Between Hell and Texas

by Ralph Cotton

  “No,” said Deavers, grudgingly, standing up with Gains Bouchard. “Nobody will consider that out of line. But I hope you’ll think this thing over and change your mind. You’re our only hope.”

  “Sorry, gentlemen,” said Bouchard. “I’ve given you my answer on it. I ain’t likely to change my mind.” Then he turned and left, his men following close behind him.

  “Now what do we do?” asked Tinsdale, staring at the closed door.

  “Perhaps he’s right,” said Deavers. “Maybe we need to hire ourselves a gunman.”

  “Sure,” said Tinsdale sarcastically. “and just where do we go to do that?”

  Carmelita stared out the window toward the steady sound of pistol fire coming from the wide creek bed a half mile behind the hacienda. She counted six quick shots. Then came a short pause, followed by four more explosions; these shots fired farther apart, with greater deliberation, she supposed. In the following silence she saw a mental picture of him standing there alone, evaluating himself, scrutinizing his skill in the dark contest of killing. She saw him standing relaxed now—relaxed but still poised, his big Colt pistol smoking in the morning air.

  She knew that moments after the last of the four shots rang out Cray Dawson and his horse Stony would soon appear in sight, coming back toward the house at an easy gait. This had become Dawson’s new routine. In the four days that had passed since the incident with the deputies from Somos Santos, Cray Dawson had spoken very little on the matter. But every morning Carmelita would watch him sit on a short bench outside near the chimnea, and count out ten cartridges and inspect each one closely while he drank his coffee.

  Each morning the routine had been the same, yet each morning Cray Dawson had been slightly different. An edginess had developed around him, and with it an economy of movement and expression. His eyes had taken on a wariness, and with it a cold resolve that seemed to strengthen itself more and more with each fall of the gun hammer, with each explosion of metal and fire.

  “Sante Madre,” she whispered to herself, making the sign of the cross on her breasts as a revelation swept her consciousness with a slight chill. Watching him step down from his saddle and hitch the horse’s reins near the back porch, she realized that the more time he spent conditioning and hardening and preparing himself for battle, the more desirous she became of him. Dawson had come to her wounded, not only in his flesh but in his heart and in his spirit. He had suffered hurt that she was certain he would never reveal to her. She had taken him in because she too had known pain, and her nature was of a kind that healed best by healing others.

  “Carmelita, I’m back,” Dawson called out, stepping inside and closing the back door behind himself.

  “Si, you are back,” Carmelita said quietly to herself. She walked toward the sound of his voice, but then stopped mid-step as he said his next words.

  “It’s time I go to Somos Santos and get supplies.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, standing in the doorway between the two rooms. “It would not be better for you to wait another day, or even two?”

  “No,” said Dawson, gently but firmly, as if he had struggled with that same question himself. “It’s time I go.” He looked away for a moment, then said, “It will be late when I get back tonight…but I’ll ride straight back unless the weather turns bad. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”

  “Si, of course,” she said, as if dismissing it. “I have made a list of things we need. I will get it for you.”

  She went to a small desk in the front part of the house. When she returned with her list, the rear door had been left open and Dawson stood beside his horse, adjusting the cinch on the saddle. She took the folded paper to him and watched him take it in his gloved hand and put it inside his riding duster without reading it. “If you think of any other things we need…” Her words trailed. Supplies were the farthest thing from his mind, she reminded herself.

  Dawson led the horse to the side yard. Carmelita walked with him in silence, sensing that he did not want to hear words of any kind. He lifted his hat from his head and drew her against him. They kissed, tenderly. Then he continued to hold onto her for a moment as if taking in the essence of her. He whispered into her ear, “I’ll be back.”

  “I know,” she whispered reassuringly.

  She stepped back and watched him swing up onto the horse’s back. With a glance and a final touch of his hat brim, he was gone, leaving a low rise of dust in his wake. She stood for a moment longer, scanning both the hill lines and the rocky flatlands stretching out in every direction. Then she walked back inside the hacienda where the world felt smaller and closer to her.

  Three hundred yards along the trail Cray Dawson stopped at a rise and looked back at the empty yard. He thought of the many times in the past when he sat his horse at this very spot and looked back to see if his beloved Rosa still stood in the side yard, watching him ride away. It dawned on him that for the past few days, since his run-in with the deputies, he had not thought of Rosa Shaw. He had not seen Rosa’s face, not when Carmelita came to him in the darkness, not when he held her naked and warm against his bare chest, not when they made love.

  A dark wave of loss and guilt started to sweep over him, but he managed to head it off and brush it aside. He had to admit to himself, it felt good not being haunted by the memory of a woman he could never have—a woman whose love he’d had no right to in the first place. Carmelita was all the woman any man could ever hope for. The fact that she resembled her sister Rosa so closely could be both a blessing and a curse, Dawson reminded himself. But so be it, he thought. For now Carmelita was everything life could have to offer…Rosa Shaw was everything death could take away. “Let’s go, Stony,” he said, turning both his horse and his thoughts toward the trail to Somos Santos.

  Chapter 11

  It was early afternoon when Cray Dawson rode into town. He stayed close to the boardwalk without drawing any attention to himself and stopped his horse out front of the mercantile store. Being from Somos Santos he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone recognized either him or Stony. Keeping his head ducked, he hitched Stony’s reins and stepped up quickly onto the boardwalk and inside the store. But he hadn’t made it across the floor to the counter when the store owner, Mort Able, called out to him, saying, “Well, well, Crayton Dawson. It’s about time we heard something from you!”

  There were no other customers in the store, so Dawson tipped his hat and said, “Howdy, Mort.” He pulled the folded supply list from his pocket. “I’d be much obliged if you could fill this for me while I take care of some important business.”

  “Why certainly, Crayton,” said the store owner. “Anything I can help you with?”

  “No, but thanks for the offer all the same,” said Dawson. He thought about something then said, “Mort, you’ve been here on the main street about as long as I can remember. Tell me something—how long would you say it takes for news to make its way from one end of the street to the other?”

  Mort hesitated for a second. “Do you means news like you riding into town?”

  Dawson nodded.

  Mort Able rubbed his chin in contemplation. “Oh…I’d say five to ten minutes, giving that you didn’t ride in whooping and yelling.”

  “That’s about what I had figured,” said Dawson. He nodded toward the rear of the store. “Do you mind if I use your back door?”

  “Well, no…” Mort Able gave him a curious look, asking quietly, “You ain’t in any trouble are you?”

  “No, Mort, I’m not in any trouble,” said Dawson, already headed toward the back door.

  “Well, that’s good news, Crayton,” Able said. “I heard what happened to you here awhile back. It was a damned shame, that bullying punk doing what he did to you.”

  Dawson stopped before reaching the back door. “I don’t suppose you might know where I would find him this time of day, do you?”

  “Henry Snead? Ha!” said Mort Able. “He’s the same place he’s been all day…o
ver at the Silver Seven. I was there less than an hour ago, getting me a beer. Henry was bragging to Gains Bouchard and a couple of his Double D cowboys about how he beat you up.”

  “He was telling that story to Bouchard and his men?” Dawson asked.

  “He sure was…and I could tell they didn’t like hearing it one bit,” said Able.

  Dawson smiled. “That’s good to know, Mort.” He looked around and saw a keg filled with hickory ax handles. “Mind if I borrow one of these?”

  “No, sir,” said the store owner, a sly grin coming to his face. “You just help yourself…and if you break it, just consider it on the house.”

  “Thanks,” said Dawson, picking up one of the handles and heading out the back door.

  As soon as the rear door closed, Mort Able snatched his clerk’s apron from around his waist and hurried to the front door, grabbing his bowler hat from a peg on the wall. Quickly he flipped a sign around in his glass door, turning it from OPEN to CLOSED with a flick of his wrist. Then he hurried out, slamming the door behind him, and heading for the boardwalk directly across the street from the Silver Seven Saloon.

  Inside the saloon, Henry Snead stood with his back against the bar, a froth-capped mug of beer in his right hand, his tight shirtsleeves rolled up high enough to show his thick muscles. Gathered around him a few local drinkers had been listening closely to his version of the fight between himself and Cray Dawson. At the far end of the bar stood Gains Bouchard and his drovers, staring at Snead with expressions that showed little appreciation for his story. Beside Bouchard, Sandy Edelman clamped a hand firmly on Stanley Grubs’s right forearm to keep him from jerking his pistol from his holster and going toward Snead.

  “Let it lay, Stanley,” Edelman said in a private tone. “You heard what the boss told the councilmen. We ain’t starting no trouble.”

  “Cray Dawson has always been on the square with me,” said Grubs, relenting, but glaring at Snead with contempt. “I don’t like listening to this fool lie about whipping him.”

  Nor do I, Stanley,” Gains Bouchard cut in, speaking barely above a whisper. “But it’s a plain simple fact that this turd sent Dawson out of here on his belly. Until Dawson changes the outcome, that is how things stand, whether we all like it or not.”

  “Damn it!” Grubs growled. He spat a stream of tobacco into a brass spittoon and ran a hand across his mouth. Beside him, Jimmie Turner and Mike Cassidy nodded in agreement with him and sipped their whiskey, glowering at Henry Snead as he continued his fight story.

  Finally Mike Cassidy said, “You boys listen to this horse shit if it suits you…I’m going upstairs and grab the first whore who shows her face.”

  “Hell, yes,” said Jimmie Turner, setting his empty whiskey glass on the bar. “That move has my name written all over it.” The two shoved away from the bar and climbed the stairs. No sooner than they had disappeared behind two separate doors, an old man stuck his head inside the saloon and called out, “Crayton Dawson is in town! I just now got the word! He’s coming this way!”

  Henry Snead stopped his story, saying to the gathered drinkers, “You gentlemen will have to excuse me. I better get out to the street. It appears I might have to whip this man all over again.” He grinned with a feigned sigh. “Some people never learn.” He unbuckled his gun belt and laid it up on the bar. Turning in a slow circle with his arms raised, he said, “I want everybody here to witness the fact that I am unarmed.”

  Having heard the old man shout from the doorway, Martin Lematte stepped in from the back room and looked back and forth, saying, “Did I hear that Crayton Dawson is in town?”

  “So the man said,” Henry Snead called out to him. “But don’t worry, this will only take a minute.”

  At the end of the bar, Gains Bouchard gave his men a nod. They turned as one, walked out the rear door of the saloon and hurried along the alley back out to the street. They arrived in time to see Henry Snead step down off the boardwalk and face Cray Dawson from less than ten feet away. The saloon emptied, men shuffling along the boardwalk for a good view. Others gathered around in a half circle in the dirt street. Lematte’s deputies appeared from every direction. They gave Lematte a glance, looking for some direction from him as he stepped out onto the boardwalk.

  Lematte spotted Gains Bouchard and his drovers spreading out behind the crowd. Realizing where Bouchard’s loyalties would lie, Lematte shook his head slightly, signaling his deputies to stay out of it. At a window above the saloon, Mike Cassidy stood looking down without his shirt on. Behind him, Miami Jones peeped over his shoulder, then said, “Come on, cowboy, what’s it going to be, me or a street fight?”

  Cassidy reached around, grabbed his gun belt, and threw it around his waist. “Keep it warm for me, Ma’am. I best get on down there.”

  Following him out the door of the room, Miami met Suzzette coming along the hallway. “What’s all the commotion outside?” Suzzette asked, stepping into Miami’s room, toward the open window.

  “I don’t know,” said Miami. “A fight of some sort.” She reached out to close the curtains, but Suzzette looked down and caught a glimpse of Cray Dawson.

  “Wait!” Suzzette gasped, grabbing Miami’s arm.

  “Not you too!” Miami laughed. But she stopped laughing when she saw the look on Suzzette’s face. “Oh, I see…you know this man, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said Suzzette, her voice hushed and without breath in it.

  “Uh-oh,” said Miami, looking closely at her. “I mean you really know this man.”

  On the street, Henry Snead hooked both thumbs in his belt, liking all the attention that he felt focused on him. “Well, well now,” he said, grinning, standing firm as Cray Dawson took a step forward, closing the distance between them. “I see you brought along an equalizer.” He nodded at the ax handle in Dawson’s fist. “I hope you don’t think I’m going to give you the advantage of—”

  His words stopped in his mouth. He heard the ax handle slice through the air, but before he could see it or make any attempt to get out of its way, his jaw exploded. The impact of the blow sent his head flying sideways, but then the ax handle sliced the air again, this time catching the other side of his jaw and sending his head swinging in the opposite direction. A wincing moan rose from the crowd. Snead tried to shake his batted head and come forward, his fists raised as if to protect his face and do battle. “Come on!” he bellowed, managing to steady himself on wobbly feet. “I ain’t hurt!”

  But now the ax handle paid no attention to Henry’s face. The exploding he’d felt in his jaw had moved down to his knee. He crumbled straight down and rocked back and forth, addled, unable to fight, unable to fall.

  Cray Dawson took his time now, stepping a bit to one side and looking around at the deputies as he spoke. “Anybody who knows me, knows that Somos Santos is my home,” Dawson called out to the crowd, focusing on Lematte and his deputies. “I want to be able to come here without any trouble from anybody.” The ax handle streaked through the air and struck Snead across the small of his back. Snead snapped upright, then started to fall slowly forward.

  “You all know that I live with a woman right out there off the Old Spanish Trail,” said Dawson, giving a nod out across the rocky land. With a quick step forward, he swung the handle again, this time stooping slightly to make certain it hit Henry Snead just below his ribs, sending a gush of air from his bloody mouth. “I won’t tolerate anybody coming around uninvited.” Snead’s gold tooth hit the dirt at Dawson’s feet.

  “We’re putting a stop to this,” said one of the deputies. But before he made a move, a pistol barrel nudged against the side of his cheekbone. Mike Cassidy stood bare-chested beside him.

  “You’re not going to do anything but behave yourself,” Cassidy warned him, cocking the pistol.

  In the dirt Snead buckled forward, his arms wrapped around his stomach, his cheek on the ground, his behind in the air. Dawson raised his boot and shoved the helpless man over onto his side. Snead groaned
pitifully. “Does everybody here understand what I’m saying?” said Dawson. He looked back and forth at the faces of the deputies, the cowboys, and the townsmen. A silence set in. The only sound on the street was that of Snead groaning. Cray Dawson pitched the ax handle atop Henry Snead with disregard and walked to where Martin Lematte stood with his cigar in his mouth.

  “Sheriff Lematte,” said Dawson, “I want to report a robbery.”

  “A robbery?” Lematte looked surprised, and worried.

  “That’s right,” said Dawson. “The last time I was in Somos Santos I had four hundred and eighty dollars in my shirt pocket. After I left the Silver Seven it was missing.” His gaze narrowed and riveted on Lematte. “I’m counting on you and your deputies clearing this thing up for me. I’m getting my money back before I leave town this evening.”

  Lematte looked stunned. “Dawson, I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with Snead doing what he did to you here the other day!”

  “He’s wearing a deputy’s badge,” Dawson said firmly. “He’s one of your boys.”

  Karl Nolly cut in, saying, “That’s right, Snead is a deputy, Dawson! That means you just beat the hell out of a deputized lawman!”

  “Nolly! Shut up!” Lematte demanded. He looked past Dawson at the crowd growing closer around them. “Everybody break it up now!” he shouted. “Go on home! There’s nothing else to see here!”

  “About that money, Lematte,” Dawson said flatly.

  “I’ve been hoping you’d show up, Dawson,” said Lematte. “I want to talk to you about that money.”

  “I’m here,” said Dawson. “Start talking.”