Fast Guns Out of Texas

by Ralph Cotton

  “Where does he get the bear?” Dawson asked.

  “He has his own. It’s a young boar grizzly he keeps half doped and half starved. Keeps it in the cell right next to the mad gunman, just to keep him scared out of his wits, I suppose.

  “Giddis Junior and his thugs can’t wait until they get to see another man ripped apart by a crazed boar grizzly. They’re all fiends!”

  “Why does the mad gunman think he’s Lawrence Shaw?” Dawson asked, dreading, yet preparing himself to hear the answer he expected.

  “That’s something Clarity can best tell you about,” said Arden, giving her a look.

  But Clarity looked a little ashamed and said, “All right, maybe we did a bad thing, Violet and me. Giddis saw the way this man handled a gun and decided he was too dangerous. After the mad gunman won ten thousand dollars from Giddis at poker, Giddis had Violet and me set him up. We took him to bed, doped him up, and handcuffed him to the iron head rails. When he came to and realized what we’d done, he started raving, threatening, claiming he was Fast Larry Shaw, and telling us what he would do if we didn’t set him free.”

  Dawson started feeling tenseness in his chest. “But nobody believed him because you all knew that Lawrence Shaw had been killed down in Crabtown, right?” he asked, wishing he was wrong but getting a powerful hunch that he wasn’t.

  “Sure, exactly,” said Clarity. “So, making all those wild claims got him dubbed the mad gunman, and only made Giddis want to torture and torment him more.”

  Dawson let out a breath and said to Cap, “Are the animals well grazed?”

  “Oh yes, very well,” Cap replied. He saw the look on Dawson’s face and asked, “What’s wrong, pard? You look as if someone has kicked you in the belly.”

  “That’s about what it feels like,” Dawson said. He looked around in the darkness. “Cap, it looks like you’ll be working the claim without me the next few days. I’ve got to take a ride.”

  “Where are we going?” Clarity asked, stepping forward with the worried look a woman gets when she feels she’s being left behind.

  “Not we, Clarity,” Dawson said, rolling down his shirtsleeves. “I’ll be making this ride alone.”

  PART 3

  Chapter 19

  From the end of the long catwalk on the roof of Black’s Best Chance Saloon & Brothel, Giddis Black stood at ease smoking his cigar in the fading evening sunlight. He looked down onto the muddy street like some feudal lord appraising his kingdom. Behind him, Giddis Junior stood looking all around too. But the young Giddis Black took no appraisal of the muddy kingdom below, nor its inhabitants as they ventured in and out of sight. It went without saying that this was all his, by virtue of being his father’s son.

  “So, what do you say, Pa?” he asked, tired of waiting on his father’s decision. “If we run into Brue Holley along the trail, we’ll just tell him everything that happened and start him looking along with us. It’ll save him riding all the way here, then riding all the way out again.”

  “You might be right,” Giddis Senior said grudgingly. He watched as the young girl, Villy, carried a tray of covered food from the restaurant to the old log jail building. “But can I trust you and your pals to keep a civil tongue around Holley?” He watched Morse Tucker open the door for her. He smiled to himself, seeing the Jailer make a grab for Villy’s behind, and seeing her manage to slip nimbly past him. “Brue Holley is a man with a low boiling point, like myself. He takes offense easily and will not tolerate fools.”

  Beneath them, inside the saloon, the voice of a tinny-sounding piano rattled out through an open window and resounded along the street.

  “Don’t worry, Pa, I’ll see to it everybody’s on their best behavior,” said Junior, who had also watched Villy walking toward the jail. He’d never seen her from this high an angle. “We meet Holley, we’ll tell him you want him to help us look for Dawson and that little peg-legged turd, Cap Arden.”

  Senior shook his head. “Damn, you’ve already screwed it up,” he said in disgust. “You don’t tell a man like Holley that I want him to help you hunt down Dawson. That would be an insult to him!”

  “All right, I see,” Junior said quickly, hoping to stop any further discussion on the matter. “I won’t say that you want him to help us.” He knew that regardless of what he agreed to, once he rode out of Black’s Cut he would do as he damned well pleased. “I’ll tell him you want us to help him hunt Dawson any way we can. Make him think he’s in charge.” Junior grinned.

  “If Holley is riding with you, I have no doubt who will be in charge,” Senior said, knowing his son was absorbing little of what he’d been trying to tell him.

  “What does that mean?” Junior asked, looking offended by the remark.

  “Nothing,” Giddis Senior sighed. He reminded himself that Junior had at least come upon a good idea, riding out and meeting Holley along the trail . . . that could save some time. Giddis really needed to get his hands on Dawson and Arden and show the people of Black’s Cut that he would not be made a fool of. “How’s the hand?” he asked to change the subject.

  “Good as new,” said Junior, “maybe better.” He wiggled his gloved fingers. “See?”

  Giddis Senior nodded, and asked in a monotone voice, “And Newhouse’s head?”

  “He’s good,” said Junior. “He’s rearing to go.”

  “And DeLaurie’s nose?”

  “His eyes are both purple underneath, but his nose is healing along pretty good.”

  “Take Roy Erby and Billy Buffet along,” he said, reminding himself what quick work Dawson had already made of these three.

  “Why, Pa?” Junior spread his hands. “Me and the boys have a grudge to settle. I want this straight up and fair, just him against us three.”

  Senior looked disgusted. He was not about to try and explain anything. “Take them along and shut up about it! They’re both good men in a fight.”

  As Junior stomped away, Giddis Senior turned his attention back to the street in time to see Villy walk quickly out of the log jail. The young girl looked angry and scared; she straightened the bodice of her dress in front where Tucker had groped at her on her way out. “It’s time I make a woman out of you, Villy,” Giddis murmured, turning and walking back to the trapdoor. “Then, if Tucker wants some of you, he’ll just have to pay for it, like everybody else will.”

  As Giddis stepped down out of sight through the trapdoor, Dawson watched from within the shelter of a tall pine tree on a hillside over a hundred yards away. He’d seen Junior come and go in the waning evening light, and he’d scanned the street and seen the young woman take the tray of covered food to the log jail—the place Clarity and Arden had told him about. He needed to see and find out more. And he would, tonight, he told himself, collapsing the telescope lens between his hands and climbing down.

  Inside the log jail, Morse Tucker took a long stiff leather strap down from a peg on the wall and walked over to the cell where the man sat staring out at him through the iron bars. “Now, what did you say to me?” he asked in a menacing voice.

  A raspy voice replied matter-of-factly, “I said why don’t you leave her alone, you foul-smelling son of a bitch?”

  “Oh, I see,” said Tucker. He held the strap between both hands and popped it like a whip. “You know what? Tonight just might be the night I beat your worthless ass to death myself, and feed you to this hairy monster.”

  “Giddis wouldn’t like that at all, you killing me,” the man said.

  “Yeah, well—”

  In the iron cage, the bear arose to the sound of the leather strap and let out a long threatening bawl, cutting him off.

  “Shut up, you flea-bitten, fly-blowing—” Tucker swung the strap savagely, the end of it going between the bars and lashing down on the bear’s muzzle as he lunged at the end of his chain.

  The bear went crazy. He bawled louder and longer, squirming and rolling back and forth on the cage floor, his paws rubbing his pain-stricken muzzle. The iron c
age rattled and rocked back and forth violently with his powerful rage.

  “Sweet Jehoshaphat, Tucker!” Giddis Black shouted as he swung the front door open and stepped inside. “Shut that squalling beast up! It sounds like you’re buggering him in here!”

  “He won’t stop! What can I do?” Tucker asked above the bear’s roar.

  Giddis gestured toward the desk where two biscuits and a pile of beef stew lay in a deep tin plate. “Feed him something, damn it!”

  “That’s my supper!” Tucker bemoaned, yet he still hurried over, scooped up a handful of hot stew, hurried back, and slung it through the cage bars. “Damn, now I’ve burnt my hand.”

  The bear quickly forgot his pain and hurried all around, grunting, lapping bits of meat and stew gravy from the iron cage floor. Giddis walked past Tucker shaking his head, and stared into the darkened cage where two eyes bored back at him. “Good evening, Mad Gunman,” he said, with an air of civility. “Are you ready to give me back my ten thousand and put this unpleasantness behind you?”

  The long scraggly hair and beard moved back and forth slowly. The man said, “I would be an idiot if I gave up that money, Giddis. It’s my only ace left in the hole.”

  “Ha,” said Giddis, “a true poker player to the end, you are.” He raised his cigar between his fingers and wagged it slowly. “But this thing has gone on just about long enough. I’ll have that money or I will chop off parts of you and let you watch the bear have you for dinner.”

  “It’ll be the most expensive dinner you ever served, Giddis,” the mad gunman replied.

  “Don’t test me on this,” said Giddis, “because serve it I will.” He stared at the dirt-crusted face in contemplation for a moment, finally saying, “Just for the sake of conversation, I’m going to ask you this once again.” He tried to study the man’s eyes as he asked, “Who are you . . . I mean, really?”

  The man only stared, offering no reply.

  “What? No answer?” said Giddis. “After all those days, all those beatings Tucker has given you for your claiming to be Fast Larry Shaw? Now you’ve abandoned the idea altogether?” He looked puzzled.

  “I’m leaving here soon, one way or the other,” said the man, with resolve.

  “Indeed you are, Mad Gunman,” said Giddis. “I thought you might tell us what name to carve on a marker, if there’s enough of you left to bury.”

  This was getting close to the end of the game, the mad gunman thought, realizing that had he convinced Giddis that he was Lawrence Shaw, there had been too many beatings, too much bad blood between them for Giddis to allow him to live. All Giddis wanted was the ten thousand dollars. Villy had told him about Dawson and what had happened in town. Giddis was starting to look bad, a gunman putting three of his men out of action—one of them his own son. Now killing a man without getting his money back from him. That would look weak, even to his own men.

  “What’s the difference who I am?” he said. “Do your worst. It’s not me you’ll be feeding the bear, it’s your ten thousand dollars.”

  “In that case, I’ll pay someone to play a sad mournful fiddle while we both watch your foot and my money go down his gullet,” Giddis said, turning his head slightly and blowing a stream of smoke into the bear’s cage.

  “That’s no worse than some of the ways I’ve imagined I might go,” said the man. In the bear’s cage the big animal paced back and forth on the end of his chain, his muzzle lowered to the floor, sniffing, grunting, leaving a trail of saliva.

  Giddis grinned and puffed the cigar. “Good. Then you won’t be disappointed. I won’t be disappointed. And the bear—well, let’s just say he’s always pleased to take potluck.”

  Tucker stood behind the desk holding a wet rag to his hand, having picked up the hot stew with his cupped fingers. He watched Giddis turn and walk toward the front door. “Can you send somebody over to relieve me for just a little while tonight, Giddis? I got a young lady I want to visit.”

  Giddis turned and looked at him as if giving it serious consideration. He pictured Villy leaving in a hurry to keep Tucker’s hands off her. After a moment, he smiled cruelly and said, “No, I don’t think so, not tonight, Jailer. I don’t trust anybody around here as much as I trust you.” Gesturing with a nod toward the pacing bear, he said, “Keep that big monster quiet, whatever it takes.”

  “What about this sumbitch?” Tucker said, staring at the mad gunman. “I was fixing to skin him with this strap before you come along.”

  “Skin away, then,” said Giddis. “But don’t you kill him, or I’ll be skinning you. For ten thousand dollars I at least want the pleasure of watching him get smaller with every bite.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Tucker said to the closed door after Giddis stepped out and slammed it shut behind him.

  In the darkened cell, the mad gunman chuckled under his breath.

  “What have you got to laugh about, you filthy knobby-kneed sumbitch?” said Tucker. He snatched the leather strap and walked back toward the cell door. “I’m going to beat you till you beg me to kill you.”

  Behind the log jail in the darkness, Dawson moved at a crouch through a stretch of weeds littered with whiskey bottles, rats, and rotting garbage. When he’d stopped for a moment, he heard the sound of leather strap against human skin. He winced, but continued forward in the darkness. When he’d run low and quickly across the alley and slid down against the back of the building, he heard the low bawling of the bear, and the voice of the Jailer cursing with each swing of the strap.

  “I ain’t . . . stopping till . . . you beg me to,” said the halting winded voice inside the log jail.

  “Then . . . you take a rest . . . let’s start all over,” came a painful reply. “I’ve got . . . all night.”

  Was that him? Was that Shaw’s voice? It sounded familiar, didn’t it? Dawson asked himself, listening intently.

  “To hell . . . with you,” said the Jailer. “You ain’t worth it. Let the bear . . . have you tomorrow. I need me a drink.”

  Dawson heard footsteps across the cage floor, followed by the opening and the closing of the iron door, then the opening and closing of a desk drawer. He listened, hearing that raspy voice again, saying with a dark chuckle, “You’re worn out . . . and I’m still laughing at you . . . ha, ha.”

  That was Shaw, no doubt about it, Dawson told himself. The voice sounded weak, as if the man was ill, barely able to speak. But yes, that was him all right, he was certain. Still he waited, needing to get a look at his face. Sliding down into weeds along the wall, he sat in the darkness as still as a stone.

  A full half hour passed before a complete silence fell over the log jail. Dawson stood up quietly and pulled himself up to the small iron-barred window. The terrible odor from inside caused him to bat his eyes and have to breathe through his mouth. Silence gave way to a low, steady snore coming from the bear’s cage. Across the room, through the bars, he saw Tucker’s sleeping form leaned back in a chair, his mouth agape toward the ceiling, a bottle of whiskey standing on the desk in front of him. Here goes, Dawson said to himself.

  “Shaw, is that you?” he whispered, praying not to awaken the bear or the jailer. “It’s me, Dawson.”

  He heard no reply at first. Just a sudden startled scrape on the floor told him he’d been heard. But then he heard a scooting sound across the floor and the slight muffled clink of the ankle chain. “Shhh,” a voice said, as grimy fingertips appeared on the inside window ledge and a grimier sunken face appeared right behind them, wide-eyed and near starvation. “My God, Dawson . . . it is you,” the dirty tortured face whispered through the iron bars. “Give—give me a gun.”

  “I’ll get you out, Shaw. That’s why I’m here,” said Dawson, seeing through the dirt and scratches and pus-filled sores that it was indeed his friend Lawrence Shaw.

  “No. Jus—just give me a gun,” Shaw said, his voice trembling. A thin hand reached out as if to grasp a gun butt. “Please! Please!”

  “Quiet down,” Dawson whisper
ed, hearing Shaw grow louder as he spoke. “I’m coming around. Be ready to go.”

  “No! Please! Give me a gun,” Shaw pleaded.

  But Dawson, realizing his friend was talking out of his head, said no more. Instead, he dropped silently from the window ledge, slipped around the building, and crouched down again in the darkness beside the front porch. He looked both ways along the street and toward Black’s Best Chance Saloon & Brothel. Then he slipped onto the porch and over to the front door.

  Chapter 20

  From inside his cell, Lawrence Shaw watched the door creak open softly, and saw Dawson step inside and close it behind himself. As Dawson stepped over to the desk where Tucker sat sprawled back in his chair, Shaw arose slowly and moved to the cell door. He held his ankle chain in his hand to keep it from dragging on the plank floor. Staring with great anticipation, he waited until Dawson drew his Colt, raised it, and brought the barrel down hard atop Tucker’s head.

  Tucker’s limp figure lolled sideways with the blow’s impact. “Dawson, give me his gun!” Shaw whispered, seeing Dawson reach down, take Tucker’s Colt from his holster, and shove it down behind his belt.

  But Dawson went about his business. “Where’s the cell key?”

  “On the peg,” Shaw whispered, pointing out through the bars. “And he keeps the key to this ankle chain in the top right drawer!” He cut a glance toward the bear, who had staggered up onto all fours and stood swinging his big head back and forth in curiosity. “Don’t move too fast, this animal will start bawling to wake the dead!”

  Silently, keeping himself from getting into a hurry and agitating the bear, Dawson slid the drawer open and took out a single key. With the ankle key in hand, he took the cell key from a wall peg and stepped over behind the knocked-out jailer’s chair. He leaned the chair farther back, and dragged Tucker, chair and all, over to the cell door.