Between Hell and Texas

by Ralph Cotton

  “Sheriff Neff,” said Cray Dawson, “what can I do for you?” Stooping straight down slowly, laying the Winchester down near his left boot, he kept his right hand raised chest high.

  Sheriff Neff offered a flicker of a grin, rain running from his hat brim, from the sleeves of his long black linen duster. “Where is he, Dawson?” Neff’s eyes glanced at the Desert Flower Inn, then snapped back to Cray Dawson.

  “I have no idea, Sheriff,” said Dawson. “Shaw and I broke away in Brakett Flats. I’m headed home to Somos Santos.”

  “Shaw’s not down there?” Neff nodded at the Desert Flower.

  “I told you, Sheriff, I’m alone, headed home,” said Dawson with resolve.

  “I heard the whole story about what happened in Brakett Flats,” said Neff.

  “Good,” said Dawson. “Then you had to hear that Shaw and I acted in self-defense.”

  Neff brushed it aside. “I don’t give a damn what you did. Anybody who killed the Talbert Gang ought to get a medal and a marching band.”

  Dawson just stared at him, knowing there was more to come. The other four men stood poised, rain running down them.

  “But I told you and Shaw to stay out of my town. What are you doing back here?”

  “I thought it would be all right, Sheriff,” said Dawson, “since it’s only me, and since all the trouble is over.”

  “Uh-uh,” said Neff. “That went for you too. The trouble ain’t over. Trouble is never over with you gunmen.” He gestured to the old teamster standing in the rain near the edge of an alley. “Harve said you hadn’t been in the Big Spur five minutes, you got Bud Emery’s men at one another’s throats.”

  “I had nothing to do with it, Sheriff. But I’m no gunman,” Dawson said, correcting him. “I’m just a citizen like everybody else…. I’m headed home I told you.”

  “Not a gunman?” Neff grinned, bemused. “You sound like you really think that.”

  “I do think it,” said Dawson.

  “Suppose if I was to tie you to a hitch rail and horsewhip the piss out of you, you’d stay away from my town?” Neff asked.

  Dawson bristled. His hand remained chest high, but it poised now. “If it comes to horsewhipping, Sheriff,” he said in a tight, level voice, “I expect I’ll die in your town.” He looked from one pair of eyes to the next. “But not alone,” he added.

  “Easy now,” said Sheriff Neff, seeing the look on Dawson’s face. “See, that’s what I’m talking about.” He pointed his finger, keeping his hand away from his pistol butt. “You’d die before you’d take a whipping. That’s what makes you different than a citizen like anybody else. You and Shaw and the rest of you live by your own law. I ain’t blaming you. I’m just telling you. I don’t want none of you here.”

  “Then I’ll leave, Sheriff,” said Dawson, seeing now that Neff was only making a point. “Let me get to my horse. I won’t be back here, you’ve got my word.”

  Sheriff Neff looked him up and down; his wet, muddy boots, his wet hat and gloves. He looked at the bay standing soaked and shivering at the hitch rail. “Ah, hell,” he growled, “I reckon one night won’t hurt nothing…provided you stay out of the saloon, get you and your horse a dry spot and stay on it.” He looked at the four men standing around him and said, “All right, lower them, boys.”

  “Much obliged, Sheriff,” said Dawson, stooping down, picking up his rifle slowly and letting everybody see him place it up under his arm. “I’ll clear out of here come first light, rain or no rain.”

  “See that you do,” said Sheriff Neff. He pushed up his wet hat brim and said, “Right after you left here last time, that damned Sammy Boy White killed Fat Man Hughes and two other men right out here in the street.”

  “I thought Sammy Boy was dead,” said Dawson.

  Sheriff Neff gave him a look of warning. “First light, Dawson…I reckon I already know where you’ll be staying the night.” His eyes gestured toward the Desert Flower Inn then back to Dawson.

  Dawson looked embarrassed. “Obliged, Sheriff. First light…my word on it.”

  As soon as the sheriff and his men had pulled back and walked away, Dawson let out a breath of relief, unhitched his bay and rode it around to the back door of the Desert Flower Inn. After knocking, then waiting, then knocking again, harder this time, and waiting another few minutes in the drizzling rain, Dawson had turned back to where the bay stood near the back porch. But before he could step into the saddle, a woman’s voice called out from inside, “Who’s there?”

  Recognizing Della Starks’s voice, Dawson replied, “Miss Della, it’s me, Crayton Dawson, remember?”

  “Crayton who?” said Della Starks.

  “Crayton Dawson, Miss Della,” said Dawson. “Shaw and I helped you get here after your wagon broke a wheel? We shot it out with a band of Comancheros?”

  “Oh, Cray Dawson! Just a second.” Following a silence, Della opened the door a crack and looked back and forth in eager expectation, hardly giving Dawson a glance until she saw he was alone. “What brings you here, Cray Dawson?” Her expression turned bland.

  “I’m headed home to Somos Santos and I need a dry place to stay for the night,” Dawson said, nodding toward the rain.

  “And you figured you’d just drop by and spend the evening with me, the lonely widow Starks? No invitation, no nothing, just pop by?” She gave a toss of her hand and a sarcastic smile. “See if you can’t throw my heels in the air, for free room and board? Is that what you thought?”

  “Uh, ma’am,” Dawson said, caught a bit off guard, “I’m not looking for a handout. I pay for my lodging. I just thought that…” His words trailed. Della gave him a knowing stare, crossing her arms across her large bosom, the low cut of her bodice showing plenty of rose-blushed flesh.

  “Dawson, I see through you so easily,” Della said, shaking her head slowly, long strands of fragrant blond hair brushing back and forth across her breasts. She gave him a long, harsh stare, but when Dawson retreated a step back as if he might excuse himself and leave, her expression softened until she smiled, batted her eyes and said, “All right, cowboy, come on in. Make yourself useful.”

  “Miss Della, I don’t want to impose,” said Dawson with hesitancy.

  “Oh yes you do,” Della said. She reached out, grabbed him by his gun belt buckle and pulled him forward. “So don’t turn stubborn on me, Dawson. You talked me into it; now what are you going to do, make me beg?” She laughed playfully.

  “No, ma’am!” said Dawson. “No begging needed here!” He stepped inside as she continued pulling him by his gun belt.

  “I suppose you’ll want something to eat before we settle in for the night?” Della asked.

  “I could eat something,” Dawson replied, “and the fact is I’ve got to see to my horse.”

  “No,” said Della. “What you’ve got to do is get upstairs and into my bathing tub while the water is still warm and sudsy. I’ll see to it that our town stable hostler takes care of your horse.” Seeing the look of concern in Dawson’s eyes, Della added, “Don’t worry, once he hears that bay belongs to a famous gunman, he’ll treat it better than he treats his children.”

  “I’m no famous gunman, Della,” Dawson stated. “I’m not really a gunman at all. I’m just a working drover.”

  “You’re not going to disappoint me are you?” Della asked coyly.

  “No, ma’am, not if my life depended on it,” said Dawson, feeling her fingernails dig against his belly behind his belt buckle.

  “That’s more like it,” she whispered.

  Dawson relaxed. Della turned his belt loose and he pulled her to him, his arms encircling her, saying, “Miss Della, you just can’t imagine how good it is to see you again.”

  “What’s the quickest you’ve ever taken a bath, Cray?” she whispered into his ear, putting plenty of breath into her words.

  “I don’t know, but I’ve got a feeling I’m about to find out,” Dawson said.

  In moments he was in the small bathtub,
lathered and rinsed, and out, standing on a soft braided rug in the glow of a lantern Della had lit and set on a soap stand. From her adjoining bedroom, Della purred softly, “Cray, are you ready yet? I’m getting all flushed in here just waiting for you.”

  Whew! Dawson hurried. “I won’t be long, Della, I promise!” He dried himself frantically, then wrapped the towel around his waist and stepped through the open door into the glow of scented candlelight.

  “Drop the damp towel,” Della said, holding up the corner of the covers for him to slip into bed beside her. He saw her lying naked awaiting him.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling, letting the towel fall to the floor. As he settled into the warm feather bed, he heard the slightest sound of a horse whinnying somewhere to the rear of the Desert Flower and he stopped and said, “Did the stable man take care of Stony?”

  “Who?” said Della, sounding anxious, pulling him to her.

  “Stony, my horse,” said Dawson. “Did he get taken care of?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he did,” said Della, brushing the matter aside. Then she whispered, again drawing him to her, “Am I going to get taken care of?”

  He felt her hands on him and gasped quietly. But as he once again tried to settle into the bed, feeling her warm and willing against him, he heard the same sound of a horse coming from the rear of the inn. “That’s Stony,” he said, this time rising halfway from the bed. “Didn’t the stable man come get him? Didn’t you tell him to?”

  “I told him to,” Della sighed in exasperation. “He said when he got time…he was busy. Don’t worry, the horse will be all right. Come down here to me.”

  “I got to see about him,” said Dawson, rising up from the bed, snatching the towel up off the floor and walking into the room where his clothes lay on a chair beside the tub.

  “I can’t believe this!” Della cried out. “A damn horse!”

  “I’m sorry,” said Dawson, with determination, “I can’t leave him out there in weather like this. He’s my horse for God sakes!” Heading down the stairs toward the back door, he called over his shoulder to her, “I’ll be right back.” He slipped his bib-front shirt over his shoulders and stuffed the tail down into his trousers.

  “Like hell you will!” Della shouted.

  Dawson heard the bedroom door slam hard enough to jar the long wooden handrail. He cursed under his breath and walked to the back door with his boots under his arm, his gun belt over his shoulder. Before stepping out into the rain, he put on his boots, strapped on his gun belt, and took down his slicker and wet hat from a peg on the wall.

  Outside he heard the whinnying again and said aloud into the dark, drizzling gloom, “I’m coming Stony. I’ll take care of you.”

  The big bay stood where Dawson had left him tied out back. “Don’t worry, Stony, I’ll take you to the stable,” Dawson said, running a hand along the bay’s wet muzzle. But as he unwrapped the horse’s reins a voice called out above the sound of hurrying footsteps sloshing through the mud, “Here, I’ll take him.”

  Dawson looked at the face of a young man coming toward him carrying a lantern. “I’m Vernon, from the livery barn. Sorry I’m late. I promised Miss Della I’d come get this horse and give him special treatment. I will, too, you can count on it. She told me who you are, Mister Dawson. Heck, this service is on the house!”

  Dawson looked at Della’s bedroom window in time to see the light go out. “That’s all right, Vernon,” he said, holding onto the reins. “I’ll just walk along with you. How dry is that livery barn?”

  Chapter 2

  In the open doorway of the livery barn, Sheriff Neff stared at the endless gray morning in disgust. Then he turned and walked along the center of the barn to the darkened stall Vernon had pointed him to. The big bay made a low rumbling sound in his chest and stopped chewing his mouthful of hay as Neff approached the stall door. “Easy, boy,” Neff said quietly. He heard a rustling sound in the hay inside the stall and said, “Crayton Dawson, it’s me, Sheriff Neff. Are you awake?”

  “I’m awake, Sheriff,” Dawson said in a sleepy voice, grunting as he stood up and plucked a strand of hay from his hair.

  Neff stifled a smile watching Dawson rub a hand across his face. “Looks like you didn’t fair near as well as I thought you would, Dawson.”

  “Morning, Sheriff.” Dawson looked at him, making no response. “Don’t worry, I’ll be leaving here as soon as I can get my horse under me,” Dawson said.

  “Good,” said Neff. “I heard you was here. I just thought I’d drop by and tell you. The bartender said Mad Albert Ash rode into town about an hour ago. Said Ash knows you’re here.”

  “He knows I’m here?” said Dawson. “Who told him?”

  “Come on, Dawson,” said the sheriff, “you know how word travels. He might have heard it in the last town you were in and just figured you’d be here. He could have happened by here and heard it from the bartender. It ain’t no secret. Hell, from one of my men for that matter.”

  “Or you?” Dawson studied the sheriff’s face.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” said the sheriff. “The point is he already asked the bartender over at the Big Spur where he might find you…said he might like to buy you a drink.”

  “At this hour of morning?” said Dawson.

  Sheriff Neff shrugged. “Maybe he’s one of them early drinkers. They don’t call him Mad for nothing I reckon.”

  “Mad Albert Ash,” said Dawson. “I’ve heard that name all my life, it seems like. I never thought there would be a day he’d be asking about me.”

  Neff looked at him. “It ain’t like he wants to swap cowboy stories, Dawson. I expect he’ll be wanting to kill you. You ought to know by now, it’s a strange world these big guns live in. They ain’t like the rest of us.”

  “Yeah, I learned that much riding with Shaw,” said Dawson. “I’ve got to get myself away from all this, before I end up becoming what you say I already am.”

  “If you didn’t realize you’re a gunman already, this ought to sure enough cinch it for you,” said Neff. “If I was you, I’d get on that horse and ride. Get on out of here…if you really ain’t a gunman. If you really ain’t out to carry a big reputation.”

  Dawson considered it for a moment, then said, “Sheriff, I ain’t sneaking out of town like a cowed hound. I’ve wronged no one. It doesn’t seem right, backing down from a fight I don’t even know is coming.”

  “See?” said Neff, pointing a finger. “That’s about what I figured you’d say. Like it or not, Dawson, that’s about what you can count on any gunman saying. Maybe you better start to realizing what you are, before not realizing it gets you killed.”

  “Damn it, Sheriff, I can’t just sneak out of town…and I can’t just stay here knowing I could avoid killing a man or getting killed myself just by leaving.” He ran his fingers back through his disheveled hair.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to ponder it,” said Sheriff Neff. “And while you ponder it, remember this—I’m not standing for no more gunfighters disrupting my town. If the law means anything to you—which I doubt—you will sneak out of here like a ‘cowed hound,’ or else in addition to carrying around a reputation, you’ll also be carrying around a jail record.” Sheriff Neff touched his fingers to his hat brim and gave a thin smile. “Morning then.”

  Before Neff stepped out the door, Dawson called out to him, “Sheriff, are you going to tell Mad Albert Ash the same thing when you see him?”

  “Don’t need to,” said Neff, “he’s known it for years.”

  When the sheriff had left, Vernon walked up quietly and said to Dawson, “I couldn’t help but overhear. I can show you a back trail out to the main road if you want me to. It might be awful slick and deep with all this rain we’ve had.”

  “Obliged, Vernon,” said Dawson, stepping into his damp, clammy boots. “But I don’t reckon I’ll be taking the back trail.”

  Vernon’s attention perked. “Then you’re going to stay and
fight Albert Ash?”

  “No,” said Dawson, stepping his boots into place, “not if I can keep from it. But I’m leaving this town the way I came in. I ain’t crawling out the back door on my belly.”

  Dawson reached around and took Stony’s bridle from a peg on the outside of the stall. Vernon backed away quietly, leaving him to slip the bridle into the horse’s mouth and lead the big bay outside the stall to prepare him for the trail. Stony stood still as Dawson smoothed a saddle blanket down and swung the saddle onto his back. When he’d drawn the cinch snug and laid the stirrups down the horse’s sides, Dawson said, stepping around Stony and running a hand down his soft muzzle, “The accommodations might not have been the best, but we both kept dry, didn’t we pard?”

  The bay blew out a breath and scraped a hoof on the soft floor. Dawson made up his bedroll, wrapped it in a length of rubber-coated canvas, and tied it down behind his saddle. He took down his dry rain slicker and damp hat from the wall, put them on, and picked up his Winchester from where he’d leaned it inside the stall near his side. He stood checking his Colt as Vernon came back from the front of the barn carrying his stiff, but dry, leather gloves. “I shelved these above the wood stove for you, Mister Dawson.”

  “Obliged, Vernon.” Dawson holstered his Colt and reached inside his trouser pocket for a coin, but Vernon stopped him, saying firmly, “No, sir, Mister Dawson, I told you last night, ‘no charge’ for you, and I meant it.”

  Dawson started to protest, but realizing how little money he had, he nodded and said “Obliged” again, reminding himself that this was one more thing he had said he wouldn’t allow himself to do: accept free services, free goods, free anything just because he could draw a gun and kill a man with it. Well…it was easy to see how these things came about, he thought, seeing Vernon pull and stretch the stiffened leather gloves back into shape for him. People held gunmen in high regard, in fear, in awe. He couldn’t say it was right, but he couldn’t think of anything he could do or say that would change it. He nodded, taking the gloves and pulling them onto his hands and clenching his fists a few times to get them loosened up. Vernon watched as if entranced. Then he managed to say, “Mister Dawson, next time you’re through here I’d give anything if I could introduce my oldest boy to you. It would be the biggest thing that ever happened to him!”