Fast Guns Out of Texas

by Ralph Cotton

  “I—I hadn’t expected anyone to be so kind as to come console me,” she said. “I know how busy Mr. Caldwell and the sheriff are these days.”

  Had this woman been drinking? If so, that was understandable, Dawson told himself. Having noted her struggle to keep her voice from surrendering to a flood of grief, he said softly, “Yes, ma’am, they are awfully busy.” He saw a lingering redness in her eyes. From tears or alcohol? he asked himself. Perhaps both. He detected the slightest whiskey slur to her words.

  “But it is so considerate of you to come. I know how much Lawrence would have appreciated—” Her words halted in her grief. She fought back a surge of emotion, pulled a delicate kerchief from the long sleeve of her gingham dress, and pressed it to one cheek and then the other as a new welling of tears began to spill.

  Dawson stepped up onto the porch, hat in hand, not wanting to continue with this deception, but knowing of no way to stop betraying the widow Mercer without betraying his friend. Shaw had not asked him into this situation, yet Dawson felt a little angry at both Shaw and himself for having stumbled into it by chance and now finding himself involved. “Ma’am, if there is anything I can do, I want you to know—”

  Now it was his words that failed, as the grief-stricken woman threw herself against him and sobbed with shameless abandon. “Please . . . hold me, Mr. Dawson,” she pleaded in a crushed and broken voice. “I don’t know how . . . much more . . . death and loneliness I can stand!”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Dawson’s arms went around her instinctively. His hat fell from his hand to the porch floor. He clutched her to him as if to absorb the pain from her, feeling her tears through his shirt, warm on his chest. Oh my goodness, he thought, knowing this was wrong, being a party to deceiving her, yet knowing of no way to stop. “Yes, ma’am,” he repeated, this time in a whisper, his hand rising, caressing her hair, soothing, condoling her. Stop it! he admonished himself. Stop it now!

  But he didn’t; he couldn’t.

  “First my husband, James,” she sobbed. “Then, just when I thought I might . . . find happiness again . . . poor Lawrence, killed by some unknown assassin.” She sobbed harder. “All this sorrow . . . I can’t hold it inside. I have to let go of it or . . . I can’t bear such grief.”

  “I know, I know, please,” Dawson whispered, “you can let go. I’m here, I’ll hold you, ma’am—” He continued stroking her hair, struggling hard with himself to keep from blurting out Shaw’s illegitimate demise. “I’ll hold you. . . .”

  Dawson had been right about the whiskey. He caught a strong scent of it now as he continued holding her against him. When her sobbing had ceased, when she had gained control and spent what Dawson judged as a proper amount of time for a woman to stand with her arms wrapped around a man she’d never met, he cleared his throat quietly, as if making sure she was awake. “Ma’am,” he whispered, lowering his head closer to her ear, “maybe you’d like to go inside?”

  She raised her tear-streaked face to his. Her eyes searched Dawson’s for any undisclosed purpose he might have intended. Seeing none, she paused, then said above a whisper, “Yes, of course. You must be weary after the ride from Crabtown. I’ll prepare you a room.”

  “Uh, ma’am, that won’t be . . .” Dawson felt her hand move down his forearm, take his gloved hand, and press it—a bit firmly, he thought—as she turned toward the open door.

  He wanted to tell her that he had not planned on spending the night and wouldn’t think of imposing on her. But he found no chance to say anything as she led him inside the coolness of a well-furnished parlor, saying over her shoulder to him, “I have an elk stew that I prepared earlier, in case I should feel more like eating.” She sighed. “Life must go on, I’ve found.”

  “Yes, ma’am, you’re right,” Dawson said. “I know that’s what Shaw would tell you if he were here.”

  “Yes,” she said, stopping and turning to face him, with a familiarity he found almost unsettling, “I believe he would.” Still holding his gloved hand, she gestured toward a short divan. “Please be seated, and may I offer you a drink, Mr. Dawson?” She only let go of his hand as he turned to seat himself.

  “Yes, ma’am, obliged,” he replied, unused to such bold behavior from a proper lady like the widow Mercer. “I would enjoy a drink.” He settled himself quickly, reminding himself that he had no idea how a proper lady should act in a situation like this, especially one who had lost both a husband and a suitor in the space of a year.

  Seeming to have gotten over her crushing wave of grief for the moment, the young widow said, as if able to read his mind, “Please do not think of me as some broken vulnerable woman, Mr. Dawson.” She offered a coy smile and added in a knowing tone, “Of course, I realize there are men who are only attracted to broken vulnerable women.” He saw the questioning look in her eyes.

  “No, ma’am, I’m glad you’re feeling better.” He was unaccustomed to such candid behavior, and uncertain of how to respond. The woman had a way of moving him along in whatever direction she chose for him. He could see how Shaw and she might have hit it off. He could also see how Shaw must’ve felt that she was strong enough to deal with the news of his death and not let her in on his ruse. She’s tough as iron, he told himself.

  “Good, then,” she said, as if seeing his revelation of her. Touching a hand to the side of her auburn hair, she said, “I’ll get your drink, and even have one with you.” She paused on her way from the parlor and looked back at him. “I hope you don’t think me a terrible person.” She smiled and said without giving him a chance to answer, “I won’t be a moment.”

  “No, ma’am, not terrible at all,” he murmured to himself as she left the room. But that was not completely true. While he did not consider her a terrible person, clearly she had been drinking, allowing that to be the reason for what appeared to him as a bit forward behavior. He heard her footsteps go into the next room and stop, followed by the tinkle of glass as she poured two drink glasses of whiskey and returned with them on a tray beside a tall half-filled decanter.

  “I am by nature a progressive thinking woman, Mr. Dawson,” she said, reentering the parlor with the conversation still going. “It is something my late husband said he admired most in me.” She bowed slightly and set the tray on a low parlor table in front of the divan. She smiled as she picked up both glasses and handed one to him. “And I’m certain I needn’t tell you, dear Lawrence felt the same.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dawson replied, not knowing what else to say. He held his glass up toward her as she tipped hers slightly as if on the verge of making a toast.

  But instead of making a toast, she stood with her glass raised and asked with candor, “Tell me, Mr. Dawson, or, because I feel I already know you, may I call you Cray?” She didn’t wait for his answer, but continued, asking boldly, “How does a handsome Texan like you like his women?”

  Well, now . . . He stared up at her for a moment, not allowing his surprise to show. It was clear enough to him where this conversation was headed. “Ma’am, I think I need to tell you, my intentions are to get on up around Black’s Cut to work my claim. I don’t want to say anything that might mislead you, or cause you any complications. I know you have been through an awful lot, and I—”

  “Yes, that much is understood,” she said, cutting him short somewhat impatiently. Was it impatience or eagerness? he asked himself. While he’d spoken the young widow took a fair drink of whiskey and set the glass down on the tray. She moved around the table and sat down beside him on the divan, loosening a long pearl-tipped hairpin from her hair and shaking out her long silky hair. “But haven’t we both already agreed, ‘Life must go on’?” she asked, her breath quickening, her hand reaching for the top button of her gingham dress and loosening it as she stared intently into Dawson’s eyes.

  “Yes, ma’am, we did,” said Dawson, relaxing, no longer trying as hard to resist the heat her passion evoked in him.

  His mind quickly sorted what information he’d gathered
from her over the past few minutes. Madeline Mercer had a way of seeing to it her bidding was met. Sympathy was the last thing she wanted; her actions had made that clear. Dawson knew he had no right to question the validity of her grief. Yet her tears had put her right into his arms on the front porch; from there it had only been a short step to her parlor, and from there to this, he told himself, seeing her fingers at work on the rest of the buttons down the front of her dress.

  “I think Lawrence would just have to understand, don’t you, Cray?” she asked in a breathy whisper. Without having to remind himself of where Shaw might be or what he might be up to this very moment, and of what little regard he’d given this woman when he’d made his plan, Dawson replied, “Yes, ma’am, I think he’d have to.”

  Chapter 7

  Rodney Dolan rode up to a ragged tent riddled with bullet holes sitting on a narrow back trail leading into Crabtown. He stepped down from his horse and hitched it beside his partners’ horses, spinning the reins around an iron bar tied down between two cedar posts. On the front of the sagging tent a crudely painted sign read SNAKE EYES SALOON & GAMING PARLOR—REAL LIVE WOMEN! Alongside the tent a line of drunken miners stood relieving themselves into a muddy ditch. Dolan spat and walked into the open tent flap.

  At the far end of a makeshift bar—three beer-soaked planks resting on two empty whiskey barrels—Shears and Kuntz gestured him toward them, Kuntz wagging a whiskey bottle back and forth like a railroad lantern.

  “Where the hell is he?” Shears asked, looking past the approaching Dolan as he walked across the packed dirt floor toward them.

  “He still couldn’t keep his mouth shut,” Dolan said, shaking his head in exasperation. “The sheriff added another day.” He snatched the bottle from Kuntz’s hand, threw back a swig of red-rye, and ran a hand across his mouth.

  “Jesus, Rod—I mean, Rex,” Shears said, correcting himself quickly, “it’s been four days! What does he keep saying to cause all this?” He took the bottle from Dolan, poured himself a shot glass full of whiskey, then shoved the bottle to Kuntz.

  “I don’t know.” Dolan shook his head again. “I expect if we’re going to wait for him to keep his mouth shut, we could be in this shit-hole for a long time.”

  “Are we going to have to bust him out?” Kuntz asked seriously.

  “Bust him out?” Dolan gave him a flat stare. “Do you want to be known for setting free an idiot? I don’t. Besides, what makes you think we ought to be riding with a man who can’t keep his mouth shut? Boys, this is the outlaw trail we’re on. This is a dog-eat-dog life we’ve chosen. A man needs to know who he can count on and who he can’t. I’m seeing a side of Madden Peru I don’t like much. Can’t keep his mouth shut? What the hell is wrong with this fool?”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as call the man a fool or an idiot,” said Shears, a bit indignantly. “We’ve been through some tight situations together.”

  “Yeah,” Dolan said cynically, “having some sod-buster firing a shotgun at us in the darkness whilst we ride off on his horse? Is that the sort of tight situation you’re talking about? ’Cause if it is, I’ve got a girl cousin in Ohio could take his place most any time . . . and she’d not say a word if somebody drove a nail in her forehead.”

  “What’s got you so struck down on Peru?” Kuntz asked, passing him the bottle after filling his shot glass.

  Letting out a tense breath, Dolan calmed down some and said, “Hell, I don’t know.” He stepped up against the bar and took a clean shot glass the bartender placed in front of him. “I can’t get over how little respect he was shown by the sheriff and the barber.”

  “A man kills the fastest gun, he right then becomes the fastest gun,” said Shears, looking puzzled by the whole affair. “It’s always been that way, it’s always going to be that way. Before guns, it was whoever swung the fastest sword—chopped somebody in half. Whoever threw the fastest rock, bashed somebody’s head in.” He shrugged in bewilderment. “What’s gone wrong here?”

  Dolan stared at the plank bar top in brooding contemplation, his hand wrapped tightly around his whiskey glass. “If you coulda just seen the look on the sheriff’s face . . . the barber’s too. They looked at Peru and me both like we were nothing but ragged-assed trash! I know what went through their minds—I saw it in their eyes. They thought, hell, there’s no way this tramp could have killed Fast Larry Shaw. To tell you the truth, I have a hard time believing it myself. Are we mistaken about how this all happened? Or about how fast Peru is? Am I missing something here?”

  Kuntz shrugged, considering it, and said, “No, he’s fast sure enough. And he killed Shaw, deader than hell. That much is true. We all three saw him do it. Shaw caught us stealing his string of horses alongside the trail whilst he took himself a little siesta. Remember how Peru turned facing him?”

  “Maybe Shaw was blind drunk,” Dolan speculated.

  “Huh-uh, Shaw wasn’t drunk,” Shears reminded him. “Peru is just fast.”

  “Yeah,” said Kuntz. “Shaw went for his gun. None of us three was fast enough to stop him, I’ll admit it.”

  “But Peru stopped him,” said Shears. “Stopped him cold! One shot through the heart before Shaw even cleared leather. Let’s not forget it.”

  “Maybe he got lucky,” said Dolan, still doubting Peru now that things hadn’t turned out the way they had all expected.

  “Lucky?” said Kuntz. “I wish to hell I had that kind of luck going for me. Peru is fast as lightning, there’s no way around it.”

  “Don’t forget he killed those two Ute horse traders when they came gunning for him,” Shears put in.

  “They both had rifles,” said Dolan. “It ain’t quite the same as outdrawing and burning a man down face-to-face, with a six-shooter, the way he did Shaw.” He paused, then added, “Yeah, there’s no denying Peru is fast. But why did he let that sheriff and the barber dog him down, haul him off to the jail? His trouble is getting people to take him serious.”

  “I don’t know why he let that happen,” said Shears, shaking his head. “I guess it all caught him by surprise, things not going the way he thought they would.”

  “All right, then,” said Kuntz, tired of all the speculation, “if we ain’t going to bust him out, and he can’t shut up long enough to get out on his own, what are we going to do, just leave him there to rot ’cause of his big mouth?”

  “I say we only give him one more day,” said Dolan. “I’ll visit him again in the morning. If he ain’t getting out then, that’ll do it for me. I’ve got no more time to waste on the man, fast gun or not.”

  When Sheriff Foley awakened before daylight, he stood up from his bed against the back wall of the jail, lit an oil lamp, and walked toward the potbellied stove where he had banked a bed of coals the night before. On his way past Madden Peru’s cell he saw the young outlaw sitting on the side of his cot, staring contemplatively, his hands folded beneath his chin as if he was in prayer. “Trouble sleeping, Peru?” Foley asked, seeing the glint of the oil lamp in his dark eyes. “Or just an early riser like me?”

  Without replying to the question, Peru said, “Sheriff, can I ask you a question?”

  “Yep, so long as it’s not more of your railing about how wrongly you’ve been treated,” Foley replied.

  “Naw, nothing like that,” said Peru. “When the barber was here yesterday, he said a man like Lawrence Shaw had respect everywhere he went. Said it had nothing to do with being a fast gun. Said that Shaw would have gotten respect even if he’d never fired a gun. Do you believe that?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Foley, setting the oil lamp down. He picked up a short poker and stirred up the bed of glowing coals until a flame began licking up. “I’ve seen it in many a man.”

  “How does a fellow get that way?” Peru asked, almost humbly.

  “Hmm. I don’t know.” Foley thought about it some more as he reached down into a wood pile beside the stove, picked up a handful of kindling, and laid it into the growing flames. “It’
s too easy to just say some fellows are born with it and some ain’t,” he offered at length. “These days there’s all sorts of speculation as to why a person does what he does. Folks of learning say it all has to do with how a fellow’s raised . . . the kind of man his pa was, even his grandpa . . . the kind of character that’s been instilled in him . . . all such as that.”

  “Makes respect sound like something handed down,” said Peru, seeming to consider the sheriff’s words closely.

  “I reckon it sounds like it,” said Foley, “but there’s more to it.” He shoved some small lengths of fire-wood into the flames and closed the iron stove door. “Why do you ask?” He picked up the coffeepot from atop the stove and shook it slightly.

  “I never knew my pa,” said Peru, applying Foley’s words to himself, “so I reckon I don’t know what I got from him, respectwise, or any other wise.” He sighed in a despondent manner. “I reckon I never got much of anything from anybody . . . nothing fit to have anyway.”

  Foley had stepped over, coffeepot in hand, to a wooden water bucket sitting against the wall beside the stove. He’d taken a dipper from a peg on the wall and started to dip water into the pot to wash out last night’s grinds. But upon hearing Peru’s words, Foley stopped and looked over at him through the dim circle of lamplight. “Been doing some soul-searching, have yas?” he asked.

  “So what if I have? Anything wrong with it?” Peru came back quickly, sounding defensive.

  “No, nothing at all wrong with it,” said Foley. He busied himself cleaning the coffeepot and filling it with fresh water. “Jail’s one of the best places I know of for a man to take a good look at himself.” He stepped over and set the pot atop the stove. He felt the heat rise slowly, seeing a flick of red orange through a door vent. “I believe a jail cell gets more conversions than a church pew, the truth be known.” He gave Peru a guarded look. “That is, if conversion is what a man’s really looking for.”