Fast Guns Out of Texas

by Ralph Cotton

  Looking down at a blood trail leading all the way back in the direction the bear came from, he said, “I don’t know if we hit him, or Corbin’s shot hit earlier. But he’s wounded, and madder than hell over it, I’m guessing.”

  “Let’s go,” said Willie, “before he comes back and eats us like he did Tucker.”

  Fogle backed away with him, giving him a sidelong glance and a dark chuckle. “Hell, Willie, I thought you was the one wanting to fight that bear. I was going to wager a dollar or two on you.”

  “That was Giddis’s idea, not mine,” said Willie, his thick fingers restless around the gun butt. “Seeing what happened to the Jailer, I’m thinking it wasn’t such a good idea. I could get et, like Tucker.”

  “Don’t think about getting yourself et by a bear,” Fogle said. He looked up the street past the burning mercantile store. “Think about getting yourself out of the way when Hyde Landry finds out you’ve let the mad gunman burn his store down.” He saw the dark shapes of two horses cross the street and drift away into the deeper darkness, one of them carrying two riders. But he kept silent.

  “I never let a damn thing,” said Willie, also looking up toward the raging flames, but not in time to see Shaw, Dawson, and the young woman ride away.

  Stopping, looking back at the flames, Shaw let out a breath and carved another large bite off the cured ham he’d lifted from a wall peg in the mercantile store. In his lap lay small bags of dried apples, dried peaches, a can of peas, a can of beans, and a handful of horehound candy sticks. “I wish I’d burned the whole damn town,” he said, chewing hungrily. He wore a new shirt, a new pair of trousers, new boots, and a tall Montana-crowned hat. Around his waist he wore a new tied-down holster with a new Colt standing in it. He’d doused himself with a bottle of lilac water until he could bathe somewhere in a creek along the trail.

  “It was time to go,” said Dawson, hoping he wouldn’t change his mind and go charging back for more revenge.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Shaw. Looking over at Villy, seeing her eyes riveted on the sticks of candy, he smiled. “Here, for you, my angel of mercy.” He handed her a stick of candy, then took another bite of ham. Nodding in satisfaction at the high-rolling flames while Villy gratefully stuck the piece of candy in her mouth, he turned the horse and headed for the trail.

  In the doctor’s treatment room, Giddis Senior lay stretched out on a surgery table. Blood from his naked back ran to a narrow gutter that ran the length of the table and dripped out a drain hole into a bucket on the floor. “At least the bullet went clean through him,” said Dr. Irvin Russel, the town physician. Beside the table stood a bright oil lantern on a wide tray lined with surgical tools. To the side stood a half dozen of Giddis’s gunmen and thugs.

  “Is he going to live, Doc?” asked a man named Carl “Big-nose” Burnett.

  “Don’t ask me,” the doctor snapped in reply. “All I do is spend days and nights doing all the handiwork. God’s the one decides whether or not it’ll keep a man living.” He gave the man a sharp stare before turning back to Giddis.

  For the past hour the doctor had carefully cleaned and inspected the gaping wound. Wiping his hands on a thin towel he leaned down to Giddis and asked close to his ear, “Where’s Junior?”

  He watched Giddis’s eyes as he listened closely for a reply. But Giddis only rolled his eyes and moaned. The doctor had not yet dressed the wound, but rather left it open front and back, allowing it to drain itself of impurities and clothing fragments before he began closing it. He waited for a moment, then asked Giddis again, a little louder this time, still watching his eyes, “I said, where’s your boy, Junior?”

  “He sent Junior and some others riding out, looking for the man who busted everybody up a while back,” said Fogle, standing bedside with Willie and the others.

  “I didn’t ask you, I asked him,” the doctor said sharply. “I’m trying to see what shape his mind’s in.”

  “His mind ain’t where he got shot,” Willie said in a thick voice.

  “What’s the use?” the doctor murmured under his breath and shook his head. “Why would they go looking for the man that did something like that to them? Haven’t they had enough?”

  Fogle gave the doctor a flat stare and said, “Why don’t you tend to the healing, sawbones? We’ll decide who’s had enough, and who ain’t.”

  “Right you are,” said the doctor, turning away and walking to a glass-front medicine cabinet.

  When he turned back to Giddis with a small medicine vial and a hypodermic needle in hand, Willie looked at it and swooned in place. “I can’t watch this,” he said. He turned to leave the room, but at the doorway a strong gloved hand shoved him back. “Stay put, idiot,” a gunman named Clifford Ritchie demanded.

  Stepping into the room behind Ritchie, Hyde Landry stopped and looked down at Giddis with an icy appraising gaze, then said to the doctor, “Don’t dope him down just yet, Doc. I want to know what happened to my mercantile store.”

  The doctor stood back as Landry bent down close to Giddis and said, “Was this the mad gunman, the one I warned you to get rid of? The one you had to keep alive, for the sole purpose of torturing him?”

  “My—my money . . .” Giddis rasped in pain.

  “Your ten thousand dollars that you lost to the man in an honest card game?” Without waiting for a reply, Landry turned to the men standing against the wall, all of them looking worried and ashamed. “And you bunch of bummers. When were you going to send somebody over to tell me about this?”

  “We—we knew you’d get upset,” Willie ventured.

  “Upset?” Landry gave a short dark laugh. “You haven’t seen upset.” He looked at the rest of the men, and said in a low menacing tone, “Every one of you, get a horse and get ready to ride. Bring some lanterns and torches. We’re going after this mad gunman. Only we’re not going to act like fools and threaten to feed him to a bear. We’re going to kill him where he stands.”

  “Not trying to be out of line, Mr. Landry,” said Fogle, taking a step forward with a hand raised. “We was just talking, about how this man claimed to be Fast Larry Shaw when he was first jailed? Well, we’ve thought about it, and from the looks of things we think he just might be.”

  “Just might be, huh?” said Landry. He and Clifford Ritchie gave one another a short smug grin. “Notice that while he was bear meat, he was nothing but a bummer, a madman. Now that he’s shot Giddis and burned down my store, he might be Fast Larry Shaw.”

  “I know for a fact that Fast Larry Shaw is dead,” said Clifford. “My cousin saw his body in Crabtown a while back. He had a fly walking on his ear.” He looked from face to face and added, “Besides, I almost wish it was Fast Larry. I’d enjoy shooting him full of holes.”

  “Fastest gun alive?” said Landry. “Let me tell all of you something from the get-go. That fastest-gun-alive talk has never been nothing but some more overblown Texas bullshit. Everything that comes out of Texas is bigger, bolder, faster!”

  “Begging your pardon, Mr. Landry,” said Fogle in a meek tone, “but there are some fast guns out of Texas. That much ain’t no bullshit. I’ve known some.”

  Landry stepped over close, put his arm over Fogle’s shoulder, and drew his head in close, more like a headlock than a gesture of comradery. “Listen to me, Fogle,” he said. “You go get your horse, and do like I tell you. I promise you when we drag his dead ass back here, I’ll hang him upside down from the livery post, let you shoot his pecker off. How’s that?” He squeezed the crook of his arm harder around Fogle’s neck until Fogle said, “Yes, sir, I’m with you all the way!”

  “Good,” said Landry, turning him loose with a dismissive shove. “Now everybody get moving. Whoever this mad gunman is, he’s going to hell, soon as we catch up to him.”

  Chapter 22

  Shaw, Dawson, and the young woman rode most of the night on high dangerous trails in only the light of a quarter moon. They stopped every hour or so to rest the horses and listen for soun
ds of riders on their trail. Hearing none by the time they’d reached a turn-off toward Dawson’s claim, they stopped and sat, the two horses’ reins in hand, in the darkness beneath a cliff overhang. Shaw ate dried peaches and washed them down with water from Dawson’s canteen.

  “Wish I’d thought and gone to the saloon before we left,” he said to the dark silhouettes sitting near him. “A bottle of rye would taste awfully good about now.”

  “I’ll settle for the water,” Dawson said, reaching out for the canteen, having to touch Shaw’s arm to let him know he was there.

  Shaw put the canteen in his hand, and before taking a drink Dawson passed it along to Villy, touching it to her forearm to guide her to it. She took the canteen, sipped from it, and passed it back. Dawson sipped, then passed it back to Shaw. “Water’s probably best for now,” said Shaw, swishing it around. “Just because we haven’t heard them doesn’t mean they’re not on our trail.”

  “Somebody might be,” said Dawson, “but it won’t be Giddis Black.”

  “No,” said Shaw. “I’m pretty sure I killed him, in spite of the darkness and the flames making it hard to aim. I saw him go down. If he didn’t die right then, I’m betting he’s dead by now.”

  “Who does that leave in charge? Junior?” Dawson asked.

  “Probably Palmer,” said Shaw, having no idea Giddis had killed Palmer in the street. “Giddis doesn’t trust Junior very far, I learned from listening and keeping quiet.”

  “Mr. Landry is who’ll be in charge,” Villy offered in a shy tone.

  “Yeah, if he’s in town,” said Shaw, eating another dried peach. To Dawson he said, “Hyde Landry is Black’s partner, in case you don’t already know.”

  “I’ve heard of him,” said Dawson. “Clarity and Cap say he’s the one in charge behind the scene.”

  “He’s in town,” Villy offered quietly. “I saw him going into his room at the Best Chance with two of the girls. Giddis kept me hidden from him, afraid he’d want me. If he had, Giddis would have had to turn me over to him.” She sighed. “Then Giddis wouldn’t get to be the first to you-know-what me.”

  The two Texas gunmen sat in an awkward silence for a moment. Finally, Shaw said, “Well, that’s all behind you now. When things settle down, we’ll find a coach stop or relay station and get you out of here so far, they’ll never know where to look.”

  “Do you have a family anywhere?” Dawson asked.

  “An aunt in Louisville, I heard my mother mention from time to time before she died of the pox,” the young girl said. “If I can get there, I’ll find her.”

  “Louisville . . .” said Shaw, contemplating. “That’s a peaceful, pretty place. As soon as we get you some transportation, I’ll hand this money over to you.”

  Villy sat quiet, making no reply.

  After another silence, Shaw said to Dawson, “Clarity Jones.” He shook his head in the darkness. “I can’t imagine you ever hooking up with her.”

  “Cap and I found her along the trail,” said Dawson. “Willie and Palmer had killed Violet, and—”

  His words were cut short by a gasp from Villy. “Oh no! Violet is dead?” she said, already sounding tearful.

  “I’m sorry, Villy,” Dawson said, regretting having mentioned it in front of her. “Yes, Violet is dead,” he continued in a more considerate tone. “But Clarity is alive and well. You’ll be seeing her when we get to my claim.”

  “Her and Violet were good to me when Giddis bought me and had me sent here,” she continued tearfully. “They were going to be my friends, like big sisters. They were going to teach me the business.”

  Shaw sighed. “Well, luckily you won’t need to learn the business now.”

  “I know,” said Villy, “but if I was going to have to learn it, it would be best to learn from friends like them, wouldn’t it, in case I ever had to?”

  Shaw fell silent. Dawson smiled to himself, knowing the girl had a way of thinking like Clarity, or Violet, or any dove in the business.

  Finally Shaw changed the subject, saying to Dawson, “If it hadn’t been for Villy here, I would have died in that stinking cell. She kept me from starving to death.”

  “It was Clarity who told me about you being there,” said Dawson. “She admitted that she and Violet were the ones who set you up, doped you, so Giddis could take you prisoner.”

  “I would have killed them both had I gotten my hands on them,” Shaw said. “Now I find out that Violet is dead.” He shook his head again in the darkness. “And you and Clarity are living together. It’s a strange world we live in, pard.”

  “Yes, strange,” said Dawson, not yet ready to tell him about the widow Mercer. “But I suppose some strangeness can be expected when you go around making folks think you’re dead.”

  “That might have been a mistake,” said Shaw. “Talk about strange. I didn’t realize how much I depended on being who I am until after everybody started thinking I was dead. I wanted to slip away and be like everybody else. Now I realize that being like everybody is all right unless you’re not used to it.” He chuckled and took a bite of ham.

  “You should have seen the crowd that turned out to see the body of Fast Larry Shaw,” Dawson said.

  “A large turnout, huh?” Shaw asked.

  But before Dawson could answer, Villy said, “Wait!” hearing him mention the name Fast Larry Shaw. “You mean, you are Fast Larry Shaw, like you tried telling me? Like you tried telling everybody?”

  “Can you keep it a secret?” Shaw asked her.

  “Keep it a secret?” she asked. “You’ve tried your best to make me believe you’re Shaw.”

  Sounding a little embarrassed, Shaw said, “Yes, but that was when I thought it might save my life, not that it helped any. Now that Black’s Cut is behind me, I want to go back to being dead.”

  “All right,” said Villy, not sounding sure she understood his reasoning. “I’ll keep your secret. To me you’ll always be the mad gunman anyway.”

  “To me too,” Dawson said wryly, “after all this.”

  “Don’t start on me, Dawson,” Shaw said with a dark chuckle. “You don’t know what it’s like to wake up every morning on a cold floor, smelling bear piss, thinking any day you’re going to get fed to that bear and end up in a pile of its droppings.”

  “What’s that?” Villy cut in, her dark silhouette pointing out toward a half dozen flickering lights along a winding distant trail.

  “That’s them,” said Dawson, standing and dusting the seat of his trousers with one hand, his other holding his horse’s reins. “It’s good that we saw them from here.”

  “Yep,” said Shaw, “and now it’s time to go.” He stared out at the lights and said, “We’ve got two things to wonder about. How smart are they at tracking, and how much water can we follow and cross between here and your place?”

  “They’re not too smart at tracking,” said Dawson, “or they wouldn’t be showing us their lights.”

  “Yep, good point,” said Shaw. “Now, what about the water?”

  “There’s lots of runoff slews, two creeks if we want to use them, and lots of hard rock shelf if we want to come out of the water and leave no tracks.”

  “This is my kind of country, pard,” said Shaw. “Lead the way.”

  Dawson stepped into his saddle and lifted Villy up easily behind him. In minutes the two horses had slipped away like ghosts into the dark night.

  A thousand yards away, Giddis Junior heard a sound that caused him to stand in his stirrups and look all around. “What was that?” he said in a harsh whisper. Gathered around him on their horses sat DeLaurie, Newhouse, Billy Buffet, and Roy Erby. They all rose in their stirrups as well.

  “Whoa, look at this!” said Buffet, calling their attention to the flickering lights as Landry and his men winded into sight on the trail below them.

  “That’s got to be them,” Junior said in a harsh whisper, snatching his rifle from his saddle boot.

  “Easy, Junior,” said Erby, al
so in a lowered tone. “If it’s them, how’d they get behind us?”

  “Yeah, and why did they get behind us?” said Buffet.

  “I don’t know, damn it, but that’s them!” Junior jerked his horse around angrily and said, “All of you follow me, we’re riding down before they pass us.”

  “Wait, Junior!” Buffet pleaded, struggling to keep his voice lowered. But it did no good. Junior and DeLaurie had already hurried off the trail onto the steep sloping hillside.

  “They’ve killed themselves,” Buffet said to Newhouse and Erby. The three hurried their horses forward fifty yards, following the trail down to a cutback. At the cutback they turned and rode along the lower trail.

  At the head of the riders on the lower trail, Landry and Ritchie were the first to hear the sound of horses’ hooves moving down toward them from a steep hillside covered with dried brush and loose rock. Ritchie started to draw his Colt, but seeing him in the glow of torch and lantern light, Landry said in a lowered voice, “Hold it, Clifford. The only person stupid enough to be riding up there in the dark is Junior.”

  Ritchie looked back at the line of torches and lanterns lighting the trail, and said, “Everybody kill your light and sit still.”

  Sitting in silence moments later along the darkened trail, Landry and his men heard a loud yell, and the wild nickering and whinnying of horses. “Here they come,” Landry said sidelong to Ritchie.

  Down the hillside came the thrashing, rumbling sound of man and animal breaking through brush, and tumbling and sliding through loose rock. “Damn!” said Ritchie, staring in the darkness as Giddis Junior and DeLaurie came spilling, horses and all, onto the trail in front of them.

  “Hold your fire!” Landry called out, for both the men behind him and the men riding toward them from the cutback. “Junior, it’s me, Landry!”

  On the trail in front of him, Landry heard the horses’ hooves checked down to a walk. Buffet called out, “Landry, it’s me, Billy Buffet! What are you doing out here?”