Between Hell and Texas

by Ralph Cotton

  Without raising his voice, Gains Bouchard said matter-of-factly, still leaning on his elbow, “Dawson just told me he’s in love with that woman. Why don’t you pick yourself somebody else?”

  Cassidy let out a breath of disappointment. “Well, damn it, Boss. I was all set to fall in love with her myself.”

  “Do us all a favor, Cassidy,” said Bouchard. “Dawson’s been one of us for a long time.”

  “Ah—hell, I know it,” said Cassidy grudgingly. He looked all around the bar until he spotted Miami Jones standing near a gaming table with a hand on her hip. She gave him a seductive smile. “Well now, one door shuts, another always opens.” Giving the other drovers a look, he said, “I reckon I’ll just have to fall in love in a different direction.”

  Chapter 13

  Cray Dawson managed to leave the Silver Seven Saloon unseen and slip into an alley. He walked along the backs of buildings to the end of the block and turned toward a tall, white clapboard boarding house sitting back off the main street in the shaded canopy of two live oaks. At the rear of the large house, he opened a gate in the white picket fence and went to the back door. A young white housemaid let him in and led him to a cool, darkened parlor and introduced him to the proprietor, Miss Lillian Hankins.

  “You’re from here, aren’t you, Mister Dawson?” Miss Hankins asked once the introductions were made. She eyed him up and down, Dawson standing with his hat in his hand. Her eyes went to the Colt on his hip. “I believe I heard somewhere that you are renowned for your ability with a handgun?”

  “That is true, Miss Hankins,” said Dawson. “But I am not a gunman, or a rounder of any sort…I’m a drover by trade.”

  “Oh, I see,” she said, the look on her face suggesting that being a drover made him no better in her estimation. “No offense, Mister Dawson, but the fact is, I have a hard, fast rule against letting rooms and board to drovers.”

  “Well, you see, ma’am,” said Dawson, “the room wouldn’t be for me. No, I’m looking for temporary room and board for a young woman I know.” He already realized how difficult this was going to be. “I wanted to find out what it would cost to put her up here for say…eight to ten months?”

  “Eight to ten months, eh?” Miss Hankins eyed him skeptically. “Do I look like I’m just a newcomer to this business, Mister Dawson?” she asked.

  “Ma’am?” said Dawson.

  “This young woman is in trouble I take it. And if I was to guess, I’d say that you’re the one responsible.” She tossed a hand. “My goodness, young man, do you realize how many times a year somebody stands right there where you’re standing, asking me the same thing, if I have room for some poor young woman carrying their child?”

  “Ma’am, it’s not like that,” said Dawson. “The fact is, this woman is, well…” He let his words trail for a moment. “The fact is she’s a saloon gal…a working girl as they say.”

  “Oh, one of those poor soiled doves out to change and make a new life for herself,” said Hankins with a sharp twist to her voice. “I should have guessed.” She stared at him coldly and murmured under her breath, “A gunman and his swollen harlot.” She shook her head. “What’s coming next to my door?”

  “I apologize for taking your time, Ma’am,” said Dawson, controlling his anger, as he saw that this was getting him nowhere. He excused himself and walked to the rear door. No sooner than he was gone, Miss Hankins called the young housemaid in and said, “Beverly, do you know this man?”

  “Oh, no, Ma’am!” said the startled maid. “He’s from around here in Somos Santos! I recognize him…but no Ma’am, I don’t know him, not at all.”

  “I hope you’re not lying to me, Beverly!” said Miss Hankins, giving her a dark stare. “Do you know which saloon gal he’s been fooling with? Have you seen the two of them together any time?”

  “No, Ma’am! I never go near the saloon! I don’t know any of those women! I’m a good girl, Miss Hankins! I swear to you I am!”

  “You better stay that way, Beverly, unless you want to go back to that Nebraska orphanage and work there until the whole world thinks you’re simple-minded.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” said Beverly with a crushed expression on her face. “Is there anything else, Ma’am?”

  “Yes,” said Miss Hankins, “I want you to go tell the sheriff I’d like to see him. I want him to know that one of his whores is big in the belly.” She chuckled under her breath in contemplation, then said quickly before the young maid could leave the room, “No, wait, this will keep for now. Go on about your work. I’ll tell the good sheriff tonight.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, will that be all?” Beverly asked, her voice a bit shaky.

  Miss Hankins stood up and plucked at the seat of her long gingham dress. “Yes, that will be all for now,” she said absently. Craning her neck, she looked out the window and saw Cray Dawson walking along the side of the street toward the mercantile store. “How dare he, thinking I would allow the likes of a saloon gal staying here among decent folks…”

  Outside on the street, Dawson kept his head ducked slightly to avoid bringing attention to himself. At a hitch pole out front of the mercantile store, he spun the horse’s reins, stepped onto the boardwalk and walked inside. Behind the counter Mort Able grinned and rubbed his long hands together. “My oh my, Crayton! That was the most excitement I’ve had in years!”

  Dawson stopped and snapped his fingers, remembering the ax handle he’d borrowed. “Mort, I’m sorry. I didn’t bring your handle back like I said I would.”

  “That’s all right, Crayton, I picked it up myself after you wore it out on that deputy.” He grinned broadly. “I’m going to hang onto it, bloodstain and all; call it a keepsake.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy with it, Mort.” Dawson offered a slight smile. “Now I have to ask you, how’s my credit here for a few weeks?”

  “As good as it is for a few months, far as I’m concerned, Crayton,” Mort Able said, gesturing with a hand toward a feed sack filled with the items he’d gathered that were on the list Dawson had left with him.

  “Good, said Dawson. “I need to get more supplies than I had planned on when I came here.”

  “That’s no problem at all,” said the store owner. “Just tell me what else you need and I’ll help you gather it up.”

  “Just double everything for me, Mort,” Dawson said. “I can see this is going to be too much for my horse. Have you got a buckboard I can borrow?”

  “No, but I’ve got a mule out back that’s been itching to get out and stretch his legs some. You’re welcome to borrow him as long as you want.”

  “I’m much obliged, Mort,” said Dawson. Looking around at the shelves of goods he said, “I better get some strong lye soap and a new scrub brush.” He thought at something for a second then asked, “You don’t happen to have some curtains already made, do you?”

  “Curtains?” Mort Able gave him a strange look.

  “Yes, curtains, Mort…something bright…something a woman might like.”

  “My wife Martha made some curtains for her mother last year, right before the old woman died,” he said. “I bet they’re still around here somewhere. You gather up what else you need. I’ll go in the back and look for them.”

  Dawson filled another feed sack with supplies and set it on the floor while Mort disappeared into the back room. When the store owner came back he carried a rolled-up bundle of red-and-white cloth in his arms. “Here we are”—he beamed—“three sets of checkered curtains, already made up and ready to use.” He laid the bundle on the counter. “They might need some adjusting here and there…if they don’t fit at all, just bring them back to me and I’ll mark the price off your bill.”

  “I won’t forget this, Mort,” Dawson said. He gathered the curtains and shoved them down into a third feed sack.

  With a nod toward the front window, Mort Able said, “It looks like we’ve got rain coming. You best get yourself a canvas and wrap everything before you tie it onto the mule
.”

  Dawson gathered the three bags and carried them out the rear door to a stall in the alley behind the mercantile. When he had the bags covered and tied to the pack frame on the back of a gangly red mule, he led the animal out front and unhitched Stony from the rail. The horse sniffed at the mule and shook out its mane as if in protest as Dawson stepped up into his saddle. Leading the mule behind him, Cray Dawson left Somos Santos as the first drops of rain began to spill from the gray afternoon sky.

  By the time he’d gone two miles, the weather had turned fierce. Thunder pounded. Wind-lashed rain blew in hard, causing him and the animals alike to hunker sidelong against it. Having unrolled his rain slicker from behind his saddle and put it on, he held it closed tight at the throat. He pressed on, wondering how Carmelita would take the news about Suzzette.

  Traveling slowly on the mud-slick trail, it was close to midnight when he rode into the yard of the hacienda. The storm continued to rage. Inside the barn, Dawson struck a match to the wick of an oil lamp and hung the lamp on a post over his head, giving himself a circle of light in the darkness. He stripped off his rain slicker and hung it over a stall rail. He took the supplies off the mule and the saddle and bridle off of Stony and led both animals into adjoining stalls. He took up a scoop of grain from a grain bin and poured it into each animal’s feed trough. While the animals crunched on their feed, he dried each of them down with handfuls of clean straw. He had just finished his tasks when he heard the door creak open and looked around to see Carmelita step inside.

  “I saw the light from the window,” she said. “I was afraid the storm would keep you away all night.” She lowered a blanket she carried above her head and shook water from it. Her thin cotton gown had gotten soaked and it clung to her breasts. She took note of the red mule standing in the stall.

  “He belongs to the store owner,” said Dawson, seeing her curiosity.

  “I see.” Carmelita nodded.

  “I pushed on through the storm,” said Dawson, finishing with Stony and giving a shove on his rump. “I didn’t want to worry you.” He walked out of Stony’s stall and closed the wooden stall door.

  Carmelita came closer and said with hesitancy, “Was there— Was there trouble?”

  “None to mention,” said Dawson. “I made it clear that I wanted us to be left alone. There was some unpleasantness with the man who hit me in the stomach. But I believe it’s all settled now.” He slipped his arms around her. “I hope so anyway.”

  “Si, I hope so too,” she replied. “I’m glad you came back tonight. I have been frightened for you.” She pressed herself against him in an embrace. Then she stepped back, looking down at the bags of supplies sitting in the straw on the floor of the barn.

  “I was not expecting you to bring back so many supplies,” she said.

  “I wasn’t expecting to,” said Dawson. “That’s why I borrowed the store owner’s mule.” He watched her step away from him and bend down slightly, spreading the top of the bag holding the curtains. “Something’s come up…something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Oh?” she said. Rasing the bundle of checkered curtains she asked, “What is this, a tablecloth?”

  “No,” said Dawson, reaching out, taking the curtains from her hand gently. “They’re curtains…for the windows on my old place.”

  “You are going to be leaving here?” Carmelita asked, looking surprised.

  “No,” said Dawson. “That is, I sure hope not.” He dropped the bundle of curtains back into the feed sack. “I’m going to carry these things inside. Then we need to talk.”

  Carmelita watched him shoulder the feed sacks as she threw the blanket back around her, covering her head. Then she took the lantern down from the post and followed him through the storm to the house as lightning twisted and curled in the black sky.

  In front of a crackling fire in the stone hearth, Dawson told her everything over a cup of hot coffee. He told her how Suzzette had helped nurse him through his stomach wound, and how she had wanted to travel with him but he told her no. When he had finished telling her about the predicament Suzzette was in, Carmelita only nodded. She stood up slowly from the divan where they sat and moved closer to the fire. Finally she said softly without turning and facing him, “Do you love this woman?”

  “No, Carmelita,” Dawson said, being honest. “I don’t love her. I never told her I love her. We were together for awhile, I won’t deny that. But there was never anything between us. Not like there is between you and me.”

  “You and me…” she said, letting her words trail.

  “I mean, I never felt toward her like I feel toward you, Carmelita,” he said.

  “And you are not the father of her child?” Carmelita asked quietly, studying the flames.

  “No,” said Dawson, “She said I’m not the father…I believe her.”

  “But still you will put her into your family’s house?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Dawson, “that’s what I mean to do, just until after the baby is born. She can’t stay where she’s at. I wouldn’t feel right letting her…not when my place is just sitting there empty.”

  “And once you get her settled in,” Carmelita asked, “then what will you do? Will you leave her there and forget about her?”

  “No, of course not,” said Dawson. “I will have to go by and check on her. You’re welcome to come along with me if you like. That is, if it makes any difference to you.”

  “Si, we sleep in the same bed,” said Carmelita. “Of course it makes a difference to me.”

  Dawson heard the change of tone in her voice, a bitterness. Perhaps it was not directed at him but rather at the circumstance itself, directed at the forces unseen that brought about such incidents in people’s lives. “Carmelita, I’m sorry,” he whispered, stepping over behind her, reaching out to put his arms around her. “I never meant for anything like this to happen.”

  She stepped out of his reach, avoiding his arms. “You must get some rest,” she said, Dawson noting a hurt in her voice that she hadn’t managed to hide. “Tomorrow when the storm has passed, we will go to your place and hang curtains.”

  But when morning came the storm had not passed. With gray dawn came a renewed round of heavy thunder and sharp, splitting lightning. From the front window Carmelita and Dawson watched the large bough of a cottonwood tree slip away from the trunk in an arch of blinding white light and topple to the ground. Dawson saw Carmelita stiffen in fear, but she did not reach for his hand for comfort. Instead, after a short, startled gasp, she turned silently, walked to the hearth, and picked up the coffeepot from the night before.

  “Can I do anything?” Dawson asked quietly. Lightning licked downward, casting an eery glow on the dark morning.

  Carmelita didn’t answer. If she did her words were lost in the deep rumble of thunder.

  They spent the day in silence and fell asleep that night to the sound of rain still pounding the roof. The following day the storm had broken up and left, yet the rain held fast, falling heavy and straight down. “Maybe I ought to try to go on,” said Dawson, knowing that the quicker he got this done, the sooner the tension might settle between them.

  “When you go, I will go with you,” Carmelita said with determination.

  “We’ll wait until the rain passes,” Dawson said, not wanting to press a raw nerve. Outside, rain fell from the roofline like a silver, shimmering veil.

  Chapter 14

  Inside the saloon, Sheriff Martin Lematte sipped his morning coffee and cursed the rain under his breath. His head pounded from a rye hangover as he brooded over the news he’d received the night before from Miss Hankins after she’d sent her housemaid to summon him to the boarding house. “Dawson, you son of a bitch,” he hissed into his steaming coffee cup. Behind the bar, a nervous bartender kept his distance and polished shot glasses with a clean white cloth. He gave Karl Nolly a cautioning look when Nolly walked through the doors and slung water from his hat brim.

  Nolly return
ed the bartender’s nod and walked forward warily, the way a man might approach a growling dog. “Rough night, huh, Sheriff?” he said, keeping a few feet of bar between him and Lematte.

  Ignoring Nolly’s question, Lematte looked at him through blood-shot eyes and said with acid in his tone, “Nolly, the conniving little bitch is carrying that gunman’s kid in her belly.”

  “Who? What gunman? Whose belly?” said Nolly, looking bewildered. “What are you talking about, Sheriff?”

  Lematte slowed down and took a sip of his coffee. Speaking more clearly he said, “Yesterday evening I talked to Miss Hankins at her boarding house. She told me Dawson was there looking for a place for a saloon girl to live until her baby is born.” He gave a sidelong nod toward the stairs.

  “Her baby?” Nolly looked stunned. “Damn! Looks like I was right…they did know each other before.”

  “Yeah, you were right about them,” Lematte said flatly. “But now what? I can’t stand for this. This is like having a spy right in our midst. I feel like she’s lied to me, the deceitful little whore! To think I put her in charge of these other whores. All the while she was playing along with me, just waiting to join up with her gunman!”

  “Sheriff,” said Nolly, not liking where this thing could be going, “I don’t think she was deceiving you…you offered her the job, right? She didn’t come asking you.”

  “That makes no difference,” said Lematte. He shoved the coffee away, and called out to the bartender. “This stuff tastes like horse piss! Raymond! Bring me a bottle of rye!”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Sheriff,” said Nolly, “you’re letting this gunman get to you. I’m thinking if we let things go, he’ll just back away and leave us alone.”

  “That’s not the way you were talking yesterday, Nolly,” said Lematte, watching the bartender pull the cork from a new bottle of rye. Impatiently, Lematte snatched the bottle from his trembling hand, poured a sloshing drink into a shot glass and glared coldly into Raymond’s eyes until the bartender backed away.