by Ralph Cotton
“All right, now give me a gun!” Shaw hissed, staring hard and cold at Tucker’s face.
Seeing the look on Shaw’s face and knowing his friend was not himself from torture and starvation, Dawson stuck the key into the cell and said, “Not right now. Let’s get you out of here first.”
“Cray, damn it,” Shaw insisted in a weak and rasping voice, “give me a gun!”
But Dawson didn’t seem to hear him as he kept an eye on the bear and opened the cell door slowly. “Here, hold this,” he whispered to Shaw, handing him the key to the cell door. Stooping down he opened the ankle cuff and laid it quietly on the plank floor, not wanting to alarm the bear. Standing, he helped Shaw walk out of the cell. “I brought a spare horse, in case it was you in here.”
“Who told you about me? Was it Villy?” Shaw asked.
“No, I don’t know a Villy,” said Dawson, not wanting to tell him just now that one of the women who had set him up was also the one who told Dawson about him.
“Oh? How did you know?” Shaw asked, eyeing the spare gun in Dawson’s belt. He rubbed his grimy hands up and down his dirty trousers.
“It’s a long story, pard,” said Dawson. He turned away, getting the gun out of Shaw’s sight, removing the temptation of him snatching it. “Let’s go.” He stepped out of the cell and started to drag Tucker’s chair back inside.
But Shaw said, “No, wait! Why won’t you give me a gun?”
“You look weak and done in,” said Dawson. “I don’t want you flying off the handle and shooting this man, bringing the whole town down on us.”
Shaw shook his head as if dismissing such an idea. “Go get the horses and bring them around to the side,” he said, nodding down at Tucker. “I’ll gag him and cuff his arms through the bars, so he can’t yell out when he wakes up.”
Dawson gave him a questioning look. “Are you all right to do that? You do look weak and—”
“I am weak and done in, so what?” said Shaw, cutting him short. “I still know what I’m doing, if that’s got you worried.” He gave Dawson a look. “Now give me his gun and go get the horses.”
“Hurry up, I’ll be waiting,” said Dawson. He turned and walked to the front door. On his way, he reached out, picked up Tucker’s rifle leaning against the side of the desk, and kept going.
Shaw only stared for a moment, then shook his head and turned to where the knocked-out jailer began to come to with a moan. “Wake up, Tucker, you low-living gut-sucking dog,” he growled, reaching down and untying Tucker’s bandanna from around his neck.
“He should have given me your gun,” he whispered. He tied the bandanna around the jailer’s mouth, gagging him. He jerked Tucker’s trouser belt from around his waist, pulled his arms behind the chair back, and tied his hands together tight. “Since he didn’t, I’ll just have to make do.” He reached over and lifted the bolt on the bear’s cage.
“Uhmmm. Uhhmm!” said the jailer, coming to. He slung his head wildly as Shaw dragged him backward in his chair and lined it up with the bear’s open cage door. “Huh-un! Huhh-un!” Tucker pleaded, still shaking his head.
“Here we go, Jailer, dinner is served, compliments of the mad gunman!” Shaw leaned the chair back and slid it forward as hard as he could in his weakened condition. At the edge of the cage door the chair legs snagged on the iron threshold and toppled forward just as the bear made a sudden charge and reared up at the end of his chain. Tucker came up to his feet, the chair dangling from his tied hands, his own weight hurling him into the bear’s open arms where his bandanna came down, only to be replaced by a mouthful of foul greasy fur.
Outside, holding the spare horse that had belonged to Brue Holley, Dawson heard the terrible muffled cry of a man being mauled by a starving bear. “Jesus, Shaw!” he said aloud, looking around in the darkness, hoping no one else heard the sound. No sooner had the sound started than the front door opened and Shaw hurried out as best he could. Running weakly and barefoot over to the edge of the porch, he climbed onto the saddle with Dawson grabbing his bony shoulder and giving him a pull.
“That didn’t take long, now, did it?” he said, out of breath. The horse beneath him spun in place, almost throwing him from his saddle. Dawson grabbed the animal by its bridle and settled it. From the open door of the log jail came an awful sound of crunching, slurping, and tearing.
“Shaw, you didn’t!” said Dawson.
“You wouldn’t give me a gun,” Shaw replied, gathering the horse beneath him. Hearing the sound of running boots coming from the direction of the saloon and brothel, Shaw said in a strengthening voice, “One more thing! Follow me!”
“Shaw, wait!” Dawson shouted. “We’ve got to get out of here!”
Shaw jerked sharply on his horse’s reins and looked back at him. “I came to this town with boots on. I’m not leaving barefoot.” He held his hand back to Dawson, palm up, and said, “Fill it.”
Dawson took the gun from behind his belt and laid it into his waiting hand. “If you’re going to do some revenge killing, I want you to know, one of the women who set you up is dead . . . the other one lives with me.”
“What? She’s living with you?” Shaw stared as if in disbelief.
Running boots grew closer. Shaw’s and Dawson’s horses fidgeted and crow-hopped, eager to go. “We’ll talk about it later!” Dawson said.
Shaw put his horse up into a run, Dawson right behind him, staying in the back alleys until they reached the rear door of the saloon. Dawson said wryly, “This figures,” as Shaw jumped from his saddle.
“Hold my horse, keep me covered!” Shaw said, out of breath, his long tangled hair and beard flying in every direction.
“What are you doing?” Dawson called out, trying to keep his voice down. He watched Shaw run to the second of four tall wooden privies standing in a row behind the saloon. Opening the door, jerking a drunk out of it, and giving the man a shove, Shaw ran inside and came out only seconds later carrying a thick leather wallet.
“Who the hell you think you are?” the drunk shouted, still struggling to his feet, tugging to pull up his downed trousers.
“Sorry, ole hoss,” said Shaw, hurrying past him and back to his waiting horse while he riffled through the thick cash inside the wallet. “All here,” he said. But instead of climbing back into his saddle, he looked up at Dawson and said, “Just one more thing. I’ll be right back.” He took out the Colt, checked it, made certain it was loaded, then turned and walked into the saloon through the rear door.
Knowing nothing he said would stop him, Dawson slipped his rifle from the saddle boot and stepped down, holding both horses. “You’re covered,” he said.
“What’s going on out there?” Villy asked Giddis Senior, the two of them hearing the sound of voices and running boots rumbling along the boardwalk toward the log jail.
“Damn it, I don’t know,” said Giddis. “But you stay right here and keep your mind on what we’re doing. We’re off to a good start here.” He grinned and grabbed his shirt and coat from the chair beside the bed. Throwing his shirt on, carrying his coat, he gave a suspicious look toward the closed door. “No way . . .” he murmured. Then he turned from the door and stepped out the window onto a small balcony.
Villy walked to the window, raising the front of her nightshirt enough to cover her exposed breasts. She looked out in time to see Giddis slide down a support post to the street. He moved along at a trot toward the log jail, some of his men falling in around him. Behind her, the sound of the door bursting open caused her to turn toward it with a gasp.
“Where is he, Villy?” Shaw asked, stepping inside. Tucker’s gun was in his hand, cocked and ready.
Startled, she pointed out the window and stood aside as Shaw hurried over and looked down. He only caught a glimpse of Giddis as the saloon owner turned out of sight toward the log jail. “You’ll have to keep . . .” Shaw said quietly. Turning to Villy he looked her up and down, seeing that he had arrived before anything had happened between the two. �
��Grab some clothes, you’re getting out of this business before you start.”
“But, but I can’t!” she said. “How will I live? I have no one! Giddis bought me from an orphanage and paid my way here from Missouri.”
He fished the thick wallet from inside his soiled and smelly shirt. “Giddis’s ten thousand will buy you a brand-new start. The rest is up to you.”
“But why?” She couldn’t understand. “I don’t even know you . . . except for you being in the jail, and me slipping food to you.”
“Yes, you slipped food to me and that’s what kept me alive, Villy,” said Shaw, forcing himself to sound impatient. “The mad gunman never forgets a good turn. Now, come on, let’s get out of here.”
“Oh God, I can’t tell you how glad I am that I don’t have to do this, with him,” she said, hurrying now, realizing this was really happening. “I mean, if I had to I would, you know, because an orphan girl has to do what’s demanded of her. But I have to say, I really thank God, and you, that this is—”
“Please, come on,” Shaw said, cutting her off. He jerked her coat from the chair back and slung it around her. “You can thank God and me later.”
She stalled, looking worried. “You don’t mean I’m going to have to . . . ?”
“No,” said Shaw, grabbing her and making her move on out the door and into the hallway. “You don’t have to do anything with me . . . or anybody else, until someday when you decide that you want to. Sound fair enough?”
“Yes, fair enough,” she sighed, moving along to the far end of the hallway, through a door leading down to the rear alley.
“Who is she?” asked Dawson, as soon as the two stepped outside the saloon and headed to Shaw’s horse.
“This young lady is going with us,” Shaw said firmly, leading Villy to Dawson’s horse, “and she’ll have to ride with you. I smell too much like a bear.”
“All right, I’ve got her! Let’s go!” said Dawson, getting edgy. He could hear the sound of angry men’s voices from the direction of the jail, and he knew that at any minute those men would come looking for them. He leaned in his saddle, hooked an arm around Villy, and raised her up behind him.
Climbing into his saddle, Shaw gestured up the alley and said, “Follow me to the mercantile. I’m not leaving here like some saddle tramp. I’m getting some boots, a hat and coat. Giddis Black owes them to me.”
“You’re out of your mind!” Dawson said, cutting a glance toward the log jail where the bear bawled loud and long above the sound of shocked and angry voices. But then Dawson realized that instead of the jail, the sound of the bear came from the hillsides south of town.
“What about Giddis?” Villy asked Shaw, her arms around Dawson’s waist, holding on. “Him and his men will come to kill you!”
Shaw gave them both a flat stare, batted his bare heels to the horse’s sides, and sent it bolting along the dark alley. “Hang on tight, ma’am,” said Dawson, sending his horse along behind Shaw. “I think that’s what he’s hoping for.”
Chapter 21
Inside the log jail, Giddis’s men stood staring at the few bloody rags and remains of Morse Tucker slung all about the empty cage. In a wild frenzy the bear had broken its chain and charged out of the cage and through the men as they’d entered the log jail. One of the men, Tommy Corbin, managed to get off a shot. But the bullet had not even slowed the bear down. All that remained of the big brute was the chain that had snapped at its thick leather collar.
“What are you waiting for?” Giddis shouted at two miners standing nearby, gawking wide-eyed. “Get the poor bastard out of there!” To his own men he shouted, “Find that lunatic mad gunman and kill him!”
“What about your money?” asked Sly Palmer, the vicious cuts on his face still healing, red and puffy.
“Forget about the money!” shouted Giddis. “I want him dead! Look what he did to the Jailer!”
His men turned to follow him out the door, but before Giddis reached it, his bartender ran in from the saloon and said, “Giddis! Hurry! The store is on fire!”
“Which store, you fool?” Giddis bellowed, his cigar flying from his lips.
“The mercantile!” said the bartender. He looked wildly around at the others and said, “You better grab buckets and come quick! It’s blazing high!”
“Damn it! What next?” Giddis shouted, stomping from the log jail toward the main street, only one suspender looped up over his shoulder.
“Uh-oh,” said Sly Palmer.
Giddis and his men all stopped abruptly as they turned onto the main street and saw the dark silhouette facing them, thirty yards away. All of the men but Palmer and Willie stepped back around the corner, out of sight. Behind the figure flames licked high from the doors and windows of the Black & Landry Mercantile Store. “Is that Mad Gunman?” Palmer asked. His hand slipped down and cupped the butt of his holstered Colt.
“Damn right it is,” said Black, his voice turning low and menacing. “The fool has come seeking mortal retribution.”
“Have we got any?” Willie asked in earnest, his mouth agape.
Without taking his eyes off the silhouette, Giddis said, “Oh yes, Willie, indeed we do.” He shoved Willie back to the others, who stood out of sight drawing guns and preparing themselves for a fight. Then Giddis reached his left hand over, pushed Sly Palmer’s hand off his gun butt, and lifted the Colt. “Let me borrow this for a couple of minutes,” he said. Switching the gun to his right hand, he took a step forward.
“But, boss—” Palmer tried to protest.
“Hush now,” said Giddis, “I’ll bring you back the mad gunman’s ears.” He called out to the lone figure, “You should never have stopped, you imbecile! Now I’ll have to kill you myself, instead of feeding you to the bear!”
“Giddis, damn it, please!” said Palmer.
“Shut up, go get yourself a rifle!” said Giddis. He stepped sideways and forward, putting himself in the middle of the street. “All right, Mad Gunman, let’s get right to it. Show me what you’ve got!”
“It’s not loaded, Giddis!” Palmer said, trying to keep his voice down.
Palmer’s words caused Giddis’s expression to turn flat and grim. He stopped as if frozen in place. “Who in hell carries an unloaded gun?” he said, standing with the Colt cocked and half raised, ready for a fight. He felt his hand go weak and let the worthless pistol slump to his side.
“I was fixin’ to load it,” Palmer whispered.
“Thank God I’m still out of range,” Giddis said, taking a cautious step backward. But no sooner had he said it than he saw the mad gunman reach behind his back. “Merciful God!” Giddis whispered as a rifle swung up from behind the mad gunman’s back and rested against his shoulder. Giddis let out an exasperated breath and said with finality, “There goes that.”
Palmer winched and leaped sidelong to the ground as the single rifle shot hit Giddis squarely in the chest and knocked him backward ten feet. He hit the dirt, past the corner of the building where the men stood staring, stunned for the moment.
“Get him, boys! Kill him!” shouted Palmer, crawling quickly to Giddis’s side. Giddis’s hand trembled and clawed aimlessly at the air above him. “Hang on, boss. I’ll get the doc!” Palmer cried out, seeing the bloody gaping hole in Giddis’s chest.
“Wait!” Giddis moaned, gripping Palmer’s sleeve.
“What is it? What can I do for you?” Palmer asked, leaning in close enough to hear him. The men ran past them, firing and shouting toward the spot where the mad gunman had stood.
“Load . . . the gun,” Giddis said with much effort.
Palmer picked the gun up from the dirt and started to do as Giddis asked. But he stopped upon opening the cylinder and gave his boss a strange look, saying, “Oh no. It was loaded after all. See?” He held the gun butt toward Giddis’s face.
Giddis’s trembling hand reached up, clicked the cylinder shut, and closed tightly around the gun butt.
Up the middle of the street the res
t of the men had stopped and looked all around, realizing the mad gunman was gone. But they turned quickly at the sound of the pistol shot, in time to see Palmer fly backward and hit the ground. “Giddis shot Palmer,” Willie said, as if in awe. The men watched Palmer’s pistol fall from Giddis’s hand, followed by his hand falling limply to the ground.
A bucket brigade of townsmen, miners, and whores had formed and started passing buckets of all size and shape from one pair of hands to another, dousing the flames but still having little effect on the raging inferno. Giddis’s men had turned and run back to where Palmer lay dead, the front top of his forehead missing. In the dirt beside him, a few feet away lay Giddis, his breathing labored and faint.
“He’s alive!” said a hardcase named Brady Fogle. “Get him up and over to Doc’s!”
As the men raised Giddis between them, Willie Goode’s eyes widened as he looked out through the flame-lit darkness. “Oh no, look who’s coming here!” As he spoke he raised a trembling Colt from his holster and cocked it clumsily.
“What the—” said Fogle, dropping one of Giddis’s legs and drawing his big Dance Brother’s revolver. “This sumbitch is loco!” He and Willie aimed at the big lanky underfed bear as it came charging out of the darkness, bawling savagely. The men carrying Giddis ran toward the doctor’s office, Giddis’s left foot dragging the ground.
Shot after shot roared from their pistols, kicking up dirt at the bear’s running paws and whistling past his big head. Finally, just before Willie and Fogle broke into a retreat, the big monster swung around in a wide circle and disappeared back into the darkness. “Whoa!” said Fogle, his Dance Brother’s still up, smoking in his hand. He walked forward with caution. “I don’t enjoy this sort of adventure. That bear has been captive so long, he keeps coming back. Must think this is home!”
“I don’t like this either,” said Willie Goode, walking along beside him, his pistol also smoking. “Think we hit him?”