by Ralph Cotton
“Indeed, so did I,” said Lematte. “But since the Ace High fell on financial difficulty, and Karl and I had to bail it out, we thought it might be best to start with a clean slate so to speak, name and all.” He looked up at the sign then back at Dawson. “I named her after a silver mine I used to own up in Colorado. I hope you like our decision, Mister Dawson.”
“Just curious is all,” said Dawson, stepping up onto the boardwalk. “What become of Nelson Hawkins, the Ace High owner?”
Lematte looked down and shook his head slowly with a sigh of regret. “That is not a happy story,” he said. “It pains me to tell you, but poor Mister Hawkins took his business losses so personally that he went home one night and stared too long into his gun barrel, if you know what I mean.”
Dawson didn’t let the news move him one way or the other. “Nelson never struck me as that type.”
“I know! Me neither,” said Lematte, as if still stunned by the event. “But isn’t that always the ones who do it? The ones you least suspect.” He seemed to recover from his shock and regret and said, “But, Mister Dawson, let’s not let this news spoil your evening. We have every game of chance you can imagine inside the Silver Seven!”
“Crayton Dawson?” said Karl Nolly, sounding amazed, as if his mind had just awakened to an important discovery.
“Yes, Crayton Dawson, wasn’t it?” said Lematte, giving Nolly a bewildered look. “Did I miss something?” Saying Dawson’s name again triggered Lematte’s memory. His eyes widened the same as Nolly’s.
“You’re the Crayton Dawson?” asked Nolly. His hand crept instinctively closer to his Colt. But seeing Dawson look closely at his action, he raised his hand to the center of his chest and idly scratched himself, clearly showing he had no intention of reaching for his gun.
“Yes, I’m the Crayton Dawson. I just rode in for a drink,” he said. “I heard there was a new sheriff here. What’s become of Nate Bratcher?”
“Well, now, there is another sad story I’m afraid,” said Lematte. “After the election, even though I made it perfectly clear that Bratcher could stay on as a deputy…he just started drinking more and more, then wandered off one night. Nobody has seen him since. I’m afraid something terrible has happened to him.”
Dawson just looked at the two.
“Was Bratcher a friend of yours, Dawson?” Nolly asked, trying to get a feel for Dawson and where he stood.
“Not particularly,” said Dawson, playing it down just to see if these men might reveal anything to him. “We weren’t friends…we weren’t enemies. I hate to hear about him being dead though.”
“Well, yes,” said Lematte, “and so do—”
“Nobody said he’s dead,” Nolly cut in. “He just wandered off, that’s all.” He gave Dawson a questioning look.
“Dead…wandered off. What’s the difference?” Dawson shrugged. “Either way, I doubt if he’ll be showing up for supper.” He offered a thin smile.
Lematte and Nolly looked at one another, unsure how to take Dawson’s words. But then Lematte gave a short, bemused chuckle and said, “Yes, come to think of it, Dawson, you’re right; either way I doubt if he will be showing up for supper.”
“Say, Dawson,” Nolly commented, now that the air seemed calm between them, “we heard all about what you did up in Turkey Creek and Brakett Flats. That was some powerful account you gave of yourself. Feel like talking about it?”
“You mean over a drink?” Dawson implied.
Lematte smiled. “Bravo, Dawson! Of course he meant over a drink. Come on, the drinks are on me.” He shook a finger. “But I better warn you, I intend to win it all back from you at one of the gambling tables.”
“You’re on,” said Dawson, stepping toward the doors of the Silver Seven Saloon. “But I better warn you, Lematte…I don’t plan on losing anything.”
Two hours later, Cray Dawson stood at the roulette table with a stack of chips in front of him. At the bar, Martin Lematte and Karl Nolly stood watching closely, each of them keeping a detached expression on his face. When another round of hoots and applause went up around the roulette table, Karl said under his breath, “I’d like to make him eat that gaming table, legs and all!”
“Believe me, Karl,” said Martin Lematte, “if I thought you were able to do something like that, we wouldn’t be letting him win. But I suggest you think twice before you start any trouble with this gunman. We’re doing damn good here…let’s not make a foolish mistake and get ourselves killed in the process.”
“If I make a move on him, there won’t be any mistakes, Lematte,” said Nolly. “You might be smarter than me about lots of things, but not when it comes to killing. When I make up my mind to kill a man, he might just as well sell his horse…he won’t be needing it.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Lematte. “But before we start burying men you’ve yet to kill, let me see if I can get Dawson leaning our way. Give him a taste of money. It wouldn’t hurt to get a fast gun like him on our side.”
“I just hate seeing all this money going into his pocket instead of ours,” said Nolly.
“So do I,” Lematte said quietly, watching the roulette wheel from across the saloon. “But just call it seed money.” Seeing Dawson look around toward them, Lematte raised his shot glass in friendly salute.
“Look at him,” said Nolly when Dawson turned back toward the wheel. “It’s almost like he knows we’re letting him win…like he’s rubbing our faces in something.”
“He doesn’t know a thing,” said Lematte. “You’re just letting your imagination run away with you. All these big, bold gunmen have a smugness to them. They’re all arrogant sons-a-bitches. They all think they’re smarter than they really are.” He smiled. “But that’s to our advantage if we get him on our side…and if he doesn’t get on our side, that same arrogance will be his downfall, I’ll wager.”
As the two talked back and forth between themselves, the roulette table boss came walking over wiping sweat from his forehead and said to Lematte in a hoarse whisper, “Sheriff, this guy is killing us! What do you want me to do?”
“Keep doing what you’ve been doing, Ferguson, letting him win. Give him about ten more minutes, then start using the foot pedal. Start him losing slowly. We’ll see if he’s smart enough to know when to quit.”
“Whatever you say, Sheriff,” said Ferguson. “But this fellow is giving my table a beating.” He backed up, turned, and hurried back to the table in time to see Cray Dawson rake in another tall stack of chips.
Martin Lematte saw a young tough named Henry Snead walking up to him and he said to Karl Nolly, “Good, here comes Snead. Now we’ll get a chance to see how Crayton Dawson handles himself.”
Sliding in beside Lematte at the bar, Henry Snead said, “Collins told me to get right over here. Said there’s some saddle tramp winning too much money.”
Seeing sweat run down Snead’s face, Lematte looked up and down at the dark circles on his shirt and asked, “Why are you so sweaty?”
Snead flexed his large arms and broadened his chest. “I was lifting nail kegs just for the fun of it,” he said. “I like to keep myself ready for anything.”
“Do you hear that, Karl?” Lematte beamed humorously at Nolly. “He lifts kegs of nails ‘just for the fun of it.’”
“I heard,” said Karl Nolly, sounding disinterested.
Henry Snead looked over at the roulette table, where the only player who seemed to be doing anything was the tall, thin cowboy with the tied-down Colt. “I guess that’s him, huh?” Snead asked.
Lematte smiled at Nolly, then said to Snead, “Yes, that’s the man.” He drew on his cigar as if considering something. “Tell me, Snead, how would you like to earn yourself a deputy badge tonight?”
“Nothing would suit me better.” Snead rubbed his fist into the palm of his hand. “Want me to go smack him around some…maybe drag him outside and stick his head down in a horse trough?”
“Now that would be interesting to watch.�
�� Again Lematte grinned at Nolly. “But use discretion, Snead.”
“Use what?” Snead looked confused.
“What I mean is, Henry,” said Lematte, “don’t let him know Nolly and I have anything to do with it. It will be our secret, yours and mine, all right?”
“Suits me,” said Snead. “Can I go over there now?”
“Well, why not?” Lematte grinned. “But don’t make a move for another ten minutes.”
“I’m not carrying a watch,” said Snead, looking concerned.
“Watch me for a nod. You can do that can’t you?” Lematte asked with a note of sarcasm.
“Sure thing,” said Snead.
At the table, Cray Dawson had not looked around during the time Henry Snead stood talking to Martin Lematte, so he had no warning of what was about to come. He’d been winning steadily from the time he started playing. But then his luck began to change slowly. Dawson realized right away that he’d been set up, first to win, now to lose. He didn’t know why, but he did know that he wasn’t about to give back any more money than he had to. If Lematte wanted to play games with him, Dawson would see to it that it cost him. After four bad spins in a row, Dawson drew his chips off into his hat and handed it to the table boss, saying, “Cash me in. Gentlemen, I’m calling it a night.”
He watched Ferguson the table boss count the chips and place them to the side. Then he watched a large roll of bills come up from under the table near Ferguson’s hand, and saw Ferguson quickly count out four hundred and eighty dollars and slide the money across the green felt tabletop to him. “Much obliged,” said Dawson, folding the money and stuffing it down into his shirt pocket. He stepped back and turned to walk toward the bar, but from out of nowhere a thick fist hooked him low in the stomach and lifted him onto his toes. He jackknifed forward, bowed at the waist. The pain cutting into his tender, healing flesh paralyzed him for a moment, and dropped him to his knees. He rocked back and forth unsteadily, gasping for breath.
“Jeez!” said Henry Snead, looking surprised as he stepped back rubbing his fist. At first he’d been poised for a fight, but seeing no sign of one coming he shrugged and chuckled under his breath, looking around as if making sure everybody saw what he’d done. “This guy is really weak in the gut, huh?”
A few tense seconds passed as everybody in the Silver Seven seemed to hold their breath. Henry Snead, seeing that Dawson wasn’t going to be doing anything in retaliation, finally reached down and dragged him to his feet and toward the front doors, saying, “Come on, cowboy…you can’t sit there and get sick all over the floor. Then I’d really have to thump on you.” Snead gave Lematte a triumphant look as he dragged Cray Dawson past him as if the man were a scarecrow.
Turning back to the bar, Lematte said to Nolly, “Well, I suppose that’s that. Who would ever guess a man like Crayton Dawson would be such a pushover?”
“I always say they’re all nothing without a gun in their hand,” said Nolly.
“I have to say I am a little disappointed,” said Lematte, raising a shot glass. “I had thought we might have a bit of sport here this evening. I always enjoy figuring a man out. I thought there would be more to Cray Dawson than this.” He gestured toward the floor in disgust.
“Maybe you like to figure a gunman out,” said Karl Nolly, standing beside Lematte at the bar but staring at the bat-wing doors. “Myself, I’m glad he’s gone. I just hope we’ve seen the last of him.”
“I don’t think we need concern ourselves there,” said Lematte. “I know a thing or two about people. He’s not coming back. There’s no fight in that man. You saw what he did as soon as the wheel stopped spinning his way—he quit! You saw what happened when he took a punch in the gut—he folded up!” He tossed back the shot of whiskey and let out a hiss. “Our boy Henry Snead has taken Dawson in front of everybody. These gunmen can’t stand that sort of thing. He’ll want to get as far from here as he can, I expect. He’ll go somewhere and nurse his sore gut.” He saluted Nolly with his empty whiskey glass and a smug grin. “So long, Mister Dawson!”
As they spoke, Henry Snead came back in and walked up beside Lematte, rolling his shirt sleeves down. “That didn’t take long, did it?” he said with a cruel, flat smile.
“You didn’t really dunk him in the horse trough, did you?” asked Lematte with a bemused expression.
“Naw,” said Henry Snead with a swipe of a thick hand. “I could’ve, but the shape he was in, I figured why bother? Fact is, I even shoved him up onto his horse and slapped its rump to give him a send-off.”
“How humane!” said Lematte, in feigned admiration.
“Did you happen to take his gun?” asked Nolly with a trace of warning in his voice.
“Naw,” said Snead, brushing the question aside. “Oh!” Snead snapped his fingers. “Before I forget it—” He reached a thick hand into his trousers, took out the roll of money he’d lifted from Dawson’s shirt pocket, and handed it to Lematte. “Here’s your change. I thought you might want it back.”
Lematte gave a dark little chuckle and said sidelong to Karl Nolly. “Do you see this, Karl? He brought me change.”
Chapter 6
Cray Dawson had never experienced pain as severe and unrelenting in his life. It had left him helpless and broken. As the big bay carried him away from Somos Santos, he lay slumped forward, barely able to keep himself in the saddle. When the bay stopped out front of the shack, Dawson slid himself down the horse’s side and limped inside, bowed at the waist. He dropped his gun belt and boots on the floor and lay in agony on the hard, flat bed, too tortured to sleep, too drained and exhausted to even undress himself. Come dawn he stood up in a half-conscious stupor, the pain having lessened only slightly during the night.
“Oh, God, Rosa,” he moaned. Then, realizing he had called her name aloud and chastising himself for doing such a thing, he took a deep breath and forced himself to the front porch, where a half-filled bucket of water had sat since the day before. It took all of his strength to raise the bucket and pour it over his bowed head. He dropped the bucket and blew water from his lips, and stared blurry-eyed at the bay who’d spent the night in the yard still wearing its bridle and saddle. “Damn it, Stony, I’m sorry,” he said in a raspy voice. Shoving his hand into his shirt pocket, he realized for the first time that his money was gone. He rubbed his hands up and down his face, drying himself. Then he walked inside, put on his boots, looped his gun belt over his shoulder, and made his way painfully to the front yard.
Picking his hat up from the dirt where it had fallen the night before, he dusted it against his leg and looked off along the trail leading toward Shaw’s hacienda, where he knew Rosa’s sister, Carmelita, still waited for Lawrence Shaw to return to her. “I said I’d tell her,” he told the horse, as if the horse understood. He picked up the reins hanging in the dirt and struggled upward onto the horse’s back. With a touch of his heels he sent the bay forward toward the Old Spanish Trail.
The ride should have taken less than an hour, yet by the time he topped the crest of a rise and looked down onto the house, the mid-morning sun beat down on him without mercy. Stopping the horse he waited for a moment, trying to force himself to sit straight up in his saddle. But, seeing the woman watch him from where she stood at the clothesline to the right of the house, Dawson adjusted the gun belt hanging from his shoulder and rode closer. When he stopped again he was no more than twenty yards from her. He did not hear her whisper, “Lawrence?” to herself. Nor could he see the look of disappointment appear, then disappear from her dark eyes when she realized it was only him. “Are you hurt?” she called out, using her hand as a visor against the sun’s glare.
Feeling his voice was too weak to reach her, he nudged the bay forward, then stopped again fifteen feet from her. “He said to tell you he won’t be coming back for a long while,” Dawson said, his voice still sounding pained and shaky to himself.
“I did not think he would,” she said flatly. She shrugged, holding a wicker basket of dam
p clothes resting against her hip.
“He might not be back at all,” Dawson said.
“So?” she said, lowering her hand from over her eyes.
“So, I wanted you to know,” Dawson said. His hand went to his stomach as he spoke.
“Are you hurt?” she asked again.
“No, I’m all right.” A silence passed. “Yes, I am hurt,” he corrected himself. “I’m healing from a wound…a bad one,” he said. “It won’t quit hurting.”
Carmelita nodded and only stared at him.
“I better go,” he said. Yet he continued to sit the horse, gazing off for a moment, then back at her.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t been eating. That is, I haven’t wanted to.” He shook his head and said quietly, “I mean, no, I’m not hungry.”
She stared in silence.
“I never blamed you and Shaw for what you done that night,” he blurted out.
“Oh? What night was this?” she asked.
“The night you slept together when he came home to visit Rosa’s grave,” Dawson said.
Carmelita shifted the wicker basket slightly on her hip. “I do not care whether you blamed me or not,” she said.
“I didn’t, anyway,” he said.
She stared at him.
“Well, I better go,” he said. Still he made no effort to do so. Instead he nudged the bay forward a step and looked at her, seeing how much she resembled Rosa—her hair, her eyes, the turn of her mouth when she spoke. Seeing her, he could almost smell Rosa’s scent, almost taste Rosa’s mouth. He felt a sudden dull ache inside him that was as real, if not as intense, as the pain in his tender, healing stomach. Seeing Carmelita look at him curiously, he shoved his hand down slightly into his waist belt and said, “It hurts something awful.”
“Si,” she said, “I understand.”
He wasn’t sure what it was she understood, whether she referred to the apparent pain he felt in his wounded stomach, or to some deeper pain she sensed in his spirit. But looking into her dark eyes he realized that she did indeed understand things about him, things that he would never even have to mention. Looking away from her he asked quickly, as if to hesitate a second longer would keep him from asking at all, “Can I stay here with you?”
