by Ralph Cotton
“Gawddamn you! I’ll kill you!” Holley tried to shout. Yet he knew that his greatest effort had only produced a diminished effect. He made his hardest grab for the gun in her hand, but the move was only a weak and awkward groping in the air.
“No, no, it’s you who’ve been killed,” Clarity corrected him, talking to him as if he were an injured child. She only had to take a short calm step backward to avoid him. His bloody fingers left four long red streaks down her shin. “There, you see,” she said, “there’s nothing you can do. Lie still, it will be much easier for you.”
“Of all . . . damn things . . .” Holley melted onto the bedroll on all fours, blood pouring steadily but lessening. In a moment his arms collapsed, dropping his front half to the blood-soaked blanket, but leaving his hairy rear end still raised and glimmering in the firelight.
“There, all done,” Clarity said, lowering the gun. She stooped and picked up the bloody straight razor she’d taken from Dawson’s personal belongings before leaving the shack. Using her thumb and finger she laid the razor over by the coffeepot. Her eyes went to Holley’s face as he made a last gurgling coughing sound. But then, seeing his wide blank eyes staring out across the ground, his cheek pressed to the wet blanket, she let out a breath, stood up, and walked to where her coat lay in the dirt.
As she bent down to pick up the coat, she heard the sound of hooves breaking through the brush toward the campsite, and stood up quickly, holding the coat bundled in front of her. “Cra—Cray!” she said, startled, seeing Dawson step into the firelight, gun in hand, leading Arden’s sorrel mule behind him.
“Oh no,” Dawson said, looking past Clarity and at Holley’s naked body, his rear end still up. “That’s what I was afraid of.” He turned toward Clarity, seeing the gun in her hand, and said without pointing his Colt at her, “Lay the gun on the ground.”
“Sure.” She shrugged. “I wasn’t aiming it at you. I only grabbed it to keep him from getting to it and killing me.” She let the gun fall to the ground and held the bundled coat in front of her. “Your razor is lying over there,” she said, as if to be helpful.
“You didn’t have to do this, Clarity,” Dawson said, his Colt slumping in his hand. “We would have talked this thing out and done something.”
“Oh? What, pray tell?” she asked coolly. “We know what he would do once he got to Black’s Cut. He told me as much before he died.” She pointed toward Dawson’s horse standing to the side in the firelight. “May I get my clothes? It’s dreadful cold, like this.” She nodded down at her nakedness.
“Yes, get your clothes on,” Dawson said. Seeing the blood-streaked finger trails down her leg as she walked toward the horse, he asked, “Were you . . . I mean the two of you . . . ?”
“Yes, we were,” she said matter-of-factly, “but only for a moment, just until I got him where I wanted him. It was necessary.”
Dawson just stared at her in silence. She dropped the coat, opened the saddlebags, and took out her dress and undergarments. She took the canteen from the saddle horn, uncapped it, and began washing blood from her legs. “We both knew this had to be done, Cray,” she said, looking at him with soft gentle eyes as she dressed herself. “Please don’t think ill of me.”
Looking over at his bloody razor, Dawson shook his head and said, “Clarity, I don’t know what to say. You cut Palmer and Willie.”
“Yes, after they killed poor Violet and were going to kill me next,” she said with resolve.
“Now this bounty hunter,” Dawson said, gesturing toward Holley’s raised rear end.
“Yes, who would have gladly handed us all three over to Giddis Black,” Clarity said in her defense, “and who would have gladly ridden back and killed us all three in our sleep if Giddis asked him to—”
Dawson raised a hand toward her, cutting her off. “I know you cut Palmer and Willie in self-defense,” he said. “And I can’t blame you for killing Holley. It’s just—just going to take me a minute to get used to what you’ve done here.” As he spoke, he stepped over, reached out with his raised boot, and gave Holley’s naked behind a nudge, sending him over onto his side.
“I know you’re a gunman, Cray,” Clarity said. “Is what I do with a razor any different than what you do with a gun?”
“No, it’s not,” Dawson said without having to hesitate or consider the question. “But I try to avoid trouble as much as I can. I only use my gun when I have to. Even then it’s not something I’m proud of.”
“Listen to you,” Clarity said, bemused. “Do you think I go around every day, just slicing and slashing anyone I get the urge to?”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Dawson, realizing he’d said the wrong thing.
“Don’t you think I try to avoid doing something like this? This is ghastly, and it’s not something I’m proud of doing.” Having dressed as she talked, she’d moved close to him and pressed herself against his chest. “Please hold me, Cray,” she whispered. His arms went around her. “No, I’m not proud of myself,” she whispered, shaking her head. “But he would have come back, or Giddis’s men would have come back. Either way, that would have been the end of us together, and I don’t want us to end.” She paused, snuggling against him. “I’ll kill anybody who tries to come between us.”
Jesus . . . Dawson looked at the blood sprayed all over the ground, the blanket, the saddle. He looked at the pale bloodless corpse with the side of its throat gashed open. He wanted to say something, but this was not the time or the place. He thought of Madeline Mercer, alone, awaiting his return. He’d mentioned to Clarity that he had someone waiting for him. He’d mentioned that she was a widow who lived off a trail leading into Crabtown. He had not said her name. But now he regretted mentioning her at all.
“Come on,” Dawson said softly, pulling gently away from her. “Let’s get Holley out of sight. We need to straighten things up and get out of here.”
Chapter 18
When Dawson and Clarity had pulled the bounty hunter’s trousers onto his limp body, Dawson tied a rope from his ankles to the sorrel mule’s saddle and dragged the body deep into a stand of pine. He folded the man’s arms on his chest, closed his startled eyes, and laid his wide-brimmed hat over his pale bloodless face.
Hat in hand, Dawson stood restlessly over Holley for a moment, as if trying to think of the right words. Finally, he looked up at the dark starry sky at a loss and shook his head. “Lord, I don’t know what to say about this one,” he murmured.
Back at the campsite, Clarity had wiped the razor on the bloody blanket and dragged the blanket out of sight into thick surrounding brush. She wiped off the saddle with Holley’s riding duster. Then she tossed the saddle onto Holley’s horse and prepared the animal for the trail. She gathered the coffeepot and everything else lying about, wrapped them into the duster, and carried it out into the brush as well. “And that’s that,” she said to herself, satisfied. She shoved Holley’s Winchester down into the saddle boot and hid his big black-handled six-shooter up under her coat.
“We’re all ready to go,” she said, standing beside the fire when Dawson returned with the mule. She stepped over to him, stuck the folded razor down into his shirt pocket, and patted his chest. “Don’t forget to give it a good washing before you use it again.”
“I won’t,” said Dawson, looking down at his pocket. He gave the camp a good once-over, noting Holley’s rifle in the saddle boot, yet realizing that the bounty hunter’s big Remington was nowhere to be seen. But without mentioning it he turned to Clarity and said, “Mount up. I’ll kill the fire and be right behind you.”
Before turning to step up into the saddle, she asked with a serious expression, “You’re not going to stay angry with me, are you?”
“No,” Dawson said sincerely, “I’m not angry with you. I suppose you did what we all knew had to be done.”
She smiled. “Good, I don’t want you to be angry. I want to make you happy, Cray . . . happier than you’ve ever been.”
D
awson only nodded, not knowing what to say. He watched her step into the saddle and turn the horse to the trail. Then he put out the fire, stepped into his saddle, and followed her, leading Arden’s mule behind him.
They rode in grim silence back to the mine shack, where upon seeing them in the moonlight, Arden came limping at a trot, a lantern glowing in his hand. “It’s about damn time the two of yas returned,” he called out, sounding cross with worry. “Are you both all right? I heard no gunfire.” He looked curiously at Holley’s horse, the bounty hunter’s rifle in the saddle boot.
“We’re all right,” Dawson said. He stepped down from his saddle and helped Clarity down from hers. “There wasn’t a shot fired,” he added. Nodding toward the shack, he said to Clarity, “Why don’t you go inside and get some rest? Cap and I will see to the animals.”
“I killed him, Cap,” Clarity said flatly.
“You killed him?” The old seaman looked back and forth between them.
“Yes, I killed him,” said Clarity. “I’m telling you myself, so no one else will have to.” She looked at Cray, then turned and walked toward the shack.
No sooner had she walked out of hearing range, than Arden said quietly, rubbing the muzzle of Holly’s horse, “No matter who killed him, I’ll rest easier knowing the swine is dead.” He took on a look of uncertainty and asked, “He is dead, isn’t he? You’re sure of it?”
“Yes, I’m sure of it,” said Dawson. “If you’d seen the gash in his throat . . .” He shook his head, letting his words trail.
“Aye,” said Arden as if in reflection. “I’ve always thought this gal would be a wildcat if a body pushed her too hard. You can bet that Palmer and Willie weren’t the first ones she ever commenced slicing on. She must’ve kept her past a secret even from Giddis and his men.”
Dawson thought about it, then said, “If Palmer and Willie weren’t the first ones she ever cut, I wonder if Holley was the first one she ever killed.”
“I wouldn’t have any idea,” said Arden, rubbing his beard-stubbled chin as they turned the animals and led them toward the lean-to. “Does that trouble you, knowing the woman you’re sharing a bed with is capable of killing?”
Dawson thought about the folded razor in his shirt pocket, and about the big Colt standing holstered on his hip. “I suppose it shouldn’t, but yes, it does trouble me, some.”
“Is the silent fury of the cold steel any less civilized than the blast of a gunshot?” Arden asked.
“I don’t know what it is,” said Dawson, thinking about the men who had fallen to the dirt in his gun sights. “Maybe it’s just the way she went about it.” He pictured Holley’s naked behind stuck up in the air, his gaping mouth and startled eyes lying on the blood-soaked blanket.
“Oh? And how did she go about it?” Arden asked.
“Never mind,” said Dawson. “If she wants to tell you, she will. It’s not my place to talk about it.”
But as if Dawson’s comment alone was enough to evoke an image of how Clarity had set up the bounty hunter before killing him, Arden said, “Ah, I see. A man can spend a restless night, realizing how easy it is for the woman beside him to end his song with a simple flick of the wrist.”
“Yes.” Dawson looked up at the eastern sky where a thin wreath of silver dawn crept upward among hill and mountain peaks. “I believe I’ve just had such a night.”
Arden grinned knowingly, dropping his sorrel mule’s saddle and pushing the animal into its stall. “Aye,” he said, “and the night’s not over yet.”
“It is for me,” said Dawson, loosening the cinch on his horse and swinging the saddle from its back.
When they’d finished with the animals and walked to the shack, Dawson didn’t undress and go to bed, where Clarity lay asleep in his other shirt. Instead, he looked at the pan of pinkish bloody water she’d used to wash herself. After a moment he picked it up, walked it out onto the porch, and slung it away. When he walked back inside, he stood looking into the low flames of the open hearth, then said to Arden, who lay on his bedroll propped on an elbow smoking his pipe, “It’s almost time for me to get to the diggings. I think I’ll start early.”
“Might I finish with my briar and go with you?” Arden asked, almost knowing the answer before it came from Dawson.
“No, you get some shut-eye,” Dawson replied. “I need to do some digging alone this morning.”
Clarity awakened later than usual after having spent much of the night on horseback. Standing from the bed, she pulled the loose shirt around her and looked at the small nightstand, noting that the pan of wash water had been moved. She looked all around and, seeing that both Dawson and Arden were not in the shack, she stooped down and ran her hand under the bed, making sure the Remington she’d taken from the bounty hunter was still there where she’d put it.
Her fingers touched the gun butt. Satisfied, she stood, walked to the small front window, and looked out toward the mine entrance, then over to the spill where Dawson stood picking through a sled load of rocks, separating the keepers from the pile. All right, she told herself, seeing him toss a glance up toward the shack, last night had been rough. But this was a new day. It was time for her to walk down and see where they stood. She combed her fingers through her hair. Here goes . . .
Outside, emptying the sled, Dawson saw Clarity step down from the porch and walk toward him, her folded arms holding the shirt closed across her breasts. He had started to take the mule and the sled back to the mine, but he waited for her to reach him before nudging the mule forward with a tap of the rope. “Morning,” he said, not wanting to seem affected by what had happened the night before.
“Morning,” she said. She knew better from the way he only looked at her in passing, as if not wanting his eyes to reveal his thoughts.
“My goodness,” she said, holding the shirt closed tightly against the coolness of morning, “I practically slept the day through, didn’t I?”
Dawson, unable to think of any comment that would sound right given what had happened to cause her to be up so late at night, said nothing.
To prevent an awkward silence, she looked all around and asked, “Where’s Cap?”
“He took the animals over the hill to graze,” said Dawson. “He’ll be back soon.”
“No hurry.” She smiled. Unfolding her arms, she slipped her right arm under his, hooked it over his forearm, and walked alongside him. Like a young couple on a church social outing, Dawson told himself. Not at all like some couple who had dragged a dead man into the pine woodlands after this smiling young woman had killed him in the midst of a sexual act.
Uncomfortable with that thought, Dawson looked down at her, seeing her breasts partly exposed, jiggling gently with each step they took behind the mule. “You need your coat on. You’ll take sick out here like this.”
She snuggled against his arm. “It feels good against you.”
A few yards into the mine where daylight ran out, Dawson stopped the mule and pulled away from her long enough to take the lantern from its peg and light it. When he turned back toward the lead ropes, Clarity stood between him and the mule. “Are things going to be good between us again?”
Dawson let out a breath, put his arms around her, and held her close. “Yes. Let’s let things settle down. I told you there’s someone waiting for me.”
“Yes, but isn’t that something you men tell all of us working doves?” She looked deep into his eyes.
“No,” said Dawson, “it’s the truth. I only told you about her to keep things honest between you and me. I didn’t want to mislead you.”
“Whoever she is, I want to take her place,” Clarity said.
“I can’t talk about somebody taking her place,” Dawson said. “I care a lot for this woman.” Stepping back from her, he buttoned the loose-fitting shirt all the way up to the collar.
“Then let’s not talk about it now,” she said. “Not everything happens at once. Some things take time.”
Noting how calm and reas
onable she appeared today, Dawson felt a little better. “You’re right,” he said, handing her the lantern. “Here, light the way for us. Maybe today we’ll get lucky.”
“You mean I can stay while you work?” she asked, sounding surprised. “I won’t bring you bad luck, a woman being in a mine? Remember what Cap said?”
“I remember.” Dawson smiled, coaxing the mule and sled along to the place where he’d been picking away at the wall. “But then you said you’d bring me only good luck, remember?”
“Yes, that’s right, I did say that,” she said, standing back and hanging the lantern on a peg. “All right, then, good luck it is.” She stood back out of the way and leaned against the opposite wall in the lantern light. She watched him go to work, taking up the pick and swinging it hard time and again until a pile of rock lay surrounding his feet.
When he lowered the pick and stepped back, wiping sweat from his forehead, he said, “There’s something I’ve meant to ask you . . .”
“Yes, go ahead,” she said.
He leaned on the pick handle and said, “In Black’s Cut, a couple of Junior’s thugs named DeLaurie and Newhouse mentioned a man Giddis keeps on a chain. One of them said the man thinks he’s Fast Larry. Who is this person Giddis keeps on a chain?”
“Oh, you mean the mad gunman,” said Clarity. “He’s just some poor insane bugger who beat Giddis Black pretty badly at poker. Giddis had one of the girls dope his drink and knock him out. For the past month he’s been kept chained to a post in the old log jail. Giddis can’t seem to decide whether to hand him over to Willie Goode, or put him into a bear fight, which is another one of Giddis’s favorite pastimes.”
“A bear fight.” Dawson winced.
Returning from grazing the animals and walking into the mine behind them, Arden cut in, saying as he puffed on his briar pipe, “It’s more like a bear feeding than it is a fight. Believe me, I saw one when I first arrived in Black’s Cut. I never want to see another one.”