Gunman's Song

by Ralph Cotton

  Dawson replied even as he lowered his Colt slightly, “I’d bet anything they were in on this in some way.”

  “So would I,” said Shaw. “But if they’re part of Talbert’s gang, letting them go will make sure he hears about what happened here.” He lowered his Colt but kept it in his hand, replacing his spent cartridges, watching Willie the Devil and Elton Minton ride away in a rise of thick dust.

  Sheriff Neff appeared from within the crowd of onlookers on the boardwalk and hurried over to where Sammy Boy White lay sprawled on the ground. “This one is still alive!” he shouted. “Somebody go get Doc Phelps; tell him to hurry it up!”

  Cray Dawson saw Lawrence Shaw turn his attention to where Sammy Boy White lay in the dirt, the sheriff squatting down over him. The look in Shaw’s eyes and the gun in his hand caused Dawson to say, “No, Shaw, don’t do it.”

  But Shaw walked over to Sammy Boy White without acknowledging Dawson, his pistol still in his hand. Seeing Sammy Boy’s gun lying close to his outstretched hand, Shaw nudged it away with his boot toe, then reached down and picked it up and shoved it down into his belt. “Mr. White,” he said, “can you hear me?” His pistol pointed down at Sammy Boy, but without conviction.

  Sammy Boy White strained his face and opened his eyes slightly. “I-I hear you,” he said, putting forth much effort, blood welling up around his wound and running in a steady stream down to the dirt.

  “Then listen to me close,” said Shaw. “You showed honor, telling me about the man above the saloon. That’s why you’re still alive. I never leave a man breathing who might come back on me someday.” Shaw’s Colt tensed slightly as he asked in a firm tone, “You’re not going to be something I’ll live to regret, are you?”

  Sheriff Neff cut in, saying to anyone listening, “Has anybody gone to get the doctor? This man is bleeding bad!”

  “I can’t…promise nothing,” Sammy Boy said, straining for the words. “I ain’t a liar. I want the name awfully bad.”

  “Yeah.” Shaw shook his head. “At least you’re honest about it.”

  “Shaw, don’t!” shouted Cray Dawson, seeing Shaw’s grip tighten around the Colt’s handle.

  Sheriff Neff saw it too, and at the sound of Dawson shouting, he ducked back away from Sammy Boy White.

  But Shaw didn’t shoot. Instead he drew a deep breath, relaxed his gun hand, and took a step back. “You were fast, Mr. White, as fast as any I’ve seen. You’d be wise to satisfy yourself with that and leave things as they are between us. There’s more to life than being fast with a gun.”

  “Dang it, where’s that doctor?” Sheriff Neff said under his breath.

  “I want what…you’ve got, Shaw,” said Sammy Boy, struggling harder for his words as an old doctor and a young boy came running from the far end of the street, the doctor carrying a small black bag and holding a hand on his bowler to keep it from flying off his head.

  “You only want the things you can see, Mr. White,” said Shaw. “If that’s all there is to you, you’d be better off if I killed you.” Shaw turned and walked to the Big Spur Saloon. Cray Dawson fell into step behind him, still watching both sides of the street.

  While the two stepped up onto the boardwalk out front of the Big Spur, the dust left behind by Willie the Devil and Elton Minton still hung in the air at the far end of town. Willie and Elton didn’t even slow their horses until they reached a fork in the old Northern Trail five miles out of Eagle Pass. When Elton finally brought his horse to a halt, Willie the Devil looked back at him, then circled his horse and came riding back, drawing his pistol from his holster. “I told you we ain’t stopping! Now get that horse in front of me where I can keep an eye on yas!”

  “Willie,” said Elton, “this horse is going to drop dead beneath me if I don’t rest him for a while!”

  Willie pointed the pistol at Elton. “You’re going to be dropping dead if you don’t come on and do like I tell you!”

  Elton raised a hand toward Willie as if holding him back. “Please, Willie. This was a bad idea, me coming with you…I’m only going to slow you down. Why is this so important to you, anyway? We made our play in Eagle Pass. It didn’t work out the way we wanted it to. So what? We still made some money! You took the whole cash box!”

  With his free hand, Willie the Devil patted the tin cash box he held on his lap. “Oh, yeah, we made some money…we took it all, once I saw that loco bartender was more interested in being a big gun than he was in watching the betting money.” Willie managed a slight laugh that soon disappeared, leaving him with a dark, solemn expression. “But the money was only part of it. I meant for Fast Larry Shaw to be laying dead in the street back there. Thanks to your slow-as-hell friend Sammy Boy White, I’ve got to go tell Barton Talbert how his brother Sidlow got shot up like a target board and I didn’t kill the man who did it!” As he spoke Willie’s voice grew louder until when he’d finished he seemed on the verge of losing his temper. “I’ve never seen anything get so messed up as this! I ought to kill you and be done with it!”

  “Willie, please,” Elton pleaded, “you’ve got all the money, yours and mine. Keep it; just let me go!”

  “Huh-uh,” said Willie, “you still owe me. You promised me that Sammy Boy was going to kill Shaw. When you make a promise to the Devil, you better be prepared to make good on it.”

  “Willie, I’m sorry,” said Elton. “There’s no way I can make it up to you. I thought Sammy Boy would kill him cold. Okay, I was wrong. We still made our money, just like you said we would betting both ways. What more do you want from me?”

  “I want your soul, you sorry scarecrow son of a bitch,” Willie hissed, gesturing Elton forward with his pistol barrel. “Now get yourself moving.”

  Chapter 9

  Inside the Big Spur Saloon, Lawrence Shaw walked straight across the floor toward the bar with all eyes on him. Jedson Caldwell slipped in beside Cray Dawson and said, “I feel responsible for poor Dillard Frome. I couldn’t get away, but I told him to run for it and go warn Shaw.”

  “It wasn’t your fault, Caldwell,” said Dawson. “You did the best you could at the time. Nobody is blaming you.”

  “Thanks,” said Caldwell. “Does he feel the same way?” He nodded at Lawrence Shaw’s back as Shaw stopped at the bar.

  “He’s not blaming you either,” said Dawson, “so put it out of your mind.”

  When Porter Chapin had grabbed up the pistol and shotgun earlier and run out the front door to make a play for Shaw, the owner, Max Renner, had been left to tend bar for himself. He was taking off his suit coat and hanging it on a peg when Shaw and Cray Dawson came in. He wore a worried look as he ran a hand across his brow and rolled up his shirtsleeves as Shaw, Dawson, and Caldwell stood at the bar. “What will it be, Mr. Shaw?” he asked.

  Without answering, Shaw reached forward, took three clean shot glasses from along the inside edge of the bar top, and set one beside him and one in front of him. He reached sidelong, picked up a half-full bottle of rye, and poured both glasses full.

  Seeing Shaw raise the glass to his lips, Cray Dawson said, “But Shaw, I thought you said you weren’t going to drink—” He cut his words short, seeing the look Shaw gave him above the rim of the shot glass.

  “Drink up,” Shaw said gruffly, nodding at the glassful of rye he’d poured for Cray Dawson.

  “By the way, those drinks are on the house,” Max Renner said nervously. Getting no response from Shaw other than a flat stare, he went on to say, “As a matter of fact, so are the rest of your drinks, Mr. Shaw.” He cleared his throat, then added as an afterthought, “for both you and your friend here, that is.” He picked up the bottle in front of Shaw and refilled the shot glass. “In fact, anything we have here is on the house.”

  “Much obliged,” Shaw said grudgingly, giving him the same flat stare.

  Max Renner summoned two barroom girls from among the onlookers. “Suzette, you and Lizzy get over here…I want you to meet Mr. Shaw and his friend!” He ignored Jedson Caldw
ell.

  Feeling out of place and unwelcome, Caldwell said to Dawson standing beside him, “I think I’ll go see if my services are needed with the dead.” He slipped away and out the front door, avoiding the eyes that followed him through the bat-wing doors.

  “Pour me a beer,” said Shaw to the bar owner, paying no attention to the two young women who approached him and Dawson warily.

  “Yes, sir!” said Max Renner, hurriedly hooking a clean mug and sticking it under the long tap handle. “I suppose you want to know who was behind all the betting going on? Well, it was Willie Devlin and Sammy Boy’s friend, Elton Minton. Them two got it going. Everybody else just followed their lead. There was no offense intended. In fact, I don’t mind telling you, I had my money on you.”

  “I’m used to it,” Shaw said flatly.

  “Not that it matters,” said the bar owner, “since those two took the cash box from under the bar and left with all of it anyway.”

  As the bar owner finished filling the mug, Shaw asked, “What got into that bartender of yours?”

  “Beats me, Mr. Shaw,” said Max Renner. “I hope you don’t hold that against my establishment. Porter was one of those proud, restless kinds…never got the kind of respect he thought he deserved. He was pretty good with a gun.” He shrugged, then added, “Well, until today anyway. I reckon he must have seen you as a chance to get ahead, and he couldn’t stand to let the opportunity pass him by.” He slid the fresh, foamy mug of beer over in front of Shaw.

  “Then here’s to him,” said Shaw. He raised the mug, took a long, deep gulp, then set it down, shoved it away from him, and wiped a hand across his lips. He reached into his pocket, took out a bill without checking it, and shoved it down into the bodice of the bar girl standing nearest him. “See to it that my friend here gets whatever suits him,” he said. Then he turned and headed for the doors.

  The two girls giggled and moved over beside Cray Dawson, one on either side, pressing themselves against him. “Well, Lizzy,” said Suzette, “it looks like we’re going to have to share this big, handsome man.”

  “Excuse me, ladies,” said Dawson, watching Shaw leave. He squeezed from between the two and walked outside to the boardwalk. “Shaw, wait up,” he said, catching up to him. “What I started to say back there about you drinking…I had no right to mention it.”

  “It’s all right,” said Shaw, still walking toward the Desert Flower. “I had no intention of standing there drinking…I told you I’ve quit. I suppose I just needed one to calm my belly.”

  “Calm your belly?” said Dawson. “It looked to me like you were the only person in town who was calm through the whole thing. You mean to tell me you were rattled, facing Sammy Boy White?”

  “No,” said Shaw, “I wasn’t rattled. But I’d be lying to say that killing doesn’t leave me sick inside. Whiskey settles it, most times.” He looked at Dawson. “What about you? Didn’t it bother you, shooting that man in the window?”

  Cray Dawson considered it for a moment, then said, “Yes, it did bother me. I didn’t realize it at the time. But now that I think about it, something felt out of place inside me. The shot of whiskey got rid of it—sort of, anyway.”

  “Whiskey and gunfighting go together,” said Shaw.

  “I’ve noticed that,” said Dawson.

  “Be careful you don’t get caught up in either one,” said Shaw. “One seems to lead to the other.”

  “I’ve noticed that too,” said Dawson, seeing three men carrying Porter Chapin and three others carrying Donald Hornetti from the street toward the barbershop. Jedson Caldwell tagged along carrying Donald Hornetti’s hat. “I don’t think I’ll ever have to worry about getting caught up in this.”

  They walked back to the Desert Flower Inn and stood on the porch for a moment, looking back along the street toward the Big Spur Saloon. Foot traffic had started back along the boardwalks. Buggies and horseback riders began to move back and forth across the spot where Donald Hornetti and Porter Chapin had died, and where Sammy Boy had lain bleeding into the dirt until townsmen had helped carry him back to the doctor’s office. “It’s like nothing ever happened out there,” said Cray Dawson.

  “That’s how long it lasts,” said Shaw, nodding. “Some folks might talk about it for a while, long enough to help the news spread and make a man feel important. But it’s over that quick; the rest is just waiting for the next time, being ready for it. Some people think you’re special for being able to kill a man quicker than a rattlesnake. Hell, it takes nothing more than a willingness to do it.”

  “You let Sammy Boy live,” said Cray Dawson. “I thought you were going to kill him. You could have and nobody would have tried to stop you. I don’t think you’re as heartless and cold-blooded as you make out to be.”

  “How do you know I didn’t mean to let him live in the first place?” Shaw asked quietly. “How do you know I wasn’t saying the rest just to make him understand something?”

  “I don’t know,” said Cray Dawson. “I only know that this is the first time I’ve seen you shoot a man and him still be breathing afterward. If you were only acting like you wanted to finish him off, you sure convinced me.”

  Shaw offered a tired smile. “Well, he’s alive. I just hope I don’t have to kill him down the road somewhere.”

  Cray Dawson shook his head slightly. “Kill him now…or kill him down the road.” Dawson seemed overwhelmed by the narrow alternatives in Lawrence Shaw’s way of life. “You’re a better man than to live like this,” he said. “How do you stand it?”

  “I got caught up in it early, and I got used to it. You remember how it was when we were kids, don’t you?” Shaw said.

  “Yeah, I remember,” said Dawson. “You always was the one wanting to be recognized. The one who broke up the fight and beat up the bully if he happened to be picking on somebody smaller than himself. Most of us thought that someday you might become a lawman. You had the makings for it.”

  “Yeah,” said Shaw, still looking back along the street. “I might still be someday, who knows? The thing is, there’s little difference between being a gunman and wearing a badge. Wearing the badge just makes it more respectable. If a sheriff would ever admit it to you, he always wanted to be the fastest gun.” He smiled thinly. “If a gunman ever admitted it, he’d tell you he always thought of wearing one of them tin badges.” He turned and looked at Cray Dawson more closely. “But there’s always a shade of difference between the two…that small thing that always keeps one from being the other. Some gunmen try being a lawman. Most times it gets them killed. I don’t fool myself much anymore. I’ve lived a gunman…I expect I’ll die a gunman.”

  “You can change it if you want to, Lawrence,” said Dawson.

  “Yeah, I can change it,” said Shaw. “That’s what I was thinking about the day I got the telegraph about Rosa. That’s also the day I put any such notion out of my mind.” He looked back along the street. “We’ll head out come morning. See where these two are going. Their dust says they’re headed north. They won’t be hard to follow. As soon as they make contact with Barton Talbert he’ll be back looking for me, if there’s any sand in him at all. With any luck maybe we can end this thing soon.”

  “Maybe,” said Cray Dawson, “but I’m not counting on it.”

  Della Starks had made herself scarce during the trouble in the street. Nor did she appear when Shaw and Dawson had come down from their rooms for dinner. In a cool dining room that spent most of the day in the shade of a large ancient oak, Dawson and Shaw joined two men and a young woman who were also guests at the Desert Flower. Albert and Fannie Jenkins were busily laying the meal out on a long wooden table. The five diners stood behind their ladder-backed chairs for a moment until a tall man wearing a neatly groomed hairpiece and a fashionable plaid suit said with a note of excitement in his voice, “Allow me to begin the introductions. I am Otto Watts from Pennsylvania. This is my dear daughter, Ladelphia, who accompanies me on my travels west.”

  Sh
aw, Dawson, and the other guest nodded politely at the man and his daughter. Otto Watts swept a hand toward his daughter as if presenting her as a figure of royalty. She was a finely sculpted young woman with long blond hair. She smiled warmly and gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. Otto Watts turned a gaze to the other guest, a lean, hard-boned elderly man with what looked like the heat of a century’s worth of high plains burned deep into his furrowed, weathered skin. “I’m Thomas Ledham. I’m a cattle broker from up Colorado way,” the old man said with a trace of a toothless lisp. He wore a no-nonsense suit coat, but one that plainly had taken a good beating to get the trail dust out of it. A pearlwhite mustache mantled his sunken upper lip. The bone handle of a Walker-style Colt stood in his belt in the center of his concave stomach.

  Cray Dawson introduced himself, then looked toward Lawrence Shaw, standing to his left. Shaw started to introduce himself, but Otto Watts interrupted him, saying, “Of course we all know who you are, Mr. Shaw. And might I say that it is indeed an honor meeting you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Watts,” Shaw said humbly. “Now let’s all take a seat and enjoy our dinner.”

  They sat down, Shaw and Dawson both noticing the empty place settings and chairs around the large dinner table. When Shaw asked about Della, all the Jenkinses said was that she was busy going over the legal documents and account ledger of the Desert Flower and did not wish to be disturbed. “She sends her regards,” said Albert as he laid down a wide wooden bowl filled with chilled fruits and vegetables.

  Shaw and Dawson just looked at each other, neither one commenting on Della’s behavior as they watched Fannie Jenkins make two trips in from the kitchen out back, bringing in first of all a wide platter full of mesquite-charred steaks, followed by a large platter filled with racks of blackened beef ribs. “Well, then,” said Shaw, sipping cold water from a long-stemmed glass, “we’re disappointed, but we’ll just have to do the best we can without her.”