Gunman's Song (8 page)

“No, I haven't,” said Della. “Seeing them, the way they lay there, their faces, all the blood. I don't think I'll ever get rid of it completely.”

“Gunfights are not a pretty sight,” Shaw said, looking almost ashamed.

“No, they certainly are not,” said Della. But the picture she was having the most problem getting rid of was that of Lawrence Shaw drawing a gun so fast she saw only the blur of it. She kept seeing the deliberate brutality of him as he acted without the slightest hesitation in the killing of four human beings. This was the same man she had just spent the night with, wrapped in a blanket, their bodies naked and pressed together in the midst of a wide, dark night. He had been gentle with her, warm and loving, so much so that to awaken the next morning and witness firsthand the sort of terrible deeds that had brought him such notoriety had left her shaken. She feared this man. Yet, even as she feared him, she wanted him, perhaps even more than ever, if that were possible.

After a pause Della said, “Lawrence…what you told me last night about losing your wife…and how you're hunting her killers. Where will you go when that's done?”

Shaw nodded slightly, knowing there was an offer coming. “I haven't really thought about it, Della…I haven't had the time.”

“Come back to Eagle Pass, Lawrence,” she said. “You've lost your wife; I've lost my husband. Maybe we could take care of each other.”

“We'll see,” said Shaw. “I don't want to make promises that I don't know if I can keep.”

They fell silent, Della snuggling against his chest for a few moments until Shaw leaned down and said in a quiet tone, “Get up now, Della…time to go.”

Cray Dawson had looked over in time to see Della sit up and touch her fingers to her hair, straightening it. His eyes met Shaw's for a second and Shaw offered a tired, patient smile. Dawson shook his head and stood up, dusting his trousers, then walked to where the horses stood resting in the shade. The old man who ran the well and waterwheel said in a crackling voice, “Not to be meddling, but that feller looks familiar …. Who is he, anyway?”

Cray Dawson said in a flat, expressionless voice, as if he'd committed the line to memory, “That's Lawrence Shaw…known by some as Fast Larry…the fastest gun alive.”

“Naw, it ain't!” said the old man, his eyes widening. “Is it sure enough?”

“It is sure enough,” said Dawson, still with no expression. He picked his saddle up from the adobe wall and pitched it up onto his horse.

“A real honest-to-God living, in-the-flesh gunfighter,” the old man said, looking over to where Shaw stood up and helped Della to her feet.

“Yep, he's
living,
all right,” said Dawson with a wry grin, “better than most of us, anyway.”

Having seen the way Dawson had looked at him and Della a few minutes earlier, Shaw came over to him and said, “Dawson, I know you don't approve
of how I do, but I want to remind you that I've just lost the only woman I ever loved. It hasn't been easy on me. I know I've done a lot of drinking and fooling around with other women. I reckon it's just my way of making up for missing Rosa. But I don't know what else to do to keep from losing my mind.”

“I'm not judging you, Shaw,” said Dawson stiffly as he cinched his saddle down and shook it, testing it.

“Then what are you doing?” Shaw asked in a level tone.

Dawson turned and looked him up and down, thinking about it, then said, “Hell, I don't know…envying you, I reckon.” He shrugged. “Do you ever stop and see how easy it comes to you?”

“How easy what comes to me?” said Shaw. “Drawing a gun and killing a man? It just looks easy, Dawson…believe me, it's not.”

“It's not just that, Shaw; it's everything,” said Dawson. “But it ain't your fault; it's mine. We just see things different. And things just come different to us, that's all. I meant no offense looking at the two of you.”

“I knew you didn't,” said Shaw. “But I also saw that something was eating at you. I figured it better to ask than to keep wondering what it is.”

“Then now you know…it's nothing,” said Dawson, “just envy, wondering how it feels walking in your boots.”

“Be careful envying a man's boots,” said Shaw, turning away. “You could end up wearing them.”

They finished preparing the horses and rode on to Eagle Pass, arriving at the outskirts of town at midday in the boiling heat. Dillard Frome rode one of the Comancheros' little hard-boned barbs and led the
four-mule string behind him. Della Starks also rode one of the Comancheros' horses. Dawson led the other two. The little desert barb horses drew curious looks from the adobes and plank shacks they passed going onto the main street. The horses wore feathers, beads, and scraps of bones and scalps woven into their manes and tails. Two wore coyote skins down onto their saddles and riding cushions that caused dogs to appear out from under boardwalks and porches and begin yapping with their hackles up.

“What the hell do we have coming here?” said the town sheriff, Earnest Neff, rising from a wooden chair out front of his office and stepping down onto the boardwalk.

“Looks like somebody got ahold of some Apache ponies,” said the young telegraph clerk who'd been visiting with him in the shade of the boardwalk overhang.

“Naw,” said the sheriff eyeing the ragged sombrero still hanging from the leader's saddle horn. “No self-respecting Apache would ride such a mess as that. Comancheros is what I make it to be.”

“My goodness! They're
not
Comancheros, are they?” the clerk asked, growing apprehensive all of a sudden.

The sheriff squinted hard and recognized Lawrence Shaw at the head of the party, Della Starks beside him on the little barb. “No,” he said, letting out a breath and adjusting his pistol out of habit, “but I might be wishing it was before this day is over.”

Before Shaw made it to the sheriff's office, Sheriff Neff had hurried forward and met him in the street out front of the Big Spur Saloon. He kept his hands
chest-high as he waved Shaw down. As Shaw and the others came to a halt, Sheriff Neff said in an even tone, “Mr. Shaw, I already know who you are and why you're here. I've got Sidlow Talbert in my jail right now. I don't want no trouble over him.”

“I didn't come here looking for trouble, Sheriff,” said Shaw, “but I did come looking for Sidlow. I want to know where his brother and the rest of that bunch are. You already know why.”

“Yes, I do,” said Sheriff Neff, “and I don't blame you for wanting to kill every one of them…just not in my town; that's all I ask.”

Shaw stepped down and walked around to where Della sat atop the little barb horse. He helped her step down onto the dirt-and-stone street. “I'll do my best not to have any trouble here, Sheriff; you have my word. If you know who I am, then you also know that some hothead saddle tramp is going to pop up every now and then wanting to try me.”

“I expect that,” said Neff. “I hold no man to blame when it comes to defending himself.”

“Then you and I are going to get along fine,” said Shaw. He presented Della Starks, saying, “Sheriff, this is Widow Della Starks.”

“Well, now, we've been expecting you, ma'am,” said the sheriff, taking off his hat and running a hand back along his thinning hair. “We were all saddened to hear about Purvis's death. He hadn't been here for long, but we all still considered him one of our own. Hope you'll let us make you feel welcome here in our town, ma'am.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” said Della, looking around for the Desert Flower Inn.

“Your inn is all the way down the street just before
you reach the border road crossing. Albert and Fannie Jenkins are still running it, just the way they did before your husband's death. I'll be honored to escort you there right now.”

“Thank you again, Sheriff,” said Della. She looked up at Dillard Frome and said in a domineering tone, “Take those sweaty animals to the livery barn, Dillard. You can catch up to us afterward.”

Jedson Caldwell and Cray Dawson stepped down from their saddles, stretched, and looked around the street.

“I'll accompany you and the widow Starks to the Desert Flower,” the old sheriff said to Lawrence Shaw. “Then you and I can talk on our way back before you go in to see Sidlow.” He raised a finger for emphasis. “You'll have to give me your word that you won't shoot him while he's in my custody.”

“You're asking a lot, Sheriff,” said Shaw, his jaw tightening. “But all right, you've got my word.” Shaw turned to Cray Dawson, saying, “Dawson, I'll be back here shortly. See to our animals. I'll get us some rooms at the Desert Flower; that is, if Della here approves of our company.”

Della only smiled demurely.

Caldwell looked at Dawson and said, I'll tag along with you, help you with the horses, if you don't mind.”

“No, I don't mind,” said Dawson, sounding a bit dejected, watching Shaw walk away with Della and the sheriff. He shook his head and said jokingly, “Stick with me, Caldwell; you'll soon learn to be a top-rate stable hand.”

While Shaw and his group broke off into separate directions, just inside the doors of the Big Spur Saloon
two ne'er-do-wells looked at each other with knowing grins. The taller of the two said to his comrade, “You're right, Elton; that's Fast Larry Shaw, sure as hell.”

“I knew it was, Sammy Boy!” said Elton Minton. I can spot money on the hoof from a mile away. Our luck is just about to change.”

“What do you mean, our luck?” said Sammy Boy White. “I'm the one who's quick enough to face him. I'm the one with the Colt.” He patted the gun on his hip.

“Yeah,” said Elton, thumbing himself on the chest, “but I'm the one with enough money to work up some bets on the fight. Now, are we still partners or not?”

“Hell, yes, we're still partners, Elton,” said Sammy Boy. “Couldn't you tell I was just teasing with you?”

“All right, then, no more teasing,” said Elton, raising his finger for emphasis. “I'm going to get Fat Man Hughes to back us financially. We'll get some wagers made, all very quietly so nobody will know what's about to happen until you're ready to meet Shaw on the street. Meanwhile, maybe you best go somewhere and practice getting that Colt out of your holster. Shaw ain't no easy play.”

“Don't worry about my end of this deal,” said Sammy Boy. “I'm ready for whatever comes at me.”

“Good enough—just keep that kind of attitude and follow me,” said Elton. He turned and walked to the crowded bar, shoving in between two of the drinkers at the right end of the bar, where a huge man wearing a black linen suit sat on a high wooden stool counting a thick roll of greenback dollars.

Seeing Elton and Sammy Boy move in beside him,
he gave them a sharp glance, held his roll of money a little closer to his chest, and continued counting. “What do you want, Elton?” he asked gruffly.

Elton Minton looked taken aback by the man's testy tone of voice. “Easy, Hughes,” Elton said. “I came here to bring you a wagering opportunity. Of course, if you don't want it, I'll just mosey on.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Hughes, “you do that. I don't want to fool with you two saddle tramps.”

“Saddle tramps?” Sammy Boy hissed, poising his hand near his pistol. “Nobody calls me a saddle tramp! You better fill your hand, Hughes!” Even though his voice was loud enough to be heard the length of the bar, nobody turned in his direction.

“My hands are already full, you idiot,” said Hughes, nodding at the money. “Now both of you get out of here; I'm busy.”

“Hold it, Sammy Boy,” said Elton, giving his partner a slight shove to the side. “We came to talk business, remember?” He turned back to Hughes, who still concentrated on counting his money. “All right, Hughes, I'm going to tell you about this anyway, just because I want to see the look on your face when I win everybody's money.”

Hughes gave up counting his money, and shoved the thick roll inside his linen suit coat. “All right, Elton, you've caused me to lose my count. Now tell me how you're going to win everybody's money.”

“Lawrence Shaw just rode into town,” said Elton, leaning in close to Hughes's ear.

“No kidding? Fast Larry, here?” Hughes looked surprised for a second, but then said, “So what's that to do with you winning everybody's money?”

Elton beamed and hooked a thumb in his dirty,
ragged vest. “I've got the man here who can beat him with a gun.”

“Yeah? Who?” Hughes leaned back and looked all around the saloon.

“Me, that's who,” said Sammy Boy, looking angry.

Hughes gave Elton a dubious look. “Yep, that's who,” Elton said, confirming it for Hughes.

Hughes fell silent for a moment. He looked Sammy Boy up and down. Then, unable to stifle his laughter, he let it roll, his huge belly bouncing as he slapped a thick hand on the bar top. “Lord God, Elton!” he mused, “have you been hearing banjos playing when there ain't no banjos around? Fast Larry Shaw wouldn't waste a bullet on this scarecrow! He'd stomp a foot and Sammy Boy would piss his trousers running!” He bellowed louder.

“Make this fat sumbitch shut up,” Sammy Boy said to Elton with an embarrassed look on his face.

But Fat Man Hughes raised a hand toward them, got himself collected, blew out a big breath, and said, “
Whew
…all right, you've got my attention. Whatever odds you're offering, I'll take them.” He reached inside his coat, snatched out the roll of dollars again, and slapped it down on the bar top. “Name your amount; I've got you covered.”

“No, damn it,” said Elton, “put your money away for now.” He cut a quick glance around the saloon to make sure no one was listening. “I want to talk to you about you and me partnering up and taking all the loose money in this town.”