Gunman's Song

by Ralph Cotton

  Carmelita’s eyes snapped open. “¡Santa madre!” she whispered, startled, pulling the shirt closed across her bare breasts. Seeing Dawson standing before them and seeing Shaw’s pistol pointed at his chest, she slipped quickly from beneath the blanket and hurried into the house, the bib-front shirt concealing very little.

  “Damn it,” Shaw said in a growl, standing, letting the blanket fall as he lowered his pistol, let the hammer down, and slipped it into his holster. “What are you doing here, Cray?”

  Cray Dawson tried to let the whole scene pass as if he hadn’t seen a thing. He adjusted his hat atop his head, looking away for a second. “I said I’d be here…remember?”

  Shaw let out a breath, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. “Yeah, I remember.” He looked at the door as it slammed shut behind Carmelita. He started to say something to Cray Dawson, make some denial, offer some explanation. But deciding against it, he said, “Come in. I’ll make us some coffee before we leave.”

  Cray looked at the nearly empty bottle of rye sitting on the edge of the porch. “Might just as well, I reckon,” he said as he hitched his big bay to the hitch ring and stepped up onto the porch. “We’re getting a late start anyway.” In the east a streak of early sunlight mantled the horizon. He looked again at the bottle, then at the discarded blanket and Shaw’s bare chest.

  “Something you want to say, Dawson?” Shaw asked, reading disapproval on the man’s face.

  “No, not a thing,” said Cray Dawson.

  “All right then,” said Shaw. “Let’s get some coffee and get going.” He turned and walked toward the door.

  “Can I say something?” Dawson said, still standing on the same spot, his thumbs hooked in his belt.

  “I thought you had nothing to say?” said Shaw.

  “Not about this I don’t.” Cray Dawson shrugged, gesturing a hand toward the bottle and blanket. “But we was talking last night about Talbert and Blue Snake? Which way they might be headed?”

  “Yeah?” said Shaw. “I remember.”

  “Well, I didn’t want to mention it last night in the shape you was in, but Talbert’s brother Sidlow is in jail up in Eagle Pass. I didn’t see him with them, but you can bet he was somewhere not far away when they came through here. I figure we might squeeze something out of him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?” Shaw asked, a bit irritated.

  “Because you were drunk, and I knew you’d want to fly right out of here and go to Eagle Pass,” said Cray.

  “I wasn’t that drunk,” said Shaw, letting his guard down a little.

  “Nobody ever is,” said Cray. “But anyway, he’s there. Think we ought to go there?”

  “Yep, that’s where we’re headed,” said Shaw. “Let me get my boots and clothes on.”

  “What about that coffee?” Cray asked, seeing Shaw disappear into the house. Cray shook his head and walked in behind him.

  Swinging three miles wide of Somos Santos they headed north toward Eagle Pass on the old Spanish missionaries trail. At noon they stopped in the dark shade of a wide creekbank. The water source had depleted to a thin trickle no wider than the back of Shaw’s hand, but the high creekbanks provided shade for both man and animal alike. Riding down off of the burning stretch of bare flatlands where they had spent all morning without seeing a single traveler, Shaw and Dawson saw three Mexican goatherders resting in the creekbed amid a dozen milk goats. With the goatherders stood a tall gray gelding, and on the ground sat the man with the brown bowler hat who had held the gunman’s gloves for him in Somos Santos.

  “There’s our friend from town,” Cray Dawson said quietly to Shaw, the two stopping their horses ten yards away and looking the situation over. The goatherders called out a welcome in Spanish and motioned for the two to step down and take shade and water. Shaw and Dawson tipped their hats.

  “Gracias,” Shaw replied loudly enough for them to hear him. Then to Dawson he said, “Well, it is a main trail from Somos Santos.” He stepped down from his horse, taking his rifle from the scabbard and cradling it in his arm as he took down his canteen and let the big buckskin drink from the thin stream.

  They didn’t venture any closer to the goatherders, but rather sat leaning back against the tall creekbank, allowing the horses to stand near them in the shade when they had finished taking their fill of water. “Can I ask something?” said Cray Dawson, after a moment of silence.

  Shaw just looked at him.

  “Last night…that gunman said, ‘For five thousand dollars.’ What was he talking about?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Shaw.

  “All right.” Dawson nodded. “Sorry I asked.”

  A silence passed as a hot wind whirred across the open cut of the creekbed in the belly of the flatlands.

  “It’s a price some big gamblers have wagered on who’ll be the one who kills me,” Shaw said.

  “You mean a bounty?” said Dawson.

  “No, but it just as well be,” said Shaw. “Except this is more of a pot. The pot keeps getting bigger every time I shoot another man.” He looked at Dawson. “Hell of a life, huh?”

  “Sounds like it,” said Dawson, leaning forward a little and looking along the creekbank at the man in the bowler hat. “How do you suppose this man fits into it?”

  “I figure he’s just another flunky the oddsmakers have hired to come along and see how it’s going. I’ve seen a few of them along the way this past year.”

  “That’s too bad, Fast Larry,” said Cray Dawson.

  “Do me a favor,” said Shaw. “Don’t call me Fast Larry, all right?”

  “Whatever you say, Lar— I mean, Lawrence,” said Dawson, correcting himself. “Used to be that was the only name you’d go by.”

  “Yeah, well…I’ve changed a lot since then,” said Shaw. “The truth is, I was a young, proud fool back then. I thought being a gunman amounted to something. But it doesn’t. It’s a dirty, bloody way to live.”

  “From the looks of that kid last night,” said Dawson, “it’s a dirty, bloody way to die.”

  “It’s that too,” said Shaw. He leaned forward now and looked toward the man in the bowler hat.

  “I learned that dead man’s name,” said Dawson. “Want to know it?”

  “No,” Shaw said flatly. “Far as I’m concerned he quit having a name the minute he decided to put himself in front of me.”

  “Well, it’s Hollis,” said Dawson.

  Shaw just stared at him.

  Dawson went on, saying, “The barber found a letter on him while he was cleaning him up to bury…. He told Sheriff Bratcher his name was Dan Hollis. Does it sound familiar?”

  “No,” said Shaw. “There’s a Red Hollis up in the hill country, prides himself as some sort of outlaw. Goes by the name Montana Red.”

  “Might be kin, I reckon,” said Cray Dawson. He gazed at the ground for a moment, then said in a quiet tone, “I reckon we ought to get it talked out between us, about how much I cared for Rosa.”

  “I know how you felt, Cray,” said Shaw, as if not wanting to talk about it.

  “I would have married her,” said Dawson, “that is, if you hadn’t married her. That is, if she would have had me. That is, if things had been—”

  “That’s a lot of ‘would have ifs,’ Cray,” said Shaw, cutting him off. “Are you going anywhere with this?”

  “I just thought I ought to tell you…so you’d know,” said Dawson. “That’s why I wanted to come along with you. I want her killers too.”

  “I think I knew that, Cray,” said Shaw. He uncapped his canteen, sipped from it, and passed it to Dawson, who turned it up and took a deep swallow before he realized it was rye whiskey. He made a harsh wheezing sound, then said, “Jesus! Lawrence!”

  Shaw smiled at his reddened face. “I never knew you couldn’t push down a mouthful of whiskey, Cray.”

  “I wasn’t expecting it, is all,” Dawson said, his words sounding raspy. “You might warn a fellow.”

 
Shaw took the canteen back, capped it, and laid it beside him. “When this runs out, it’s no more whiskey for me…leastwise not on the trail.”

  “That’s a good policy,” Cray Dawson rasped, getting up and going to his horse for his own canteen. When he came back, he sipped the tepid water, then said, “So we’re squared up on where I stood? How I felt about Rosa?”

  “We’re squared up,” said Shaw. “Let’s not talk about it any more.” He gazed at the canteen of whiskey for a moment, then said in a lowered tone, “I expect as it turned out, Cray, I wish to God she’d married you myself.”

  “Do you mean that, Shaw?” Dawson asked.

  Lawrence Shaw dropped his head. “Hell…I don’t know. She’d still be alive, wouldn’t she?”

  Chapter 3

  As Shaw and Dawson stood up, dusted their trousers and prepared to mount their horses, the man in the brown bowler also stood amid the goatherders and pulled his horse along by his reins, walking toward them at a brisk pace. “Look coming here,” said Dawson.

  “I saw him,” said Shaw, without turning his eyes to the man.

  “Can I come over there?” the man called out, stopping fifteen feet away, holding both hands chest-high.

  Shaw responded with a nod of his head.

  “In case you’re wondering, I’m not armed,” the man said. He lowered his hand enough to lift the corners of his vest, revealing his belt line. “As you can see.”

  “What do you want?” Shaw asked, ignoring the man’s smile of courtesy.

  “Just got tired of the smell of goats over there,” he said, expanding his smile.

  “But you didn’t mind sharing their shade?” Shaw asked bluntly.

  “I’m only joking, of course, about the goats,” the man said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Jedson Caldwell. My friends call me Jedson…I hope you gentlemen will do the same.”

  “What’s on your mind, Mr. Caldwell?” Shaw said, letting the man know that his offer of friendship had been declined. He ignored the man’s dirty outstretched hand.

  His handshake rebuffed, Jedson Caldwell wiped his small, delicate hand on his side and said, “Certainly then, let me come to the point. Those herders were just telling me that there’s a band of Comancheros running amok along the border. There’s been a couple of settlers killed and burned! I was hoping perhaps I could accompany you gentlemen as far as Eagle Pass.”

  “What’s in Eagle Pass?” Shaw asked. “Another gunman you want to see me kill?”

  “Mr. Shaw, I want you to know I had no personal involvement with Hollis. He offered me ten dollars to be a witness that he had outdrawn you fair and square. I believe he felt that, this being your hometown, someone might claim he had cheated somehow.”

  “Maybe he should have,” said Dawson. He gave Caldwell a half smile. “I hope you got paid in advance.”

  Caldwell looked embarrassed and said, “As a matter of fact, I did not, sir. That’s why I’m traveling alone on horseback—Hollis’s horse, I might add. I had counted on the ten dollars for stage fare to San Antone and rail fare to New Orleans.”

  “You backed the wrong gun, Caldwell,” said Shaw, stepping up into his saddle, keeping his right hand free in case he needed to draw his Colt. “Better luck next time.”

  “Gentlemen, please, I beseech you!” said Caldwell, seeing Cray Dawson also step up into his saddle. “I didn’t back Hollis against you, Mr. Shaw! I’m no gambler…and I’m certainly no gunman, let me assure you!”

  “Then what are you?” said Shaw, staring down at him, ready to heel the big buckskin forward.

  “By profession, I’m trained as an undertaker,” he said quickly, “but I’ve been put upon by a rash of misfortunes and I fear if I can’t get out of this godforsaken country I’ll surely die here! I have no money to offer you at present, but if you’ll allow me to ride along I promise to compensate you once I get on my feet in New Orleans—”

  Cutting him off, Dawson said, “An undertaker,” seeming not to have even heard anything beyond that, “and you couldn’t make a living around here?”

  “No,” said Caldwell, “I’m afraid the barbers have monopolized undertaking, much the same way as they have dentistry. An undertaker can’t compete with the barbers when it comes to burying the dead. Only a few weeks back I was threatened with a razor by the barber over in Hide City. Said if I didn’t leave town I’d be burying an important part of myself! Needless to say, I left immediately.”

  Dawson gave Shaw a questioning look. “What do you say, Shaw? If there’s ‘cheros lifting scalps, three men riding together might be better than two.”

  Shaw considered it, then said to Caldwell, “Can you shoot?”

  “No, sir, Mr. Shaw, not a lick,” said Caldwell.

  Dawson chuckled and shook his head. “You sure ain’t got much to offer, Caldwell. Can you cook? Make coffee?”

  “Cook, I don’t think so,” said Caldwell, “at least nothing that you’d want to eat unless you were near starvation. Coffee, I do all right with…I’ve never poisoned anyone…that I know of, anyway.” Seeing the reluctance in Shaw’s eyes, Caldwell added hastily, “But like he said, three men looks stronger than two. And in a desperate situation, you could always leave me behind and get away while the Comancheros are busy killing me.”

  “Now you’re making sense,” Shaw said gruffly, looking away across the flatlands. He heeled the big buckskin forward without another word.

  “Does that mean I’m welcome to ride along with yas?” Caldwell asked Cray Dawson in a meek tone, watching Shaw ride away from them.

  “Try not to say any more than you have to for the next twenty miles or so,” said Dawson, gesturing for Caldwell to ride in front of him. “We hope to be in Eagle Pass day after tomorrow.”

  “Not a word,” said Caldwell, “I promise.” He hurried into his saddle and gave his horse a jerk forward, having to plant his hand down on his bowler hat to keep from losing it. Dawson smiled to himself and followed close behind, keeping an eye on him. Along the dry creekbed the old Mexican goatherders lifted their hands in farewell, watching the three horses file past them.

  Shaw led the way on the dirt trail most of the afternoon. Caldwell kept his promise and didn’t speak another word until after they had reached the end of the flatlands and began winding their way up and down across one low rise after another toward a string of low hills that stood purple and gray in the failing evening light. When Shaw stopped the big buckskin at the crest of a rise and halted Dawson and Caldwell with a raised hand, the undertaker craned his neck and stared in the same direction as Shaw as he asked Dawson in a nervous whisper, “Why are we stopped here? What’s wrong? Are there Comancheros?”

  But Shaw heard him and answered for Dawson, “I don’t know if they’re Comancheros or not…but there’s a wagon and it’s not moving. I’ve been getting a little better look at them each time we top a rise.”

  Dawson stood in his stirrups and gazed out through the evening shadows. “We could circle wide of it…but if somebody has slipped a wheel, I’d hate to leave them stranded out here with ‘cheros on the loose.”

  “We’ll ride in on them,” said Shaw, raising his rifle from his scabbard, checking it, and laying it across his lap. “Be ready in case it’s a trap.”

  “A trap?” Caldwell said, sounding shaky, moving his horse closer to Cray Dawson. “Should you give me a gun or something?”

  “Thought you couldn’t shoot,” said Dawson, looking pointedly at him.

  “I can’t,” Caldwell replied, “but if you’ll set it up for me I can keep pulling the trigger until it stops firing.”

  “Jesus,” said Dawson, “just stick close to me for now. When we get past this, maybe I’ll show you some pointers on shooting.”

  “Thanks,” said Caldwell, his face ashen with fear. “I believe it’s time I seriously learn to defend myself.”

  Dawson and Caldwell followed Lawrence Shaw until even in the closing dusk they could see the old Studebaker canvas-top wago
n sitting with a rear wheel resting on a short pile of flat rocks. A few feet away stood four mules grazing on sparse clumps of grass.

  At the rear of the wagon, a tall woman with long auburn hair saw the three riders coming across the rolling land and she said to the bald-headed man who worked feverishly on the broken wheel, “Dillard, someone’s coming!” Then she walked around the side of the wagon, picked up the double-barreled shotgun, and walked briskly back and held it out to the man as he hurriedly wiped axle grease from his hands onto a dirty rag.

  “If I ever get the hell out of this damn mess, I’ll never leave the town limits again. I ought to have my ass kicked for ever coming along.”

  “Here, take this gun and try to act like a man,” she said. “You were pretty keen on coming along when all you thought you had to help me do was claim that tavern and pick up any money the old man left me. Stop bellyaching!” She forced the shotgun into his hand, shoving him back a step. “If it’s Comancheros, we’re both going to die. Let’s try to do so with some dignity.”

  “Dignity, my ass,” Dillard Frome growled, checking the shotgun and raising it to his shoulder. “If they’re not Comancheros, don’t forget, we’re Dillard and Della Frome, man and wife.” He looked her up and down with contempt. “God forbid…” he added under his breath.

  “Don’t worry, Dillard; I know that little ‘we’re married’ routine by heart.” Della reached up under her dress, took out a short double-action Colt Thunderer, and held it down in front of her with both hands, her right finger on the trigger. “That’s just about close enough,” she called out to the riders when they had drawn closer. She raised the pistol and pointed it.

  Shaw called out from fifty yards away, “Ma’am, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t point that gun at us. We’re on our way to Eagle Pass.” His eyes went to Dillard and the shotgun, then back to the woman. “We saw your wagon and came to see if you need help,” he continued. “If you do, we’re here. If you don’t, we bid you good evening and we’ll be on our way.”

  “Wait,” said Della, seeing the no-nonsense manner in which the man had presented himself and his colleagues. “Yes, we do need help. As you can see, our wagon had a busted wheel.” She lowered the pistol a bit and nodded toward the rear of the wagon. “Pardon my lack of courtesy…we’ve heard there are Comancheros roaming about.”