by Ralph Cotton
“Freeze!” Cray Dawson shouted, cutting the outlaw off. Beside him he could see that Shaw was on the verge of killing them without another word.
“What the…?” Both faces turned toward Dawson’s shadowy figure standing close behind them, covering them with a cocked Colt in his hand. Stanley Little’s hands went up immediately in submission. But Curley’s hand tightened on the rifle lying beside him on the ground.
“Any move you make will be your last,” said Dawson. As he spoke he reached down and placed his free hand on Shaw’s shoulder as if to hold him in place. “Easy,” he said to him, “we need them alive for now.”
“Is that you, Fast Larry?” asked Stanley Little. “I reckon you got the drop on us fair and square. But I had nothing to do with that woman getting killed. I tried to stop them. I fought for her like a wild man! But it done no good!”
“Shut up, Stanley,” said Curley Tomes, lifting his hand slowly away from his rifle and raising both hands over his head.
“I’m not Shaw,” said Dawson. “But he is.”
Lawrence Shaw stood up slowly, taking a deep breath, knowing that Dawson was right; they needed to find out how many of the same men riding with Talbert now were there the day of Rosa’s death. Not that it would mean anything except to him and Shaw. Whoever was with Talbert now would know what had happened and they would have already made their decision to stay and fight. Turning slightly without taking his eyes off the two men, Dawson called out, “Caldwell! Bring the horses on up!”
A short silence passed; then Caldwell replied, “I’m coming.”
Stanley Little and Curley Tomes stared wide-eyed as Lawrence Shaw stepped forward, his Colt cocked and pointed at them. They found no comfort in his uncocking the gun and lowering it into his holster. Stopping a few feet from them, Lawrence Shaw stooped down, carefully laid his hand against the coffeepot, judging the heat of it, then said as he raised the pot by the handle and shook it gently, judging its contents, “Looks like we’re down to grit and grinds,” he said, controlling the rage that had begun to boil inside him as he’d listened to their words.
Dawson walked forward, keeping his gun on the two men, saying, “I’ll get up a fire and boil some fresh, soon as Caldwell gets here with the horses.”
“We’ve got plenty more fixins,” Stanley Little volunteered, as if having coffee might save them.
“We brought our own,” Shaw said grimly. “You sit real still. I want to ask you some questions.”
“You want to take our guns?” Stanley asked, being overly obliging.
“Why?” Shaw asked bluntly.
“You know, in case we was to make a grab for them?” said Stanley.
“Anytime you feel the urge, feel free to make a grab,” said Shaw. “This is not a social call.”
Moments later Caldwell appeared cautiously on the sandy slope as if rising up out of the land. He led the three horses over to one side and groundtied them to a stand of mesquite near the two horses already there. “Did everything go all right?” he asked timidly, stepping over beside Dawson as he stared at the two men with their hands raised.
“Get some coffee from the saddlebags,” Shaw said, not answering his question.
Dawson worked up a small fire while Caldwell cleaned out the pot and poured water in it from Stanley Little’s and Curley Tomes’s canteens. A few minutes later as the coffee began to boil, Dawson stepped in and picked up both men’s guns from the ground and laid them a safe distance away.
“Tell me the whole story,” Shaw said to Stanley Little, “just the way you said you would if you were with Barton Talbert.”
“You’re going to kill us, ain’t you?” Stanley ventured.
“What do you think?” said Shaw.
“I think it was all one terrible mistake,” said Stanley. “Like I said, I tried to stop them. Tried to talk sense to them.”
“Hell, shut up, Stanley!” said Curley Tomes. “He don’t give a damn. He’s going to kill us anyway!” He turned to Lawrence Shaw. “Here’s the truth of it, Shaw, for the better or the worse. We never went by your place to cause any trouble. The fact is, Barton Talbert wanted to meet you…wanted to be able to say he shook hands with the fastest gun alive.” An expression of pained irony came upon his face. “Damn it all! He idolized you, to tell the truth. Said he was honored that you came from the same part of Texas where he was born. Said every Texan ought to be proud of you!”
“That’s the truth, so help us God!” Stanley interjected.
“Go on,” Shaw said to Curley, “tell me all of it.”
Dawson cut in, saying, “We don’t need to hear the details; tell us who was there, the ones who took part in it!”
“No,” said Shaw to Curley Tomes, “tell us everything that happened that day.”
“Everything?” Curley asked cautiously.
“Everything,” said Shaw. “Leave nothing out.”
Dawson stepped away and stooped down beside the fire. He stared into the flames as Caldwell raised the coffeepot and poured steaming coffee into three tin cups sitting on the ground.
“We got there to your house,” said Curley Tomes to Shaw. “At first it looked like nobody was at home. Sidlow knocked and knocked but nobody came to the door. We were all still mounted except Sidlow, Blue Snake, and Barton. They had already turned to get back on their horses when the door opened, and there was your wife.” He swallowed and said in contemplation, “Damn it…if she just would’ve waited another minute or two we would have been gone. None of this would have happened.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of it,” Dawson said in a tight, low voice.
“Then step away from the fire,” Shaw said to him.
“No,” said Dawson, “I’ll stick. If you’re here, I’m here.”
“Go on,” Shaw said to Curley Tomes. Without turning, Shaw reached out with a gloved hand and took the cup of coffee Caldwell held out to him.
“All right, I’ll try.” Curley rubbed his forehead with both hands as if the memory troubled him. When he’d drawn a deep breath and let it out slowly, he continued, saying, “She…she was a real pretty woman, Shaw…and she came to that door smiling, just as friendly as can be, like she might have been expecting somebody.”
Shaw bit the inside of his lip, recalling how in his last telegram he’d told her he was on his way home. “Go on,” he said again.
“Anyway, her expression changed the minute she saw Barton Talbert and us,” said Curley. “Barton tried to explain to her that he was just there to meet you, and nothing else. But she was real suspicious. Told him it wasn’t the first time somebody came by there looking for you. Said she was telling him the same she told all the others, to get off the place and stay off. Then she tried to slam the door, but Sidlow shoved his boot into it and kept it open. Then the woman—your wife, that is—she got hard to handle. Started screaming at Sidlow and Barton. She wouldn’t shut up long enough for Barton to even apologize!”
Stanley Little cut in, saying, “That’s when Barton and Sidlow went nuts. Sidlow hauled off and kicked the door in! I hollered and tried to stop him, but he didn’t listen to me!”
“That ain’t true,” said Curley. “Well, most of it is, except you didn’t say a damn word. Neither did the rest of us. We let that poor woman die, never done a thing. Some of us even took advantage—”
“Stop it, damn it to hell!” shouted Cray Dawson, slinging his coffee cup away, coming to his feet.
“Get back, Dawson,” said Shaw. He held out a hand as if to stop Cray Dawson from going past him to attack Curley Tomes.
“I’m just telling you the truth, like you asked!” said Curley, looking concerned about Dawson.
“I know,” said Shaw, “go on.” He shot Dawson a flat stare that told him to get back and stay back. Dawson relented, stepped back, and stooped down beside Jedson Caldwell near the fire.
Curley swallowed again, then said, “She…she took off running through the house, but Sidlow ran after her. I swear, Barto
n and Blue Snake tried to stop him but it was too late! There was a gunshot; then Sidlow hollered out that she had a gun and shot at him. Well, that’s when Barton and Blue Snake ran inside and the rest of us got down off our horses and ran over to the house. There was another shot; then Sidlow or Blue Snake, one, got the gun away from her and dragged her outside. She was kicking and screaming like a wildcat. Barton tried to calm her down but she scratched his face.”
“I didn’t see that,” said Stanley. “I was looking away.”
Shaw ignored him and stared at Curley Tomes.
“Well, that set Barton off,” Curley said. “He hit her, hard…I mean with his fist.” He stopped for a second and drew a breath, having trouble with the picture of it in his mind. “From there on things just got worse, until finally…well, you know.” His voice fell lower, softer “Then she was dead.”
“What’s their names?” Dawson asked, his voice trembling. “I saw their faces; I want to know their names.”
Shaw and Caldwell just looked at him, seeing him stare into the low flames, his eyes glistening with tears.
“Tell us,” Shaw said, his voice sounding calm and unaffected compared to Cray Dawson’s.
Curley Tomes nodded. Then he took a minute to think about it and said, “There was Denver Jack Fish…Jesse Turnbaugh, Bobby Fitt…the Furlin brothers, Harper and Gladso, Blue Snake Terril, and of course Talbert and Sidlow.”
“And us,” said Stanley. “Don’t forget us.”
“Shut up, Stanley, said Curley. “You ain’t gaining nothing for yourself.” He considered it, then with a puzzled look he asked Shaw, “Is he?”
Shaw shook his head no.
“I didn’t think so,” said Curley with finality.
“Who else has joined them besides the Devil and his new partner?” Cray Dawson asked.
“That’s about all,” said Curley Tomes, addressing Shaw. “Willie the Devil came riding in the other day with that scarecrow-looking fellow. Said Shaw had killed Donald Hornetti and was on a rage…coming our way.”
“I never liked Donald Hornetti much anyway,” said Stanley. As they’d all talked, Stanley had managed to scoot a bit closer to Shaw, as if they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a while.
Ignoring Stanley, Shaw asked Curley, “Are they still in the same place where the Devil met them?”
“Yep, they’re still in Brakett Flats,” said Curley. He shrugged. “You can be there by morning if you’ve a mind to.”
“Who’s their gun?” Shaw asked pointedly, studying Curley’s eyes to see if he was telling the truth.
“Their gun? I don’t know what you mean,” said Curley.
“They wouldn’t be there waiting unless they had somebody who thought they could take me…who is it? Mad Albert Ash…Teddy Roach?” He continued to search Curley’s eyes.
“Hell, what’s the use…” said Curley. “Barton’s got Bo Kregger siding with him and Blue Snake.”
“Bo Kregger,” said Shaw, trying to pull up the name and face from his memory. “He shot a man once for calling him ‘Slick,’ didn’t he?”
“Damn!” said Curley, impressed by Shaw. “I’d plumb forgot about that, but yes, he did, now that you mention it. He sure hated that name!”
“Slick Bo Kregger,” said Shaw. “He carries a pair of Colts instead of just one like everybody else, right?”
“No, he only wears one,” said Curley, seeing that Shaw was testing him, “unless I miscounted.”
Shaw only nodded.
Stanley said quietly, “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to let us go, since we never really laid a hand on your wife?”
“Not a chance,” said Shaw. “You wasn’t waiting here to enjoy the sunrise.”
“But we told you everything you asked…that’s worth something, ain’t it?” Stanley persisted.
Caldwell stood up and stepped over closer, interested in what Shaw might have to say at this point. But Shaw didn’t answer.
“You could at least give us a fighting chance,” said Stanley.
“What good would it do?” Shaw shrugged.
“You’ve got a point there,” said Stanley.
Caldwell said to Shaw, “Excuse me! But you’re not going to actually kill these men, are you?”
“What did you think I was going to do with them, Undertaker?” Shaw asked, turning his attention slightly toward Caldwell.
“I don’t know, but my goodness!” Caldwell exclaimed. “I never thought you would just execute them! That’s not human!”
“But squaring off in the middle of a street is?” Shaw inquired. “How about a hanging? Tying a man’s hands behind his back? Smacking his horse on the rump? Leaving him swinging with his toes pointed to the ground? Does that work better for you, Undertaker?”
“Wait a minute,” said Curley Tomes, “why do you call him Undertaker?”
“Because that’s what he is,” said Shaw.
“Hot damn! That gives me the creeps,” said Curley, shivering and rubbing his hands up and down his arms. “I wish nobody had brought that up, not at a time like this, for God’s sake!”
While Curley talked, Stanley Little had managed to slip his hand down to his boot, where he kept a small hidden derringer. “Now!” shouted Curley Tomes, giving his partner the signal to make a move as he rolled toward the spot where Dawson had laid their rifles.
Before Caldwell or Dawson made a move, Shaw’s Colt came up cocked and sent a bullet through Stanley Little’s heart. As Curley Tomes came up onto his knee leveling a rifle toward him, Shaw’s second shot turned him a backward flip and dropped him dead on the ground.
“Jesus!” Caldwell shouted in surprise.
Shaw stood up, and walked over to where Curley lay dead at his feet. Looking back at Caldwell as he cocked his Colt, he said, “Feel better now, Undertaker?” He fired a shot down into Curley’s upturned forehead.
“My God, he’s already dead!” said Caldwell. “Why are you doing this?
Shaw walked over to Stanley Little’s body, rolled him faceup with the toe of his boot, and aimed the Colt down. Seeing what he was going to do, Caldwell turned his face away and held his breath until the shot resounded. Then he turned to Dawson, who had sunk back down beside the fire now that Shaw had killed the two men. “Why is he shooting them? I can’t believe this! They’re both dead!”
“Shut up, Undertaker,” Cray Dawson said bitterly. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“I can’t live this way!” said Caldwell. “How can any sane man stand to live like this?”
“If you can’t stand it, you might want to think about pulling out now,” Dawson said quietly. “Things are going to get awfully bloody from here on.” He stared into the low flames with a dark expression in his eyes.
Chapter 19
Willie the Devil sat upon the edge of the bar, writing down bets on strips of paper with a pencil stub. He looked at the short line of townsmen who had ventured out of their homes once they’d heard that Lawrence Shaw was on his way to town. Willie the Devil wasn’t about to mention that it was all speculation at this point. If Shaw showed up in Brakett Flats things would start happening pretty fast. The Devil wanted to make sure he had all bets covered.
“I think it speaks well for this town, these gentlemen participating in our little fiesta get-together, which will be getting under way shortly!” Willie the Devil said, raising his voice for all to hear as he spoke to Elton Minton. Elton stood at the bar, taking money and stuffing it down into a tin cash box. Then, speaking directly to the townsmen, Willie said, “Everybody tell us clearly who you intend to bet on. We want no mistakes. We want nothing but satisfied customers!” In the front corner of the saloon a small Mexican band had quickly formed. Racy guitar and accordion music swelled in the ceiling rafters amid a cloud of cigar smoke.
Most of the townsmen looked frightened at being there among members of the Talbert gang. They left as soon as they had their bets placed. At the far end of the bar a fight erupted between
the Furlin brothers and Denver Jack Fish. A couple of townsmen left their place in line and scurried from the saloon, one leaving his hat behind when it sailed off his head. A deathlike silence fell over the place when Denver Jack Fish drew his big Russian forty-five and blasted a hole through Harper Furlin’s foot.
Before Gladso could respond on his brother’s behalf, Denver Jack Fish backed away with his pistol aimed at the tin sheriff’s badge on Gladso’s chest. No sooner had Fish disappeared out through the doorway and Gladso began attending to his brother’s wounded foot than Willie the Devil waved his arms frantically to get the band playing again, shouting, “Nothing to worry about, gentlemen! Just a little glimpse at the kind of action we’re going to see between two top gunmen once Fast Larry Shaw arrives!”
“That dirty son of a bitch blew my toe off!” Harper Furlin shrieked. But the end of his words was drowned out by the boom of a big bass guitar and the squeal of the accordion.
Willie the Devil stepped along the bar quickly and said to Gladso, “Get him out of here before he drives off the bettors!”
“Go to hell, Devil!” Harper shouted as Gladso pressed a wet bar towel on his bleeding foot.
“Yeah, get away from here, Willie,” said Gladso. Thumbing the badge on his chest he added, “One word from me and your betting is over!”
Willie the Devil shook his head in disgust and turned back his end of the bar, saying to himself, “The stupid bastard thinks he really is a sheriff!”
Outside the saloon, Barton Talbert, Blue Snake, and Bo Kregger looked on as Denver Jack Fish left the saloon looking back over his shoulder, shoving his big Russian down into his holster. He stopped at the corner of an alley within hearing distance of Blue Snake, Kregger, and Talbert.
“Sounds like he must’ve shot Harper,” said Blue Snake, looking over at Denver Jack, who nodded in affirmation.
With no further comment on the matter Blue Snake went back to polishing a painted thumbnail against the back of his glove. Beside him Bo Kregger only nodded and stood watching until his curiosity got the best of him. Finally he asked, “Why the hell is both your thumbnails painted? Are you wanting to be a woman or something?”
