above them. “I’m coming at you with nothing in mind except to show the world that I’m the fastest gun.” He pushed the doors open and stepped out on the boardwalk. “All I want is a fair fight,” he said. Again he lifted his eyes, trying to warn Shaw.

  But it wasn’t necessary. Shaw had already caught the slow movement of the window. So had Cray Dawson.

  Shaw decided that the young gunman was worthy of some respect. He nodded slightly, letting Sammy Boy know that he had gotten his message. Then he said in low, calm voice, “Yep, I’ve heard of you, Sammy Boy White. You killed Deacon Hurley and Frank Topp. I guess that’s what’s got you thinking you’re ready for me.”

  “I’ve been ready, Fast Larry,” said Sammy Boy.

  Shaw looked around at the people who had begun to gather along the boardwalks and in the doorways. He looked at the faces pressed close to the large, dusty windows of the saloon. “Sometimes I wish these bet makers would strap on a gun and walk out. I believe I’d enjoy shooting a few of them.”

  “They put the odds in your favor, Fast Larry,” said Sammy Boy, as if that should matter to a man like Lawrence Shaw.

  “Mr. White,” said Shaw, “I haven’t been interested in what odds they give me for a mighty long time.” As he spoke he backed up a step and turned quarterwise, inviting Sammy Boy to come down and take a step into the dirt street.

  But instead of stepping down from the boardwalk, Sammy Boy White walked along the storefronts until he reached a distance of twenty-five feet. Then he stepped down and moved slowly to the middle of the street, facing Shaw.

  Across from the saloon Cray Dawson came forward into sight at the edge of the boardwalk and looked deliberately up into Donald Hornetti’s face.

  Hornetti ducked back out of the half-open window and pressed his back against the wall. “Damn it!” he said to himself. “They’ve seen me!” Sweat glistened on his forehead. He tried to force himself to turn back to the window and make his play, but the trembling in his stomach wouldn’t permit it.

  Cray Dawson felt that same trembling inside himself, but he forced himself to stand fast, facing the window, knowing that at any second the man could spring back into position and begin firing. He reminded himself that he was here to watch Shaw’s back. Nothing would stop him from doing what he’d said he would do, even if it meant his life. Keeping a watch on Shaw and Sammy Boy White in his peripheral vision, he stared straight at the half-open window, keeping his gun hand poised an inch from the butt of his Colt.

  “Speaking of odds,” said Shaw, “what’s the odds on you not going through with this? I already see that you’re not the backshooting coward who killed that man a while ago.”

  “The odds on me not going through with this are none,” said Sammy Boy. “It wasn’t right what happened a while ago…but it doesn’t change a thing as far as I’m conce
rned. It was meant fo me and you to meet here. This is fate. The other is just the bad stuff that happens.”

  Shaw nodded slowly. “Then let’s quit talking and get at it. This sun’s too hot for a social gathering.”

  Without another word, and no sooner than Shaw’s words had cleared his lips, Sammy Boy White’s hand came up filled, the big Colt cocked. He was young and fast and hungry to make a name for himself. But before his gun leveled and fired at Lawrence Shaw, the bullet from Shaw’s Colt struck him in the right side of his chest, the impact of it knocking him backward and spinning him so fast that one boot came off his foot and tumbled across the ground.

  Shaw immediately turned his Colt toward the upstairs window above the saloon. Yet even as he did so, he heard Cray Dawson’s Colt explode. With a short scream, Donald Hornetti came forward through the half-open window in a spray of broken glass, crashed onto the overhang above the boardwalk, and rolled off of it into the dirt street. As the man landed in a rise of dust, Shaw turned toward the bat-wing doors as if expecting more trouble. And he was right in his expectation: The bartender, Porter Chapin, came running out with a shotgun in one hand and a pistol in his other, his white apron still around his waist. He let out a loud yell, jumping down into the street, but he didn’t manage to get either gun pointed at Lawrence Shaw before Shaw’s Colt nailed him through the heart and sent him backward, dead on the ground.

  “Jesus!” Cray Dawson whispered, his Colt still smoking in his hand. He wondered for a second if it would ever be safe to holster his gun. He stepped out into the middle of the street a few yards away from Shaw, turning back and forth, taking in every face, every hand, searching every doorway and alley.

  Both men turned quickly toward the sound of two horses pounding away from the direction of the livery barn a block away. Shaw raised his Colt toward the riders, then stopped himself, seeing no guns pointed in his or Dawson’s direction. Cray Dawson had also raised his Colt toward the two fleeing riders. But seeing him ready to fire, Shaw said, “Let them go.”