Gunman's Song

by Ralph Cotton

  “Where are you men coming from?” Dillard Frome asked, lowering his shotgun as the three nudged their horses forward again. He waited for an answer but didn’t get one until Shaw stopped his horse ten feet away and the other two closed up beside him.

  “We’re coming from Somos Santos,” Shaw said. “We haven’t seen any Comancheros. But that doesn’t mean they’re not around here.”

  Cray Dawson tipped his hat at the woman and asked, “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

  Dillard Frome cut in, saying, “This is my wife Della…Dillard and Della Frome, that’s us.”

  “Bull, he’s out of his mind!” said Della, disputing Dillard, ignoring Cray Dawson and staring into Lawrence Shaw’s cool green eyes as he looked back and forth, studiously taking in the wagon, the broken wheel, and the campsite. “We say we’re man and wife in case anybody might be inclined to take advantage. But the truth is, I’m a widow. I’m Della…Della Starks, the widow of Purvis Starks, deceased owner of the Desert Flower Inn in Eagle Pass. You may have heard of it?”

  “I’m Cray Dawson, ma’am…and yes, I have heard of it,” Dawson said, touching his hat brim. “In fact I’ve drank there.”

  Della Starks didn’t even look at him as she said, “Is that a fact?” Instead she stared at Shaw as she said, “And what about you, mister? Have you ever been there?”

  Shaw nodded, preoccupied with studying the rolling land, the dark hill line. “Sure, I’ve been there. We need to get out of here and into the hills.”

  Della looked surprised. “Oh? Right now? It’s almost dark.”

  “That’s right, it is,” said Shaw, “and anybody within miles has had all afternoon to spot you two out here and plan to do whatever suits them under the cover of darkness.”

  “We can’t leave the wagon, mister,” said Dillard Frome. “All Miss Della’s things are in there.”

  “Then good luck to you both,” said Shaw, backing his horse a step, ready to turn it and ride away.

  “Is that it?” said Della, trying to sound outraged by Shaw, but still taken by his eyes, his demeanor. “Is that your so-called help?”

  “Ma’am, you don’t need our help to die…the Comancheros will oblige you on that matter.”

  Della cocked a hand onto her hip and said to Cray Dawson, “Is your friend here always so cross and rude?”

  Having seen the way the woman was affected by Shaw, Dawson said, “No, ma’am, but while we waste time palavering…there could be Comancheros slipping up all around us. Do you have anything in that wagon you can’t live without?”

  “Well, not really…but I hate losing it,” said Della.

  “If we get unwanted company in the night, you’ll be glad you left it…if we don’t, it’ll all be here come morning, won’t it?”

  Seeing that Lawrence Shaw was already leaving, Della tried to appear as if she were considering it. But then quickly she said, “Well, that does make sense.” She said to Dillard Frome, “Grab the mules, Dillard; let’s not keep these gentlemen waiting.”

  Hearing her, Shaw stopped his buckskin, turned it quarterwise to her, and sat leaning his forearm on his saddle horn, his rifle resting in his other hand propped up on his thigh.

  “Do you men ever introduce yourselves?” Della asked. “Or do you leave a lady to wonder?”

  Cray Dawson said, “I did introduce myself; you must’ve missed it.” He touched his fingers to his hat brim again, saying, “I’m Cray Dawson, ma’am. This is Lawrence Shaw, and this is Jedson Cald—”

  “Lawrence Shaw?” she said with a slight gasp, cutting Dawson off. She didn’t even give a glance toward Jedson Caldwell. “Not Lawrence Shaw the gunfighter?”

  Shaw turned a level glance to her, saying, “Ma’am,” with a touch of his hat brim. Then he looked away, more interested in what might be lurking in wait on the darkening land.

  “Well…I certainly feel like I’m in good hands now,” Della said, looking flushed all of a sudden. “Mr. Shaw, may I call you Lawrence?”

  “Do what suits.” Shaw shrugged, not paying any attention to her walking forward as Dillard arrived pulling the four mules along on a lead rope.

  “Della, take your pick,” said Dillard Frome, holding the lead rope toward her.

  “Don’t be a fool, Dillard,” Della snapped at him, shoving his hand full of lead rope away. “I’m not about to ride a smelly bareback mule! Lawrence, would you be a dear?” she asked, reaching up to Shaw with both arms spread upward toward him.

  “Amazing,” Cray Dawson whispered to himself, marveling at how at the sight of Shaw and the mention of his name the woman seemed unable to keep her hands off of him.

  Shaw looked around again, giving Dawson an embarrassed glance. Then he said grudgingly to Della Starks, “All right, ma’am, but just until we get inside the hills. I can’t afford to blow this horse out.”

  Della started to climb up behind him, but Shaw swept down with his free arm, cradled it around her, and lifted her onto his lap. Dawson shook his head and nudged his horse forward, Caldwell tagging his horse right beside him, staring in disbelief at the woman on Shaw’s lap.

  “I’ve never been treated that way by a woman,” Caldwell said between himself and Dawson.

  “Neither have I,” said Dawson. “I guess I just ain’t killed enough people.” They rode on, Dawson growing silent for a moment, then saying quietly, “I take it back, Caldwell…once, I met a woman who treated me real special like that. Only once in my whole life.” He seemed to think about it for a moment, then turned his face to the dark hill line. “We better get on up there. Shaw’s right: We’re sitting ducks out here.”

  They rode across the rolling land for the next hour as night closed in around them. By the time they’d ridden upward into the hill line they heard distant shouting and whooping intermingled with gunfire coming from the direction of the wagon. “Oh, Lawrence!” said Della, tightening her embrace on Shaw. “You were right! You saved my life! How can I ever thank you enough?”

  “Ma’am, you don’t owe me a thing,” said Shaw in earnest. “I’m just glad we came by when we did.”

  Hearing the two, Cray Dawson only nodded to himself with a wry smile. “It figures,” he whispered to himself.

  Beside Dawson, Jedson Caldwell looked back and said, “Do you suppose they will follow our tracks?”

  “Probably not tonight,” said Dawson. “They’ll be satisfied with what they’ve found back there. It’ll keep their attention until morning.”

  “But let’s keep moving, just in case it doesn’t,” Shaw said over his shoulder to them, Della sitting in his lap with her arms around his neck.

  They pushed on, and as soon as they rode higher and deeper into the shelter of the hills, Lawrence Shaw stopped the big buckskin and gently but firmly set Della Starks down from his saddle and turned the horse beside the narrow trail, watching as the others filed in behind him. “Give Miss Della a mule,” he said to Dillard Frome.

  Della said, “But I was so comfortable in your lap, Lawrence. And I feel so safe. Can’t I just go on riding—”

  “I told you just until we reached the hills, ma’am,” said Shaw. “I can’t afford to wear this horse out.”

  “Oh, all right then,” said Della, feigning a pout. “You men and your horses. Sometimes I think you prefer them over women.”

  Ignoring her, Shaw looked back across the land toward the constant shouting and shooting. “There it goes,” he said, pointing back through the darkness. They all looked back into the night on the rolling land below and saw high, licking flames spring up where the wagon sat. Rifle and pistol shots grew heavier. Della held her hands to her mouth and sobbed. “All my beautiful dresses and gowns…all my hats! They’re all gone.”

  Shaw looked around at the faces of Dillard Frome, Cray Dawson, and Jedson Caldwell. Frome stepped over and tried to put his arm around Della, but she brushed it away. Seeing that no one seemed able to console her, Lawrence Shaw stepped down from his saddle, walked over, an
d embraced her, drawing her against his chest. “You’ll be all right, ma’am. You’ll soon replace those things, maybe with something even better.”

  “Do you…do you suppose so, Lawrence?” she asked, sniffling a bit, her cheek pressed firmly against him.

  “Of course you will,” said Shaw. He shot Dawson and the others a glance, almost shrugging. Dawson shook his head and looked away. “We’ll go up a little farther, then make a camp for the night. No fire though—they might decide to hit us in our sleep.”

  “Won’t it get awfully chilly without a fire?” Della asked.

  “We have blankets, ma’am,” said Shaw. “Don’t worry; we won’t let you get cold.”

  “Lawrence…?” She paused, letting her words trail off.

  “Yes, ma’am?” said Shaw.

  “Will you stay close to me tonight?” Della lowered her voice, but Dawson and the others could still hear her.

  “As close as I can, ma’am,” said Shaw.

  “But I mean real close, Lawrence,” she whispered. “Will you stay real close to me?”

  “We’ll see how it goes,” said Shaw, feeling a bit embarrassed, knowing Dawson was watching and listening.

  “God almighty!” Dawson whispered to himself, turning away and watching the flames of the wagon lick high into the night. “He beats all I’ve ever seen.”

  Chapter 4

  They made a dark camp beside the winding trail at the foot of an upreaching stretch of rock where jagged boulders—some as large as houses—littered the hillside and stood up like grave markers to some ancient race of giants. After sharing a sparse meal of jerked beef and tepid canteen water Cray Dawson and Shaw had brought with them, Shaw and Della stood up from the group and Shaw picked up a blanket from the ground. “We need to take turns standing watch,” Shaw said. “Dawson…?” His words trailed off.

  “Sure,” said Dawson, “I’ll take the first.” In the quarter-moon darkness he looked up at the black silhouettes of Shaw and Della Starks, seeing Della reach out and slip an arm around Shaw’s waist and stand closer to him.

  “Gracias,” said Shaw. Then, carrying the blanket with his canteen of whiskey over his shoulder, he disappeared with Della into the larger darkness surrounding them. Caldwell, Dawson, and Dillard Frome sat hunkered quietly for a moment, not knowing what to say.

  Finally Caldwell broke the silence, saying, “Dan Hollis was the same way, I noticed, what little time I was around him. Women flocked for his attention…bartenders set him up drinks for free…restaurants didn’t want to take his money. I never saw anything like it. I studied my head off learning the art of mortuary science, a respectable profession that serves a better purpose to the world.” He spit and chuckled under his breath. “All I really needed to do was learn to shoot a gun, the way Hollis did.”

  “And don’t forget,” said Cray Dawson, “Hollis wasn’t even the best. Imagine if a person’s the best, like Shaw. I bet Shaw doesn’t even pay for a shave and a haircut most places he goes.”

  “Same way with musicians,” Frome said quietly and bitterly. “Had a wife once who left me for a guitar player—they never pay for anything either…sons a’ bitches.”

  Dawson and Caldwell didn’t know what to say. After a pause, Frome lowered his voice and said, “One thing’s for sure: If Fast Larry ever paid for anything before, he’ll never have to again, not if he cools Della’s fire just right.”

  “I wouldn’t get in a habit of calling him Fast Larry,” Dawson said to Frome. “He doesn’t like going by that name anymore.”

  “Oh!” said Frome, a bit startled. “Thanks for the advice. I meant no harm, that’s for sure.”

  “I know,” said Dawson, “that’s why I warned you. What did you mean, he’ll never pay for nothing again if he cools Della’s fire?”

  Frome scooted closer in the darkness. “All that malarkey she was dishing out about losing her dresses and hats,” Frome said. “Ha! That woman goes through dresses, shoes, and whatnot like the queen of England.” His voice lowered even more. “She’s dirty-dog rich you know. She’ll hand-feed Shaw like he’s a lapdog.”

  “The queen of England?” Caldwell asked.

  The two ignored him. “Her husband owned that Desert Flower, but he also owned a couple of copper mines and half interest in a stage line. Hell! He even owned part of a beef brokerage company in Chicago. He left it all to Della too.” Frome stopped for a second as if letting it sink in, then said, “To be honest, I wanted to get my claws into some of it. Looks like Shaw has jumped my stake.”

  “Rich, huh?” said Dawson.

  “Filthy,” said Frome.

  “My, my,” said Caldwell.

  “It just about figures,” said Dawson.

  A brief silence passed as each man pictured himself in Shaw’s place. Then Caldwell said, “I guess I just don’t understand it. What makes women so attracted to gunslingers anyway?”

  “I don’t know,” said Dawson. “Power, I guess?” He shrugged. “I hate to think it’s just because they’re good at killing people. It sure looks like it at times, though.

  “It’s their fame, their notoriety,” said Caldwell, as if the answer had just come to him in a flash. “That’s it. Women want men other folks have heard of. Not some unheard-of undertaker like me.”

  “They all want men that other women want; that much I’ll go along with,” said Dawson. “I’ve never seen a woman want a man as bad as she does once she sees that some other woman will have him.” He nodded. “I’ve had that happen to me, believe it or not.”

  “So have I,” said Frome. “Being a bartender most of my life, I’ve had a string of wives that would reach hand in hand across Missouri. I’ve seen it all when it comes to women…not that I yet understand them…not that I yet understand why God ever made them.”

  “Oh, I understand why,” said Dawson in wistful remembrance. He sipped from his canteen. “All I figured I’d ever need was one good woman. I figured I’d spend my life with her and never stray. But it wasn’t meant to be,” he said.

  “How do you know it wasn’t? said Caldwell. “You’re young; you might still meet that special woman.”

  “Oh, I met her already,” said Dawson. “That’s the bad thing of it. I met her, I fell in love with her…she fell in love with another man, and that was that. It wasn’t meant to be, us spending our lives together.”

  Caldwell said, “Who knows, maybe someday she’ll—”

  “Naw, I don’t think so,” said Dawson, stopping him. As if he felt he’d revealed too much about himself, Dawson dropped the subject and said to Frome, “You’ve been a bartender; you tell us…why do gunfighters not have to pay for their drinks?”

  Frome said, “I always set them up because I figured it might keep them pacified, so to speak. You never know when a gunslinger might take something the wrong way and commence blowing your head off. That’s probably why other drinkers like to pay for their drinks too…to keep on their good side.”

  “Their good side,” Dawson mused quietly.

  “Well, not all women fall for gunfighters,” Caldwell said. “There are some women who snub their noses at men like Shaw. They go for the kind of man who is settled and responsible and spends his life making something of himself and leaving something behind for his family. My father was that kind of man. I’m sure my mother respected him and loved him.”

  “Yep, you’re right,” said Dawson, “not all women fall for gunfighters. But they all seem to fall for the kind of man who has a gunfighter’s nature…whether he is an actual gunfighter or not.”

  “That dangerous type,” said Frome. “Or men with that kiss-my-ass attitude toward them, or toward the whole world, I reckon.”

  “Maybe,” said Dawson, pondering Frome’s words.

  “Or,” said Frome, “to get right down to the heart of the matter, I believe when all is said and done it’s the size of a man’s pecker that draws women to him.

  Dawson and Caldwell just stared at him.

  “It�
��s a fact,” said Frome. “All that don’t-give-a-damn attitude comes from a man knowing he’s ahead of the herd when it comes to women…that’s what a woman senses in him, and that’s what draws them to him.” He jerked his head toward the darkness in the direction Shaw and Della had taken. “That’s why he’s got Della’s feet stuck in the air and we’re sitting in the dirt. Pecker size.” He nodded. “That’s what it’s all about.”

  Another silence passed; then Caldwell said absently, “God, I hope not.”

  Dawson and Frome stared at him. He caught himself and said quickly, “I mean, that seems like such a minor attribute on which to judge a man.”

  Dawson spit and stood up and dusted his trousers. “Hell…it’s as good a way as any, I reckon. At least it offers an answer where there seems to be no other.” He picked up his rifle and walked to another rock a few feet away. “Frome, I’ll wake you in a couple of hours, give you some time to study up some more wisdoms for us.” He sat down and looked out toward the firelight that still glowed brightly in the black of night.

  In a few moments Jedson Caldwell and Dillard Frome scooted closer together and leaned back against the same broad upthrust of rock. They shared a single threadbare blanket, each of them grasping a corner of it in his fist and hanging on, lest the other take it over in his sleep.

  Pecker size, Cray Dawson thought. Behind him he heard the sound of the two men snoring, and the sound of Della Starks whispering something to Shaw in a gasping voice only a few feet away. Dawson offered a tired smile to the wide, empty night and ducked his hat brim down on his forehead. All this time I’ve wondered why, Rosa…now I reckon I know.

  When it came time to wake Frome, Cray Dawson still sat watching the glowing wagon, only now he did so more intently, as if gauging the distance and studying something on the dark land lying between the hills and wagon below. There had been no gunfire for the past couple of hours. The night lay in dead silence without so much as a yelp from a coyote or the batting of a night bird’s wings. Yet he sat stonelike, refusing to move, every fiber of his being concentrated on the silent land below.